The War On Emily Dickinson

By Anna Scott Graham

As mysterious ailments evolve into an insidious scourge, friendship ignites into passion against the backdrop of a contagion. San Francisco nurse Marthe Souza stands on the front line while her bisexual boyfriend, author Kell Vander Kellen, records the plague’s rampage. When Kell’s sexual proclivities threaten their relationship, Marthe turns to other passions, Jesus Christ and the music of Patsy Cline, but soon she too seeks corporeal comforts.

Set over a span of thirty years, the non-linear narrative involves Marthe and Kell’s families, Catholic clans long-wracked with temptation and misunderstandings. Marthe battles work as well as the personal conflict she and Kell wage, other lovers never far from their beds. After a break-up occurs, Marthe’s faith sustains her, but when Kell returns to Marthe’s realm HIV-positive, the couple faces more than his illness. In his final manuscript, Kell wishes to capture not only their history, but that of the pandemic, intolerance and fear amid steadfast devotion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Scott Graham
• Release date: Jul 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465755421

Anna Scott Graham

A California native, I lived in Britain for eleven years, moving back to The Golden State in the spring of 2007. I'm leaving these stories for my grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. In the meantime, please enjoy the tall tales. And thank you for reading an independent author.

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The War On Emily Dickinson

By Anna Scott Graham

Copyright 2011 Anna Scott Graham

License Notes

Thank you for downloading this complimentary ebook. Although there is no charge for this book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this novel, please encourage your friends to download their own copy. Thanks for your support.

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters, incidents, and places are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

For Frank and Ruby, Robin, and especially my siblings, with much love.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – 1997

Chapter 2 – 1978

Chapter 3 – 1985

Chapter 4 – 1990

Chapter 5 – 2004

Chapter 6 – 1977

Chapter 7 – 1986

Chapter 8 – 1982

Chapter 9 – 1993

Chapter 10 – 1979

Chapter 11 – 1983

Chapter 12 – 1994

Chapter 13 – 1984

Chapter 14 – 2001

Chapter 15 – 1981

Chapter 16 – 2007

Chapter 17 – 1996

Chapter 18 – 1987

Chapter 19 – 1999

Chapter 20 – 2008

Chapter 1 - 1997

Souza, you got a minute?

Marthe Souza was summoned by her last name, the floor in chaos. This ward had been busy since its inception fourteen years ago, where Marthe had been walking the tiles, feet pounding this level of the city hospital in a groove that with eyes closed she could negotiate.

No one here called her Marthe. Nor did they ask for Martha, that formal name having been dropped when Marthe was a little girl. All her siblings had nicknames; in a family of eight children, it became easier for Aurora Souza to commandeer her brood with shortened monikers. Marthe’s was actually the longest, only losing the A, one small syllable, but from the time she was no more than two years old, Martha Catherine Souza was simply known as Marthe.

But here in one of the busiest medical facilities on the West Coast, in a city by the bay, she was Souza. Souza to co-workers, to her superiors. Souza to the patients for whom she cared on a semi-permanent basis until they beat their current maladies, eventually returning as those bizarre complaints overtook immune systems ravaged and failing. In the early days of the epidemic, Marthe had been resolute, not allowing herself to go further than the best nursing care she could offer. After time, her resistance cracked. As patients slipped under her skin, Marthe lost that edge, one as the daughter of a doctor she had known all her life. All her life had led her to this point as she took slow, halting steps to Ash Denton’s room.

Marthe poked her head around the corner, found the same people who’d been there for the last four days. Her entire shift, this day her last, probably Ash’s too. Marthe had known that as early as Tuesday; now on Friday his battle with pneumocystis carinii pneumonia, better known as PCP, was ending. A once-rare form of pneumonia, PCP was synonymous with this illness, one of the more ordinary causes of death Marthe had witnessed over the last fifteen years. Before that time, only few individuals contracted this virulent strain, which after settling in the lungs, refused to leave. Holding firm, strangling its victim deep within the warm, spongy tissues rendered helpless; in the end pneumocystis pneumonia always won.

A face met Marthe’s, that of Ash’s sister Wendy. She resembled her older brother, the way Ash used to look; blonde hair, chiseled features, wide blue eyes. The few times Marthe had seen Wendy Denton’s smile, it was Ash all over. Teasing, acidic, but warm underneath, deep and abiding. Deep and hidden from most, yet not from Marthe. With her, Ash had always been a love.

