The Heart Specialist (18 page)

After we had all served ourselves silence descended. Howlett and his child were reserved with Kitty, as if the dining room were foreign territory. Howlett seemed to watch his wife for cues. The little boy remained wordless too, his eyes darting from his father to me and then to his own feet, which he swung back and forth beneath the table. He was not one bit interested in his food. I chewed bravely. I had as little appetite as Revere seemed to have and the bandage exacerbated my innate clumsiness.

What did one do at such a dinner? How did one behave? Unlike Laure and Grandmother I had been born without this sixth sense. I was capable of committing serious blunders without being aware of them. I praised the food. That was a safe bet, and Kitty seemed to appreciate it. I said how much I liked Kitty’s house. Words tumbled from my lips. I sounded insufferably dull! How lovely, I heard myself declare, were the dolls that Kitty kept on the landing.

Surely Howlett would hurl something at me — a forkful of peas, a bun, anything to get me to stop? What I would have given to talk about medicine again, to learn about his work at Johns Hopkins and the differences he’d noticed between medicine practised in Baltimore and Montreal. He was writing a textbook. He was teaching. There were hundreds of thing to be discussed. I looked up but Howlett was chewing placidly. Kitty, to my astonishment, was smiling warmly at me. She was so pleased in fact that she decided to reward me by directing the conversation to a topic she thought might interest me.

“Willie is all for women studying medicine.” This unwarranted comment sailed out of the blue and into the dining room. A candle dripped onto the polished tabletop. Kitty obviously knew nothing of my past and its intersection with her husband. While she reached to straighten the candle Howlett served himself seconds.

“We’re fully capable,” I said carefully. I wasn’t sure of Howlett’s views on the matter and did not know Kitty well enough to guess her opinions either. “We can be every bit as intelligent as men.”

Kitty nodded, but her brow creased slightly. “Yes, but I worry about all that knowledge. I’m not sure I could bear to know the things you’ve had to learn.”

“But that’s the point of it,” I said. Kitty had hit a nerve. “Knowledge is precisely
why
I do it.”

Howlett moved his eyes from his plate, a slow, warning glance.

The candles threw shadows around the room. Kitty’s face seemed suddenly older, more angular. She no longer looked at me. “There was a girl last year,” she said. “You remember her, Willie. The Jewish one. Stein I think she was called.”

“She was uncommon,” said Willie.

“They’re all uncommon. But this one was so completely and utterly brain. No heart, no grace. Nothing to her apart from intellect. She was quite aberrant.”

“Now, now,” objected Howlett. “That’s a little strong.”

Kitty laughed. “You’re right. I sound old-fashioned, don’t I? But Miss White is different. That’s why I mention it. She’s not merely brain. She is obviously well brought up.”

I felt like I was at a tennis match, watching the ball volleying back and forth across the table. I did not dare to say a word.

“Dr. White is intelligent,” Howlett said smiling. “That much I can vouch for.”

“Of course she is,” answered Kitty. “But she also likes dolls.”

Blood rose to my cheeks. I checked Kitty’s expression but it contained no hint of irony.

“Guinevere Stein failed to notice them when she came to tea.”

“Gertrude,” Howlett corrected. “Gertrude Stein.” He turned to me and continued. “Bit of an odd duck with some rather strange opinions she insisted on airing at inappropriate times. She was asked to withdraw last spring.”

“Yes,” said his wife. “And guess who did the asking?” She pointed at Howlett, raising her eyebrows significantly.

Howlett shrugged. “She did not have the temperament to be a physician,” he said, absently pushing peas onto his fork. “Far too unconventional.”

“Your dolls are wax,” I said, changing the subject.

Kitty nodded. “The oldest one dates back to 1760.”

I mustered the delighted surprise Kitty expected. “From England, I presume?”

Again Kitty nodded. “Yes. Wax always means England. In France during the same period porcelain was used for the heads.”

