“What?” Clare had braced herself for an antiabortion screed; this sudden shift into the chemical composition of vaccines left her way off in left field. “I’m sorry, I don’t-what’s thimerosal?”
The woman dug into her parka pocket and pulled out a brochure that looked like the product of someone’s newsletter-and-greeting-card software. She handed it to Clare. MERCURY AND AUTISM-HOW TO PROTECT YOUR CHILD, it read.
“Thimerosal is a preservative that’s commonly used in vaccination serums. It’s almost fifty percent mercury, a poisonous metal, and exposure in children under the age of three may cause autism.” She caught Clare’s gaze and held it. She had big brown eyes, intense but not fanatical. “Do you have kids?”
“No. I’m not married.”
The woman let out a laugh. “I wish I had been that smart.” She moved closer to Clare and poked at the homemade pamphlet with a mitten. You’ve probably never heard, then, that recommended schedules for vaccinations have infants going in for first shots at six to eight weeks. Can you imagine injecting a two-month-old baby with mercury?”
“No,” Clare said, interested in spite of herself. “But surely we were all vaccinated with the same stuff, and most of us are perfectly healthy. I mean, isn’t autism fairly rare?”
“The rate of autistic-spectrum disorders has been increasing dramatically since 1990, when two major vaccines containing thimerosal were brought to market. It’s like a lot of potentially dangerous health hazards-not everyone who is exposed will be affected. There’s no way to know which children will or won’t develop autism or Asperger’s syndrome.”
Clare glanced at the brochure in her hand, then at the clinic. On the second floor, she noticed, quilted white shades had been drawn behind the original four-over-four windows. Warmth or privacy? she wondered. “What’s this got to do with Dr. Rouse?”
“Many major drug companies are now producing thimerosal-free vaccines due to public and governmental pressures. But there’s still a huge stockpile of the older stuff around, which drug companies can either destroy or”-she glared at the building-“sell on the cheap to clinics like ours.”
“And Dr. Rouse is still using these vaccines?”
“He’s not just using them. He continues to aggressively target lower-income children for vaccinations. He’s threatened to report parents who refuse to immunize their kids to DSS. To say parents who are concerned about exposing their kids to thimerosal are neglecting their children.”
The light dawned. “Parents? You mean, like you?”
The woman planted herself more squarely on the sidewalk. “Like me. My son developed autism when he was two, after undergoing every one of those vaccinations Dr. Rouse said he had to have. I never even questioned what they were putting into my baby. Now I’ve got another one, and I’ll be damned if I’ll expose her to any mercury-contaminated serum.”
“I’m sorry,” Clare said. “But isn’t your quarrel more with whatever entity funds the clinic? If the doctor has to purchase older vaccines because of the cost, shouldn’t you lobby the town to give him more money with which to purchase the new stuff?”
“I suspect”-here she dropped her voice-“that Dr. Rouse has personal financial reasons for continuing to buy the older serums.”
Clare looked at the clinic again. One of the shades twitched. “You mean, he’s getting kickbacks from the drug companies?”
“Who can say?” The woman spread her mittened hands. “I know he lives pretty cushy for a man whose salary has been paid by Millers Kill his whole life. Big house, a new car every three years, vacations in the tropics-better’n most of us are doing. I’m trying to get a referendum question to increase the clinic’s funding, with citizen oversight. But even if we can get more money, the budget is dependent on the tax revenues, and there wouldn’t be any change for up to a year after the referendum. In the meantime, babies are getting inoculated every day in this clinic. And parents are being intimidated into giving their consent to it. It’s not just the danger for autism, you know. The bacterial toxins in many of the common vaccines can cause retardation, disabilities, death-people have no idea. The nurse hands you a sheet of paper with a lot of small print on it while your baby is lying on the exam table screaming and you’re told you have to sign off. So you do.” She shifted the placard from one shoulder to the other. Clare could read, DR. ROUSE A DANGER TO OUR CHILDREN. “I wish to God I had educated myself before I put Skylar in his care.”
A pickup had pulled into a snow-slick space across the street, and a woman and a small girl were crossing their way. “Ma’am,” the protestor called out, “are you aware that Dr. Rouse is trying to take away your right to make health care decisions about your daughter?”
The mother squinted against the sun. “What’s that?”
The door to the clinic banged open. “Get the hell off my sidewalk, Debba Clow! And leave those ladies alone!”
A stocky man in his sixties stood in the doorway, his pale face mottled red, his white coat flapping as the cold air rushed past him into the heated vestibule beyond.
“Dr. Rouse, I presume,” Claire said under her breath.
“This is a public sidewalk and I have every right to be here!” the protestor shouted.
“You’re assaulting my patients and practicing medicine without a license!”
“I’m telling them what you won’t, you quack!”
The red blotches on the doctor’s face turned purple. “That’s it! I’m calling the police! Then I’m calling the state! And then I’m calling my lawyer, who will sue you for defamation!” He disappeared back into the clinic, the door swinging shut behind him.
The protestor-Debba Clow-spun around. “Is that the sort of man you want treating your child?” she asked the mother, who responded by scooping the girl into her arms and hurrying up the stairs. Debba looked at Clare as if to say, You see what I have to fight against? “I better get out of here,” she said. “I don’t need any more trouble from the cops.” She yanked off one mitten, fished into her parka pocket, and extracted a business card. “You seem like an intelligent, concerned woman. Here’s my number. If you want to find out more, give me a call.”
She tucked the placard beneath her arm and strode down the sidewalk. Clare looked at the card. It had a design of paint-saturated handprints running up one side. DEBORAH CLOW, ARTIST, it read.
The artist herself stopped halfway to the next corner. “Hey, what’s your name?” she yelled.
“Clare Fergusson,” Clare said loudly. Might as well come clean. She unzipped her parka so that her collar was clearly visible. “Rector of St. Alban’s Church.”
Debba Clow grinned and pumped her arm. “Hot diggity,” she yelled. “I knew God was on my side!”
Unlike the clinic, the historical society’s ornate brick Italianate building had no visible concessions to the twenty-first century. “I know,” Director Roxanne Lunt said, when Clare asked her about it. “We’re totally out of compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act. We’re trying to get grant money for historically sensitive handicapped access. God help us if we’re forced into installing some monstrosity like they have next door. We’re keeping a low profile and praying we don’t get sued.”
Roxanne Lunt was a sleek, well-fed woman whose streaky ash-blond hair was a testament to her colorist’s art. She had been excited to meet Clare, and ecstatic when Clare had committed to volunteering every Saturday afternoon through Lent. Clare was flattered to the point of embarrassment by Roxanne’s enthusiasm, until Clare had a chance to observe her on their tour of the historic house, and discovered Roxanne was excited about everything. Her high heels tap-tap-tapped through the public rooms with restless energy as she spoke passionately about grant writing, cataloging, preservation, architecture, and interior design. And that was just the parlor, drawing room, and kitchen.