“I’m told white slavers generally prefer women,” I replied.
“Fortunate, then, that he didn’t ask me,” said Simpson. “Although,” she added, “I expect that I would not be to Dr. Turk’s taste even in that capacity.”
“Nonsense,” I said quickly. “You’re a very appealing woman.”
“Appealing,” Simpson repeated with a knowing smile. When she smiled, which was all too infrequently in the hospital, it altered her face utterly. “Now, there is an ambiguous word.”
I began to babble a clarification, but she interrupted. “It’s perfectly all right, Ephraim. I’m naturally cantankerous. Where are you going tonight, by the way?”
When I told her, she said, “The theater? What are you going to see?”
“I forgot to ask.”
We started back along the path, not speaking for a few moments. I became increasingly uncomfortable in the silence, a symptom of my awkwardness in the presence of women, which I found odd, as I never thought of Simpson in those terms.
“We seem to have some time,” I said, the words tumbling out by reflex rather than intention. “Would you like to join me in the doctors’ lounge? I was going to have tea.”
Simpson stopped, uncertain, her head cocked to one side. “All right,” she replied with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, her reaction to my invitation much the same as mine to Turk’s. “I’ll meet you there after I change.”
When I had first gone on staff, “doctors’ lounge” had conjured up the image of a commodious, collegial, high-ceilinged chamber, furnished with wing chairs and divans, similar to the illustrations of English men’s clubs that I had seen in The Saturday Evening Post. In actuality, however, the room was small and uninviting, tucked into the southwest corner of the first floor, above the laundry. The only touch of gentility was Jefferson, the ancient, white-jacketed Negro attendant, on duty from eight in the morning until ten at night, serving tea or java, as well as surprisingly tasty biscuits.
I arrived first, obtained a cup of Earl Grey and two shortbreads, and then repaired to one of a pair of ocher club chairs in the far corner to wait. Only two others were in the room, Drs. Peters and Dodd. Both were elderly, from a generation of physicians that would soon pass into history. Each nodded to me perfunctorily.
Simpson arrived minutes later, wearing a dark blue wool dress with a high lace collar. While her garb was hardly à la mode, it was proper and not unfeminine. She had repinned her sorrel brown hair, which sparkled slightly in the afternoon sunlight that poured in through the west window. As she walked past, Peters leaned over to Dodd and whispered something. Both stared at her with undisguised distaste.
I stood and offered to fetch a beverage. I realized I probably would not have done so if we were both still on duty, but meeting Simpson thus, it would have been discourteous not to. She declined my offer, however, and got her own, not even glancing at the other two doctors as she walked across the room.
When she returned, she sat in the other chair and placed her cup on the table between us. After a few seconds, when she did not speak, I realized that it was I who would be forced to begin the conversation. I had too much respect for Simpson to open with platitudes, and so chose instead to say what had been on my mind.
“You puzzle me.”
“Why?” she asked, looking me straight on. Her eyes were flecked with amber. I found it odd that I had not noticed previously. “I don’t think of myself as an especially puzzling person.”
“You are so diligent … as dedicated to medicine as any man, yet …”
“Yet?”
“Perhaps I am perplexed that you seem to believe that you can achieve personal fulfillment without those domestic qualities from which most women acquire satisfaction.”
Simpson’s lips curled slightly, as if I had committed some terribly amusing faux pas at a social occasion, but she did not wish to embarrass me.
“I am not sure how to respond, Ephraim. How do you know that I have not achieved domestic fulfillment?”
“I don’t,” I replied, stumbling over the words. “I just assumed that … well, with the hours you spend here … and you are not married … do not have children …”
Simpson suddenly flushed. “You know nothing of my private life,” she snapped. “Nothing.” She paused, regaining her poise. “I think, Dr. Carroll,” she continued evenly, “that you shall be forced to accept that the nature of womanhood is changing. You can expect to find the Mary Simpsons of the world becoming more commonplace.”
