by Caleb Carr
“Ah, you’ll do it,” I said, as reassuringly as I could. “You always do, right? That’s why you’re top dog in the chef pack.”
That got him. He smiled quickly again and called out, “Franz! Two containers—the soft-shell crab! Now!” He started wiping and wringing his hands as he surveyed all the activity in the place and then glanced down at me again. “Please—Stevie—take the food and go. This is no day for me to converse—” Something caught his eye. “No! Stop! Do not, you imbecile, how can you possibly—” Then he disappeared in a fat flash.
I took the containers of food from the man called Franz, who kept one eye out for his boss like he was wondering when it was going to be his turn to catch hell. On my way out I snuck two forks and a like number of napkins out of a rack, then ran back through the same hallway, which was now packed even thicker with deliverymen.
Cyrus was sitting on a bench inside Madison Square Park, beyond a long line of hansoms that were waiting for fares on Fifth Avenue. Still running, I made my way through the cabs, past the grass at the edge of the park, and then clear over the bench, handing Cyrus a container, a fork, and a napkin as I sat down on the ground beside him. We talked while we crunched on the crabs—done the way I liked them that day, just fried plain in some butter—and ate the side portions of Italian salad and rice with bananas. It was a fine meal, all the better for being free, and after I’d finished I lay on the grass and had myself a smoke.
“Cyrus,” I said, looking up through the big tree boughs and branches to the sky, “how long do you figure it’ll be before the Doctor gives Mrs. Leshko the sack?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, polishing off the last of his food. “But things can’t go on forever like this.”
“Yeah.” I waited a moment before voicing what’d been on my mind since I’d seen Pinkie’s “Little Maid of Acadie” the night before. “Cyrus?”
“Still here.”
“You figure the Doctor might hire Kat? As a maid, I mean.”
The long pause that followed told me clearly what Cyrus thought, but he soon gave out with the words: “Kat’d have to want the work, Stevie. She’s got big ideas. Big plans for herself. I doubt she’d be interested.”
“Yeah. I guess so. I just thought…”
“I know,” he said, trying hard to be sympathetic. “You could ask the Doctor—but like I say, she’d have to want the work.”
I didn’t pursue the topic, and after a few silent minutes we passed on to other things. But the idea had planted itself in my head, and I meant to explore it.
It was past four by the time the Doctor, Mr. Moore, and Miss Howard came out of Delmonico’s—and they didn’t look happy when they did. The Doctor just strode quickly past Cyrus and me, saying “We’ll walk” crisply, and the rest of us fell in with him. I started purposely dragging my steps, as did Cyrus and Miss Howard, while Mr. Moore kept up with the Doctor, talking to him. Neither Cyrus nor I needed to ask what had happened; Miss Howard could read the question in our faces.
“It was awful,” she said. “Word of the investigation into the Institute’s affairs has gotten all over. Even friends of his cut him dead. It was like we weren’t even there. Thank God for Charlie, or it wouldn’t have been tolerable.”
We walked on down Broadway.
It was a predictable reaction, I suppose, from them what likes to call themselves “society,” and while I knew the Doctor would make like he didn’t care, I also knew that in fact it would anger him deeply. For, as Miss Howard had said, there were some few in that society crowd what the Doctor counted as his friends, and to see them retreat into rudeness with the rest… Well, I was just as glad that we had time to walk to Number 808 Broadway. I could only hope that Mr. Moore would be able to get the Doctor refocused on our purpose by the time we got there.
