I just can't make up my mind about her. Again and again they traced typhoid outbreaks back to Mary Mallon; and, each time, she slipped from their grasp and found work in yet another kitchen. She could not stay away. She kept returning to the only thing she knew. I can't decide if she was psychotic or merely atavistic--a dark angel or simply a confused worker bee told to stop working--but in any case, her powers of denial were profound. You don't see that kind of thoughtless determination in the world anymore.
Anyway, they tracked her down one last time and stuck her in quarantine, of course. You can see here there, staring at the camera from one in a long row of beds. And, I'm sorry to bring this up, but I can't help noticing: Typhoid Mary is kind of hot.
I don't mean febrile. I don't mean running-a-temperature hot. I mean just plain hot. Sure, she has the covers pulled primly up to her chest, and she's wearing at least three layers of clothes, including a robe, for god's sake. But there's a fire in Mary Mallon. Some people might think her expression says, Back off. But this is no wilting flower. This woman killed three people and infected fifty more. She is not afraid of life or death. She's been stuck in that ward for weeks and months and years, and she just wants someone to climb on that hospital bed with her, take down that pinned-up hair, pull open that robe, and feast on that comely Irish immigrant's bod.
And don't get me started on that chick in the next bed.
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