The intercom buzzed, startling us both. Mr. Ludwig crossed to the door, answering it. It was Mr. Wilton, telling him he was leaving.
He returned to his spot by the counter and continued. “The Great Chicago Fire of 1871,” he said. “It burned for two days, destroyed four miles of downtown, and killed more than two hundred people.”
“Wow.”
He nodded. “Where did it go wrong? Who is to blame? Should the woman not have milked her cow? Should she not have answered the call of her family or nature, whatever caused the distraction?”
“No,” I said. “She shouldn’t have left the lantern with the cow.”
“Maybe.” Mr. Ludwig nodded. “But would that even have mattered if only it had rained the day before or if someone had looked out their window earlier and noticed the fire?
“And then you look at the aftermath. Rebuilding the city created enormous growth. Arguably, it’s the event that made Chicago a place of significance. Thousands of jobs were created, families fed. Maybe some were helped out of desperate situations or were able to see doctors when they might otherwise have been without money to do so. Certainly it made life better for generations after. Definitely saved lives somewhere along the way.”
He leaned down and shut off the machine, its whir dying to a whisper, then silence. Mr. Ludwig’s words echoed off the metal table and counters of the prep room.
“My point is that every tragedy creates opportunity. And each death averted closes the door on an alternate possibility. Life has so many variables, good and bad, in every situation.” He rubbed his jaw speculatively. “What I mean to say is that I don’t think it’s possible to answer a question like that, Cassie.”
“But … what if you have to?”
Mr. Ludwig looked at me carefully, knowing I was pushing this “what if” more than usual, unsure why and thankfully not asking. “Then I think you can only do the best with what you know and can imagine.”
“Would you have warned the Great Fire lady not to leave the lantern?”
Mr. Ludwig smiled. “I knew you would ask that. And without giving it more thought than I have right here, my answer is yes. I think I would.”
“Why?”
“Because it is the certain versus the assumed but unconfirmed. I know two hundred and some people died in the Great Fire. I can guess that people were helped by it, but I don’t know any specifics—who they were, how many of them, what might have happened to them otherwise. In the absence of that information, I’d have to try to save the ones I knew to be in danger.” He gestured to the tanks, ready to switch over the embalming fluid. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Mr. Ludwig knelt, unscrewing nozzles and hoses. I watched him absently, my mind traveling back over his words. Did it make sense to save all the certain dead? I didn’t think so. Some didn’t want to be saved and others shouldn’t be. But what about the rest, the Jackson Kennits?
“So even though by saving those two hundred some you’re dooming others, you’d still do it since you can’t quantify the others?” Because I certainly couldn’t quantify them; I would never know who’d been marked because of one I’d saved or who’d lived because I let Jackson Kennit die.
Mr. Ludwig looked up at me speculatively. “Is it certain that I’m dooming others?”
“No,” I answered slowly. “There’s no way to know for sure. You just have to believe it. Or not.”
“Faith?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
He nodded. “Then it depends how strong your faith is. In this case, my faith isn’t strong enough to let the fire take its course. I’m not sure I believe an equal number would be helped significantly enough to justify the deaths.”
I thought about pressing on, asking what he’d do if it were one for one, but there wasn’t much point. His phrasing—equal number—was enough, it told me where his reasoning would take him. It was the same place I always wound up—the impossible judgment of whose life was worth more.
So I asked something else instead. “Do you think that woman—the one with the cows—was damned for what she did?”
“Starting the fire?”
“Yes. Because of the people that died. I mean, it was her fault. She left the lantern.” I warned them. Or didn’t.
Mr. Ludwig shrugged. “Most religions would say that if she repented, she’d be forgiven.”
“Yeah … I’m not really thinking about religion, I guess. Not in the strict, like, by-the-rules sense. More like …” I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but Mr. Ludwig did it for me.
“In her heart? Her own mind and soul?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Exactly.”
With some people you can read the workings of their mind on their face, but Mr. Ludwig wasn’t like that. He was inscrutable, pursing his thin lips just a little, but otherwise his face remained as smooth and serene as when he was soothing mourners, acting as their calming touchstone. A soul guide of his own sort.
“I think,” he said finally, “that her intentions were blameless, Cassie. Even if the things she did were careless or stupid or even risky, they weren’t done with malice. I know you’re not asking about religion as a judge, but rather conscience. But I think they use the same sticks to measure: intent and repentance. Could she forgive herself ? Did she ever find peace in her heart? I don’t know. I hope so. I think she deserved it.”
That was as far as I could take the conversation. It wasn’t a complete answer, but it was the best I could hope for. It was all that was out there.
Chapter 27
I found Zander by his locker first thing Monday morning. We’d texted on Sunday, but he hadn’t returned my calls. I knew he needed space so it didn’t bother me. Much.
“You have a good day yesterday?” I asked, resting my back against the locker beside his.
Zander pulled a book from the top shelf. “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Nothing special, just hung out. You?”
“I worked. We had a new body in.”
I waited for the jokes or sarcasm, but Zander was preoccupied, busy with his coat and books.
“I had a nice time Saturday,” I said. I fiddled with my backpack’s zipper, wondering if I should say anything about the ride home. It felt so huge, hanging between us. “Zander, about—”
He held up a hand, had been waiting for this. “Let’s talk about it later, Cassie. Please.” His voice was calm but firm.