Opium and Absinthe: A Novel

by Lydia Kang

  She returned to the ballroom, surprised to find that no one teased her about her absence. It was as though James’s approval inculcated her from the gossip of others. Perhaps her grandmother was right. Maybe it was time to settle down. Maybe marrying would allow her freedom in a way she hadn’t fully realized. But marrying James would be an unforgivable betrayal of Lucy.

  For the first time, she regretted taking such a heavy dosage. The remainder of the evening passed in a blur, and she suddenly found herself already in bed, annoyed by the yellow moonlight entering her room, and stumbled to close the curtains. When she looked down from the window, she saw John O’Toole staring up at her.

  That night, she dreamt of John and Lucy having tea together as Lucy delicately touched the gaping holes in her neck. Dr. Erikkson, of all people, was pouring the tea.

  “Only a little while longer,” Lucy said in the dream. For some reason, the teacup had fangs that hung over Lucy’s fingers.

  “Until what?” John asked. He stared at Tillie in her dream, not Lucy. Unblinking, like a taxidermied viper. Dr. Erikkson was placing lump after lump of sugar into their teacups. No one seemed to care or notice.

  “Why, until another murder.” Lucy drank her tea, and the amber liquid dripped from the cuts in her neck, staining the lace of her white dress. “And then, I shan’t be so alone.”

  She stared at Tillie then, still oozing. Unblinking, like John. Dr. Erikkson paused his tea service to stare as well.

  “Hurry, Tillie.” She sipped languidly. “Hurry.”

  July 2, 1899

  Dear Journalist Bly,

  That title is terribly unpoetic. My apologies. I am now sending the letters in quadruplicate (I was so happy to see that this is a real word. I checked the dictionary to be sure) to your house in the Catskills, the brownstone in Murray Hill, your home on the Hudson, and your editor at the World.

  I have looked into my sister’s death, and I still wonder if vampires are real. It would be easier to blame my dear Lucy’s murder on vampires, because somehow it is ever so much harder to know that God’s own children are such terrible creatures.

  Do you have any tips on finding undead creatures? I do promise I am completely serious about this question.

  Kindly respond to Ian Metzger, at the World. My mother of late is confiscating my letters.

  Also, I know I said I didn’t care to know about what an elephant smells like, but if you know, I suppose it would be nice to know after all.

  Yours, Tillie

  CHAPTER 16

  You might as well ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chopsticks, as to try to interest me about the lesser carnivora, when I know of what is before me.

  —R. M. Renfield

  Tillie woke to the sensation that someone was watching her. When she saw a figure sitting by her bed, she sat upright in a panic.

  “Who? Who died?” she croaked.

  “For goodness’ sake, be quiet!” Her mother was at her bedside, wearing a navy-blue faille dress. “No one has died. I’ll be out with the Temperance Society all day today, and I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Oh.” Tillie lay back down. Her head pounded, and her eyelids puckered closed.

  “Really, Tillie. Last night’s behavior . . . you were positively intoxicated.”

  “Was I? I suppose the wine was stronger than I expected,” Tillie said, shielding her face from the morning sun. “I dreamt I woke up and . . .” She had written a letter to Nellie Bly, hadn’t she? Hopefully it wasn’t altogether ridiculous. But she said nothing, not wanting her mother to stop the letter from being mailed with the other household correspondences. Oh, but she was tired! She needed at least three more hours of sleep. And an aspirin. And some Bromo-Seltzer. And medicine. She eyed the walnut syringe kit on her armoire, and her mother followed her gaze.

  “You only need that for your bad states, not every day.” She went to the box and removed all but one of the vials.

  “You don’t have to take that away,” Tillie said. “I won’t use it once today, and you’ll see.”

  Her mother brightened. “Very well. Now, if you should like to go out today, Dorothy said she would be happy to take you to buy more frocks. We spent so much time on Lucy’s wedding clothes that we have neglected your wardrobe. You’ll be out of your mourning clothing soon, and you’ll need some brighter frocks.”