The summons had been to this room not because Marthe needed to check an IV or pulse. Those procedures weren’t necessary and even if Marthe had wanted to perform those duties, she wasn’t his nurse, Ash’s care not her job. This day, the final one of Marthe’s work week, was going to be Ash’s last.

Wendy crossed her arms. He’s getting close.

Marthe passed Ash’s mother, sitting with knitting on her lap. The yarn’s lively colors hit Marthe as she stood next to Wendy whose tanned, toned body seemed incongruous with her brother’s wasted form lying so still. His spotty breathing rattled in his chest, reverberating around the room. Next to Ash’s mother sat his aunt, her husband, their son. This was Ash’s blood family, but Marthe was too.

Blood through who they had lost and what they had seen. Ash had continued to work long after his diagnosis, standing alongside Marthe in a battle entered with great enthusiasm. Owning no fear, they’d been young, undaunted. Now as Marthe was thirty-nine, Ash only a year older, they were wily veterans having escaped so many previous skirmishes. Yet, Marthe would be alone at the end of this day.

She kissed Ash’s sunken left cheek, then reached for his hand, so small, holding it within hers. Honey, I’m here.

I think he’s ready, Wendy whispered.

Marthe only nodded, then glanced at Ash’s mother Helen. Ash’s father wasn’t present. Marthe had only met him once, back in the 1980s at some Denton family gathering in which Marthe had accompanied Ash, but not as his date. Nor as his beard, only a friend. They’d been friends since 1982, over fifteen years, and Marthe wondered if Conrad Denton would attend the funeral.

The only sounds were of knitting needles, a strange, metallic click click that struggled to mask a man drowning. Ash was drowning in his own lungs, drowning from PCP and so many moments he and Marthe had shared. Moments exactly like this with other fading figures, families and lovers, but this time the knocking on Marthe’s heart was for one well known, one for whom she took a deep breath, then exhaled. As though she could breathe for him, Marthe sucked in again, held it. Holding more than oxygen; Marthe Souza absorbed the last of Bryce Ashley Denton.

He didn’t look up, didn’t move. No one else did either, the aunt and uncle stilled, their son staring at the floor. Only Ash’s mother stirred, her needles tapping, then hands pulled teal yarn from a bag on her lap. Taking the chair Wendy had vacated, Marthe gazed at the door. She was waiting for one more, hoping another figure would step into the room.

Ash, it’s okay. I’ve got you. All Marthe had of him was a bony, limp hand, that and what she had stolen in the air, what bit of him remained in the atmosphere, all there was left to a person other than what she held within her head. Memories and recollections were now solely hers, no longer theirs. How it went when people died and as that passed through her mind, one more body entered the room.

Marthe cried watching that one approach the bed. Wendy didn’t see him, neither did Ash’s mother, who only continued knitting. Helen Denton didn’t consider her son’s last breath, didn’t witness his entry into death. Only Marthe and Wendy saw it, but Wendy missed the quiet, careful figure reaching for her brother’s hand, helping Ash to stand. Marthe smiled as he moved away, looking again like his sister, healthy and gorgeous with a smile that had broken so many hearts. Ash gave one to Marthe, a cynical grin also conceding defeat.

Only conquest there in that room to one woman who knew better. As Jesus Christ led him away, Ash only shrugged his shoulders, offering Marthe a smile as though she knew his destination all along. Ash chuckled as he exited the room, a silent You told me so uttered from his now hushed body no longer clamoring for air.

Three hours later Ash’s room was stripped, Marthe on a break. She had embraced Wendy and Helen, the aunt, uncle, and cousin too. Walking them to the elevator, she’d wiped a few tears, then checked on another man suffering from pneumocystis pneumonia. Dying, but on a far different schedule, one that might see him discharged in another few days. Marthe would return after her break and Bill Simmons would be departed, but not dead.

Not yet, maybe next year. Maybe in eighteen months. Marthe’s work life revolved around that notion; they left, but always returned. Once that had been realized, Marthe, Ash, and their compatriots accepted this deployment. Where on other wards the idea was to nurse patients to a permanent dismissal, here on Ward 5B, they always came back.

