The Crossing

by Kathryn Lasky

  At the observatory, women for the last ten years had been hired to perform mathematical classifications of stars based on photographic plates. Hugh had told her about this the first summer he came to Bar Harbor to work on his astronomy project. May was agog that such a thing as a woman scientist even existed. But Hugh told her about Dr. Fleming, a Scottish astronomer who was developing a common designation system for stars and had thus far not only cataloged thousands of them but had discovered the Horsehead Nebula, a dark cloud in the constellation Orion, which Hugh had shown her with the most powerful telescope he had brought to Maine. But when she went to the observatory at Harvard a few days after arriving, the photo plates that Dr. Fleming showed her were even more impressive.

  May did most of her work at the observatory at night. And as dawn approached and the stars faded, Hugh would walk her over to the banks of the Charles and she would slip into the water. No suspicions were aroused in the Gilbert family, where she was lodging, for it made perfect sense that Hugh, being an astronomer, would need help at the observatory at night, when the stars were visible. He would escort her both to and from the “obs,” as it was known. It was a very satisfactory arrangement on all counts.

  Hugh had found her lodging on Divinity Avenue in a rather dreary gray three-story clapboard house occupied in contrast by a most undreary, rollicking family, the Gilberts. Jediah Gilbert was a professor of physiology at the Harvard School of Medicine. His wife, Alice, was a sturdy Midwesterner who directed her gaggle of children, three girls and two boys, with a cheerful insouciance. The children seemed to disdain the use of the stairs and instead went swooshing down the banister. On the day May arrived they were having a celebration in honor of the baby, Marietta, who had mastered the banister at the ripe old age of two and a half. May found it frightening to see the chubby little toddler screaming with glee as she whizzed down the mahogany banister and landed at the feet of her mother, whose desk was by the stairs on the first floor.

  “Bravo!” the mother shouted. “A wonder any child of mine learns to walk in this family.”

  Alice Gilbert was a woman of boundless energy, and in between caring for her children and running a busy household she found time to write articles on suffrage and short stories for magazines, as well as being deeply involved in the local politics of Cambridge. Her children did not have governesses, nor did they go to the fancy private school that many of the college professors’ children attended. They went to the local public school. In the two short days that May had been there, she discovered that Alice Gilbert had an opinion on just about anything. But she was as eager to listen as to give an opinion. She was, in fact, a consummate listener. May had never seen mothers in Bar Harbor listen to their own children with such attentiveness and engage with them in such deliberative conversations. Age and gender seemed not to matter to Alice Gilbert.

  Housekeeping was not Mrs. Gilbert’s strong suit. A pleasant messiness prevailed throughout the house. Toys tumbled out of closets and were often strewn across the entrance hall, which seemed to be the children’s favorite place to play. There were books everywhere. It seemed that there was no more room for them on the bookshelves, so one could find almost every tabletop stacked with them, including the far end of the long dining room table.

  On May’s first morning there she found Mrs. Gilbert pushing a carpet sweeper while reading a book and obviously missing great sections of the carpet. She looked up when May came down the stairs and cheerfully announced, “I am cleaning up for the cleaning girl. We’re such slobs, you know. I feel a bit sorry for her and needless to say embarrassed for us.”

  Professor Gilbert was a quiet sort who always wore a slightly bemused expression on his face but seemed to marvel at his children’s accomplishments, whether it was turning a somersault or getting a hundred percent on a spelling test. He called Alice “Pumpkin” and would often say, “Pumpkin, what do you think about this?” or “Pumpkin, would it be all right with you if I had that new student — the one from Indiana — over for dinner? He seems a little bit lost. I thought he might appreciate your prairie charm.”

  It was a happy household, and May tried to imagine herself living this kind of life married to a professor. If the house were right on the Charles River, it would have been perfect, as it led directly to the sea.

  The third time she went swimming in Cambridge she met up with Hannah. They had each sensed the other in the water. May had the feeling that Hannah was almost trying to avoid her. She glimpsed Hannah swimming with her eyes closed as if lost in a wonderful dream, and yet it also seemed as if she might have been weeping. The flukes of her tail appeared to linger and then tilt this way and that slowly, as if savoring every curl of the current. A dreadful thought coursed through May. Is she saying good-bye to the sea? Has she decided?

  She had caught up, and they both clambered onto the ledge known as Half Tide Rock on the outer edge of Boston Harbor. It had been almost two months since they had seen each other. Ettie had reported that Hannah was not quite herself. But that did not adequately describe her. Hannah ducked her chin and seemed to avert her eyes from May’s. She was incapable of giving a straight answer.

  “Ettie says that you are engaged to Stannish.”

  “Well … uh … yes.”

  “So when are you getting married?”

  “In Italy.”

  “I said when, not where.”

  “Uh … he has lots of commissions in London, and you know …”

  “No, I don’t know, Hannah. I don’t know anything except that Stannish was opposed to you swimming and now here you are swimming.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “And does he know this? Or do you lie?”

  “Not lie, exactly.”

  “What exactly?”

