by Lynn Morris
“The story is that it took Kiliaen van Dam two years to build this house,” she said, her faded eyes focused faraway. “His wife, Abigail, was so obsessed with the house that she stayed here every day as it was being built, badgering the men, overseeing every brick and board. And then she spent an outrageous sum of money—the documents say twelve hundred dollars, a fortune in those days—furnishing the house, and she would not move into it until it was completely finished and furnished.
“So Kiliaen and Abigail moved into this house in August of 1754. The first night they stayed here, Abigail was so excited she walked the floor half the night, just looking in all of the rooms and admiring all of her fine furnishings. Finally she went to bed. When Kiliaen awoke in the morning, Abigail was dead. She had simply passed away in her sleep. That day he had the inscription carved, for he said that this house was her tomb.”
“What an interesting story,” Cheney said thoughtfully. “It’s a rather odd motto for a hospital, you must admit, Mrs. Carteret, but then again, I’m sure very few people actually can translate the Latin. Those who do probably don’t know that it originated on Roman tombs.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Cassandra agreed, lying back on her pile of pillows and closing her eyes.
Cheney could see she was tired, so she rose to leave. Turning at the door, she asked, “One more thing, Mrs. Carteret, would this story have anything to do with the moon?”
Without opening her eyes Cassandra’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Ah yes, the moon ghost. That is Abigail, you see. She waited for a night of the full moon to move into the house so she could go into every room and admire it by the moonlight. And it is said that she still walks this house, but one can only see her in the moonlight.”
It’s a wonder Carlie’s not spooked, Cheney reflected. Even I got all weird and strange in the cellar, and now I suppose I’ll be seeing Abigail in the moonlight! Along with the invisible mice, of course!
“I’ll check on you later, Mrs. Carteret,” she said softly.
“You watch out for those moon ghosts, Dr. Duvall,” she said sleepily.
Cheney moved on, stopping at the drawn curtain of Rebecca Green’s cubicle to listen. She could hear Becky talking, and as usual, she sounded upset and unhappy. Cheney sighed with regret; she hated not being able to at least speak an encouraging word to a patient. Before Ira Green had forbidden Cheney to see his wife, Cheney had prayed with Becky once. It seemed to help, and she hoped that before the girl died, she would have a chance to talk to her and pray with her again.
For Rebecca Green was dying. After close scrutiny and notation of her condition, her attitude, her reaction to medication, and a thousand other small things that good physicians can sense but cannot name, Dev had decided that Mrs. Green was in a final decline. He had not exactly told her and Mr. Green that, but he had told them that he had failed to get all of the tumor and that it was going to be very difficult for Rebecca to gain enough strength for another surgery. He tried to communicate to Ira Green that he should be lifting up his wife instead of staying in a constant state of anger and resentment, which was causing such turmoil in their lives. But Ira Green seemed blind to the damaging effect he was having on his wife. Even though Cheney had seen the two together very little, she knew that Ira loved Becky, but he was one of those people who seemed unable to translate that love into kindness and tenderness.
After a few moments she went into the next cubicle, where Alice Farley lay in bed, her Bible across her chest, her eyes closed. Cheney knew she was not asleep, and as soon as Alice opened her eyes and spoke, Cheney could tell that she had contracted influenza.
“Hello, Dr. Duvall,” Alice said cheerfully. “It’s always so nice to see you. You’re my favorite doctor.”
“Oh, Mrs. Farley, dear, you sound as if you aren’t feeling well at all, but you’re always so sweet,” Cheney said warmly. “Now how did you go about catching the influenza? Have you had any visitors?”
“Just my son,” she answered, “and he’s not sick, thank the Lord.”
“What about the other patients?”
“No, Dr. Duvall, I haven’t been out visiting since my legs swelled up so three days ago. And no one’s been in to visit with me, other than just saying hello from the doorway.” Cheney had left strict instructions with the nurses that Mrs. Farley be, in effect, isolated. She was a very sick woman. The diabetes was interfering with the blood flow to her legs, and Cheney thought that both of them might have to be amputated in the near future. Her hands were crippled with rheumatism, and she was almost incapable of taking care of herself.
