The Americans

by John Jakes

  He didn’t take offense. “I’m self-appointed. You have talent, and I refuse to let you squander it. You’re trying hard to do so.”

  “Goddamn it, you’re wrong!” Will slapped his hat against his leg. His loud voice attracted the attention of several sightseers just getting off a launch. Glaring at Will, a mother hurried two small girls out of the range of further profanity.

  A part of Will’s anger sprang from guilt. He couldn’t deny that he’d been preoccupied with money and social position for the last year or so. But Castle Garden—and Drew—had done a great deal to remind him of medicine’s true purpose.

  “Wrong, am I?” Drew had a strange, almost sly smile on his round face. “All right, prove it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I think I spoke clearly. I said prove that I’m wrong. If you’re hell-bent on practicing uptown, instead of taking your skills to people genuinely desperate for them—”

  “And who might those people be?”

  Drew turned and pointed to the doorway in the pedestal. He referred to the Lazarus sonnet, and those it described. The human garbage of Europe. The refugees from the slums, the ghettos, the failed farms and stagnating villages of a dozen ancient countries. The seekers of the second chance. The travelers who had risked all they had—savings, security, sometimes even sanity or life itself—to reach the American shore.

  “Weekends, I’ve been poking around up in the Sixth Ward,” Drew continued, his tone more temperate all at once. “The Sixth contains the worst slum in the city. The Mulberry Street Bend. I’ve decided to practice there. And to open a free clinic.”

  “Well,” said Will softly, “that’s a major decision.”

  “The doctors at Castle Garden are already teasing me about it. They say I must have come of missionary parents since I plan to practice in Hell.”

  “Sounds like you do. Why not go into the Roman priesthood and take the vows of poverty and chastity while you’re at it?”

  He was instantly ashamed of the sarcasm. A resigned, almost sad smile appeared on Drew’s face. “My decision takes care of the poverty part. Ensures it, I guess you could say. As for the chastity, I reckon I’ll always have to pay for whatever feminine companionship I get. I see girls I like, but when I say hello, they won’t even answer because I’m so fat.” He shrugged. “By now I’m resigned to that. But look—here’s what I was getting at when I said you could prove you really care about helping people. I want you to go into that free clinic with me.”

  Will thought of what was symbolized by the words free clinic. Failure. An admission to the world that a man couldn’t practice medicine profitably. Incredibly, Drew wasn’t being forced into such a position. He was making his choice voluntarily!

  “Out of the question,” Will said.

  “Don’t turn me down so fast. You’ve already said you plan to set up shop in New York too.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then give me a chance to show you what needs to be done in the Mulberry Bend. Stay over a few more days. We’ll take a tour of—”

  “No, I can’t. You know I’m due back in Boston to study with Dr. Green.”

  “Next summer, then. Your social calendar isn’t booked that far ahead, is it?”

  “Don’t be snide.”

  “Well, is it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then come with me to the Bend next summer. I’ve met another doctor down there. An old fellow, ready to retire soon. It’s his practice that I plan to buy—provided I can arrange a loan.”

  A loan of ten dollars is probably all you’ll need for a practice like that, Will thought, but he didn’t say it.

  Growing more enthusiastic, Drew went on. “Give me as much time as you can next year, but promise me at least a week. We’ll help the old man a few hours every day, and you’ll soon see there’s plenty of work for two men.”

  “How long have you been hatching this insane—?”

  “Next summer. I want your word on it.”

  He took hold of Will’s arm. His deceptively soft hands constricted like bands of metal. “Your word.”

  Angered, Will shot back, “All right! On one condition.”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t want to hear another syllable about my personal life.”

  “Done,” Drew exclaimed. His pale gray eyes shone in the sunshine. “Let’s catch the launch and go to Luchow’s to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” Will snorted. “Celebrate volunteering to spend a week in the midst of drunks and thieves and pushcart peddlers?”

  “Americans,” Drew said, pointing back at the pedestal again. “With just as much right to the name as the nabobs on Fifth Avenue. And ten times as desperate for your help.”