  “I guess I’m breaking the rules.”

  “Hannah, there shouldn’t be any rules. He should respect what you are. And — and … what is wrong with your hair? It looks different.”

  “It’s the — the dye.”

  “Why are you dyeing your hair? No, don’t tell me. Stannish’s idea,” she said with a sigh. It was all too depressing.

  They planned to meet again. May supposed they both thought that the worst was over with this first meeting, and that now their focus should not be on Stannish or the color of Hannah’s hair but on Lucy. She was pleased when she returned to the Gilberts’ that there was a note from Hugh saying that he had arranged for her to have a card admitting her to the library of the Museum of Comparative Zoology.

  This was a different kind of library, not one from which books could be borrowed. It was purely a research library. And so she did research. But she did so with a divided mind. Because for every hour she spent in the library she felt guilty about not concentrating on Lucy. However, if this relative really did exist, the best way to track him down might be through the library, and he in turn might be able to help Lucy. She had told Hugh about the note. He had already visited at least three new lawyers, all of whom seemed doubtful that a mistrial could be declared, and they refused to take the case. They wanted to be paid, and Hugh simply did not have enough money. She was hoping, however, that perhaps Ettie would have more luck with her uncles. Ettie’s uncles were very rich, like the rest of Ettie’s family.

  This new zoological library had the convenience of being much closer to the Gilberts’ house, but it was not nearly as beautiful as Gore Library. May had begun her own research on the reports of mythical sea creatures in Gore Library, which was a beautiful Gothic-style building in Harvard Yard that was said to be a replica of the fifteenth-century King’s College Chapel of Cambridge University in England. The information that Hugh had given to her concerning the man named Lawrence and his research on the fantastical sea creatures was based on an article Hugh had found there.

  Gore Library was an almost magical place. There were book-laden galleries and alcoves. The air seemed suffused with the scent of old bindings. She had read the article Hugh had found so many times it seemed engraved on her brain.
It was a very short piece that spoke of a “crackpot” scientific theory stating that there had been fossil evidence found of “mythological sea creatures who bore human characteristics.” Discredited for claiming to have evidence, the scientist by the name of Lawrence (no first name was given) had been thrown out of the academic community. But the name Lawrence went through her like an electrical current. The name of the captain of the Resolute was one Walter Lawrence. Were he and the “crackpot” scientist related?

  The evidence was regarded as “spurious,” but the details were sparse and the nature of his evidence was not specified, nor, for that matter, was the name of the institution with which he had been associated. The first time she had read those words — crackpot and spurious — May actually slapped the reading table in disgust. Now, after countless readings, she merely muttered under her breath, “I’ll show you ‘crackpots.’ ” How she would have loved to swim right into their stupid laboratories or wherever they did their so-called research and smack them to kingdom come with her powerful tail. Yet for all her contempt she was excited. For out there, somewhere, was someone who believed in her. Believed in May and her sisters.

  But May could not tear herself from the other treasures that Gore Library housed, which seemed to glow in the halos of the amber light that illuminated the rooms. The librarians were most helpful, especially a bewhiskered gentleman who suggested that she might be able to follow up on her inquiries at the zoology library.

  Absent were the wood paneling and the cozy alcoves. It was in the basement of the museum, and there were glass cases of many dead stuffed animals that were either being fixed up for exhibition or possibly permanently retired from the exhibit halls upstairs. The floors were concrete and the lighting was harsh. There were no cozy nooks, or carrels, as they were referred to in the Gore Library. She felt exposed as she read the article in which an academic mercilessly attacked the “alleged scientist”:

  “Dr. Lawrence contends that the intestinal mucosa of this putative mer person allows for the secretion of lumen tubules and thus the transfer of sodium to allow for a balance and reabsorbtion of glucose and potassium. It is not dissimilar, he contends, to that of dolphins or porpoises or other mammalian inhabitants of the deep such as whales and seals.”

  May went to the librarian and requested a medical dictionary so that she could at least begin to translate what seemed on one level like gibberish but on another level had a haunting resonance. Professor Gilbert was a physiologist, so he might be able to help her understand some of this, but then again, how would she explain her interest?

  That evening, after the children had been put to bed, she knocked timidly on the professor’s study door.

  “Come in! Come in, my dear. What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you might be able to answer some questions.” Her face flushed, and she began to stumble over the words.

  “Oh, my dear. Is something troubling you? Are you homesick? I know it’s nothing like you’ve been used to. The children are fascinated by your stories of living in a lighthouse.”

  “Oh, I am not homesick in the least. I love it here. Mrs. Gilbert is so lovely and the children are wonderful. And there are so many books! In your house, the libraries, everywhere!”

  “Yes, I thought I saw you today leaving the MCZ library.”

  “Yes, that’s what I was coming to ask you about.” It was all suddenly so easy. She should have known that in this university town of Cambridge no one would ever be suspicious of a young person who asked questions, who had an intellectual curiosity. She began to explain the article she had been reading.

  “Ah, yes. So you must have been reading an article by Alton Ingraham on clinical nephrology.”

