“I’m not prepared to say that there is anything miraculous about this combined elixir. But it seems to have put you right, Eudora.”
“Yes, right out of the Women’s Temperance League. Besides, I’m sure I was already well on the road to recovery.”
“Still,” Velma T. continued, “I hear there have been outbreaks of the influenza as nearby as Pittsburg and Baxter Springs. If my medicine will help, then—”
“Now, dear,” Mrs. Larkin interrupted. “I’m sure your elixir is fine for keeping a body regular, but I think it can hardly be classified as medicine.”
Velma T.’s back stiffened; her lips pursed; even her nose seemed to get a little pointier.
Everyone in the room knew that Mrs. Larkin had said the wrong thing.
“Very well, Shady. I will be happy to make my elixir available to anyone who is in need. So we had better get busy. As word spreads about Mrs. Larkin’s recovery, I’d imagine bottles of the Manifest elixir will be in greater demand than before.”
Shady muttered to Jinx, “Certainly won’t hurt that it tastes better than before.”
“I heard that, Shady.” Velma T. patted her pockets. “Who took my safety goggles?”
Shady pointed to his head, indicating that the spectacles rested above her forehead. Velma T. recovered the goggles, breathed on them, and wiped them with her white lab coat. “All right, then, where exactly are we going to mix up the stuff? Between my elixir and your … contribution, there will be a lot of liquid to be combined.”
Shady cleared his throat. “There has been considerable discussion about that. It needs to be something big, like a horse trough, but clean.”
“That goes without saying,” said Velma T.
“There’s a horse trough over at the Baptist church.”
“I don’t recall seeing a horse trough outside.”
“It’s not outside. It’s inside.” Shady was counting on Velma T.’s being more a woman of science than religion.
“Surely you’re not suggesting using the baptistry,” said Mrs. Larkin, a staunch Baptist and lifelong member of the First Baptist Church. “What did Pastor Mankins say?”
“He’s not around to ask. He hightailed it out of town before the quarantine.”
“Well, then,” Velma T. said, “I guess it serves him right. Besides, it is, after all, three parts elixir to only one part alcohol.”
“More like half and half,” Jinx piped up before Shady could shush him.
“But why can’t you do it at the Catholic church? Or the Methodist church?” Mrs. Larkin asked.
Shady answered. “Their little fonts wouldn’t do much good. They’re just for sprinkling. It’s the Baptists who enjoy a good full-body dunking.”
The Baptist church, normally home to only the purest of Manifest citizens—meaning the ones who had parents and grandparents and even great-grandparents born in this country—was suddenly filled with strangers. Each held his or her own jar or jug of either Velma T.’s elixir or Shady’s whiskey.
Casimir Cybulskis spoke first. “This seems such a solemn moment. I think it calls for a prayer.”
Everyone looked to Shady, as, standing at the head of the baptistry, he seemed to be in the place of the minister.
Shady held his hat in his hands, rotating it in a slow circle. “I don’t spend much time in church, but I do recall a story my mother used to tell me. Some folks had a wedding and they ran out of wine. The bartenders brought out big jugs of water. But lo and behold, out poured wine, the best they ever tasted.” He looked at the faces around him. “I reckon that’s something akin to what we’re doing here.”
Everyone nodded, waiting for the prayer.
Shady shifted from one foot to the other. Jinx nudged him in encouragement.
“All right, then.” Shady cleared his throat and began what sounded more like a toast than a prayer. “Lord, here’s hopin’ that what lies ahead is the best we ever tasted.”
“Amen,” they said in unison, these citizens of the world, and they held their breath as the many and varied ingredients that had been simmered and stewed, distilled and chilled, were combined to make something new. Something greater than the sum of its parts.
FULL An Excellent Investment ASSOCIATION and a Patriotic Duty PRESS
MANIFEST HERALD MANIFEST, KANSAS MONDAY—SEPTEMBER 15, 1918 PAGE 1
DEADLY INFLUENZA EPIDEMIC MOVING WEST
————
Philadelphia health officials have issued a warning bulletin about the influenza epidemic. Hundreds of cases of the sickness are being reported every day. Boston and New York have already been ravaged by the disease, with hospitals being filled to beyond capacity, and the deadly disease is moving west across the United States.
Troop ships returning from France and Belgium are reporting to sick bay at the Commonwealth Pier in Boston with the usual symptoms of the grippe. However, these cases have gotten progressively worse, developing into a deadly pneumonia. Commonwealth Pier is currently overwhelmed with the disease, and new cases are being transferred to Chelsea Naval Hospital.
Dr. Victor Vaughn, acting surgeon general of the army, has witnessed firsthand the effects of the influenza at Camp Devens, a military camp near Boston. “I saw hundreds of young stalwart men in uniform coming into the wards of the hospital. Every bed was full, yet others crowded in. The faces wore a bluish cast; a cough brought up the bloodstained sputum. In the morning, the dead bodies are stacked about the morgue like cordwood.” Sixty-three men died at Camp Devens in a single day.
PVT. NED GILLEN
IN A TRENCH
JULY 4, 1918
Dear Jinx,
Thanks for the newsy letter. It was dated before I even left the States, so I guess the army’s still using the Pony Express. How’s doins in Manifest? Folks back home are probably having a Fourth of July parade and a picnic. I can picture everyone having the best dog-robbin’ time. That’s good. Us lumps over here feel a little better knowing that our families and friends are doing the things we remember. Like Stucky Cybulskis writing his “Ode to the Rattler” in the classroom and somehow not getting caught. Mrs. Dawkins trying to get Hadley to throw in fifteen nails for the price of a dozen. Velma T. working on the cure-all for whatever ails you. And Pearl Ann picking out a pretty new hat.
Gives a body hope that maybe we’re fighting for something. Got to admit something to you, buddy. Sometimes I lose track of exactly what we’re fighting for. But then, I’ve been losing track of a lot of things here lately. Like I can’t quite recall the last time I ate. Two days. Maybe three.
I’ve run back several times to where our supplies and rations are supposed to be but they haven’t shown up yet. So we sit and wait. The days are scorchers but I almost prefer them to the nights. It cools off some, but the sounds don’t stop.
I try to imagine they’re normal sounds. Like angry hornets are zipping past my ears instead of bullets. Or that the ack-ack-ack of the German machine gun is really just a woodpecker getting his nose out of joint.
Then I remember the last mail call. The names of the guys who got letters from family, girlfriends, kid brothers. I remember hearing those names go unanswered, one, then another and another and another. So many letters sent back home, unreceived and unopened. Gets hard to listen anymore.
Sorry, buddy. You’ve got better things to do than read my rambling. Been fishing lately? Try Echo Cove down at Triple Toe Creek. The waters run a little deeper, so it’s not as hot for the fish. You can even use my green and yellow sparkle lure. Gets one every time.