Unless they chose hospice or had enough support to die at home, this was it, a floor of the city hospital that exuded an air of belonging. Marthe was one with her patients, unafraid and understanding. Ash had been too and it was odd to think of him in the past tense. Odd but necessary, for no one survived, not for long. Antiretrovirals had made inroads, but were eventually overwhelmed by a virus that was sneaky, mean and enduring, stunning the medical profession with its boundless, energetic, and inventive methods of destruction. PCP was one manner, Kaposi’s sarcoma another, a cancer usually found in old men. Abrasions of a purplish hue had covered Ash’s body, inside too, Marthe assumed. In the early days she’d seen one patient unable to lie down, a lesion dangling from the back of his throat, obstructing his airway.

Pouring a cup of coffee, Marthe clutched a book from her locker and sat near a table, placing her mug on the edge. Taking occasional sips, she was engrossed with the novel, one she hadn’t wanted to read, as if Dave Kedayis was still alive, pushing it into her hands, his weak grin teasing. I know you know this guy, he would have smiled. Souza, you HAVE TO read it!

The Monkey Retrieval System was the book earlier that summer and if it had been written by any other author, Marthe would have devoured it immediately. Yet, she’d hesitated, just as she had avoided 1988’s The War On Emily Dickinson until Dave shoved it down her throat. He’d dropped that writer’s name, no secret in this small circle to Kell Vander Kellen’s proclivities. Also not hard to ascertain the Martha to whom most of Vander Kellen’s novels were dedicated was indeed Marthe Souza, sitting in the dingy nurses’ lounge. Her dark, curly hair sported random grays, brown eyes pouring through the words, her small feet propped on a chair. She was short with wide hips shared by most of her sisters, received from their mother. At five foot three, Marthe looked just like Aurora Souza with big eyes and a small bust, but unlike her mother and sisters, Marthe had no children.

There had never been the desire or time, not with the work so consuming. Not as bodies dropped like flies, Marthe with a plethora of nieces and nephews. Most of her siblings, save Frank and Annie, had reproduced, but Marthe wasn’t a traditional Catholic daughter. Kell hadn’t been the standard Catholic son, yet reading his latest book she found their upbringings as well as her work within the pages; notions of guilt, absolution, horror, and custom. His were Dutch, hers a mixture of Spanish and Portuguese, Kell’s Midwestern background also in evidence. Some characters spoke in a Wisconsin dialect and Marthe stifled giggles, imagining voices so distinctive, much like that of the author before he’d lost his accent.

Ash had only been dead a few hours, but would have appreciated Marthe’s sense of continuation. Until he could no longer reason, Ash hadn’t wanted that one guest to appear. That Christ had also stood in Ash’s room made Marthe smile. For years she’d been telling Ash that Jesus would come for him and damnit if she hadn’t been correct!

Finishing a chapter, she glanced at her watch. Then her pager buzzed and Marthe headed for a phone on the wall.

Souza here. Her thoughts were still on Ash, hand in hand with a deity of whom he’d never believed. Never given the time of day, yet Marthe had been right. If some way existed to collect their ten dollar bet, Marthe would have instead demanded a pound of flesh. Ash would have groused, unbelieving except that the proof had been leading him away. Marthe had no idea what heaven was like, but couldn’t help her giggles, aware Ash was finding out at that very minute.

With two hours remaining on shift, Marthe wished to leave. Those cheery thoughts of Ash meeting Jesus had been dimmed, another patient reaching the end, then a recent admission falling into convulsions. Nothing she hadn’t seen before, but cyclical; as Ash died that day, sooner or later so would these men. No one left this ward healed, only reprieves, temporary and fleeting. Not as in days of old when hope reigned, a cure just around the corner. What they had assumed in 1983, 1984. The government must be developing a vaccine, some treatment, the alternative too awful to contemplate. Yet, there hadn’t been one free moment to think as 1984 turned into 1985, ‘86, ‘87. Marthe stopped at that year, again hearing her name.

Souza, phone. It’s Jan.