For forty years Alice Farley had been a charwoman, and she boasted that the only days she ever took off were when her son, Edward, was born and when he was baptized. Alice’s husband had died when Edward was three. She took him with her, bound up in a papoose on her back, or later in a woven basket, while she walked the streets and scrubbed front door stoops. At night she took in washing and did ironing. After public school Edward had gotten a job at a bookbinder’s and had attended Cooper Union at night.
Now he was the head librarian of the popular and thriving Payson’s Bookshop and Circulating Library. He had never married, and he visited his mother every day. But Cheney knew that Edward couldn’t possibly take care of Alice now, and she made herself a note to check with the Amory Convalescent and Invalid Home, a lovely little sanitarium out on Long Island. It was expensive, but Cheney thought she would recommend that Edward apply to the Steen Foundation for a charitable endowment.
“Your son hasn’t been in to see you yet today, has he?” Cheney asked as she wrote the note both in Alice’s file and in her own personal journal.
“No, ma’am. Generally on Fridays he likes to go to market to see if he can find me something special to eat,” Alice said with pride. “He’s such a fine son. The Lord has blessed me mightily.”
“‘The Lord is gracious, and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy,’” Cheney quoted in agreement. “I just read that this morning, and isn’t it so true? Now, Mrs. Farley, I’m going to make rounds, and then I’m going to fix you a little poultice for that congestion and give you some medicine that will help with the fever and will help break up some of the stuff in your nose and throat. Does Edward generally come at a certain—”
Ira Green loomed up in the doorway like a dark cloud passing over the sun. “’Scuse me, Mrs. Farley, but I need to ask Dr. Duvall a question, and I don’t hardly like to wait because Becky’s doing real poorly.”
“I’m so sorry, Ira, please, go ahead. I’m sure Dr. Duvall can help Becky, whatever’s wrong,” Mrs. Farley said mildly but pointedly.
He shook his shaggy head and turned to Cheney. “I just need to know if there’s a real doctor here. I can’t find a nurse anywheres to ask.”
“Dr. Gilder and Dr. White are the only other physicians here at the moment,” Cheney said. “May I help?”
“No,” he growled. “Dr. Gilder? Is that the giddy rich boy?”
Dr. Gilder was somewhat of a young man-about-town who did, indeed, come from a wealthy family. But Cheney said evenly, “He’s a fine intern, Mr. Green, and yes, his family does happen to be wealthy, but that’s hardly a consideration. Dr. Buchanan is extremely wealthy, and he’s the best physician and surgeon in this city, perhaps in the country.”
“Yeah, but he married it,” Ira Green said suspiciously, and Cheney wearily wondered what point it made, but the man went on, “No, I don’t want no pretend almost-doctor either. When is Dr. Buchanan gonna grace us with his presence today?”
“I’m not certain,” Cheney replied politely, “but I’ll be glad to check for you, Mr. Green. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No.” He turned and stamped back into Becky’s cubicle, yanking the curtain closed savagely.
Cheney said to Mrs. Farley, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Do you need anything right now? Could you drink juice if I brought some?”
“Th
at does sound good, Dr. Duvall, but don’t go to any trouble. I can wait.”
Cheney washed her hands and hurried to the nurses’ station. In Mrs. Flagg’s neat handwriting, a note was posted at the desk. Friday, 7 December: Dr. Buchanan in at six o’clock. Dev always let her know when he planned to come in. Cheney was often amazed at Dev’s scrupulous sense of duty. He sent one of the servants every morning with his schedule. If he was out on a call or an emergency, he sent a telegram. He was the most conscientious man Cheney had ever known.
She started toward the storage closet, which in truth was a small room that served for storage, and also had a pantry and a counter that served for quick mixing of simple prescriptives. But Nurse Nilsson was just coming out, rolling a cart loaded with juices, milk, mineral water, and a large samovar that made over a gallon of tea and kept it hot, a donation Cheney had made after her longing for tea in the middle of the night.
