“And you see no chance?” Mozelle asked. “None?”
“Early diagnosis is the key to what few victories we’ve had,” Kempler said apologetically.
“Dr. Kempler,” he asked. “Is there any research going on anywhere? Here? In Europe? Anywhere at all?”
“There is nothing that I know of that would reverse what I would characterize as a terminal situation,” said Kempler. “There is, of course, the Hattie Sinclair case, but there has been no scientific verification for the treatment she was supposed to have received, so that case remains little more than an intriguing dilemma.”
“What case was that?”
At first, Dr. Kempler seemed reluctant to tell Howard Mozelle the story of Hattie Sinclair, for fear that it might give the doctor and his wife unreasonable cause for hope. But after Mozelle pressed him, he told the story.
“Hattie Sinclair’s case was an intriguing dilemma out of which we have learned nothing, regretfully,” said Kempler.
“What intriguing dilemma?” asked Mozelle.
“She was cured.”
“How?”
“It’s a very bizarre story, Dr. Mozelle. I wrote a paper on it. It might be interesting for you to read. But again, I assure you, nothing about it can be applied to your wife’s situation.”
“Still, I’d like to hear about it if you don’t mind.”
The story Dr. Kempler told began in this way: Earlier in his career, Kempler had worked as a physician for a family named Gulkievaugh in Great Neck, Long Island, who employed a maid named Hattie Sinclair. Sinclair came from New Providence, one of the hundreds of islands that make up the Bahama Islands, and the seat of the Bahamian government. Sinclair’s family was typically poor and semiliterate and, at the age of seventeen, Hattie had come to New York and found her job as a maid with the Gulkievaugh family for whom she worked for fourteen years. She had ignored all the early warning signs of her disease, and when she finally did seek help, she went to an outpatient clinic at a local hospital where she was misdiagnosed. By the time the family brought her to see Kempler, she was terminal.
When Hattie finally understood that nothing could be done, she went back to her family to die. The Gulkievaugh family received a couple of letters following her departure, and from the contents of those letters, they understood that her condition was rapidly deteriorating. They heard no more from her and assumed that she had died.
But a year later, they received a phone call from Hattie. She said that she was in New York, she was cured, and she wondered if she could have her job back. The family couldn’t believe it. They were delighted, though shocked. They brought her to Kempler to examine her. He was unable to find any trace of the disease.
Sinclair maintained that she had been treated down in the Bahamas by a man with no formal medical training and none of the equipment necessary to ascertain the facts of her condition. The man lived on a virtually primitive island with a population of 150, and no running water or electricity. The only thing resembling modern accommodations on the island was a small tourist hotel in a remote fishing village. This particular gentleman lived a few miles away from that hotel in an isolated hut at the top of a hill.
One day after the terminal diagnosis Hattie had received from Dr. Kempler, her father had called and said he had made contact with this gentleman who would try to help her. Some family members were opposed to the idea because it would entail moving her to be near the stranger, but her father insisted and eventually took her to the island himself on a native sailboat, and left her there.
As Sinclair later described her treatment, the man, whose name was Matthew Perch, had boiled a variety of roots, leaves, and bark into a brew and fed it to her three times a day. Each feeding was a combination of different roots, leaves, and barks, which was all she ingested for three months. After that, he added solid foods to her diet, in addition to reduced portions of the brew for another two months. At the end of five months, she returned to her family in New Providence. They took her to a local hospital where she was examined and found to be free of the disease.
Baffled but intrigued, Dr. Kempler and some of his colleagues traveled to the Bahamas, hoping to meet with the man, but he refused to see them. Hattie Sinclair’s father interceded on their behalf, telling Perch that the doctors wanted only to talk to him. He refused nonetheless. The government was very supportive of Dr. Kempler’s efforts, but they were unable to provide any help. Finally, Kempler and his colleagues went to the island on their own, checked into the hotel in the fishing village, and found their way to the hut on the hill where the man lived. They waited for four-and-a-half hours and were about to return to the hotel when he suddenly appeared, stepping out of the woods into a clearing to stare at them. As the doctors started toward him, he began backing into the woods.
“We’re doctors,” they called after him. “We only want to talk about Hattie Sinclair.”
But with a shake of his head, the man refused. The doctors begged him, tried to tell him of the importance of what he had done. Perch just turned and walked back into the woods. That was the last they saw of him. Kempler returned the next day and the day after that. But the man never reappeared.
Kempler later learned from Hattie Sinclair that Matthew Perch had been born and raised on that little island. His family history could be traced back as long as records had been kept on his island, which was not all that long, and the records were probably not all that accurate. He had attended a makeshift one-room school until he was twelve years old, at which time he went to work with his father farming tomatoes, root vegetables, corn, and peas. Apparently, a knowledge of root medicine ran in the Perch family; Matthew’s father dabbled in it and so had his grandfather.
Over the years, news of Matthew Perch’s gift of healing spread. Rumor had it that every sick person on Perch’s island wanted to be treated by him, but he nearly always refused. He had treated only eight people aside from Hattie Sinclair over the course of fifteen years, and he had treated each with a method different from the one he had used on Sinclair.