Marthe took the receiver from Aggie Walsh, a nurse who spoke with a crisp tone. What they all used, for while they were caretakers, this was a job, the only way Marthe had lasted this long. Some nurses simply couldn’t cope with agonizing demises in such immense doses, illnesses ravaging and therapies so trivial. How did you make anything better when it was so bleak? Marthe cared, caressed, then went home and ate dinner, made love with her boyfriend Robert Fuller, took vacations, saw movies. Spent hours with her siblings and it was her sister Janine Theresa, or Jan, to whom she spoke. A family large and prolific, one that Marthe bumped into at work, what with Jan downstairs in administration, Marthe’s eldest sister Lynn and their father Louis both cardiac surgeons. At times Marthe’s eldest brother Rick, a fireman, loitered there too. Yet, outside this hospital, work rarely intruded. It was those siblings and ones younger surrounding Marthe with love and affection, easing an ache that nursing the dying left within her. Marthe departed her job every day, but it never completely dissipated.

Hey, what’s up? Marthe had already informed her family of Ash’s demise, this call probably an inquiry as to plans during her break. Maybe Jan’s daughters wanted an afternoon with Aunt Marthe, perhaps a trip to the zoo might be in order. Time with her nieces would be a salve, easing Ash’s absence. Marthe conjured a girls’ day out with no boys allowed, living or only a memory.

Marthe, listen. When you’re off shift, can you come down to the ER?

Uh, yeah. What it is?

Honey, Kell’s been admitted. Rick brought him in. It’s nothing serious, I mean, you can wait, but yeah. It’d be nice if you could come down when you’re done.

The phone felt big and clunky in Marthe’s small hands. Kell had been a boyfriend, now he was in the ER. The receiver seemed to weigh as much as a body and Marthe gripped it, trying to keep it to her ear. Does, I mean, should I come down there right now?

No, he’s unconscious and they’re still running tests. Mom and Dad are here, so’s Rick and Lynn. It’s okay, but just when you’re done, that’d be fine.

Those people constituted half the family and while Patrick Souza would return to the fire station, that he was still there tripped Marthe’s brain. That and her mother’s presence.

The ward was busy, the floor packed with rushing bodies. One wouldn’t be missed, but Marthe heard the ease in Jan’s voice. Only tests for now, nothing requiring her immediate attendance. Handing the phone back to Aggie, Marthe viewed with new eyes this place so resolute, familiar. Eyes that suddenly saw through people and walls, not only their solid natures.

She never left work from the elevators, always using the back stairs. Exercise to keep those hips from spreading, yet that short ride felt to take as much effort as five flights’ of steps. Others stood between Marthe and the door and she had to push to exit before it shut. Still in her work clothes, she edged her way through the crowded hall, voices speaking various languages, none of which she knew. Both Aurora and Louis had desired their children to speak English, raising them with a deep love for God and their Catholic faith with little practical regard to their Iberian Peninsula heritage.

Marthe didn’t know Spanish or Portuguese, but sometimes she spoke Wisconsin, employing the accent of Kell’s childhood, one slower in speech with pronounced yah’s, his negative answers an elongated no-ah as though he was speaking of the biblical figure. When they met in the late 1970s, Kell’s accent was thick, but over the years it had waned until almost untraceable. The last time they’d been together, in 1993, Marthe had teased when he called home, his tone merging with his parents and siblings, settling on that unmistakable Midwestern tenor. For days Marthe would offer that inflection, driving Kell crazy.

That was all she considered, approaching the emergency room doors. Offering her badge, she went through, finding her father near the end of the room tapping his foot, arms tight around his long white coat.

Daddy? Marthe called.

She hadn’t meant to yell, but the room was a cacophony of shouts and low whispers. By her father’s relieved face, Marthe saw even before she reached Kell’s cubicle his condition was serious.

Honey, thank God. He’s been asking for you.

Louis’s arms fell loose, then surrounded Marthe, unspoken anxiety pouring through their embrace. Ash’s dad hadn’t been there to see him die that morning, but Louis Souza stood near a man not even his son-in-law. His surrogate son, Marthe accepted. She had always suspected it and noting concern in her mother’s eyes, it was confirmed. Kell was as much their child as Frank had been.

Kell lay unconscious, an IV in his left arm, tubes in his nostrils. His breathing wasn’t as arduous as Ash’s, but not smooth, and Marthe stared at the set-up. Kell was surrounded by Souza women who would be hard pressed to surrender him to any ailment, but Marthe’s brother was missing.

Where’s Rick? What’s going on? Marthe asked no one in particular.