  “Yes, that was the name of the author. He savagely attacked another scientist. Someone named …” she said, trailing off. In her mind, the name had become so intimiately entwined with her secret history that she was hesistant to say it aloud.

  “Lawrence, was it?” Professor Gilbert asked, shooting her a kind but curious look.

  “Yes, that’s right. Lawrence.”

  “Ah, N.B. Lawrence — a bit of a maverick. Drummed out of academia. He had some wild ideas.”

  “What were they?” May said so softly that the question seemed more like a feather drifting in the air over the piles of books on Professor Gilbert’s desk. The professor scratched his head and removed the pipe from his mouth and began poking at it with a small brass instrument he kept on his desk. “He was a bit of an odd duck, Nathaniel.”

  “Nathaniel was his name?”

  “Yes, Nathaniel. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering…. Uh, there’s a man I — I …,” she stammered. “A man I knew slightly called Walter Lawrence. Did you know Nathaniel?”

  “No. He’s older and was gone from academia before I came to Harvard to teach. He wasn’t on the faculty here. I believe he taught in the other Cambridge, in England, but did a stint at Yale or possibly Columbia. They threw him out and then apparently Cambridge wouldn’t take him back. I felt they were being a bit hard on him myself.”

  “You mean you believed his theories about the — the …”

  “The reality of the mythic sea creatures? I am not sure if I believe it. All I know is that I am a physiologist. I study how living systems function — the chemical exchanges involved in organs, cells. Nathaniel Lawrence worked in the area of nephrology, and his research on the functioning of kidneys was always first-rate. Clear, articulate, compelling, and he indeed advanced the treatment of several diseases associated with kidney function. He did a lot of work with fish. They interest nephrologists because of the enigma of how they secrete excess salt. The problem was he did not offer up enough evidence beyond, say, the dogfish, one of the most popular lab animals. We dissect them all the time here at Harvard. They are useful for studying cartilaginous fish and are the perfect lab creature for learning comparative and vertebrate anatomy. Just can’t be beat.”

  May felt a shiver creep up her own vertebrae when she heard the words perfect lab creature. Of course, thought May, he did not “offer up evidence.” Perhaps had he been there when her mother died he would have collected her body and dragged it into some laboratory like the one at Harvard where Professor Gilbert worked. The very idea made her feel queasy.

  “May, are you all right? Goodness, you’ve turned the color of a sheet.”

  She swallowed and clamped her eyes shut. “No! I’m fine! Just a bit tired out, that’s all.” She gave a quick smile and attempted to will the color back into her cheeks. “This is all so interesting.”

  “I understand that you’re helping your friend Hugh Fitzsimmons a bit on his thesis project over at the observatory. Part of the ‘female abacus,’ as Williamina and her team of women are called.”

  “Yes, it’s quite different from this article I was telling you about. But, you see, I have never been around so many books in my life and I find that I get a bit distracted. If I find something interesting, just by chance I tend to follow wherever it takes me. I should be more disciplined.”

  “No! Not at all. You are getting a liberal arts education. What could be more important? I am sure the educational opportunities, or I should say academic ones, and libraries are somewhat limited on an island.”

  “That they are. I feel as though I am at a feast here in Cambridge.”

  “Well, perhaps you will consider applying to Radcliffe College. I would be more than happy to write you a recommendation.”

  “You would?” May sat up straighter. It was almost as if an electric current had passed through her body.

  “Don’t look so surprised, my dear. We need more well-educated women. Suffrage is not just a cause for my wife, Alice. It is for all people. We shall all benefit if women get the vote and begin to serve in public office.” He paused. “Oh, I just remembered something about this fellow Lawrence. He was an accomplished artist as well as a physiologist. His drawings of various organs were often used in anat
omy textbooks, and I do believe that if you go back over to Gore Library you might find an engraving or perhaps it’s a pen-and-ink drawing he made of one of these mythical sea creatures. It would be in the rare book collections. You would need to consult the print curator there, one Eleazar Winship. Ask for him. He’s a bit of an odd fellow. In addition to his curatorial duties, he is a Sanskrit scholar and has translated a number of sacred texts relating to the Buddha.”

  “I’ll do that. I am off to the observatory now,” May said, feeling slightly guilty about the lie.

  “Happy star watching,” Professor Gilbert replied, returning to the volume he had been reading.

  May was not sure what or who the Buddha was, but she decided she had better find out. But that would have to wait, as she’d planned to meet Hugh on the banks of the Charles River.

  Slipping out of the Gilbert house was quite easy, and Hugh was waiting for her under the arch of the Harvard Bridge, which spanned the Charles River. She always paused for just a moment before rushing to him. She wanted to just stroke him with her eyes. His lean frame, the somewhat shaggy hair, the way he tipped his head — she had missed all of that so much. She simply had to take this in. That she and Hugh, in this infinite universe, had found each other was miraculous. There was something almost deliciously painful in this suspended state of yearning — the ache of desire not yet quenched. How long could she sustain it? She broke out from the shadows of the tree and hurled herself into his arms.