“Oh, hello, Nurse Nilsson, I didn’t realize it was after three,” Cheney said, checking her watch. “Oh my, three-thirty, and I’m behind already. Would you please give Mrs. Farley some apple juice first? I promised her.” She turned and followed the nurse back out onto the ward.
“Of course, Dr. Duvall. She is such a lovely woman, isn’t she?” the nurse said warmly. “Never complains, and poor thing, she is so very ill.”
“She does have a sweet spirit,” Cheney agreed. “Thank you, nurse.” Cheney knocked lightly on the side of Becky Green’s cubicle, then pulled the curtain aside and stepped in. She was shocked at how ghastly Becky looked. It was the first glimpse Cheney had caught of her in two days. Her face was the color of old ashes, and her skin had lost so much of its elasticity that it seemed stretched too tightly over her skull, giving her the all-too-familiar “death’s-head” look of the critically ill. She had obviously lost weight, and her arms looked like sticks and her hands like claws.
Cheney was professional enough that her dismay didn’t show on her face, but still Ira Green jumped up and stood in front of her as if to block her view. Cheney stepped back out in the hallway and said quietly, “Dr. Buchanan will be here at six o’clock, Mr. Green.”
“Six! That’s hours!” he blustered.
“Two and a half,” Cheney said mildly. “Can you tell me what is the trouble? If I knew, I might be able to find a solution that you wouldn’t object to.”
“Stop talking that mealy-mouthed do-gooder gobbledygook!” he almost shouted.
Cheney was distressed to see that tears sprang to his eyes and began to roll down his cheeks, large drops that plopped onto his leather waistcoat one after the other. His face was distorted with anger, not with sorrow, but suddenly Cheney could see how terribly frightened this man had become. She stood with a fixed sympathetic expression and let him take his anger out on her. He was ranting, not making much sense, but Cheney knew that any attempt to reason with him would only make matters worse, so she stood quietly and took it. Her main regret was that she heard Becky start crying, and she wished she could have gotten Mr. Green to a private place to rail at her without upsetting the other patients.
“I can’t get anybody to pay attention to us in this place because we’re poor nobodies,” he snarled. “And I’m sick of it! Me and Beck, we’re just gonna go on over to Bellevue, where at least we don’t have to depend on the charity of stuck-up big-bugs to pay us a bit of mind!”
Cheney felt the resentment in her rise, not only for herself but for the entire hospital staff, at his brutally unfair charges. She also felt very angry at his thoughtlessness toward his wife, however scared and grieved he may be. Bellevue was a terrible place—overcrowded, understaffed, underfunded, filthy, and hopeless. She knew that Ira Green knew that.
But she also knew that he couldn’t help himself, that bitterness and resentment and envy had eaten away at him until he could hardly behave like a civil human being anymore. And his misery was certain to affect the other patients, so Cheney merely nodded and said as softly and gently as she could manage, “I understand, Mr. Green, and I am genuinely sorry that you feel this way. I certainly don’t want Mrs. Green to leave, but these angry scenes are upsetting to the other patients, so perhaps it would be better for everyone if you were in a hospital where you felt more comfortable with your wife’s care.”
His face grew red. Tears still rolled down his leathery cheeks. “Fine! We’ll be a-leaving just as soon as I can get Beck up and going!”
“Please, let me send down—let me see…Timothy Orr is here now. You know, the afternoon attendant in the men’s ward? He’ll be happy to help you get Mrs. Green’s things together and get her into a wheeled chair. I’ll go call a hackney coach.”
“We can’t afford no hackney. We ain’t got money to throw away like that,” he said sullenly and somewhat shamefaced now that he realized that Cheney had called his bluff.
For her part, Cheney had had no thought as to whether it was a bluff. She just wanted to defuse the situation as quickly as possible. “I honestly don’t think Mrs. Green would be able to take the train, do you, Mr. Green?” Cheney said kindly. “Look, here is Miss Nilsson with the cart. Won’t you and Mrs. Green have some nice hot tea and make plans on how and when to transfer her?”
“All right, but we’re gonna be leaving, since I’m bothering all these other ladies so bad and all,” he muttered with a trace of his previous ire.
