The Americans

by John Jakes

  “Not the only one, surely.”

  “Yes. This isn’t Newport. Every morning Dr. Clem and I pump a couple of gallons and boil it.”

  “Even more reason for not having your office in a place like this.”

  Drew stopped at an open door. “Dr. Clem used to have a storefront office on Mulberry. He practiced there until he discovered that a lot of neighborhood people thought the office was too fancy. It scared ’em off. I didn’t believe that the first time I heard it, but it’s true. Our patients are afraid of all American doctors, but they’re less afraid of ones who practice in the kind of building the patients live in themselves.”

  “Do you live here too?”

  “No, I’m afraid we aren’t that idealistic. I’ve got fairly decent lodgings a few blocks east of Bayard Street. In the section people call Jewtown. Jo’s staying there, and I’ve rented a room for you. Our landlord’s an energetic Russian Jew named Nevsky. He’s a sweater.”

  “A what?”

  “He operates a sweat shop in his flat. He’s doing well. Last month he took over the entire top floor of the tenement. Some of the older children in this neighborhood work for him.”

  “If he’s doing so well, why does he have to rent out rooms?”

  “It’s a way of life in his neighborhood. He told me a lodger fulfills the same function for a Jewish family that a cow does for an Irishman. It puts a few extra pennies in the cookie jar.”

  Drew conversed while leaning against the frame of the open door in a relaxed way. Jo had stepped down the hall and was examining a cut on the cheek of a boy in a line near the sink. She was talking to the boy in what sounded like a pidgin Italian. It was hard to say who looked more nervous, the boy or his mother. A couple of the women watched Jo as if she were a sorceress.

  Will looked in the door and inspected the reception room—a windowless chamber about ten feet by six, lit by kerosene lamps that added noticeably to the heat. On a collection of old chairs and boxes, five patients sat waiting: two elderly men, a handsome black-haired youth, a nondescript middle-aged woman, a mother with twin babies in her arms. There was a burlap rug on the floor and an uneven coat of whitewash on the walls. Yet in spite of the imperfections, the room had an air of cleanliness and order completely at odds with the filthy hall just a step away.

  Will spent a moment studying the expressions of the people waiting: frightened expressions, every one of them.

  Drew noticed his interest and said, “Like a lot of immigrants, the Italians want to live among their own kind.” Will was surprised that his friend would speak within earshot of his patients. “This country’s so new and strange, they need the reassurance of familiar customs—a familiar language. Trouble is, by hanging on to the old ways, they’re slow to adopt new ones. Many of them never even learn English. That plays right into the hands of the padrones who pose as their friends.”

  Now Will understood Drew’s candor. “But there must be exceptions. Walking over here, I met a woman named Mrs. Grimaldi. Her husband’s a patient of yours. She knew English.”

  Drew laughed. “Signora Grimaldi’s got a spine like a ramrod and a will as strong as my dear sister’s. Now that she’s in America, she’s determined to become an American. But a lot of these people are just too timid or too ground down by poverty. It’s the same in every slum. A few strong ones fight their way out. There are thousands more who can’t—but I’m chattering too much. Trying to tell you everything in ten minutes. My partner will be wondering what happened to me.”

  “I know his name’s Clem. But your letters never said whether that’s his first name or his last.”

  “It’s his nickname. His real name’s Vlandingham.”

  Will blinked. “Vlandingham?”

  “That’s right. Clement Chase Vlandingham. Do you know him?”

  Will’s thoughts turned back to the interview at Sherry’s Restaurant. The fat Society doctor had mentioned an older brother whose altruism—and whose slum practice—he regarded with contempt. Surely this must be the same man—

  “No, I don’t know him. But I’m anxious to meet him.”

  Drew led him toward a closed door on the far side of the reception room. “Then come on.”

  CHAPTER IV

  WARNING

  i

  THE WHITEWASHED SURGERY WAS three times the size of the waiting room. On four homemade shelves on the wall to Will’s left stood twelve kerosene lamps. To provide light for surgical procedures, he supposed. At the moment only two of the lamps were lit.

