Race for the Dying

by Steven F Havill

  Thomas felt a chill of anticipation and eagerness. “I confess that your inspiration makes me feel all the more useless.”

  “Nonsense, Thomas. You’ve had an unfortunate accident, but your recuperation is astounding.” He reached out and slid the bowl of fruit toward the young man and grinned widely. “Have a miracle pill. It can only help.”

  “I had the opportunity to converse with Mr. Lindeman today at some length,” Thomas said. “He said that the tonic is well received.”

  “Indeed it is,” Riggs said. “You would be astonished to hear the number of prescriptions sold, all over the world.”

  “I was struck, however…” He hesitated, loath to insult his gracious hosts. “The new book seems somewhat…evasive? About the ingredients of the tonic—and other treatments as well.”

  “There again,” John Haines said, selecting his words carefully around the haze of too much wine, “ask yourself what good it does to inflict a long litany of incomprehensible terminology on the sick patient. We must remember that the Universal Advisor is intended for the patient, not the physician.”

  “Yes,” Riggs interjected. “The patient doesn’t need to know. Now, if on the other hand, a physician writes to us in good faith, documenting a troublesome case, and then inquires about the nature of the tonic and its properties, and how it might be of benefit to the patient, then, in most instances, we will supply the information requested.”

  He pushed himself back from the table. “I could use the peach again,” he said, and snatched up a fruit. “Give me a list of chemicals that make up this heavenly thing. Can you do that?”

  “Of course not.”

  “There you have it.”

  “But, Dr. Riggs, I didn’t compound that fruit. I didn’t mix ingredients to create it. It is not the product of chemists in a laboratory.”

  “True enough. But as John points out, what benefit to the patient by listing a paragraph of incomprehensible Latin or German?”

  “I understand that as well,” Thomas persisted. “But suppose I were to ask you, as a physician? What would you say to me?”

  “I would say,” Riggs replied without hesitation, “that the tonic has undergone nearly a decade of intense scrutiny by our staff. We have seen its amazing results with our own eyes. In addition, we have hundreds of personal testimonials from physicians and patients alike about how the tonic has changed lives for the better. We can warrant, as independent laboratories have, that nothing in the tonic is dangerous, or deleterious to health in any way, when it is used as directed.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said. He shifted in his chair, the effects of too long in one position sending pangs through his joints. “But you wouldn’t tell me the ingredients.”

  Riggs regarded Thomas with amusement, and after a moment leaned closer. “Do you have any idea how many thousands of dollars we have invested in the development of the tonic?”

  “I confess I don’t.”

  “Exactly. No one asks that. But it is thousands. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. If we were to publish the ingredients, then what’s to stop the copyists from taking advantage? Some of the ingredients are so rare, so dependent on the perfection of weather and circumstance, that they are not easily obtained. To open our enterprise to every get-rich-quick entrepreneur is to defeat our commitment to purity and professional standards. Open our files to rascals and snake-oil salesmen, and you would see abuse, sir. And whose name would be blackened by that?” He lifted his eyebrows.

  “Jealousy,” Haines mumbled. “That’s all it is.”

  “Indeed,” Riggs agreed, and drained his glass. “When one is successful, the vultures descend. It’s human nature.”

  “Suppose a patient has a sensitivity to a particular substance?” Thomas posed. “What then? For example, my father is sensitive to something that occurs in ocean fish. Eat a sardine, and his mouth feels as if he’s consuming burning matches. Eat two, and he will become short of breath as well.”

  Riggs held up a hand. “And if your father’s physician should write to us and ask if the tonic…which will surely calm his digestive processes, by the way…contains fish oil, or seafood products, we would reply instantly. Indeed, the tonic does contain an extract of ocean kelp, but no animal matter. Not a trace.” He held up both hands. “So you see.”

  “But to work at the clinic, to be able to answer just such questions, I would have to know the analysis of each compound,” Thomas persisted, and Riggs laughed.