“My sister and I had wax dolls when we were growing up,” I told her. This was not entirely true. Laure had owned them. I had merely tolerated them as a border dividing her side from mine on the bed. But the lie seemed to work on Kitty, who offered me a second round of peas.

I reached with my bad hand for the bowl, which was heavy and banged down on the tabletop, turning on its side, scattering its contents. I tried to wipe the mess with my napkin but Kitty stopped me. “It’s nothing,” she insisted. She was good in an emergency. Calm. A servant was called in and in no time the table was put to right. I resumed my seat. Kitty had just revived the conversation with a story about someone spilling gravy at her wedding lunch when Revere screamed.

He was no longer in his seat. In the confusion over the peas no one had noticed that he’d vanished. I stared at Kitty, then at Howlett, trying to make sense of it. Howlett bent suddenly to peer under the table and then disappeared from view. “Little rascal!” he said laughing.

“He’s under there?” Kitty was also trying to bend but her dress was too starchy to manage.

By leaning back and twisting sideways I could see the boy. And what I saw made the blood stop in my veins.

“What have you got there?” Howlett said. “Give it over.”

He crawled beneath the table to join his son. There was a sound of tussling. I could only see part of Revere’s body, the part holding my satchel. He was trying to shove the bottle back inside, out of sight, but his father was too quick. The tussling stopped and there were several seconds of silence while Howlett registered what he was holding. He started to laugh.

“My son’s been a snoop,” he said, standing and brushing off his pant legs. To my horror he placed the laboratory jar in front of him on the table. “I presume this belongs to you, Dr. White?”

My face must have ignited. I looked at my hostess but Kitty had no idea what was happening. She was smiling, assuming we were still in the realm of normal social intercourse. Reluctantly I looked back at Howlett, whose eyes were dancing a wicked little jig. “It’s from the museum,” I said quickly. “I’m so sorry.”

Kitty’s face changed. She peered at the jar then quickly looked away.

Howlett was still smiling. “A remarkable specimen.”

What could I have said? The worst thing that could have occurred had and there was no undoing it. What had I been thinking to bring this heart tonight?

Howlett called to his son, who emerged from under the table after a bit of coaxing. The thing in the bottle was a heart, he explained. The boy asked if it was dead and his father nodded. Yes it was dead, but it wasn’t anything to fear. One could learn a good deal from studying it. That was, in fact, why it was in the possession of Dr. White.

Revere glanced at me warily, most likely thinking me a witch with my bullet firing finger and this heart I was toting in a blood-smeared bag.

Kitty Revere rose abruptly. “Enough, Willie. I do not consider this appropriate. That thing,” she said pointing at the jar, “does not belong on a table where food is being served. I would be grateful if you and Dr. White removed it.”

Howlett looked at me. His face was solemn now but his eyes gave him away. He stood, taking the heart in both hands and cradling it like a baby. “My dear,” he said to his wife. “We have upset you. Perhaps it’s best we retire to the smoking room with this offensive thing?”

Kitty took her son and stood with her hands protectively on his shoulders while Howlett and I took our leave. I tried to apologize but it was clear that our time together was over.

Unlike the other rooms of the Howlett house the smoking room was dark and almost claustrophobic. Stained wood panelled the walls. Burgundy curtains drooped heavily over the only window and the air smelled of cigars. Ashtrays, one still holding two blackened stubs, had been strategically placed on several small tables.

I collapsed in an armchair and covered my face with my hands. “Forgive me,” I said. “I can’t believe I was so stupid.”

Howlett laughed. “It wasn’t you,” he said, standing in front of me. “It was my son. Revere has the annoying habit of sticking his nose in things, just like his old man.”

He was trying to comfort me, trying to be kind. I knew it but this did not ease my shame. “Kitty must think me a monster.”

Howlett held the jar beneath the lamp. “It’s a beauty,” he said, turning it slowly so that the bulge attached to the right atrium gaped at us. “Look at that compensation. What a miracle.”

