A Deadly Affection (29 page)

“Well now, if people like you didn't think sex was such a sin,” he drawled, “there wouldn't be a problem, would there?”

“People like me? Meaning people like you think it's fine to impregnate a girl and then abandon her?”

He shrugged. “I'd say the sin was in the abandoning, not the sex. If two people have a mind to pleasure each other, I don't see why God or anyone else should take offense.”

“A woman doesn't engage in the sexual act for pleasure,” I retorted. “She only consents to satisfy a man's needs because she believes it will bind him to her.”

“There's more to it than that,” he scoffed.

“Really? Such as?”

“You don't understand the things that go on between a man and a woman.”

I turned to face him, irked at his tone. “I'm not as innocent as you presume.”

He cackled with amusement. “A kiss from Billy Long Legs there hardly qualifies you as an expert.”

“What does, then?”

He bent to leer in my face. “I'm talking about
sexual intercourse
, Doctor. The whole kit and caboodle.”

“Well then, as I said, I'm not as innocent as you presume.”

His smirk faded. “I don't believe it,” he said, straightening.

I shrugged, enjoying a moment of smug satisfaction.

“Not with him?” he groaned, jerking his head toward the Fiskes'.

“No,” I said tartly. “Not that it's any of your business. My point is, I know from personal experience that the sexual act, absent the production of a child, offers nothing of interest to a woman.”

“Nothing of interest.” He stared at me. “I can't believe you're saying that. Not you.”

This reference to my past conduct all too predictably set my face on fire. “I said it, and I meant it,” I insisted.

He shook his head. “Then you can't have tried it with the right man.”

I turned and continued briskly up the sidewalk.

“You can't shut down that part of yourself,” he said, loping along beside me. “Sweet Jesus, don't let them take that away from you too!”

I stopped again, swiveling toward him. “‘Them'? I have no idea what you're talking about.”

His eyes glittered in the lamplight. “No, you don't, do you? You don't even realize that your parents are still running your life, sucking all the joy and possibility right out of it.”

“That's absurd.”

“Why haven't you told your father how deep you're involved in this murder case?”

“I told you before, I don't want him to worry about me.”

He shook his head. “That isn't it. You're afraid he'd be disappointed in you if he knew what you'd been up to.”

That was part of the reason, it was true. But I didn't see how that gave Simon the right to feel the contempt I saw in his eyes. “I don't want to hurt him again. I owe him that much.”

He leaned closer. “You don't owe him anything. Not a God-blessed thing! Come on, Genna, you're not a little girl anymore. When are you going to start thinking for yourself?”

“I wouldn't expect you to understand,” I said, stung by his response. “You've never had a father whose opinion you could care about.”

My words hit their mark. I saw his mouth tighten, contracting all the little muscles along his jaw. “Maybe not,” he said, “but from what I saw yours put you through, I'm glad of it.”

“My father has always had my best interests in mind.”

“I was there, remember? I saw what happened after your brother died. The way they made you suffer.”

My parents, make me suffer? I opened my mouth to say he must be drunker than I thought—but before I could utter the words, a visceral memory of pain and loneliness welled up inside me, swamping any protest. I shook my head, more in dismay than denial.

“You can't undo what happened back then,” he said gruffly. “You can spend your whole life trying to please your father and everyone else, trying not to make another mistake, but it won't do you a bit of good. Your brother's gone, forever. And one day, you'll be gone too. So for God's sake, don't waste the rest of your life apologizing! It's high time you cut loose and started walking on your own two feet.” He straightened, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I'm not saying it'll be easy, but I guarantee you'll gain more than you lose. You just have to take it one step at a time.”

His words reverberated inside me, the way true words do. Of course, I had always understood, deep down, that nothing I ever did would be good enough. I had nevertheless felt compelled to try. I looked up the avenue, where dawn was turning the limestone facades the color of a baby's cheek. A few blocks east, I could hear the rumble of the Third Avenue El on its first morning run. Daybreak in the city was a magical time, a promise of birth and transformation on a grand scale. I felt a sudden longing to be part of that great transformation—to let go of my painful past and sail into that pink dawn. But I didn't know how. I didn't even know where to begin.

The motorcar had crept up behind us and was rattling at the curb. Simon sighed and shook his head. “You'd better get home before your father sends out a search party.”