He actually managed that job, or at least as much of it as could reasonably be expected. When we reached the yellow brick building, we found the Isaacson brothers waiting for us, and the Doctor was all business with them. As we went up and into the sixth floor, the conversation turned to how we were going to present the sketching session to our guests. Miss Howard had apparently warned Señora Linares to say nothing about what was really happening, but she went on to tell us that “nothing” wasn’t going to be enough to satisfy the extremely curious Mrs. Cady Stanton. Miss Howard had toyed with the idea of saying that the subject of the sketch was an old friend—or even, again, a relation—of the señora’s, but that wouldn’t explain the latter’s bruises and cuts; and Miss Howard knew that Mrs. Cady Stanton would ask all about those, since husbands beating on their wives was a topic that she’d been lecturing on for decades. In fact, Miss Howard told us, Mrs. Cady Stanton had often been criticized by other women’s rights leaders because she put as much emphasis on trying to change the conditions that caused violence in the home (drunkenness and the like) and on making it easier for women to get out of bad situations by loosening up divorce laws as she did on securing the vote for her sex. I’m bound to say that I saw her point: most of the women in my old neighborhood couldn’t have cared an owl’s hoot about who was president—they were too busy trying to survive the rampages of their husbands.
Anyway, Miss Howard and Mr. Moore were still playing with ideas as to just what lie they were going to present Mrs. Cady Stanton with when the Doctor said that they should just drop the subterfuge and tell the old girl the truth—or rather, most of the truth: there was no reason to say who Señora Linares was exactly and no reason to mention her daughter. We could just explain that she’d been attacked by another woman in Central Park and robbed; if Mrs. Cady Stanton wanted to make more out of it, let her try. Miss Howard didn’t much like that idea, and only gave in when an electrical buzzing device what was connected to a button in the lobby of the building let us know that Señora Linares had arrived. As she went down to retrieve our first guest, it remained obvious that Miss Howard figured “make more out of it” was just what Mrs. Cady Stanton was likely to do.
The señora was in a bit of a state when she first got out of the elevator, convinced that she’d been followed, either by her husband or somebody else. Cyrus was sent down to scout the area but couldn’t spot anyone who seemed to be keeping an eye on Number 808. This offered the señora some consolation, but not much, and it was all she could do to focus on the instructions the Doctor gave her about what she was and was not supposed to say in front of the other women. The sound of the buzzer going off again sent her back into a bit of a panic, but Mr. Moore stayed with her and got her calmed down, while Miss Howard went to fetch the promising painter and the living legend.
CHAPTER 12
None of us really knew what to expect when we heard the elevator rumble back up. I guess I figured some sour old battle-axe smelling of mothballs was going to come barreling in like one of the Furies. I was pretty surprised, then—and so, from the looks on their faces, was everyone else—when a very respectably but fashionably dressed lady walked gracefully through the front door, her hair carefully done up in tight curls and the delicate lace around her neck and chest decorated by a large, pretty cameo. For a minute I thought she must be the painter: based on what I’d seen of women reformers, they didn’t go much for frills and jewelry. But then I saw that the hair was snow white and the skin was sagging and wrinkled, and I knew that she was too old to be the artistic comer Pinkie’d talked about. The eyes, though, had a youthful, alert look about them, which clued me in to the fact that, while this might be somebody’s grandmother, it wasn’t anybody you wanted to treat as such. She carried a brass-handled stick but held herself proud and upright, like the renowned veteran she was: Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, the only woman who’d had the nerve to go so far as to rewrite the Bible from the woman’s point of view.
Behind her came a younger lady who might’ve been Miss Howard’s older sister, so similar were their looks, dress, and demeanor. Miss Cecilia Beaux had features what were handsome rather than beautiful and what centered on a posit
ively mesmerizing pair of light eyes. She wore a plain button-down blouse with a little ribbon around the neck, as well as a light linen tunic and a simple skirt to match. The common ground between her and Miss Howard seemed to be more than just superficial, too, for they were already chatting away like old friends, Miss Howard telling Miss Beaux about our trip to Pinkie’s and Miss Beaux talking of a similar trip she’d made. In addition, I later learned that the pair shared like backgrounds, both coming from wealthy families (Miss Howard’s, as I’ve said, in the Hudson Valley, Miss Beaux’s in Philadelphia) that thoroughly disapproved of the young ladies’ unusual styles of living.