  The current patient was a middle-aged man, stooped and sallow. He stood beside an old examination table, fastening the buttons of his trousers. He turned red and whirled away as Jo entered the room a step behind the two young men.

  On a stool beside the examination table sat Drew’s partner, a stringy fellow with a stern air. He was in his midsixties at the very least. His cold gray eyes briefly examined Will before returning to the embarrassed patient.

  “Signor Abruzzo, you come back and see me Tuesday, all right?”

  Another nervous glance at Jo. Then the old man nodded. “Martedì Si, dottore.”

  “Meantime”—the white-haired doctor picked up a small cardboard box which he handed to Signor Abruzzo—“use one of these whenever you have bad pain. I’ve explained what you’re supposed to do with them. You understand, don’t you?”

  “I understand, dottore.” Eyeing the box apprehensively, the old man shuffled out.

  When the door clicked, the white-haired man said to Drew, “He’ll throw them out. I don’t know how I’m going to persuade him to go up to Bellevue for surgery. His wife practically had to put a knife to his throat just to get him here. Actually, I think it’s too late for an operation to do much good.”

  Drew grimaced. “Is it what you thought? Rectal cancer?”

  The white-haired man nodded. “Goddamn it.”

  Jo looked close to tears as she walked toward the wall on Will’s right. There, curtains of cheap red gingham hung between a pair of ancient equipment cabinets. The curtains decorated what at first appeared to be a regular window opening onto an airshaft. A second look showed the window to be merely a ragged hole knocked through plaster, lath and brick. Between the curtains a pot of crimson geraniums was visible. The pot rested on a sill improvised from a piece of rough lumber.

  Drew’s partner rubbed his eyes a moment, then stood up. He looked at Will again. His apology for his profanity was terse. “Sorry.” He extended his hand, firm and brown. “Clem Vlandingham.” His voice was that of a born New Englander.

  “Will Kent, sir.”

  Vlandingham’s next remark caught him off guard. “I know something about your background, but I don’t know why you’re here.”

  It was Drew who answered. “I invited him, Dr. Clem. Will graduates from Harvard next year. I thought he might be interested in seeing the need for doctors in this part of New York. Maybe he’ll be interested in joining our practice.”

  Will was irritated with his friend for presenting him under false colors. “Drew—” he began, but Vlandingham cut in.

  “Well, we certainly have a lot to offer, Kent. We treat two entirely different and distinct populations here. The first is the permanent one. People who live in these firetraps, renting rooms for seven to ten dollars a month— twice what it costs for decent quarters in a good neighborhood. Then there’s our transient population. That consists chiefly of tramps who live in the streets and alleys. They survive by stealing. Neither group can afford to pay us a red cent, though a few people try. And they suffer all the maladies ever conceived by God and perpetuated by man. On top of that, we work amid the constant presence of typhoid and smallpox, and the constant fear of cholera. We make house calls in rooms where a thermometer registers a hundred and fifteen degrees this time of year.”

  He gestured to the furnishings. “Most of our equipment was donated, and as you can see, it’s old. We save what little we earn in fees and use it for supplies.’ Lately, income’
s been lean. We have to buy drugs soon. That will take all the money that’s left. In every respect, we offer a splendid opportunity—”

  Once more the gray eyes raked him. Vlandingham’s contempt angered Will, as did his next remark. “I’d say you’re the type who wouldn’t be interested. Maybe I should send you to my younger brother, who practices uptown.”

  In a level voice, Will said, “That’s where I intend to practice.”

  “Then what the devil are you doing in the Bend?”

  “Honoring a promise I made to Drew.”

  “What kind of promise? A promise to come down here and sneer at our primitive methods?”

  With a sympathetic glance at Will, Jo tried to intervene. “Dr. Clem, people are still waiting—”

  “Let them wait,” Will said. “Why are you so angry with me, Doctor? I wasn’t aware that I’d sneered at anyone or anything. I certainly don’t know what the hell I’ve done to offend you. But I’ll be damned if I have to stand here and be insulted.”