“Of course,” I replied hastily. “I’m sorry. I had no intention of insulting you. I value you highly. I would rather work with you than anyone else on the staff.”
“Thank you,” she answered, seemingly assuaged but yet not prepared to grant full absolution. “I as well. And I am not insulted. I’ve become inured to the shortsightedness of men, although I did not expect such Paleolithic sentiments from you.” She sighed and her expression softened. “I expect, however, Ephraim, that in your case, ignorance is vestigial.”
“I suppose I should accept that as a compliment of sorts.”
“It is.”
“Surely you consider Dr. Osler an exception,” I said.
“Of course,” Simpson replied, taking a sip of tea. “I expect we both owe Dr. Osler more than we can ever repay. But what of your own domestic fulfillment? Do you expect to find it stepping out with Turk?”
“Not fulfillment, perhaps, but at least a relief from tedium.”
“Is your life tedious, Ephraim? I would not have thought so.”
“Each of us seems to have misjudged the other, then,” I replied. “I’ve lived in Philadelphia for almost two years and have not succeeded in establishing any society outside of my profession, and not a good deal within it.”
“But you are young and successful. There must be no shortage of opportunities.”
“I prefer to live simply. I rent a small sitting room and bedchamber on Montrose Street from a widow named Mrs. Mooney. Most of my free evenings are spent in my rooms with a book or journal.”
I looked carefully to see what sentiments my confession of dullness would engender, but Simpson seemed unperturbed. “Dedication to self-improvement is certainly admirable.”
“Admirable perhaps, but hardly gratifying,” I rejoined, encouraged by her response. “Except for those times when I am invited to dine with Dr. Osler or other members of the staff, or occasional visits to lecture halls or museums, my existence away from medicine is reminiscent of that of an aging widower or cloistered monk.”
“So your monasticism is not altogether by choice?”
“Is your life so different?” I asked.
To my surprise, Simpson paused, considering her response. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “It is. One is not required to seek self-improvement in isolation. But I daresay my ardor is no less than yours.”
I began to ask her for elaboration, but she stood to leave before I could speak. “I have enjoyed this, Ephraim, but I must go now. I have other commitments.”
“Are you sure?” I found myself not wanting our conversation to end.
“Another time perhaps. I really must go.” Her expression turned serious. “Be careful tonight,” she said. “With Turk, I mean.”
I thanked Mary but assured her that there was no reason for concern.
As she left the lounge, I watched until the door had closed behind her.
CHAPTER 3
I PREFERRED THAT TURK NOT wait in Mrs. Mooney’s drab parlor, so I was downstairs at the door as the hour for his arrival approached. I had been unsure of how to dress for the evening, but finally decided on a dark wool suit, coat, and silk Gibus topper. As the hansom pulled up, drawn by an aging bay and driven by a swarthy man in a shabby black coat, I realized I had blundered. The driver gestured from his high perch at the rear of the coach for me to step in. Turk sat on the far side, dressed in a worsted jacket of broad checks, brown trousers, brown overcoat, and a low derby.
> “My, my,” said Turk with a smirk, as I took the seat next to him, “aren’t you the boulevardier? You best take care in that getup, Carroll. Every pickpocket and prostitute in Philadelphia will be after you.”
“You said the theater,” I replied coldly. “Shall I change?”
“No time,” he replied, and signaled the driver to be under way.
“When does the show begin?” I asked.
“Starts at ten,” he said. “We’ll dine first.”
“Ten? What show is it?”
Turk sighed. “Carroll, you are the most incurable prig. We are attending Bonhomme’s Paris Revue. It is not Hamlet, Edwin Booth will not be in attendance, and no one will dust off your seat before you sit down. If someone offers to take your hat, don’t give it to him unless you wish never to see it again.”