“It doesn’t look quite human,” I said, momentarily forgetting my shame.

Howlett laughed for the second time. “Oh it’s human all right. I knew that the first time I laid eyes on it.”

I sat forward in excitement. “So you know it then. You’ve seen it before?”

“Know it? Why I was there when its owner died.” He replaced the jar in the crook of his arm, cradling it once more. “It became something of a personal trademark at McGill. They used to call it ‘The Howlett Heart.’ I never expected to see it again.”

I told him that I’d found it in the museum. The label had been wrong, which had thrown me off, and there had been no record attached.

“My fault,” said Howlett. “I used that thing so often in my lectures the records must have been misplaced. I can rectify things for you this instant.”

Dr. Clarke had been right. I removed my glasses and gave them a rub. My fingers were shaking slightly with anticipation. “He was your patient?”

Howlett’s face took on an odd expression.

I put my glasses on again and peered at him. “But you said you were there when he died.” I sensed an uneasiness in him.

He eyed me slyly. “Can I offer you a cigar, Dr. White?”

I demurred, shocked at the offer. Cigars were strictly for men.

“A digestif perhaps?”

I demurred again. He wanted me to drink with him alone in his parlour? I had insulted his wife once already. I was not about to do it again and risk whatever remained of my reputation.

“I’m at a loss,” he finally said, mirroring my own state.

“Please,” I said, waving to the bottles and decanters on a nearby shelf. “Take some yourself. I am fine as I am.”

He shrugged and poured himself a snifter. “Brandy is a tonic. Good for the blood especially,” he said. “You know that, Dr. White. Besides, you make me feel inhospitable. You’re sure you will not change your mind?”

In the end he insisted on pouring me some brandy. It was the colour of burnt sugar; its fumes stung my eyes. At his urging I took a mouthful but then spat most of it back out into my glass.

Howlett burst out laughing. “Slow down. No need to down it all at once.”

He created a swirling tornado inside his snifter. Then he inhaled, closing his eyes.

When I did the same he laughed a second time. “You’re a quick study, aren’t you, Dr. White? Open to just about anything.”

He leaned forward over his knees, right up close so he could keep his voice practically in a whisper. And then he told me the story of the heart. It was as if I’d passed some sort of test. He’d taken my measure in some way that only he could judge and found me worthy. The patient, he said, had been a notary, a sedentary man, which may have explained his longevity. In his thirties he had developed chest pains and been admitted to the Montreal General. Howlett had been a student at the time. The year was 1872. He’d been taking classes but they’d allowed him to assist at the initial examination, which had revealed nothing but a hint of cyanosis upon exertion and chest pain. No strange rattlings or whistlings in the thoracic cavity upon auscultation. No abnormal breathing patterns. When the patient died a month after this visit Howlett rushed back in curiosity to witness the autopsy.

“No report of which was ever written,” I reminded him. “I can’t tell you the number of hours I’ve spent combing the literature.”

“Waste of time,” said Howlett. “There was a report but you won’t find it.”

I looked at him sharply but couldn’t read his expression. He sounded defiant, almost proud.

“It was never published.”

“But it’s such an important case,” I objected. “The journals would have leapt on it.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Howlett said and paused, jiggling his brandy so it undulated in small waves. “The doctor who wrote it …” he paused, looking up at me briefly, “was in difficulty.”

The pieces fell together. Howlett had already told me that as a student he’d followed one mentor in particular, sticking to him like a shadow.

“My father,” I said quietly.

Howlett nodded. “Honoré Bourret did the autopsy.”

I sat up as if he’d touched a nerve. All these weeks I’d been consumed with something that had once belonged to
him
. I’d carted it for miles without ever once suspecting. I leaned forward to re-examine the specimen jar. In the lamplight I could only just make out the heart bobbing inside like a closed fist.