  Will’s words produced a look of grudging respect from Vlandingham. He put his palms on the cracked leather top of the examination table and leaned forward, obviously tired.

  “You’ve done nothing, Kent. I apologize for my bad manners. I’m taking my anger out on you because I’m powerless to save the life of that poor old man who was just here—and yet I have to keep trying. We’ll be glad to have you spend a week with us. We’ll happily accept whatever help you can offer.”

  That was all the time he gave to making amends. He turned to Jo. “Let’s have the next one. It’s Saturday, after all, and it might be nice to get out of here by six or seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll walk Will over to his room, then come right back,” Drew said.

  Vlandingham’s answer was no more than a mutter. Passing Will on her way to the reception room, Jo accidentally brushed against him. The curve of her breast touched his forearm, reminding him again of how much she’d grown and changed.

  But there was no excitement in the brief contact. He was still too upset with his friend.

  ii

  “Deacon Drew!” Will finally exploded when they were by themselves. “Reforming the world and everyone in it! What gave you the right even to suggest I might want to practice down here?”

  They were moving east on Bayard Street, a block past the Bowery. Signs in Hebrew hung on the telegraph poles, and Hebrew characters were painted in gilt on the windows of shops closed for the Jewish Sabbath.

  Hands in the pockets of his white duck trousers, Drew kept his eyes on the ground as he replied, “I don’t think the idea’s so ridiculous. I don’t believe you really want to spend the rest of your life prescribing headache powders up and down Fifth Avenue.”

  “You seem to know a hell of a lot about me!”

  His friend gave him a penetrating stare. “More than you know about yourself, maybe. Look”—he faced Will on a corner; two bearded men in long black twill coats and broad-brimmed hats passed them, speaking an unfamiliar language—“I realize I haven’t much chance of weaning you away from the future you’ve planned so meticulously. But Clem Vlandingham’s sixty-four. Thinking of retiring. You can’t blame me if I’d like to have my best friend come in as my partner. You can’t blame me if I try to persuade you.”

  Less angry, Will said, “No, I guess I can’t.” He even managed a smile. “Given your missionary temperament.”

  “I’ll ignore that. I’m not the only one pleased that you’re here. Jo is, too. She’s still quite enamored of you, or didn’t you notice?”

  He evaded by shaking his head and saying, “I was too busy noticing that she’s grown up.”

  “Grown up and still rebellious. I’m afraid she won’t stay at the store in Hartford forever. She means to have a career as a nurse. By the way—I’ve told her all about the Pennels. She knows you’re taken.”

  Will didn’t smile. Presently Drew asked, “How is Laura these days?”

  “Fine. We hope to be married by this time next summer.”

  “I see. Are congratulations officially in order?”

  “Not until I’ve spoken to her father.” An image of Jo’s eyes drifted into his thoughts. For no very clear reason, he added, “I wish you wouldn’t mention an engagement just yet.”

  “Whatever you say. We should clear up one thing, though. As Dr. Clem said, we’ll be grateful for your help at the office. But it’s voluntary. You don’t have to earn your keep. You’re here as a guest.”

  “And possible convert.”

  “Don’t sound so cynical. You could do worse.”

  Will didn’t voice his doubt of that. Drew went on. “In any case I want to show you around the neighborhood. By day and at night too. I’ll introduce you to a couple of interesting acquaintances I’ve made. One is a police sergeant named Banks. He’s an expert on the Bend, and so is his friend Jake Riis. Riis does police reporting for the Evening Sun. He’s going to have a book published soon, about the tenement districts. He prowls around after dark taking flashlight pictures of them.”

  “Sounds like it could be dangerous.”

  A wry laugh. “On occasion—though the danger isn’t always the sort you’d expect. Once Jake arranged a picture in a room occupied by some blind beggars. The quarters were just too crowded. Jake almost set himself and the whole tenement on fire with his flash powder.”

  Will looked dubious. “I don’t know whether I need any slum tours, Drew. I’ve already met my quota of unsavory types.”