  “Of course, Thomas. Of course. By the time you have learned the processes of our pharmacy inside and out, you may well plead for mercy. But I hope you understand that I’m not simply being obstinately evasive. We want you to understand why we do as we do. The why of it all.”

  Thomas thumped a hand on the arm of the wheelchair. “I feel as if I’ve been consigned to prison.”

  “Patience is not one of your virtues,” Alvi remarked. “Scarcely a week, remember. Charlie Grimes tells me that you’ve ordered ice for the morning?”

  “I have,” Thomas said eagerly. “I have made arrangements for its delivery each day. I have a hypothesis, but I must admit it is not original to myself. Harvard’s Professor Palmer has talked much about the effect of alternating hot and cold on injuries, particularly those areas where joints are involved and blood supply is not marked.”

  “First one, and then the other?” Riggs asked. He leaned forward, both beefy arms on the table.

  “As cold as the patient can stand, then as hot as can be tolerated without injury,” Thomas said. He watched as Riggs clenched his hands together, and then relaxed them. The man understood perfectly. “Exactly,” Thomas said. “Repetition produces an action not unlike a pump, forcing blood through the injured tissues.”

  “Fascinating,” Riggs said. “I wonder how that action might be multiplied by application of our Journeyman’s Extract? The success we’ve had in subduing inflammation has been remarkable.” He nodded as if reaching a sudden decision. “I’ll make sure some is delivered, if you don’t have any on hand?” He looked at Alvi, then patted his napkin. “Anyway, it’s been a long day. John, a few moments?”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Haines said. Thomas watched the older man close his eyes as he pushed himself up from the table. “Alvina?”

  “I think not,” Alvi said. “There is some reading I wish to do.”

  “Thomas, some brandy to settle your dinner?” Haines asked, in no hurry to release his grip on the back of his chair. “Zachary and I have been discussing strategies for transporting you to the clinic.”

  “I would be eager to hear those,” Thomas replied, “more eager than you can possibly imagine.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thomas awoke to a barrage of pounding, thumping, and cursing outside his window, interspersed with shouts and laughter. This time, instead of trying to leap from bed, he lay quietly, listening. Within ten minutes, he was sure that someone was building a house squarely in the center of Gambel Street, in the mud trap between 101 Lincoln and Lindeman’s store. Then he remembered Haines’ plans that they had discussed the previous evening.

  The room was warm, and he didn’t bother with his robe when he maneuvered over the edge of the bed, balancing now deftly on his right foot as he turned to settle into the wicker chair. He wheeled to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

  Outside, half a dozen men were clustered, with two heavy freight wagons drawn up in the street, both laden with lumber and supplies. Considerable discussion appeared to center on a plumb line drawn tight between a stake driven into the mud half a dozen feet in front of the corner of the Haines’ porch and another point more than a hundred feet farther north along Gambel Street.

  Two men were industriously engaged in mucking out a post-hole.

  “Morning to you,” a voice said, and Thomas started. One of the workers approached along the side of the house and looked up at Thomas. Hi
s pleasant face was familiar, bright blue eyes peering out from under a narrow cap. “We met a few days ago,” he said. “Right before you and the mule went into the bay. You look like you’re gettin’ on with it.”

  “Ah,” Thomas said. “Yes. How are you this fine morning?”

  “Well, I’m fine. Name’s Jake Tate, by the way. We don’t mean to be disturbin’ you, but we got orders to get this done, here.”

  “No disturbance,” Thomas replied. “And is this the new boardwalk?”

  “It is that. The doc’s finally decided on it. Clear on down to the corner of Gambel and Grant.”

  “Well, my word,” Thomas said, “that’s a bit of an undertaking.”

  “We’ll be finished with this little section this morning. Then you can have your peace and quiet.” Jake pushed his cap back on his head. “Got to turn that corner and run ’er on up past the porch steps. Make kind of a landing, you know.”