The carriage headed north, eventually turning east on Market Street, toward downtown. The electric street lighting and macadam roads of Center City were in acute contrast to the gas lamps and worn cobblestones still in use in most of the city. Streetcar tracks branched off onto almost every cross street and, on Market Street itself, stanchions had been constructed for the imminent conversion of the streetcar line from horse to electric power. Carriage and foot traffic were heavy as we reached Center Square, with city officials, lawyers, businessmen, and younger, less well-dressed clerical and stenographic staff bustling about well after official closing time. As we rode around the square, the still unfinished City Hall, already seventeen years under construction, loomed over us. If ever completed, the monstrous granite edifice was destined to be the tallest and most expansive public building in the nation, larger than the United States Capitol. Mayor Fitler had recently moved in to great fanfare—perhaps to counter persistent allegations of massive graft in the granting of construction contracts—and the entire building was currently being wired for electric lighting.
We continued east on Market Street, passing Independence Hall. When we neared the waterfront, the cab once again turned north. Out of Old City, conditions fell off sharply. After more twists and turns, we were soon into a seamy area, the narrow streets closely lined with warehouses and small storefronts behind which questionable commerce and illicit activity were surely the norm.
Eventually, the carriage pulled up at a dimly lit establishment, with the words “Barker’s Tavern” in chipped paint on each of two large, darkened windows framing a faded green wooden door. I was surprised to see a number of private carriages idling along the rutted street—broughams, even a landau or two.
“Ever been here before, Carroll?” my companion inquired.
I told him I had not.
Turk opened the trap and we alit, our carriage remaining with the others near the front of the restaurant. Once inside, however, I pulled up short. Rather than the den of iniquity I feared, filled with voluble drunks and questionable women, before me lay a bustling eating establishment. Not Society Hill, perhaps, but, with its large, open room, sawdust floors, checked tablecloths, boisterous young clientele, and aroma of broiled meat, Barker’s environment was quite agreeable.
“Well, it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but I’ll warrant there isn’t a better steak to be had in the entire city.”
Turk was obviously well-known, because the man at the door, who wore a striped vest, arm garters, and boater, greeted him with enthusiasm and quickly led us to a table in the center of the room. While most of our fellow diners were male and, like Turk, casually but not inexpensively dressed, there was also a liberal sprinkling of women present. Most were young and attractive. They seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere without inhibition. As we walked through the room, an auburn-haired woman with startling blue eyes caught me staring and smiled back, causing me to avert my gaze, which seemed to amuse her all the more. Her companion, a tousle-haired man with his back to me, did not turn about.
Turk ordered two pints of Pabst. When our waiter left menus and departed, Turk leaned forward slightly in order to be heard and asked what I thought of the establishment.
“A good choice,” I replied, “and a pleasant surprise.”
“Thank you.” He seemed genuinely pleased.
The beers arrived in iced mugs. Turk lifted his. “To the enjoyment of life,” he said.
I nodded, then clicked his glass and drank. The beer was cold and went down smoothly.
Turk downed half his pint with the first quaff. “You don’t get out much, do you?” he asked.
“I don’t have the time,” I replied. “Nor the means.” I glanced down at the menu and saw the prices were extremely reasonable—only fifty cents for a porterhouse dinner, thirty-five cents for pigeon pie or grilled trout. Still, to dine at restaurants with the frequency that Turk seemed to would have placed an unbearable strain on my resources. “How do you manage?”
“I make the time,” he answered. “And the means.” He downed the remainder of his beer. “Go ahead, Carroll. Drink up. I’m paying for dinner.”
“Not a bit of it,” I replied.
“Nonsense,” he said. “My invitation, my treat. You can make it up to me later.”
Turk would not countenance further protest, so I thanked him for his generosity. When the waiter appeared, he ordered a porterhouse with potato and onions for us both, and also asked for another round of Pabsts, although mine was still half full.
We chatted idly for a while, until Turk abruptly asked, “So, what brought you to Philadelphia, Carroll? You’re from out west, aren’t you? Chicago, was it?”
