by Lynn Morris
“No. I haven’t even done rounds on the women’s ward yet,” Cheney said guiltily. “But surely you don’t mean to go buy supplies tonight? You’re about to go off shift, aren’t you?”
“Yes, at six o’clock. But naturally I’m concerned, so I would be happy to go buy supplies,” he answered. “That is, unless you were talking about some private prescriptives that we would have to order specially from an apothecary.”
“No, I was just thinking along the lines of mild castile soap, mineral oil, paregoric, flannel for bands, linen for diapers, cod liver oil, boric solution, alboline—”
“Whoa, there,” he said, raising one hand and smiling. “I think you’d better make a list, Doctor. I have a fair memory, but it’s not that good.”
Cheney’s memory was so good that it always surprised her to learn that other people’s memories were nowhere near as keen. Then she saw a shadow cross his smooth features, and she realized she must look disdainful or superior. “Of-of course,” she stammered uncomfortably. How did this polite man always manage to put her at a disadvantage? Quickly she turned to the listening nurse and asked for paper and pen. “It’s good of you, Dr. Pettijohn,” she said, ducking her head to write.
“As I said, I don’t mind. Of course I don’t have a carriage, Dr. Duvall. Perhaps I should hire a hackney coach? It would be so much quicker and easier than the train or a horsecar.”
“Of course,” Cheney mumbled, scribbling busily. “You know where the petty cash is kept, I’m sure. Just be certain to put in a voucher….”
“Yes, I know,” he said evenly.
Of course he knows. He and Victoria set up the procedures, so I’ve insulted him again. That must be some sort of record, two unintended insults within the space of sixty seconds.
Is the problem that I treat people like morons? Do I think I’m better—smarter—than anyone else?
“This should do,” Cheney said tentatively, handing him the list. “I didn’t indicate quantities. I thought you could use your own best judgment.”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he said gravely. “Ladies, if you will excuse me…” He went up the hall toward the administration offices.
Cheney frowned as she looked down at Nurse Nilsson. “If you think you’re the smartest person in the room,” she rasped, “then odds are you’re the dumbest person in the room.”
“Yes, Doctor,” the nurse said obediently.
“So I’m going to stop thinking that,” Cheney muttered darkly.
Earthy Miss Nilsson said, “If you do, then you will be the smartest person in the room, Dr. Duvall.”
Cheney stared at her for long moments, and then both of them giggled. “You’ll have to explain that to me later, Nurse Nilsson,” she tossed over her shoulder as she hurried down the women’s ward hallway. “I’m too dumb to figure it out.”
****
Cheney had been down in the lab, writing in patient files for two hours without pause. The other doctors preferred to work on the files upstairs at the nurses’ desk, but Cheney liked working down here. It smelled of antiseptics and oil soot and a peculiar dull metallic scent from the flagstones and the tin of the morgue. It was always cold, but Cheney liked the quiet, the feeling of isolation. It helped her to concentrate.
As she finished the last file, she thought wistfully, A cup of very hot, very sweet, very creamy tea sounds so good right now. But it seems so far to the kitchen, and then to carry a tea tray back…I don’t know why I haven’t made arrangements for tea and snacks for the midnight shift, especially considering that I’m here for the midnight shift so much of the time.
The partners had bought the last cottage on the Sixth Avenue side of the block. It was identical to the other cottages on the street, which included Cheney’s, Dev’s, and Cleve’s offices, and Cleve’s house. They had converted the existing ground floor of the original house to a laundry and had added on a big kitchen. A couple, Jasper and Ellie Tuttle, worked as the hospital cooks. A black family named Underwood lived upstairs in the small apartment; Isaiah Underwood was janitor and gardener, his wife Lulie was the laundress.
Naturally the staff and physicians could go to the hospital kitchen any time they pleased, but Cheney hated to bother Isaiah and Lulie. They had three sons, the eldest in his first year at New York University, and both of them worked other jobs to earn money. Isaiah was also the janitor at nearby All Saints’ Episcopal Church, and Lulie took in ironing and seamstress work. They worked hard, and Cheney thought that awakening them for a cup of tea would be rude.