  Will shook his head. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  Drew laughed. “The most important part of your life. Excepting your marriage, of course,” he added, but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm or conviction.

  ii

  The following night, an express on the New York & New Haven line rattled through a heavy rainstorm, carrying a thoroughly sick Will Kent toward home.

  After dining at Luchow’s—no, gorging was a better word—he and Drew had gone back to the rooming house and consumed a huge quantity of cheap bourbon. Now Will had almost every known symptom of subacute gastritis. Overpowering thirst and a coated tongue. Extreme tenderness over the epigastrium. Flatulence and eructation. Diarrhea, slight pyrexia, and highly colored urine. A hammering head, a weak pulse, and cold feet. Plus a general feeling of debility and depression. Dr. Austin Flint’s textbook commentary on the condition carried a faintly moralistic tone which made him feel no better: “The affection sometimes follows a prolonged debauch. Patients who are spirit drinkers should be told of the connection of the disease with their habits.”

  A little late for that now! He couldn’t eat, or even think about food, without coming close to throwing up. He’d tried a little of everything recommended as a treatment. Small pieces of ice. Carbonated water. Salts of morphia. Milk mixed with lime water and a bowl of farina, both of which had refused to remain at their intended destination. Nothing helped; he was a digestive wreck. He’d just have to wait until his system decided he’d been sufficiently punished for his foolishness.

  But it wasn’t even the sickness causing his sharpest concern—and confusion—tonight. It was what he’d promised his friend, and what the consequences of that promise might be.

  In a way, Drew had tricked him. He’d provoked an argument in which Will’s pledge had been drawn from him in a burst of anger. Drew understood very well that his friend had a conscience. And he knew just how hard to press Will in order to elicit the response he’d gotten.

  Queasy, Will rested his forehead against the grimy window, his gaze lost in the dark of the Connecticut woodlands through which the train was speeding. He was in a trap. Squarely in a trap. Yesterday he’d made a promise which was in direct conflict with the one he’d given Laura—and with the monumentally important one to Carter.

  He thought about his dilemma with as much clarity as possible, given his miserable condition. Certain facts, seemingly irreconcilable, had to be taken into account in any solution of the problem Drew had precipitated.

  First, Will was in love with Laura Pennel. He worshiped her. But he also knew that Drew was right about the triviality of a society practice. What he’d seen in the eyes of the young Polish girl after he and Drew had delivered her child had all but canceled the impression left by Dr. Vlandingham. Will wanted to be not merely a competent and successful doctor, but a useful one. That meant taking care of people who genuinely needed help. And as Vlandingham had suggested during their conversation at Sherry’s, there was no shortage of doctors on Fifth Avenue. Just the opposite.

  So perhaps, in order to reconcile that which seemed irreconcilable, something had to give way.

  The promise to Laura?

  The short term of service with Drew next s
ummer could hardly be classified as horse doctoring in Will’s mind. But it would be classified that way by Thurman Pennel’s daughter. Every human being had failings, and one of hers was arrogance. Perhaps he could do something about that after they were married. He’d certainly try. But at present, it was an undeniable part of Laura’s character. To her, the patients Drew examined at Castle Garden and those he intended to treat in the city’s slums would be—in Emma Lazarus’ word—refuse. If he helped Drew treat such people next summer, Laura would object—

  If she knew about it.

  All right, then. She mustn’t know. She mustn’t find out, ever.

  To ensure that she didn’t, he’d have to keep his promise to Drew—and his fulfillment of it—a secret known only to the two of them. He’d have to keep it from Laura, from Marcus, from the Harvard faculty and fellow medical students—from everyone.

  It was unpleasant to think of deceiving the girl he meant to marry. He knew of no other way out. He was torn, wanting the best of two worlds.

  He’d try like hell to have both, without ever being forced to choose between them. He thought it would work but he couldn’t be sure. There were many potential pitfalls. Many, he repeated to himself as he stared into the rainy night, the swaying lamps of the car reflecting his bleak face on the dark, wet glass.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE ONLY HOPE

  i

  GIDEON’S LETTER TO MOULTRIE Calhoun of the World brought about a cordial dinner between the two men, thus provoking a stormy outburst from Joseph Pulitzer. The publisher fired off a telegram from Chatwold, his mansion in Bar Harbor, Maine, where he was summering. He demanded a meeting with Gideon.