Kempler persuaded Sinclair to accompany him to the Bahamas one more time, with a list of questions for Perch, hoping that the man would answer if she were the one to pose those questions. In fact, Perch did see her, but he did not respond to any of the questions, and Kempler never learned anything further.
“It’s unfortunate that we were not able to obtain his cooperation because there might have been something we could have learned about in that combination of roots, leaves, and barks he used,” Dr. Kempler told Howard Mozelle shortly before he called an end to their meeting. “Or it could have been something in the solid food diet he put her on, or the water, or her faith, or hell, even his personality or his attitude. It’s hard to say. Well, as I told you, it is a fascinating story. Not a very helpful one for you, though. I’m truly sorry about that.”
“But he did see eight people, even though it was over a period of fifteen years. He did see them, right?” Mozelle asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“And whatever their problems were, they’re still alive as far as you know, right?”
“We don’t know anything about them. But there’s no reason not to think so.”
The two men looked at each other in silence for nearly half a minute before Dr. Mozelle stood up and extended his hand to Dr. Kempler. “You’re right; it’s truly a fascinating story,” he said.
12
WHEN DR. MOZELLE BEGAN RELATING HIS STORY TO Montaro Caine, he tried to maintain a sense of calm detachment. But as he spoke of the first time his eyes met those of Hattie Sinclair, he couldn’t help but grow more excited. He had called Sinclair at the Long Island residence of her employer—finding her was not difficult, for there were few Gulkievaughs in the phone book. On the phone, she sounded cautious, but she finally agreed to come to his office.
“She walked into this room,” Howard Mozelle told Caine. “She was a tall, majestic-looking woman. About thirty years old, though she seemed
older.”
Mozelle told Sinclair about his wife’s illness, and she said that she was sorry. But even after he pleaded with her to help him try to save his wife’s life, she said, “I just don’t think it would do no good, sir. That man never said one word to Dr. Kempler or any of the other people. Even when I went down there with them, he wouldn’t see them. If it weren’t for my daddy knowing his daddy, he wouldn’t have seen me either. Honestly, I’m truly sorry about your wife, and if there were something I could do, I would do it. I wanted Mr. Perch’s medicine to help other people too, but he’s a peculiar, stubborn man. The way he treated Dr. Kempler and the others was uncalled for, but that’s the way he is and nothing’s going to change him.”
Still, Howard Mozelle was unwilling to give up. “But Dr. Kempler and his colleagues wanted his secrets,” he told Sinclair. “I don’t. All those doctors and government officials must have seemed like the modern world coming to rob him of a sacred tradition. All I want is for a dying woman to benefit from that tradition. Please, Ms. Sinclair, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Mozelle walked over to the door that led to the adjoining room, opened it, and beckoned for Elsen, who had been seated in a chair trying to read a magazine.
Elsen Mozelle had once been a strong, vibrant professor, but the woman who appeared before Hattie Sinclair looked emaciated and exhausted. Hattie gently took Elsen’s hand, and the two women sat quietly, looking at each other.
“Your husband tells me you’re sick like I was,” Hattie said. “I wish there was some way I could help you, ma’am.”
“You can,” Elsen said, her breaths short. “There is no guarantee that he will see me. I know that. And if, by chance, he would, there is no guarantee that he would be able to make me well, I know that, too. But I do want to live, and as small as this chance is, it is all that is left to me.”
“What is it you have in mind?” she asked quietly.
Little more than a week later, Hattie Sinclair was standing beside Howard and Elsen Mozelle on the bow of a rickety sixty-foot motor-boat that chugged among various islands in the Bahamas hauling cargo and mail.
The sky was a deep blue, without a single cloud in it. The little fishing village appeared to glisten in the bright sunshine as the boat approached the makeshift wharf on Perch’s island. During the course of her journey to the Bahamas, Mrs. Mozelle had grown noticeably weaker, though her face did radiate with a glimmer of hope. Dr. Mozelle watched over his wife, very much aware of how deeply he loved her and how much he feared losing her. Hattie Sinclair remained quiet on the trip; Mozelle assumed she was recalling her own boat ride to the island when she first met the elusive Perch.
The two women left the doctor behind and took a taxi from the hotel, driving along a dirt road into the interior of the island.
“Let us out at the sapodilla tree around the next bend,” Hattie instructed the perspiring, heavyset, middle-aged driver, who had subjected the women to very close scrutiny from the moment he had picked them up in front of the hotel, constantly observing them in his rearview mirror. He had seen Hattie Sinclair before. The first time she had been forty-six pounds lighter and near death. Now she had come in the company of a white woman, and from the looks of her, she may have brought her too late.
As instructed, the driver parked in the shade of the sapodilla tree and waited as the two women continued on foot around the bend to the bottom of the hill on top of which sat the secluded home of Matthew Perch. The walk was no more than two hundred yards, but the blazing sun, the humidity, and the stress of the trip were telling noticeably on Elsen. There was no human activity anywhere in sight, just the singing of birds and the humming of insects.