Introductions were made all around, after which I withdrew quickly into my windowsill and didn’t say a word. You could see in Mrs. Cady Stanton’s face, as she looked from person to person, that she was trying to size the situation up but not getting very far. As Miss Beaux took out her sketching materials and drew up a chair next to the señora, Miss Howard gave out with the fabricated—or, as the Doctor might’ve preferred to call it, incomplete—explanation of what we were about and why we’d engaged Miss Beaux’s services. Mrs. Cady Stanton’s eyes grew narrow at Miss Howard’s words, but when she spoke her voice was pleasant enough:
“You say it was another woman, Sara? That’s unusual—and the motive was money?”
Mr. Moore cut in, trying to blunt the questions with charm: “In New York, Mrs. Cady Stanton, the motive is generally money—and there’s very little in this city that can be accurately called ‘unusual,’ I’m afraid.”
In a snap, Mrs. Cady Stanton’s expression became much cooler, and she turned a stern eye on Mr. Moore. “Indeed, Mr.—Moore, is it? Well, I’ve lived many years in New York, on and off, Mr. Moore, and not always in the best of neighborhoods. And I think I can safely say that an attack by one woman on another in Central Park in broad daylight is not a common occurrence. Perhaps one of these policemen will confirm that.” She tossed her head in the direction of the Isaacsons, who, while at a loss as to how to handle her, were clearly annoyed at being so labeled.
“Oh!” Lucius said, taking out his handkerchief to wipe his forehead, “I couldn’t—that is—”
“Not common,” Marcus finally said, as confidently as I imagine anyone could’ve in that situation. “But not unheard of, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” Mrs. Cady Stanton didn’t care for that answer. “I’d like someone to give me some examples.”
While this little exchange was going on, Miss Howard had moved into one corner of the room with Miss Beaux and Señora Linares, and the señora had begun the actual work of telling the artist what her attacker had looked like. Seeing that the discussion was likely to keep Mrs. Cady Stanton out of this important business, the Doctor stepped in:
“If you have a day or two, Mrs. Cady Stanton, I should be happy to list any number of cases involving violent attacks committed by women.”
Mrs. Cady Stanton turned on him. “By women against other women?” she said, disbelievingly.
“Against other women,” the Doctor said, with a smile that warned he was in earnest. “Daughters against mothers, sisters against sisters, rivals for affection against one another—and, of course, mothers against daughters.” He pulled out his cigarette case. “Do you mind if I smoke? And would you care to?”
“No. Thank you. But you go ahead.” Studying the Doctor for another minute, Mrs. Cady Stanton raised a finger to point at him as he lit his stick. “I know about you, Doctor. I’ve read some of your work. You specialize in criminal and children’s psychology.”
“True,” the Doctor answered.
“But not in feminine psychology,” Mrs. Cady Stanton said. “Tell me, Doctor, why is it that no scientists of the mind make women their field of specialization?”
“It’s odd that you should ask,” the Doctor answered. “I’ve recently been wondering about that very question.”
“Well, let me answer it for you.” Shifting in her chair so that she fully faced him, Mrs. Cady Stanton started to out-and-out lecture the Doctor. “Psychologists do not study female behavior because the overwhelming majority of them are men—and if they were to undertake such a study, they would inevitably find that at the base of all such behavior as you are describing lies a man’s brutal enslavement of and violence toward the woman in question.” The eyes narrowed again, but this time in a friendlier way. “You’ve been in some fairly hot water lately, Dr. Kreizler. And I know why. You’re trying to explain the actions of criminals in their—what is it you call it—their ‘individual context.’ But people don’t want explanations. They think you’re just providing excuses.”
“And what do you think, Mrs. Cady Stanton?” the Doctor asked as he smoked.
“I think that no woman comes into this world with a desire to do anything but what nature intended—to create and to nurture. As mothers of the race, there is a spiritual insight, a divine creative power that belongs to women. If that power is perverted, you may rest assured that a man is involved somewhere.”
“Your words are persuasive,” the Doctor said, “but I find the ideas behind them a bit—difficult. Are women, then, a separate species, immune to the emotions that move other humans?”
“No, not immune, Doctor. Far from it. More deeply touched by those emotions, in fact. And by their causes. Which, I think, go far deeper than even an educated, progressive man like yourself suspects.”
