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dangerous 104 degrees, and he made no attempt to conceal the state of things. He glanced at my mother, who had edged herself into the doorway, and nodded solemnly. She stiffened and fled the room, her way of bearing the unbearable.
    â€œHas he got it?” Elena asked.
    â€œYes,” Dr. Houston said. He turned to me. “You’re going to have to fight, William,” he said. He hoisted his medical bag onto the bed. “I’ve got all the tools in here, but you’re going to have to help me. It’s a war, young man. Like our boys went to in France. They put up a fight and won, and now you must, too.”
    â€œWilliam wants to be a soldier,” Elena said. I wanted to be no such thing, and she knew it, but I think that in her child’s mind she understood that this might encourage Dr. Houston to do his utmost for my life.
    â€œGood for him,” Dr. Houston said. He kept his eyes on me. “We need soldiers.”
    I nodded.
    Dr. Houston turned to Elena. “Would you be a good little girl and go get me a spoon, honey?”
    Elena did as she was told, and when she returned Dr. Houston administered a host of foul-tasting elixirs. Then he stood up.
    â€œI’ll be going, now,” he said, “but I’ll be back to look in on you.”
    Elena’s eyes shot around to him. “Maybe you should just stay here,” she said.
    Dr. Houston laughed. “Stay here? Why, I can’t do that, honey. There are other sick people who may die without my assistance.”
    â€œWilliam’s going to be a soldier,” Elena lied. “Soldiers are more important.”
    â€œI’m sure they are,” Dr. Houston said. “But there are still other sick people I have to see. There’s no one else in Standhope who can help them, you see?”
    â€œNo,” Elena said flatly.
    Dr. Houston’s face suddenly turned sour. “Well, you will in time,” he said, with an unmistakable edge in his voice.
    â€œYou stay here,” Elena insisted. “You stay here in case William gets worse.”
    â€œYes, well,” Dr. Houston said, and then he started to move toward the door.
    To my astonishment, Elena blocked his path.
    â€œYou stay here,” she said. “You’ve got to.”
    Dr. Houston’s face hardened. “Now look here, young lady,” he said coldly, “I don’t have time to waste on this sort of behavior. Now please, get out of my way.”
    Elena stepped into the doorway, lifted her arms, and pressed her hands against the door jamb.
    â€œHe’s going to be a soldier,” she said, “and you’ve got to stay until he’s better.”
    Dr. Houston took a deep, angry breath, stepped forward, and with one sweep of his powerful arm pushed Elena out the door, sending her sprawling in the hallway.
    Through the haze of my illness I saw Elena leap to her feet, then disappear down the hall, following Dr. Houston.
    â€œMrs. Franklin, please!” Dr. Houston shouted, but I could not make out much else of what he said. I could hear my mother sputtering for Elena to leave the doctor alone. “Now, Elena, uh, you, well, the doctor, you’ve got, listen, I’ve …” Then I heard more scuffling about in the living room, and Elena’s peeling voice. “You’ve got to stay here, you’ve just got to!” The front door slammed, and after that, silence, except for Elena’s low whimpering as she cried softly by the window. For me the entire scene was more or less unreal, coming to me, as it did, through the fog of my illness. But later I learned that Elena had actually made a frenzied leap and struck Dr. Houston in the face, then followed him to the door and flung her shoe at his head as he dashed down the walkway to his car.
    In New England Maid , Elena wrote: “During the influenza epidemic of 1918-19, Standhope became a world in which every infirmity, even the slightest, most