  Thomas looked at the load of rough-cut lumber whose weight sank the wagon wheels deep into the mud. That freight would have been a stout pull up the hill for the two large Belgians in harness. “You work for Mr. Schmidt, then? All of you?”

  “We do. Me and the boys here.”

  “Alvina tells me that things didn’t turn out so well for your companion. I was sorry to hear that.”

  “Yep, well, these things happen sometimes. But, say, I need to get back at it.” He repositioned his cap. “Sorry for the disturbance.”

  He trudged off toward one of the freight wagons, and Thomas’ attention was drawn across the street. Alvina Haines had appeared in the side door of the Mercantile with an impossibly thin young man in tow. Probably in his late teens, Thomas guessed, the lad carried what appeared to be a wooden bucket with a towel draped over the top. Alvina slipped her right arm with casual affection through the boy’s left elbow, and as they stepped off into the street, she reached across and rested her left hand on his shoulder for support.

  Alvina Haines had not impressed Thomas as the sort of young lady who would need help with something as simple as crossing the street. As he watched their progress, Thomas reflected that if anything, it was more likely that she would be the one to pull the skinny youth up out of the mud. The sharp bones of his shoulders hunched forward as if he had no clavicles.

  As they neared the workers by the porch corner, Alvi paused, her bright smile including all of the men. Caps doffed from heads and the boy with the bucket managed to look a touch more important. They disappeared around the corner of the house, and Thomas drew back from the window, remembering his lack of clothing. At the same time, he saw the boy recross the street without the bucket. One of the workers said something to the boy, who ignored him.

  Before Thomas could wheel his chair across the room, knuckles rapped on his door. Alvi pushed it open without waiting for a reply “I thought you might be up,” she said, and wrinkled her nose as she regarded him. He reached for the robe, making a mess of it around his shoulders. “I have enough ice to start our own glacier,” Alvi said, and set the bucket on the floor. “I told Charlie that after this, just a small pan would do. Now,” and she stopped, hands on hips. “Let’s get you back in bed and see if this works.”

  “I can manage,” Thomas said.

  “That’s what you keep saying, and I’m sure you can. Here.” She steadied his chair as he eased himself up on one foot. “You’re getting pretty good at that. I can see that before you wrecked yourself, you were something of an athlete. You’re downright shapely in the parts that haven’t been mashed.”

  His face burned, but he ignored the unnurselike remarks. “I was watching the workmen outside,” he said. “It seems we’re to have a fancy boardwalk sooner rather than later.”

  “You’ll be able to wheel your chair in grand style—unless it gets away from you on the hill, and then we’ll be fishing you out of the inlet. Of course,” and she smiled sweetly, “you’ve been there before.” As she turned toward the door, she added, “I have a washed flour sack for the ice.” She left the room and Thomas arranged himself in bed, pulling the sheet up to his shoulders. In a moment she returned. “This will work, I think,” she said, holding out the sack. In the other hand she held a stout wooden bowl and an ice pick.

  “Don’t stick yourself with that.” He laughed, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

  “That’s why I’m not giving it you, Dr. Thomas. Now,” and she knelt to attack the ice, first jabbing large pieces, and then expertly shaving off fine flakes until she had perhaps a pint of ice slivers in the bowl. “We don’t want frostbite,” she said. Deftly scraping the ice into the flour sack, she stood up and folded it, mashing the pillow of ice this way and that.

  She advanced to the bed, and Thomas reached out a hand for the ice.

  “Just lie still,” she snapped. “Stop getting in my way.” Her stern expression softened and her eyes twinkled. “Let’s try it with you flat on your back first. Is that what you were thinking?”

  “Yes. Maybe.”

  She flipped the sheet to one side, just shy of indecent. “You are such a mess,” she said. Her fingers were cold, and he watched as she ran a feather-light touch down his hip, tracing the outline of the bruise. “Huh,” she muttered. Slipping her left hand under his knee, she cupped her right hand over the hollow of his hip joint, just below the crown of the ilium. “When I pull up,” she said, and he felt the gentle traction on his leg. “It hurts,” he replied.