  Gideon pondered strategy, then decided he could best blunt Pulitzer’s attack by a show of politeness. He wrote a note inviting his rival to an overnight cruise aboard Auvergne. Julia told Gideon he was asking for trouble, but he insisted on sending the note.

  “Dealing with Joe shouldn’t be any worse than putting your head up next to the muzzle of a Yankee cannon. Besides, I doubt he’ll take me up on it.”

  To their surprise, they received an acceptance. So the yacht steamed up the coast, and the Kents welcomed their competitor and his entourage on board with appropriate ceremony.

  Politeness forbade any immediate discussion of the successful outcome of Gideon’s dinner meeting with Calhoun. But the dinner had taken place three weeks earlier. Now Gideon was worrying that perhaps Pulitzer had presented a counteroffer—one which was too attractive for Calhoun to resist. But if that were so, why had Pulitzer accepted the invitation? Merely to gloat? That wasn’t like him. Answers would have to wait until evening.

  Soon the yacht was headed south again, toward Mount Desert Rock. As dinner began, the Hungarian-born newspaperman was polite, but no more than that. His occasional smile was closer to a wince. Heavily bearded and wearing prim-looking eyeglasses, he resembled a professor of the classics more than he did a publisher with a taste for the sensational.

  “I’m delighted we could meet here rather than in New York,” Gideon said after twenty minutes of trivial talk about Washington, world affairs, and various aspects of the newspaper business—not including the thorny one which had brought them together.

  “I’ve never seen your yacht,” Pulitzer said. “Very handsome.”

  Gideon murmured thanks.

  “Besides, even in the summer, Chatwold’s a mausoleum. You know I like company.” That was evident from the two male secretaries Pulitzer had brought along for the overnight trip. It was said he employed as many as eight of them. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other, Gideon.”

  His host nodded. “Eight or nine months.” And in that interval, Pulitzer’s health had obviously taken a bad turn. Coming into the dining saloon, he had moved slowly, and squinted as if his eyesight were failing. Pulitzer was actually four years younger than Gideon, but a lung condition had forced him to relinquish day-to-day management of the World two years earlier, though he still exercised rigid control of the paper’s policies.

  Lightning glared on the glass of the portholes. A rain squall was moving across Auvergne’s bow. The subsequent drum of thunder made Pulitzer squirm and dab his eyes with a handkerchief.

  A few seconds later, Julia accidentally dropped a teaspoon. It struck the silver sugar bowl—not a loud noise, but a sudden one. Within seconds, perspiration was pouring down Pulitzer’s cheeks and gleaming in his beard.

  He managed to say, “I had another reason for accepting your invitation. It struck me as fitting to be on board your yacht when we discuss the subject of piracy.”

  Gideon sat motionless. So did Julia. Both felt the emotional temperature drop.

  “I made a bona fide offer, Joe. And I didn’t ask Mr. Calhoun to keep it secret.”

  “Oh, believe me, he didn’t. But I very much resent your maneuvering behind my back.”

  “Joe, come off it. With your circulation, you’ve been licking the Union and every other daily in New York. My editorial department’s been in disarray ever since Theo Payne died. I have to do something about that. To continue your nautical metaphor—suppose I were the captain of a sinking vessel, and your ship were the only one in the area with a lifeboat large enough to hold my crew. Would you deny me the right to reach out and save their lives, and mine?”

  Rain began to spatter the deck above the saloon. Pulitzer reacted as if rifles were exploding. He mopped his forehead, then struggled to collect himself. He looked hard at Gideon.

  “Sophistry! Slick words that have nothing to do with the issue. You stole Moultrie Calhoun from my staff.”

  “Stole—? Past tense?” Gideon couldn’t conceal his surprise.

  “Yes. He submitted his resignation. I offered him half again what he was making at the World, and he still refused to stay.”