She walked around, swinging her arms and wishing her legs didn’t ache so. The chill arising from the flagstone floor of the cellar was formidable. It seeped into a person, hurting deep down inside the ankles and legs. Cheney stamped her feet a little, but her heeled shoes merely made little darts of pain shoot up through her feet.
Suddenly she thought, How silly of me. There’s our own office with the kitchen upstairs in the flat, of course! I could go over there and make tea or coffee or even keep some simple things like bread and fruit for midnight snacks. And the flat upstairs! Why, if it was kept furnished and cleaned, I could stay there on my on-call weekends! Assuming every weekend isn’t as crazy as they’ve been so far.
She heard a step on the stairwell and tensed up. But immediately she knew it was Carlie Yates, the young man who worked the midnight shift. With his clubfoot he was unable to take stairs one foot to one step, so his steps sounded together: STEP-step, STEP-step, STEP-step.
Cheney walked over to smile up at him. He was small for his age, with a slight frame. His light brown hair was always clean and shiny and carefully combed; his big brown eyes were more like a ten-year-old boy’s than a young man of eighteen. Generally he had two expressions: sweet and eager to please or frowning very hard with concentration. Now as he negotiated the stairs, Cheney saw he was carrying a big tea tray, and he was frowning. She wanted to hurry to help him, but she had found out the first time she worked with Carlie that he insisted on doing everything he possibly could by himself. He worked hard and had more determination and courage than many grown men.
“Good evening, Carlie,” Cheney called up to him with real pleasure. “I’m glad to see you, and I’m particularly glad to see that tea tray.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered in a monotonous voice. “Dr. Batson said he knows you want tea. You always do at midnight.”
“It’s midnight?” Cheney checked her watch. “So it is. Bless him! I suppose we’ve worked together enough that he knows I start running down about now. Did he make it? I mean, he doesn’t get Lulie to make it, does he?”
He shook his head no, precisely side to side to side. “No, ma’am. When he’s here late, he sends me to the office to make it. I can make tea and bring it back by myself.”
“Mm, it smells wonderful, Carlie,” she said warmly. “Please, set it on the lab table. I didn’t realize it was so late. Is Dr. Batson making rounds?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He set down the tray, then turned and started walking back to the stairwell.
Cheney was accustomed to Carlie, who went like an automaton when he had tasks to complete, so she called after him, “Carlie, will you please ask Dr. Batson to join me when he can?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered without turning around.
Cheney fixed her cup, wondering if Carlie was able to make a good pot of tea. She and Shiloh had often spoken of how it was more of an art than a simple task, and they had laughed because it seemed that Cheney’s tea was better than Shiloh’s. They had even performed scientific experiments one rainy Saturday afternoon, with Cheney making the tea as she always did, and Shiloh watching and writing everything down in great, and funny, detail, such as, Stir the pot clockwise precisely four and one-eighth revolutions, then bang the spoon down on the worktable hard enough to make a loud clanging sound like the doc does. Still, they had agreed that Shiloh’s pot of tea was inferior to Cheney’s tea. A smile played on her lips and lit up her tired featu
res as she remembered.
She heard Carlie’s halting step on the stairs again. He came into view, stopped at the table by the stairwell to put down a box he was carrying, walked to the lab table, and recited, “Dr. Batson says to tell you that it will be his pleasure to join you shortly, Dr. Duvall.”
He turned but Cheney said, “Carlie, wait.”
He turned back around.
“The tea is very good, Carlie. I was just thinking of how my husband and I agree that it takes a certain gift to make a good cup of tea.”
His childlike face broke into a sunny smile. When he wasn’t performing a task or delivering a message by rote, his disability was much less noticeable. He looked like a naïve, perhaps immature fourteen-year-old boy.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, still beaming. “Can you make tea? Do you have the gift?”
“I do,” she answered with amusement. “I believe I inherited it from my mother. Sadly, however, my husband doesn’t have this valuable gift.”