  “But where? Deep inside, or more…” The twang of pain lanced sharply enough to draw a gasp. “Right there, then,” she added, and gently relaxed his leg to the horizontal. Mashing the bag again, she then placed it so that it draped across his hip, pillowing into the hollow. “Let me fetch a warm towel,” she said. “In about ten minutes, that’ll feel really good.”

  She left the room again, and Thomas exhaled a deep breath. He pulled the sheet back to cover himself, and a helpless laugh bubbled up. He could remember half a hundred times when he and his classmates had remarked on the various comely nurses who worked and studied at St. Katherine’s Hospital in Philadelphia. Although some—perhaps many—had been more striking than Alvina Haines in appearance, and several had been more than willing for periodic recreation that would have sent their fathers searching for the shotgun, he could remember no one who so controlled a room when she entered it.

  For a few minutes, the cold felt wonderful, but then the sensation turned into a deep, heavy ache. He shifted the ice pack several times until he could no longer endure it, then slipped the pack off, letting it lie across his left wrist and thumb.

  About the time that the wetness soaked through the flour bag, Alvi returned with a bulky towel. “There are hot pebbles in this,” she warned. “Gert is baking bread, and I shared the oven for a few minutes.” She removed the sopping bag and regarded him expectantly. “Did it help?” she asked.

  “It will in time,” he said.

  She positioned the hot pad. “I don’t know if you’re going to want the weight of this.”

  “It’ll be fine.” It was more than fine, the delicious warmth spreading across his pelvis and down his left leg. He closed his eyes, forgetting for a moment that she stood beside his bed.

  “And you have something going on here,” she said, and he opened his eyes and saw only the top of her head. She was bent over the left side of his chest, her nose inches from the dressing. “When did Father look at your ribs last?” she asked, straightening up. She wrinkled her nose in a most fetching fashion.

  “Yesterday morning, I think.”

  “Did you look at it then?”

  “No. It’s hard for me to see.”

  “Even with a mirror?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s do that,” Alvi said. “The dressing is starting to turn.” She left the room abruptly and returned with a small pair of scissors. “You might have noticed that Father doesn’t see
so well anymore,” she said as she manipulated the dressings away.

  “I had wondered. I thought perhaps it was merely an overabundance of brandy.”

  “Hmm,” she said, and shot him a glance of impatience. The last of the bandage came away, and she straightened up, regarding the enormous field of color that washed across the entire left side of his chest from armpit to waist, punctuated here and there with cuts, scrapes, and darker patches of hemorrhage. He started to reach for the patch of dressing that covered the open wound on his fifth rib, but she pushed his fingers away. “Let me.”

  The dressing was discolored and pulled sharply as she peeled it back. “Not good,” she said, and straightened up. “Let me fetch a proper glass.” She returned with a framed mirror that had been standing on the bureau, and held it so that he could view the damage. Cocking his head so he could focus his good eye, he could see that the wound was angry and inflamed. The irregular lips of the original ragged tear were swollen and dark. Alvi circled the bed and turned the gaslight up far enough that it hissed and spat. “Tell me what you think, Dr. Thomas.”

  “I think,” he said, trying to duck his chin far enough for a clear view, “that there’s still something lodged there. Give me the scissors.” He held out his hand, but she hesitated. “I’m going to use it as a pointer only,” he said. “That’s all.” With the tip, he indicated a particularly livid, inflamed spot between the fifth and sixth rib, two inches to the left of his sternum. “Explore right there,” he said.

  “Well,” Alvi said, taking the scissors. “Let me find a few things.”

  Thomas lay still, listening to the construction outside, and after ten minutes, Alvi returned with a small pushcart laden with supplies. “How stalwart are you?” she asked.

  “Just use a spritz of ether to deaden it,” he said. “It looks like just a little flap of skin that’s in the way.”