He was right. I should go. But I was suddenly loath to leave him. It occurred to me that I had felt more myself in the last twenty minutes than I had at any time during the ball. Why this should be was a mystery. Simon and I had nothing in common except old memories, many of them unpleasant. He clearly despised my world, and I felt uncomfortable in his. Be that as it may, I couldn't deny that when he'd materialized before me on the Fiskes' sidewalk, I'd felt the same leap in my chest that I'd experienced as an adolescent when he came to fetch me for our rides in the park.

He pulled open the motorcar's rear door, and I reluctantly climbed in, pulling my damp skirts behind me. “Can I offer you a lift?” I asked.

A flash of impatience crossed his eyes. “What would your father say?”

“I don't see why he needs to know,” I said with a conspiratorial little smile.

He stiffened as if I'd hurled an obscenity at him. “I don't hide from any man,” he snarled. “Especially your father.” He slammed the door shut.

I sank back in my seat as the car started up the avenue. Simon's hatred for my father radiated from him like heat from an overstoked stove. It seemed to always be there, just beneath the surface, as much a part of him as blood or bone. What did hatred like that do to a person over time? Had it changed Simon? Was it changing him still, in ways I couldn't comprehend? I turned to look out the rear of the motorcar, needing reassurance that the loathing I'd heard in his voice didn't extend to me. But he had already turned down the side street, and his face was hidden from view.

Although I was exhausted from days of nervous tension and nights with too little sleep, I slept only fitfully upon my return home. After a few hours of tossing and turning, I finally gave up and dragged myself out of bed. In the silent dining room, I poured myself a cup of tea from a pot waiting on the warmer and carried it with the freshly ironed paper to the table. Dr. Hauptfuhrer's death was now five days old, and with no new developments pointing either toward or against an indictment of the accused murderer at the grand jury trial, it had been moved to a back page. There was a brief paragraph about the doctor's funeral service, followed by a sentence noting that detectives were planning to go through the doctor's records with his daughter in hopes of finding a motive for the vicious attack. No date was given for the grand jury trial, leading me to conclude that none had yet been set.

“I didn't expect to see you up so early,” Katie said, coming in from the pantry with a basket of fresh scones and a bowl of orange butter. “There's a ham in the oven and porridge on the stove, but they won't be ready for a while yet.”

“A scone will be plenty,” I said, reaching for the basket. “I ate enough at the ball to last me until summer.”

“Was it as grand as everyone said, then?” she asked, putting the basket on the sideboard and returning with the teapot.

“Oh yes, it was very grand,” I told her, spreading orange butter on the scone. I took a bite and groaned in appreciation. My exertions of the evening before must have distended my stomach, for I was suddenly ravenous for more.

“Did you see the Earl?”

“He was hard to miss,” I answered between mouthfuls.

She hovered beside me, cradling the teapot in both hands. “Well? What was he like?” she demanded, starry-eyed as the greenest chambermaid.

“I think it's safe to say he puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else.”

“Oh, Miss Genna,” she clucked, shaking her head as she refilled my cup.

I was sick to death of all the fawning over the Earl; you'd think after everything our country had gone through to establish a democracy, we wouldn't be so quick to grovel before any odd duck with a title. “Are Mother and Father sleeping in?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Your father is. Your mother's been out in the conservatory for hours.”

I looked up in alarm. My parents had built the conservatory soon after Conrad's death, fitting it between the back of the house and the old chestnut tree. It had quickly become my mother's private refuge, the place she disappeared into during her sad spells, often for hours at a time.

“Don't worry,” Katie said. “I brought her some tea when I saw the kerosene lamps were on, and she was as flushed and sparkly as a young girl. Something to do with a new garden project and deciding what plants she was going to use. I can't remember when I've seen her so excited.”

While it was thrilling to think that my mother's zest for life might finally be returning, it was more than a little disturbing to think that we owed it to Lucille. “But she couldn't have gotten more than two or three hours of sleep,” I said. “Do you think I should try to make her come in?”

Katie's big hand landed gently on my shoulder. “I think your mother has slept enough these past several years, don't you? Why don't we let her enjoy being really awake for a change?”

• • •

A half hour later, I was descending the steps to the Holy Trinity parish hall basement, where my second class was scheduled to begin. I had arrived a few minutes early to hang some curtains I'd asked Mary to sew for the door and window, hoping to add a bit of cheer to the room. Unfortunately, the splashes of red toile only seemed to magnify the vast expanse of gray wall and ceiling. Lucille's “modern clinic” flashed through my mind, causing me a pang of regret. I pushed it firmly aside, remembering the stark hospital room where I'd spent my practicum. I'd seen astonishing things in that plain little room: morose, prostrate consumptives crying with relief during a postlecture discussion and speechless boys from the Cuban battlefields—boys who'd been labeled “unreachable”—springing back to life. As Dr. Cassell had made clear, it was the power of the doctor's authority, not the color of the walls, that made the difference.