“Mr. Shiloh doesn’t?” Carlie asked with amazement. “I thought Mr. Shiloh could do anything.”
“I did too, for a long time,” Cheney said with an air of conspiracy. “But I have found out that he’s not perfect. Not quite. He does have his faults, such as being unable to make a decent cup of tea. See, Carlie, you can do something that even the Iron Man can’t do.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I can, can’t I? Are we going to tell him?”
“I definitely think you should tell him,” Cheney said gravely. “After all, being able to make excellent tea is a rare gift, and you should be proud.”
“Then the next time I see him, I’ll be sure and tell him,” Carlie said soberly. “May I go now?”
“Yes, Carlie. Oh—but did you come down just to give me Dr. Batson’s message?”
The precise no-no-no shake of the head again. “No, Dr. Duvall, I brought some of the supplies down to store them. Dr. Pettijohn brought them in tonight, and I always store the supplies down here,” he said proudly.
“You do? You know where everything goes, Carlie?” Cheney asked with interest.
“Yes, ma’am. Dr. Pettijohn taught me to look at the pictures he drew and to remember where everything goes.”
“And how in the world do you remember, Carlie?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I just remember.”
“Then, can you tell me where the extra thermometers are?”
“Row three, top left shelf, middle.”
“Extra pillowslips?”
“Row one, center right shelf, far left.”
“Collodion?”
“All drugs and apoth-apoth-apoth-in-caries are in the cupboards on row six.”
“Retorts?”
He grinned gamely at her. “Trick question. They’re all stored under the table.” He knocked lightly on the lab table.
“You’re a smart young man,” Cheney said. “Listen, Carlie, you reminded me of something. I’d like to see the absinthe. You know, the green prescriptive that Dr. Buchanan uses for people who are going to have surgery?”
He nodded. “I know. Cupboard one, top shelf. Dr. Pettijohn mixes it—absinthe, opium tin-cher. Cupboard one, middle shelf.”
Cheney was impressed. “Show me, please.”
He led her to the first cupboard mounted on the back wall and opened it. Cheney saw one decanter of the green substance on the top shelf. She took it down, uncorked, sniffed it.
Smells just like the prescriptive we’ve always used, so how are we supposed to test it? I guess Carlie and I could knock back a few, see if we float off into the ether. Guess not.
She replaced the cork, then put the bottle up on the shelf. “You say Dr. Pettijohn mixes the prescriptives? You don’t mix any of them, do you, Carlie?”
His eyes opened wide. “Oh no, Dr. Duvall, I would never. I pour the laudanum into the little bottles, but that’s all I ever do to the apoth-apoth-apoth-in-caries.”
Cheney nodded. “All right, thank you, Carlie.”
He turned woodenly again, the automaton returned. “I have to store the supplies. Dr. Pettijohn brought them in tonight, and I’m the only one who will come down here at night to store them.”
They walked back toward the lab area, and Carlie stopped to retrieve his box from the table by the stairwell. Cheney looked at the innocuous wall of the morgue and remembered her fear when she had been shut up in there, and the other times, late at night, that she thought she heard sounds. “You’re often down here at night, Carlie?” she asked.
He stopped to look up at her. In the dim lamplight he looked very young and very innocent. “Yes, ma’am.”
She studied his upturned face. It was almost impossible to imagine that Carlie would ever misbehave or play cruel practical jokes, but still, who else would? Evenly she asked, “Carlie, you wouldn’t try to scare me when I’m working down here late at night, would you? You wouldn’t play silly jokes?”
His brown eyes grew huge and filled with distress. “Oh no, Dr. Duvall, you’re so pretty and so nice to me I wouldn’t ever ever do anything mean to you. Or not to anybody, never ever!”
She believed him. Lightly she touched his shoulder and said, “I know you wouldn’t, Carlie. I made a mistake, and I apologize. Will you forgive me?”
His brow wrinkled. “What for?”
Cheney smiled. “Never mind.”
“All right, I won’t. Can I go put these up now?”
“Of course.”
He turned and disappeared into the stacks.
“Oh, Carlie?” she called belatedly.