  “What do you mean? Have you had some trouble?”

  “Yes, on the way to your sumptuous office. That’s how I met Mrs. Grimaldi.”

  “What happened?”

  “A couple of the local unemployed tried to relieve me of this.” He touched his watch chain. “Mrs. Grimaldi came along and helped me get rid of them. She knew them both.”

  “Did you hear their names?” Drew said, stopping at the foot of a cement stoop so well scrubbed and swept it fairly shone.

  Will was struck by the note of concern in his friend’s voice. “Why? Is it important?”

  “Might be. There are some bad actors in the Bend.”

  Will thought a moment. “One of the men was named Amato.”

  “Rocco Amato?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “He’s harmless.”

  “The other was Giuseppe Corso.”

  “He isn’t. He holds grudges. Last week we treated his wife for cuts and contusions. She said he beat her because she didn’t buy a bottle of Fiano for him to drink with supper. Of course he hadn’t brought any money home. But she got the beating. Tells you what sort he is, eh? Might be better if you didn’t walk around the Bend by yourself too much.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “No. I’ve worked here a month and a half. You start hearing things in a fraction of that time. The Bend may be grim, but it’s still a neighborhood, and a small neighborhood at that. The people seem pretty much like people everywhere: some of them scoundrels, most of them decent—and a few, like Mrs. Grimaldi, nothing short of wonderful. And everyone’s acquainted with everyone else. That’s how I know Corso’s no good. I’ve heard he does roughneck work for a couple of the padrones who control the trimming of the garbage scows—not to mention a fair amount of crime in the area. While you’re here, you’d be wise to keep your eyes open and your wits about you” was Drew’s final, unsettling opinion on the matter.

  CHAPTER V

  THE POLICEMAN

  i

  THE BAYARD COURT MEDICAL office was open seven days a week, from eight in the morning until six at night, and later if the case load made it necessary. Unless there was an emergency, the hour from noon till one was set aside for the main meal of the day.

  On the Sunday following Will’s arrival, Drew, Jo, and Will took that meal in a small restaurant near the corner of Bayard and the Bowery. They paid thirteen cents apiece for beef soup, beef stew, fresh bread, peach pie, and a big bowl of pickles. The price also inc
luded a small schooner of beer. The two men drained theirs and split Jo’s.

  The restaurant was crowded with cheerful, gregarious Jews. The neighborhood had come back to life after the Jewish Sabbath. Pushcharts lined both sides of Bayard Street, and peddlers shouted their wares. Outdoors or in, most of the men wore black silk skull caps.

  Many of those eating in the restaurant had brought their work with them. They carried bundles of unfinished pieces that would be stitched together in a tenement sweatshop. A few had stacks of finished garments—mainly boys’ jackets, gentlemen’s cloaks, and knickerbockers—or knee pants, as Drew said they were called.

  Fascinated, Will watched the men laughing and gossiping in Yiddish, their hands moving frequently to the pickle bowls or the bread baskets. “Did you notice all the bakeries close by?” Drew asked. “The Jews have a passion for fresh bread. It’s good for you, and it’s cheap—” He drank some beer, flicked foam from his upper lip and smiled. “You look like you don’t quite believe all this is real.”

  “I don’t,” Will admitted. “I’ve been to New York dozens of times, but I’ve never seen this part of the city. It might as well be a thousand miles from the Fifth Avenue Hotel.”

  Jo’s blue-green eyes fixed on him. “Or Newport?”

  Drew frowned, making sure his sister saw. Will didn’t notice; he was recalling the studied ostentation of the cottages along Bellevue Avenue—the museumlike formality so different from the noisy, hectic yet somehow vital spirit of the lower East Side.

  “You’re right,” he said to her presently. “It’s hard to believe Newport, and this neighborhood are both part of America.”

  “But which part’s yours?” she asked.

  Drew drained his beer. He was only half joking when he said, “I’ve tried to discover that for years.” He thumped his schooner on the tablecloth. “It’s time we got back.”

  That ended the conversation—for which Will was grateful.

  ii