Curiously, not even Dr. Cassell could explain why the class approach worked as well as it did. Conventional thinking held that the distractions in a group setting—the patients' tendency, in particular, to try to discuss their problems among themselves—would be counterproductive, undermining the doctor's authority and therefore his effectiveness, and resulting in slower cure rates than individual therapies. In practice, though, this had not been found to occur. Despite the blows to my self-confidence in recent days, my belief in the technique remained steadfast, and I was as determined as ever to put it to use.

I sat at the little desk reviewing my outline, keeping my ears tuned for early arrivals. I heard the floorboards creak in the office above me and the distant rumble of voices, but no sound from the other side of the partition. Strolling to the kitchen, I fetched a glass of water and brought it back to my seat. I took a sip, staring at the partition, straining to hear the sound of footsteps. The church bell chimed eleven o'clock, and still no one had appeared.

Not one? I hadn't reached a single one of them? I sipped mechanically while several more minutes ticked by, then put down the empty glass. That was that, then. I collected my notes and shoved them numbly into my bag, not caring that some of the pages caught and tore. It seemed I wouldn't be needing them anymore.

I had just gotten up from my chair when I heard it: the clunk of boot heels on the basement stairs. Cocking my head, I caught the lilt of a female voice, followed by a familiar laugh. Other voices joined in as the footsteps moved across the floor toward the partition. I sank back onto my seat as Anna swept around the edge of the partition, followed closely by Margaret, Florence, and Wilhelmina.

Anna was wearing a black derby and carrying a lizard-headed cane. “Sorry we're late,” she said. “I bumped into these three while I was posting a letter for the Reverend and asked them to wait.” She drew to a stop in front of me, looking me up and down. “You look like hell, Doctor. You ought to get more sleep.”

I laughed. “Why, thank you, Anna. You look rather fetching yourself.”

She scowled in reply, but it seemed to me there was a new bounce in her step as she continued past me to her chair. The others followed, and they all took their seats, stowing their belongings beneath them and settling back expectantly. I pulled my notes back out of my bag, unable to keep a smile from my face. When I looked up, they were smiling too.

“Well, I'm glad that almost everyone made it today,” I said, waiting to see if this provoked a reaction. But if anyone was aware of what had happened to the fifth member of our class, it didn't register in their faces. I turned to my notes in relief, glad not to have to offer an explanation.

Today's topic concerned the importance of recognizing feelings of guilt and blame. It was a subject that touched close to home for all of them, and one I hoped would be sufficiently compelling to both engage their interest and discourage interruptions. Things did indeed go well at first, until I suggested that feeling anger toward someone who had died was a natural human reaction.

“I was angry, all right, when my Willie died,” Florence broke in. “So angry”—she glanced sheepishly at the others—“that I cut up all his clothes.”

Anna crowed with delight. “That's brilliant! I wish I'd thought of it.”

“But what if their death was an accident?” Margaret broke in.

“Ladies, please,” I said, mindful of Cassell's policy toward interruptions. “If you would just save your questions and comments until the end, we could—”

“But how can you be angry at someone for something they couldn't help?” Margaret insisted. “How can that be right?”

I sat back. I didn't want to ignore her question when she was trying so hard to understand. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to relax the rules just a little. “It doesn't have to be ‘right' in the logical sense,” I explained to her. “Emotions aren't right or wrong. What I'm saying is that it's a normal human reaction for which you shouldn't take yourself to task.”

There were several more interruptions and personal revelations by the women as the lecture progressed. And yet, despite Cassell's warnings, when the class finally drew to a close, I sensed a new optimism and energy in the group, achieved, it seemed,
because
of, rather than despite, the patients' participation.

I continued to mull this over as I started down Second Avenue toward the Brauns' flat, where I was hoping to speak with Eliza privately before her mother returned from church. It had been four days since Eliza's release from prison, and I'd still had no opportunity to speak with her alone. It wasn't only her chilly reception outside of the Tombs that I was anxious to discuss; I also had to persuade her to let Dr. Huntington examine her. This task might require some delicacy, since I had no intention of revealing the more frightening aspects of her suspected condition just yet. Only if Dr. Huntington pronounced her affected would I reveal to Eliza the exact nature of the disease.