“Ohio,” I replied. “I went to medical school in Chicago and practiced there for more than three years.”
“You must have made an excellent living in such a thriving city.”
“Not really,” I replied. “I worked with a doctor on the West Side. No one had much money.”
“Healing the poor,” said Turk. “Very commendable.”
“Commendable or no,” I said, “the experience was invaluable. I learned a great deal.”
“Then you came here.”
I was about to ask what he meant when our dinner arrived. The steaks were thick, large, buttered on both sides, and prepared to perfection. Turk was correct. I had not sampled a better piece of meat since I had arrived in Philadelphia.
“Where in Ohio?”
I looked over at him, attempting to gauge the source of his continued interest, but the questions seemed innocent enough. Perhaps he simply hated talking about himself.
“Near Marietta,” I replied. “On the Ohio River. It is the only city in America named after Marie Antoinette.”
Turk chuckled. “An interesting distinction. But you don’t sound like someone from southern Ohio.”
“I make an effort not to,” I said.
“Very wise,” Turk agreed. “And what made you choose medicine?”
“It was because of my father.”
“He was a doctor?” he asked, taking a bite of his porterhouse. Turk used his knife to slice his meat in the rapid back-and-forth manner of the lower classes. He chewed and swallowed quickly.
I shook my head. “No, but he was in the war, and was wounded in 1862 fighting with Grant at Fort Donelson.”
“Wounded how?”
“His brigade was caught in a cross fire during a skirmish in the woods. My father and two other men snuck in behind the Confederates and attacked. They were terribly outnumbered. My father was struck by a minié ball above the right elbow. The two other men were killed but the brigade was saved.”
“He was a hero then?”
“Yes,” I said, taking another drink. “I suppose he was.”
“Lucky,” Turk muttered. “I would have settled for any father at all.” He cut and ingested another piece of meat. “So what happened?”
“As they did back then, the wound was ‘laid open,’… large areas of the surrounding flesh were exposed to the air … so barbaric … doctors believed it would promote healing. Just the opposite resulted, of course. Three days later the wound had suppura
ted and his arm had to be taken off. The field hospital was overwhelmed, so the amputation was performed by an assistant regimental surgeon … a Vermont baker with no formal medical training. They had exhausted their supply of laudanum, so my father lay in that hospital in agony for seven days and, when it was deemed he could travel, they gave him his papers and sent him home. He was determined that the loss of his arm would have no effect on his life, but farming less a right arm is not practicable. I have two older brothers who took up their share of the chores; I did what I could but I was very young. My father never stopped struggling to do his best until he died. It has been more than ten years now.”
“Quite a story,” said Turk.
“Yes.”
“And so,” Turk continued, “you became a doctor to provide better treatment to strangers than your father had received. You are an admirable fellow.”
“Do you consider sarcasm obligatory?” Like the Professor, I was prepared to give Turk a certain latitude, but I would not be made the butt of offensive wit.
He sat back, looking hurt. “Not at all. I was being quite sincere. I think of you always as an admirable fellow.”
“And a prig.” But my irritation had passed. Turk had an uncanny facility to behave rudely without engendering lasting enmity.
“An admirable prig then.”
I shrugged. “As you wish. What about you?”
Turk’s smile vanished. “Me? Carroll, there is no me. I am a creation.”
“A creation?”
“Yes. Just that.” Turk’s eyes went cold. “I am a creation of the base instincts of two people I never knew, and of the guilt and cruelty of others.”
“I’m sorry for asking,” I said. “It must be painful to speak about.”
“Painful? Not painful at all,” Turk replied casually, regaining his demeanor as if the previous moment had not occurred. “Merely facts. Someone like Osler might consider it scientific truth. But it turned out not to be truth, because, in the end, I’ve become a creation only of myself.”
The Anatomy of Deception Page 3
