He fell into his bunk at ten o’clock, and Charlie came in and sat in the chair, looking old and tired, his shoulders curled forward. “Lucky, they just brought a cook up the stage plank. He didn’t make it.”

“Who was it?”

“The little Swenson guy.”

“Why didn’t they bring him to the hospital?”

Charlie looked at the palms of his hands. “Nobody thought it was that bad, I guess.” He pulled off his cap and hung it on his knee. “They’re taking out three by ambulance in the morning, though. Unless they improve.”

“How’s Elsie doing?”

“She’s one of the three. Her and a fireman and the purser.”

“I’d better go down and see her.”

“You had the flu yet?”

“Yeah.” He pulled his mate’s cap off a nail and settled it square on his head.

“It’s a bad dose she’s got.”

“I just want to see her a minute.”

He walked toward the rear of the Texas, where most of the women had their cabins. Lily was staying with another waitress farther forward while her mother was ill. He knocked, and Gladys, a ruddy pastry cook from Minnesota, opened the door for him.

“How’s she doing?”

“You just set with her a minute while I get a snack. You’ll get the picture.”

The room was warm and smelled of sickness. Elsie lay on the bottom bunk, and he took the small chair between it and the sink. Even in the light of the dim bulb he could see that her complexion was dark. She breathed hard, her mouth open, and when he reached to her forehead, the fever scorched his palm. She opened her eyes and coughed, rivers moving in her chest. “Lucky,” she said breathlessly. “Can you help watch the kids till I get better?”

It broke his heart to see her like this, and he remembered her in the spotlight onstage, all beauty and talent and music. “That won’t be a problem, girl.”

Her head rolled away from him. “Hell of a mess.”

“You’ll be all right.”

“I guess this is one thing I can’t blame on you.”

He looked at the enameled deck. “You seen August?”

“He just left. I don’t want him in here too long.”

“He’s getting better with his horn every day.”

She seemed desperate for breath. A crescent of blood glowed in her right nostril. “If I can’t work this season.” She stopped and swallowed. “The only one who’ll take Lily is Ted’s brother.”

“You better rest.”

“No. Ted’s brother is a saloonkeeper. Bad, bad temper, Lucky. It’ll be terrible for the kids.”

He waited for her to go on, but she was completely exhausted and her eyes had drifted closed. A big tow went by the little window, the boat’s mast light winking like a shooting star, and the Ambassador started to rock slightly. After a few minutes he stood up, unsure of what to do, and in the dim room her voice came, all the music out of it.

“His name’s Bruton.”

He bent down over her face, appalled by what the sickness had done. “Who?”

“Don’t let him have them, Lucky,” she gasped.

“Okay,” he whispered.

Her eyelids parted like dark wounds. “Don’t let him have them.”

“Go to sleep.” He touched her forehead again, where the skin was as warm as a lamp shade. Glancing around the room, he searched for anything that might distract her from the suffering.

Suddenly, she arched her back and cried out, as from a dream, “It’s all your fault.”

HE WAITED at the rail outside her door until Gladys returned, and then he watched the river, still broken with the passing of the last boat, shattered like his feelings. He wondered if there was a physics to one’s mistakes, a chain of reactions that ran away toward infinity like waves or a sounding whistle chasing along a watercourse for miles and miles. And what could he do but make right his mistakes when he could, or unable to do that, catch some other fellow’s mistake and fix it? Across the river one of the last packet boats serving St. Louis rang its deck bell, the heavy notes skating across the water and up the sloped and cobbled bank into the city. He watched it leave, and then Gladys came out carrying a pail.

“What time will the ambulance come for her?”

“They said daybreak.”

“Will all three of them fit into it?”

She was walking away to the stern, but stopped and turned to him. “Two. The fireman’s done crossed over.”

THE NEXT MORNING started off warm and humid. The mates and kitchen staff still able to work disinfected the café, mopping everything down with bleach. The ambulance came and left while Sam was swabbing under the tables. Later, he went down to the bandstand and began playing the piano. August walked in with his hands in his pockets. He was letting his hair grow and it was oiled back out of his way and tucked over his pale ears.

Lily dawdled behind him, her face still four years old, oblivious, carrying a coloring book folded over a single-row box of crayons. She opened it on a table and pulled the chair out with both hands, then kneeled on its seat to begin coloring. “I don’t have a brown,” she complained.

“Use black,” Sam told her.

August leaned against the piano. “Lucky,” he whispered, “what do you think about Mom?”

“I think she should’ve gone to the hospital a couple days ago.”

“I know. I’m scared.”

The statement froze his fingers, and he put his hands in his lap. “You saying your prayers?”

“I’ve been praying for two days straight.”

Sam closed his eyes a moment. He wasn’t August’s father, and the Wellers weren’t his responsibility. He would help Elsie as far as he could, but ultimately that wouldn’t amount to much. “You want me to go up the hill with you to see her?”

He shook his head. “I’m scared I’ll catch it and give it to Lily. The cabin boy that died wasn’t but twelve years old, and strong as a country ox.”

“Zach?”

“Yes.”

“That’s kind of scary, all right. Scary as hell.”

“The captain says we won’t go anywhere for ten days, and that’s if nobody else comes down hard with it.”

“Good practice time, sounds like.”

August sat down on the bench beside him, facing away from the keyboard. “I don’t want Lily to wind up with Uncle Bruton.” He looked over at his sister. “I’ll kidnap her myself if it comes to that.”

“Your mom’s a tough lady. She’ll pull through.”

“God, I hope so.” He slumped forward and closed his eyes.

Sam tried to remember if he had ever been that worried. When he thought of the sickness that took his first child, the baby’s trembling eyelids, his blue lips, he knew that he had.

“You go on and take a walk. Get your mind on something else.”

August stood up. “Can you watch her?”

“Well, I guess so.”

He walked forward toward the main stairs and Lily saw him go, then turned to Sam, a crayon bearing down on a page. “I’m hungry.”

The piano key cover snapped down like a fact. “Let’s get you a sandwich in the café.”

“It smells bad.” She pinched her nose.

“That smell is medicine to get rid of the sickness.”

“It always smells bad.”

He took her by the hand, which was sticky and soot-smudged. “We’ll wash our hands and go get a sandwich.”

“I don’t want to wash my hands.”

“Come on and let me show you how it’s done.”

BEFORE SUPPER, they left Lily with Gladys and walked to the hospital, and at the main desk, when they asked to see Elsie, the receptionist called someone on the phone. When they saw a tall nurse walk down the hall toward them, a woman with iron-gray hair and a solemn stride, when they looked at her eyes and the way she held her hands, one over another in front, when they saw her face, a face good at telling the worst, they knew Elsie was dead.