  Shopping. How she disliked it. Especially now, when she needed to find out more about the vampire—and quickly, before another victim showed up. There was so much to do if she wanted to write the article she and Ian had discussed. Last night’s encounter with Lady Remington had inspired her.

  She suddenly had a thought. Clothing would be billed to their account, but Tillie needed money for other reasons. For the elevated, and her forays with Ian, and perhaps to purchase more medicine. She liked the opium that Hazel had brought her.

  “Shopping. Very well. Oh, I need more pocket money, Mama. Dorrie and I like to go to that sweetshop on Madison, and we may go for tea too.”

  “Of course. So long as you’re with Dorothy.”

  An hour later, Dorothy appeared, and in a bright mood. She chattered on to Tillie and Hazel about the new brocades that she had seen last night and which store was showing the newest Paris fashion for kid slippers with the more pronounced heel. B. Altman, W. & J. Sloane, and Lord & Taylor were Dorothy’s favorites, spanning Broadway, Fifth Avenue, and Sixth Avenue below Twenty-Fourth Street. Dorothy often said, “When I die, my heaven will be a circulating, never-ending excursion to Ladies’ Mile, my dears.”

  Tillie had another idea of heaven.

  “What about you, Hazel? Do you need to go anywhere?” Tillie asked. Because no one ever asked Hazel.

  “Oh, I’m quite satisfied with my wardrobe.” She smiled gratefully at Tillie. “Dorothy, how about B. Altman first? I’m sure they have some of those new chiffons.”

  “Perfect!” Tillie said. “You can drop me off at the Astor Library on Lafayette.”

  Dorothy looked at her with concern. “You want to go to the library and not to Ladies’ Mile? Have you lost your senses?”

  Tillie grabbed her hands. “Oh, Dorrie. You have better taste than I do. You can shop for the both of us—”

  “Well,” Hazel cut in, “Dorothy won’t be shopping. We’re only here for you.” Dorothy seemed to deflate, as if Hazel had just jabbed her spirits with a hatpin. Was she not allowed to spend money? Tillie looked at her, really looked at her, and noticed that Dorothy was wearing the same hat she had worn last week. And the same dress. Usually, she was rarely seen duplicating her dresses.

  Tillie shook it off. “Dorrie, just pick out what you think is best and have it charged to my account. And then you can pick me up, and we’ll have a splendid tea together. They have my measurements from my last fittings.”

  “I don’t think that’s what your mother had in mind, Tillie dear.” She paused. “However, you do need some air, and a library is harmless.” She clasped her hands together. “And then I can have my way with your wardrobe! What a doll you’ll be!”

  Tillie hid a grimace, thinking of the styles she would pick out—too many frills, too much décolletage showing, flounces and tucks enough to drown her. But a day at Astor Library to research her article! It would be marvelous. She had her notebook in her sleeve, ready to fill more pages.

  By the time the carriage stopped outside the library, Tillie’s ears were ringing from Dorothy’s incessant chatter, and Hazel had done nothing but encourage the twittering. Tillie was regretting her promise to her mother to forgo the morphine today.

  There was talk of the Astor’s collection being combined with the Lenox Library’s volumes and the whole lot being rehoused at the new library being built over the Croton Reservoir. But for now, there was this lovely establishment. The trees waved merrily as Tillie said goodbye to Dorothy and Hazel and crossed the street, looking up at the simple facade of brick and brownstone, with its Romanesque arches of the Rundbogenstil. A birdlike whistle s
ounded nearby, a staccato burst of peeps that sounded familiar. She turned to see a newsie at the corner shielding her eyes from the sun. Tillie did her best and whistled several short notes, and the newsie jumped up, grabbed her pile of papers, and jogged down the street.

  “Sweetie!” Tillie said. “I thought that was you. I’ll take three,” she said, holding out a small handful of coins.