“At the very least, Mr. Green, please consider staying here and having dinner with Mrs. Green, and then Dr. Buchanan should be in and you could speak to him about it,” Cheney said in the most neutral manner she could manage. “In the meantime Miss Nilsson will be on the ward, so you may call for her if you need anything.”
Without another word Cheney went down the hall to the nurses’ station, but she did cringe a little as she turned away, thinking Ira Green may start shouting after her. But he didn’t, and Cheney could hear Miss Nilsson’s quiet murmur and his low rumble.
Dr. Gilder came up the hall from the men’s ward with a grave expression on his face. He was a nice enough young man, but Cheney didn’t feel that he had the heart to be a really good physician. It seemed to be more of a lark to him. He was extremely intelligent, no doubt about that, but Cheney had once overheard him talking to the other student doctor from Columbia, Dr. Varick. He had said, “I can’t imagine working the rest of my life in some dusty dim office just figuring up ways to pile up money like my father and my brother.”
“You’d feel differently if you didn’t have money already piled up,” Dr. Varick had said sourly. He was a thin, earnest, bespectacled scholarship student, while Duncan Gilder was a charming, dashing, careless wealthy society man. As often happened, though opposites, they had become best friends.
Dr. Gilder’s boyishly handsome face did show some worry now. “Dr. Duvall? I think Mr. Reese has a septic sore throat. I’ve only seen one case before, briefly, as part of a ward tour. Could you come see about him?”
“Of course.” Cheney joined him as they returned down the men’s ward hall. “I certainly hope you’re wrong, Dr. Gilder. That’s all we need—another highly infectious, highly communicable disease making the rounds.”
“I know,” he said uncertainly. “But I’m pretty sure I’m right. The only thing that makes me unsure is the speed in which the symptoms have evidenced. I checked Mr. Reese very carefully yesterday before I left, and he evidenced only a slight throat irritation, caused, I thought, by the catarrhal discharge of the influenza. But today his throat looks really putrid.”
Cheney was checking Mr. Reese’s throat while trying at the same time to signal Dr. Gilder to get Mr. Reese’s nervous young wife away from the patient when they heard a man shouting angrily, even cursing. Obviously the man was far away, but because of the wide open hallways they could hear loud noises on either ward. Without looking up from her examination, she said in a tight voice, “That is Mr. Ira Green, Dr. Gilder. Please go see to it. If necessary, ask Mr. Green to leave. This has gone entirely too far.” The young man turned away, an
d Cheney called after him, “Do not forget to wash!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently.
Cheney finished her examination and said in a businesslike voice, “I’m sorry, Mr. Reese, but you have contracted a septic sore throat. I know it’s causing you serious pain. I can see that your throat is inflamed, so I’m going to make you a special prescriptive for the pain and also make you a gargle. It’s going to hurt, but it’s absolutely imperative that you use it six times a day.”
He was so ill, he simply nodded listlessly. Cheney knew that with a throat as raw as his had proven to be, it hurt to even whisper. Mrs. Reese, a nervous, rather whiny woman, started in worrying if her darling Willie was going to die of a putrid sore throat. She had had a great-great-uncle who had died of exactly that. Oh, how she hoped she wouldn’t catch it so that she couldn’t take good care of her darling Willie. He was so very ill and pale and could hardly swallow a crumb of his luncheon.
Dr. Gilder appeared at the door, ashen faced. “Dr. Duvall, come with me, please.”
Cheney hurried toward the women’s ward with him, noting that Ira Green was still shouting, evidently at Miss Nilsson.
“Mrs. Green vomited and tore her stitches. She’s hemorrhaging,” Dr. Gilder said in a tight voice. “I told Mr. Green that I wasn’t qualified to attend to it by myself and that I was going to fetch you. He said no, but I just told him on the fly that if he didn’t stay out of your way and leave you alone I was going to get Officer Goodin to march him out.”
“Officer Goodin’s here?” Cheney asked.
Just then they met him, holding Ira Green tightly by the arm, walking him outside. Ira was sullenly silent, but as they passed he said in a low guttural tone, “I want us to get out of this hellhole now. Just patch her up, and then we’re leaving.”