His disembodied voice floated out of the dimness of the back of the cellar. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You said you’re the only one who will come down here at night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But why?”
“The ghosts. The moon ghosts.” His answer came faintly.
“The moon—oh, never mind, I’m talking to myself again.” She suddenly felt tired. But she summoned enough energy to call out, “Thank you for the tea, Carlie.”
All she heard was STEP-step, STEP-step, STEP-step.
****
It was 1:45 A.M. when Cheney finally dragged herself up the steps and into the house. Once again all of the lights were on, even down in the kitchen. Cheney reflected wearily, I’ll bet the neighbors think we’re some sort of criminals—bootleggers or smugglers or operating an opium den.
She pulled off her hat and gloves, set her reticule and medical bag on the console table in the foyer, and looked around quizzically. Upstairs she heard some vague thumps and the low rumble of her husband’s voice, but she heard no sounds to give her a clue as to why the entire household was up in the middle of this freezing, dismal night. The wind had worked itself up into an icy northeastern fury, and even with her warm full-length velvet and sable coat Cheney was chilled deep. She hurried into the parlor to thaw out by the fire.
Opening the door, she took two steps inside and froze. She stopped midstride, one foot in the air. Quickly she reversed herself and took one step back.
There were two dogs in the parlor.
As she came in, they lifted great heads to look at her curiously. Cheney saw that they had big lustrous dark eyes. One of them yawned, and Cheney also noted that they had really big mouths and teeth. They weren’t growling, not at all. They merely watched her as though judging if she were interesting enough for them to get up.
One of them—the bigger one that had yawned—decided she was. He stood up, shook himself, and plodded over to her.
Cheney was, in the first moments, so thunderstruck that it didn’t occur to her to be afraid.
But then when she took in the dogs’ appearances as the bigger one came clumping toward her, she realized first that these dogs weren’t at all hostile, they were just great big babies, and second, one could hardly be afraid of them because they looked so funny. They were wearing thick, lumpy, falling-down bright red stockings. Also, their ears were much too big for their faces. They
looked as if they had been taken from much larger dogs and glued onto these.
The bigger dog bumped his head right against Cheney’s knees. Cheney looked down, her face comically surprised, and then she laughed and laughed. The dog didn’t look up or move, even when she reached down to scratch his floppy ears. The other dog, that Cheney now noted was sprawled on her best parlor sofa, yawned hugely—the dogs did indeed have great sharp shiny teeth—climbed down, ambled over, and leaned against Cheney’s legs.
Behind her she heard Shiloh running down the stairs, his voice growing more distinguishable as he came closer. “…told you, PJ, the coal storage room in the basement is cold as Antarctica—”
The footsteps stopped suddenly, then resumed, slow and reluctant. “Uh…hi, Doc.”
Cheney stopped scratching the dog’s big soft ears and turned around. “Hi, Shiloh. Hey, Shiloh?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you know that there are two dogs in the parlor?”
“Uh—yeah…”
“With red socks on?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Okay,” Cheney managed to say with the giggles gurgling high up into her throat. “Just so long as they didn’t break in…”
Fifteen
The Crack in the Curtain
Manon Fortier Pettijohn looked down at the baby on her lap. Lisette Mai was almost eight months old. She was tiny, but she seemed healthy enough. Manon fingered a curl of the baby’s thick black hair, remembering that her own mother had told her she had been born with a thick, curly thatch of black hair and enormous eyes. “And you still look like that, like a surprised monkey,” Candide Fortier had said all those years ago. Lisette was the same, Manon thought with a small smile. She does look like a surprised monkey when she’s awake and looking around so curiously. She will be lively and fun and vivacious—like me.
Hot tears sprang into her eyes, and Manon scrubbed them away. She could feel her cheeks reddening with a clammy heat, the palms of her hands growing moist, her heart beginning to beat faster and unevenly. Hastily she reached over to her table and grabbed the cheap bottle with the green liquid in it and took a long gurgling swig. It didn’t matter that she had already taken four more doses that day than Marcus had “prescribed.”