Someone called 911, might have been Kell. They were just the ones to get there first. Rick came with him in the ambulance. Seems he has…

Jan, what? Marthe asked.

Pneumonia, Louis finished. He’s got pneumonia.

As when learning of Kell’s presence, Marthe felt empowered. Instead of supply cupboards, she observed the next cubicle, a patient treated for stab wounds. She could see him encircled by police officers, a young Vietnamese man thrashing about, not lying still like Kell. Kell’s face was flushed and Marthe stroked his bearded cheek out of habit. His skin was hot, probably running a temperature of at least one hundred degrees. But if he’d been here a few hours, he would have been warmer, more like one hundred four. One hundred four and drugs coursed through his system to offset the heat within his body, warmth to conquer a virus. Some virus, and tests had been run.

What kind? Marthe stared at her father. What kind is it?

Lynn went to check, see if they know yet. Jan’s voice was low.

Marthe looked to the curtain separating them from the other cubicle. Through thick fabric she saw an older Hispanic man with chest pains. The Souzas could be considered Hispanic, but Louis would sigh; European, from the Iberian Peninsula. From Marthe’s earliest childhood she knew that word and here they sat on the tip of another peninsula, Kell with pneumonia, but the subtype eluded her.

Does he know? Marthe took his hand. Kell began to stir, then again succumbed to the drugs in his system.

Louis shook his head as Marthe’s mother trembled. Aurora’s hands twisted in her lap and Marthe knelt down, grasping those digits, still with Kell’s hand in her own.

A conduit, how it had been with Frank, and Marthe wondered if her mother recalled that moment, held that in her memories. It never left Marthe, one small speck of history withstanding so many other details, so many other deaths.

Mom, it’ll be okay. He’s in the best place. Marthe’s voice was that of duty, her nurse’s accent spoken with ease. Yet, they never were. She had said the same to Wendy days ago, warning of Ash’s impending demise with a tone smooth, not detached but aware. Then Marthe discerned her eldest sibling far down the emergency room hallway. Through all the curtains and obstacles, Marthe observed Lynn’s arms stiff at her sides, deep in conversation with another doctor, one Marthe knew only by sight.

This man looked stern, or maybe it was the news he relayed. As Kell’s grip strengthened, Marthe released her mother’s fingers, then stood to blue eyes rising her way. Eyes feverish, in a daze, and Marthe gave him a smile. Hey there. You could’ve just called me or come by the house if you wanted to talk.

Her tone was light, which made him grin. She could tell he wanted to laugh, but was too debilitated. You know me, Mr. Big Entrance.

Marthe heard her mother’s small sigh, saw Jan gaze to the floor. Oh yeah, asshole. It’s all about you.

Martha, Aurora scolded.

That did make Kell chuckle, then he began to cough. Marthe helped him sit up, Jan on his other side.

You stupid bastard, Marthe continued in a cheery vein. You better not expect me at your beck and call.

His choking subsided, then Marthe laid him down, adjusting the bed, tipping him forward.

He tried to catch his breath. You think they’ll mind if I have a cigarette?

Jan tapped his arm as Marthe smiled. Probably. Maybe you should switch to chew.

Shit, might as well shoot me.

Kell, Aurora groaned.

It was white noise, chatter to which Marthe half-listened, the rest of her focus on this man; a writer, ex-lover, her friend. Her friend from ages ago, like Ash but not. Marthe wouldn’t ponder that; instead she noted Lynn’s three-inch heels, much like the knitting needles of earlier, marking off time. Those heels approaching, Marthe sensed something beyond what she could see, what she could feel. Kell’s hand rested in hers and as the stabbing victim calmed, the heart patient settled, Marthe knew. She knew and hated it.

He’ll be down here for the night, at least till we can get him into ICU. Lynnette Elizabeth was another wide-hipped, short Souza, always using her nickname of Lynn but never the last name of her philandering husband. Within the hospital she was known as Dr. Souza, as her father was also addressed, causing some confusion. There in the ER, Lynn was a rarely seen figure, but took no prisoners. I want him up there as soon as there’s space, she barked.

After the news had been spoken, Marthe hadn’t left Kell’s side. He had PCP, a serious case. Once this infection was cleared, then he would begin a regimen of antiretrovirals, a cocktail of drugs far advanced from ones Ash had originally been prescribed a decade ago. No longer was this