  Because he’s unhappy with the working conditions and with your temperamental behavior. But Gideon wouldn’t have said that under any circumstances.

  “He hasn’t officially informed me—” Gideon began.

  “I’m informing you! Calhoun’s an able journalist. A valuable man. I want to keep him.” It had the sound of an edict.

  Growing annoyed in spite of himself, Gideon shrugged. “It appears you can’t. I’d say our discussion of the issue is closed.”

  “No, it isn’t. Withdraw the offer.”

  “In my place, you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I demand that you withdraw it.”

  Slowly, Gideon shook his head. “Joe, I refuse.”

  Pulitzer leaned forward, red-faced and wrathful. Before he could speak, another peal of thunder jolted him back against his chair. His eyes watered behind his schoolmaster’s glasses. He thumped the table.

  “All right! If the son of a bitch doesn’t like the World any longer, you take him—I won’t have him! But let me tell you one more thing”—again that wrenching grimace, intended as a smirk—“I don’t forget things like this. One day I’ll drive you to the wall.”

  Gideon puffed his cigar and managed to smile. “That comes as no surprise. You’re already hard at it.”

  The drumming of the rain intensified suddenly, forestalling another retort. Pulitzer pressed his palms to his ears, as if in extreme pain. He stumbled to his feet and accidentally lurched into Julia’s chair. Before she could rise and help him, he whispered, “Keep your seat, Mrs. Kent. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  When Pulitzer was gone, Gideon called Anderson to refill his brandy snifter.

  “Calhoun was right Joe’s getting more and more peculiar. He can’t tolerate noise, but he has those flunkeys who talk or read to him all night long because he can’t sleep. I’m thankful the Almighty never made me a genius. You pay a high price for it.”

  “Are you sorry you invited him?”

  Gideon shook his head. “At least everything’s out in the open now. I can put Moultrie Calhoun to work with no qualms. If I can get the paper back on a sound footing, maybe I can concentrate on Kent and Son f
or a while.”

  But it was neither the paper nor the publishing house that worried him most. Even the chest pains that still plagued him were inconsequential when compared to the mistake he’d made in judging his son. A year ago, he had decided that Will was finally on the right track. He had been wrong, blindly, devastatingly wrong.

  He tossed down the remaining brandy as if it were water.

  “My, you drank that rather fast.”

  “I’d say that was my affair, wouldn’t you?” A moment later he jumped up, circled the table and squeezed her shoulders by way of apology. “I’m sorry. That was a churlish thing to say.”

  “What’s troubling you, dear?”

  “The usual. Business problems.”

  He leaned down to touch his lips to her forehead. She turned in her chair, reaching up to clasp his arm. He kissed her mouth. It was an awkward embrace, but for Gideon a comforting one.

  As they were proceeding to their cabin, Nyquist, the deckhand, pointed out that the squall had already passed astern. Gideon thanked him and said good night. Alone in their quarters, he and Julia came into each other’s arms— he needing the comfort of it, and she sensing that need. They made love during the yacht’s last violent rollings. Afterward he felt better, and again apologized for his rudeness.

  But he still couldn’t tell her the cause of his deep-seated worry. He still couldn’t repeat the things he’d been hearing from one of the Union’s most reliable reporters.

  ii

  Mr. Moultrie Calhoun was a portly widower of fifty-two. He disliked his former employer, but he favored Pulitzer’s brand of journalism. When he and Gideon concluded their negotiations and shook hands, Gideon told the Charlestonborn editor that he could and should begin spicing the Union’s front pages with some crime and society news.

  From his very first day at the paper, Calhoun took charge. In contrast to the vituperative Theo Payne, he was a quiet man who seldom raised his voice. But he had eyes of an arresting blue-gray. The color of a pistol barrel, someone remarked to Gideon. Calhoun had been at his desk only two hours when he turned that gunmetal gaze on a reporter and asked him in polite and unprofane language to correct the factual errors and sloppy writing in a piece of copy. The reporter took one look at those eyes and jumped to it.