As I approached the Brauns' building, I noticed a new man sitting on the stoop across the street, reading a newspaper. From his shabby clothes and sunken face, I guessed he was another of Simon's rescued petty offenders, put to work standing watch over the shop. I nodded as he looked up, and he tipped his cap.

I entered through the private building entrance that flanked the door to the shop and climbed the narrow stairs to the second-floor flat. To my dismay, Mrs. Braun answered my knock, grimacing on sight of me. It was all I could do not to grimace back.

“We're expecting Reverend Palmers at any minute,” she informed me. “You'll have to come back another time.”

“I really do need to examine her today,” I said, determined not to be put off. “I promise it won't take long.”

When it became clear I wasn't going to leave, she grudgingly stepped aside and let me enter. The flat was in the shape of a narrow rectangle, with a sitting room on the front end, a kitchen in the back, and two small bedrooms off a central hallway in the middle. I had come in on the kitchen end. A soup pot was simmering on the stove, and through the steamy window beyond it, I could see frozen laundry hanging stiffly from a line in the backyard.

Mrs. Braun led me wordlessly down the hall to Eliza's bedroom. Eliza was propped up on the bed inside, dressed in a pretty pink nightgown and robe and drawing in a sketchbook. She clapped the sketchbook shut and laid it on the bedside table. “Dr. Summerford! I'm so glad you've come!”

“Well, I don't even have to ask how you're feeling,” I said, immeasurably relieved by her warm welcome. “I can see that you're doing much better.”

“Yes, I am, thanks to you.”

I sat on the bed beside her and opened my medical bag. “It's Mr. Shaw you should thank,” I reminded her, although I was inwardly pleased by her response. “He's the one who convinced the judge to let you out.”

Once again, Mrs. Braun stood behind me as I began my examination, uttering grunts of disapproval when she wasn't answering the questions I put to Eliza. She tersely informed me that Eliza had had another bad headache the evening before, along with more stomach pains, but that both were gone when she awoke in the morning. Indeed, except for a slightly elevated pulse, a faint flush, and the dark shadows under her eyes, I could find nothing wrong with my patient, and she herself reported, when finally given the chance, that she was feeling ready to get out of bed.

“You should rest a little longer all the same,” I told her. “You don't want to overdo.” I wasn't about to call her cured yet, not when doing so would send her straight back to the Tombs.

“I could use her down in the shop now that she's feeling better,” her mother said. “I've been sorely shorthanded.”

“Do you feel up to it?” I asked Eliza.

“I'd rather work than sit in bed all day,” she answered cheerfully.

“Why don't you give it a try, then? But just for an hour or two, and you have to promise to go right back to bed if the pains return.” I looked up at her mother, determined to shake her loose for at least a few minutes before the Reverend arrived. “I am a bit concerned about her color, though; that flush could mean she's dehydrated. Do you think you might fix her a pot of tea?”

“What, now?” Mrs. Braun asked.

“The sooner the better,” I said.

She didn't look very pleased by my request but left to do as I asked.

“Alone at last,” I said to Eliza with a smile, closing my medical bag.

She smiled back, her eyes shining with their old softness. “You're awfully good to come here and check up on me.”

“I'm just glad to see you smiling again. I must say, I was afraid I might have offended you somehow. You didn't seem very happy with me, the last time I saw you.”

She looked astonished. “Offend me? But you've been nothing but kind!” Her eyes clouded. “If it wasn't for you, I'd still be in that horrible place.”

“Yes, well, you shouldn't have been in there in the first place.”

“Is it over, then? Are they done with me?”

“Why, no,” I said, sitting back. “You've only been temporarily released until your grand jury trial. Didn't your mother explain when she came to get you?”

She slumped against the pillows. “They still think I killed the doctor, then.”

Her emotions were as transparent as a child's, I thought, watching despair reclaim her. I hated to see her slip back into despondency. I was tempted to tell her everything I'd discovered, about Joy and the Fiskes and Hagan, just to give her hope. But how much comfort would it bring her to hear that I'd identified a possible murder suspect when, even if the charges against Eliza were dropped, the death sentence of chorea could still be hanging over her? Or to discover that her daughter had been located, only to learn that she too might be suffering from a fatal disease? I would save her from that roller-coaster ride if I could. Better to wait a few more days, until she'd been examined by Dr. Huntington.