Hattie Sinclair had sent word to Matthew Perch through her family, saying she had to see him as quickly as possible, but she had no idea if he had gotten her message. She had made no mention of the other person she was bringing with her, and she worried about how Perch would react to the frail white woman standing beside her. She hoped he wouldn’t just walk off into the woods without speaking, though she feared that was exactly what would happen.
Slowly Hattie led Elsen Mozelle up the hill. She could remember just about every tree, every stone, every twig. At the summit, they stopped in front of the adobe hut with its thatched palm leaf roof.
They stood there breathing hard, but before they could catch their breath, the door opened and Matthew Perch stepped out. He was a tall black man of about sixty, with stern, serious eyes in a lean, granite-like face. He had full lips, set jaw, and a short, salt-and-pepper beard that matched his eyebrows. His trousers were faded and worn, patched with different fabrics. His jacket had seen more wear than his trousers or the rumpled denim shirt. The women were startled speechless by the man’s sudden appearance.
Hattie Sinclair had never gotten used to Perch’s imposing presence. Now she couldn’t find her tongue. Perch stared back unblinkingly until Hattie blurted out, “I’m sorry, Matthew, I had to come. She’s not like the others, I swear to you. She’s just like I was—very, very sick. All she wants is to live, like I did. You know I’ll always be grateful to you, and I’m sorry to disturb your peace again. But this lady broke my heart, Matthew. Forgive me, Matthew. Please don’t be angry.”
Perch continued to stare silently at the two women who waited for a response. None came. Hattie was apprehensive. Perch was an explosive, complex man. During the course of her treatment, he could take her head off one minute and comfort her the next with a reassuring touch of his hand.
Finally, Hattie filled the void. “This lady is …” she began.
“I know who she is,” interrupted Perch.
Elsen felt a jolt travel through her body. She was too afraid to ask Perch what he might mean.
After a long pause, Perch spoke again. “Where is the man?” he asked.
“My—my husband?” asked Elsen.
“Three of you came,” said Matthew.
“He’s at the hotel,” said Elsen.
Matthew turned to Hattie. “Why did you not bring him?”
Elsen spoke instead. “We didn’t want to risk upsetting you with too many people. Also, my husband is a doctor. He cannot help me, and none of the doctors that he knows can help me. He thinks that maybe you can. He will not interfere, I promise.”
Matthew looked intently at Elsen Mozelle, shifting his gaze from her eyes to her lips, her ears, her hair, and finally to her hands.
“Go away,” he said to them. Then he turned and started toward the door of his hut. “Come tomorrow. Bring the man,” he continued without turning back. “Not you, Hattie. Good-bye.” Then, he closed the door.
The women stood frozen in place. Then, smiling cautiously, they turned to each other. Hattie took Elsen by the arm and slowly guided her back down the hill and around the bend, where the driver and his taxi were still waiting by the sapodilla tree.
“What do you think, Hattie?” Elsen asked when they were back in the car.
Hattie Sinclair was certain of only one thing. The way in which Matthew Perch had examined the sick woman was exactly the way he had looked at her when they had first met. She knew that he had diagnosed the frail white woman and that he knew all he needed to know about her condition. But Hattie believed it would be wise for her to keep that thought to herself. “I don’t want to speak too soon about what I think. I’m just gonna pray hard for you for tomorrow,” she said, putting her arm around Elsen.
Elsen reached up and patted Hattie’s hand while their taxi rumbled on.
The next morning, when Matthew Perch opened his door, a perspiring white couple was breathing deeply before him. Holding each other, they squinted through the blazing sunlight at the silhouetted figure of the black man standing in the darkened hut.
“Hello,” said Elsen, managing to smile through her exhaustion. “This is my husband, Dr. Howard Mozelle.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Perch, and thank you for seeing us.” Howard Mozelle extended his hand.
Perch rema
ined silent but stepped to one side of the door, clearing the entrance while ignoring the doctor’s gesture. The Mozelles hesitated, not sure that they had received an invitation to enter. Perch waited. Finally, Howard Mozelle led his wife into the hut.
Perch closed the door and remained standing by it like a sentry. Moments passed before the Mozelles’ eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. The large one-room interior was plain and sparse: There was a bed, two chairs, one table, all handmade from native wood, and in one corner a chest of drawers from which most of the varnish had long since peeled away. In another corner stood an old, battered steamship trunk. Beneath a window at the southern end of the hut was an open fireplace with piles of wood neatly stacked beside it. On the other side were several rows of shelves on which could be found tin plates, spoons, a few tin cups, clay jars, and a box of matches. Underneath the shelves were a variety of inexpensive cooking utensils. But what caught Howard Mozelle’s attention most were the two-foot-square pieces of artwork that were suspended on the hut’s east and west walls. Each piece was attached to the wall by a string that hung on a nail driven into the mud plaster.
Dr. Mozelle guessed that Perch had made the hangings; though he himself was a man trained in the science of medicine, for years he had relieved the stress of his profession through sculpting and painting. How intriguing, he thought—their worlds seemed to be light-years apart from each other’s, and yet he may not have been all that different from Matthew Perch; they were both physicians of one kind or another, healing themselves through art. He was trying to determine whether he was looking at abstract carvings or sculptures when Perch spoke again and interrupted his thoughts.
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