“Really?”
Mrs. Cady Stanton nodded, touching at her white curls in the way that your average woman will do but—oddly, for someone of her age and opinions—not at all embarrassed by the passing display of vanity. “I agree with some of what you’ve written, Doctor. In fact, much of it. Your only problem, so far as I can see, is that you do not take your notion of context far enough.” She put both hands authoritatively on her walking stick. “What is your opinion of the effect of the prenatal period on the formation of the individual?”
“Ah, yes,” the Doctor said. “A favorite topic of yours.”
“So you dispute the idea?”
“Mrs. Cady Stanton—there is no clinical evidence to suggest that, beyond the impact of her physical condition, a mother has any formative effect on the fetus she carries.”
“Wrong, sir! You could not be more wrong. During the nine months of prenatal life, mothers stamp every thought and feeling of their minds as well as their bodies on the plastic beings inside of them!”
The Doctor had started to look like General Custer must’ve, the moment his boys told him there were a few more Indians around than they’d originally expected. Mrs. Cady Stanton pushed him ever deeper into an argument what he’d started out thinking of as a diversion but had quickly grown into a full-scale debate. It stopped making much sense to me after about ten minutes, mainly because I wasn’t really paying attention; I wanted to get around and see what the other three women were coming up with. So at a moment when I thought no one would notice, I slipped off my windowsill and around the outermost edge of the room, eventually reaching the spot where the sketch was taking form. As I approached I heard Señora Linares saying, “No … no, the chin was less—pronounced. And the lips slightly thinner … yes, so …”
“I see,” Miss Beaux said, her bright gaze fixed on the large sketch pad before her. “Overall, then, you’d say she had more Anglo-Saxon than Latin features. Is that right?”
Señora Linares thought it over, then nodded. “I had not thought of it in such a way, but yes, she was very American, in the way one sees in the older parts of this country—New England, perhaps.”
I edged up to Miss Howard’s elbow and looked at the sketch. It was still about as vague as one of Pinkie’s paintings, though in spots Miss Beaux had been able to pencil in sharper, more definite lines. The face that was taking shape was, just as the señora said, an angular, chiseled one, not unattractive but hard, like you might see in a Massachusetts or Connecticut farm town.
Miss Howard suddenly noticed my presence and smiled. “Hello, Stevie,” s
he whispered. Then she cast an evil little glance at the center of the room, where the Doctor and Mrs. Cady Stanton were still going at it. “I’ll bet you wish you had a cigarette along about now.”
“Do I ever,” I said, still watching Miss Beaux’s delicate hands as they moved with quick precision over the pad. She’d make a stroke, then line it again or smudge it for shading, as was wanted, or erase it altogether if the señora said it wasn’t right. She caught me watching her and smiled.
“Hello,” she said, also whispering. “You’re Stevie, aren’t you?”
I could only nod; to tell the truth, I think I was a little smitten by her.
“They sound like they’re having quite a time,” she went on, still sketching but occasionally showing me the same delicate smile that was lit up by those remarkable eyes. “What in the world are they talking about?”
“I can’t quite make it out,” I answered. “But Mrs. Cady Stanton sure got the Doctor’s goat—in record time, too.”
Miss Beaux shook her head, still amused. “She was so anxious to meet him…. She’s often that way with people she finds intriguing—she wants so much to exchange ideas that she ends up rushing into an argument.”
“Yes,” Miss Howard said. “I’m afraid I’ve been known to do the same thing.”
“So have I!” Miss Beaux said, still in a hushed voice. “And then I spend days absolutely kicking myself about it. Particularly with men—most of them are so blasted patronizing that when you meet one that you think might be different, you overwhelm him with opinions.”
“And being the pillars of strength that they are,” Miss Howard agreed, “they run and hide behind a gaggle of pretty, empty-headed idiots.”
“Oh! It’s so irritating …” Miss Beaux looked to me again. “What about you, Stevie?”
“Me, miss?”
“Yes. How do you feel about young ladies—do you prefer that they be intelligent, or do you like them to model their opinions on yours?”