  “Thank you, Miss Tillie!” Sweetie looked at Tillie critically, then sideways, before adding, “You look like a stick.”

  “I’m very well,” Tillie lied. She was feeling oddly anxious and cold in the summer sun.

  “You need to eat a good pork pie an’ some jam.”

  “Well, I’ll try to do that. Thank you, Doctor!” She paused. The dream about the peculiar tea party reentered her mind. “Hey, Sweetie. Can I ask you to do something for me?”

  “Whassat?”

  “Can you . . . sell papers on a particular street and tell me if a certain gentleman ever leaves during the daytime?”

  “Sure.”

  Tillie gave her the address of Dr. Erikkson’s home and a description of the doctor. “You can switch off with the others. If you do, I’ll promise to bring you a big feast one of these nights.”

  “We’ll do it! Well, g’bye!” Sweetie ran away with her papers, whistling and hollering. “Papes!” Peep-peep-peep. “Pape! Get your World here!” Peep-peep-peep.

  Tillie smiled, then rubbed her stomach, which clenched and unclenched for a moment. She stepped inside the library, soothed by the dim illumination from the overhead skylights. Huge arches lined the cavernous space, marking the colonnades around the upper floors. Tillie signed in and merely stood in the atrium sighing in pleasure. To be surrounded by books, by thoughts, by places and people and things that she had not yet met—it was a haven unlike any other. She took out her little notebook and went to work.

  The three hours passed quickly. She found the origins of the word vampire, or vampir, in an eighteenth-century travelogue from Germany. The French had spoken of the vampyre in works from that time too. In Austria, after the Treaty of Passarowitz, exhuming of bodies and killing of possible vampires had occurred. Fears abounded that vampires were revenants, or animated corpses, or were spirits of those who had died from suicide or were witches or were evil spirits possessing a corpse.

  Tillie’s notebook was full, and she had to scribble on the papers bought from Sweetie to continue her work. The history, the word origins, the myths, and the stories that swirled around vampires were put to paper, organized, numbered, crossed out, and rewritten. She made notations on how to protect oneself from the creatures (hawthorn and wild rose, in addition to garlic) and how to kill them soundly with staking or decapitation or by placing bits of steel in their mouths. Or even a lemon! Their vulnerability to sunlight and the inability of a vampire to cross running water. Tillie nearly laughed at the advice on how to identify a vampire’s coffin: a virgin boy, riding a black virgin horse over a cemetery, would balk at the proper grave.

  She was particularly intrigued by what vampires looked like. Bloated; reddish or purplish; blood seeping from the eyes, nose, or mouth when it was resting in its coffin; some were living beings, and some were the dead come alive. Fangs, however, were not always mentioned and were scant in the earlier literature.

  “If there were no fangs two centuries ago, then why now?” Tillie whispered. Lord Byron had written of a “living corpse” that sucked blood from people. More recently, Dracula had made quite a scene in the literary world. The vampire of that story was taken from folklore, it seemed, polished up and made even more real by a talented author.

  She studied animals, which ones drank blood, and how. She read about mosquitos, ticks, leeches, flies, worms, lampreys, even birds that pecked animals to drink their blood. She read of certain cultures where animal blood was drunk and cubes of cooked blood eaten in soups. Transubstantiation was the metaphorical drinking of blood. She thought of the last time she had taken Communion. She wondered if Ian’s family had known any myths about vampires. She thought of her own family, whose inherited wealth invested in businesses that paid their workers a mere fraction of the money that came back to their coffers. Money that paid for the lavish surroundings that had made Ian gawk.

  “We are all vampires,” she said quietly, and she folded up her notes and stuffed them up her sleeve. All her studying had made her incredibly tired; her body felt chilled, and she needed to use the toilet. An ache rose from her gut, wound around her joints, and made her clench her teeth. When Dorothy and Hazel’s carriage stopped outside the library, she had to lean heavily on the driver’s hand to step inside. A pile of wrapped packages sat on the seat across from her.

  “You should see all the dresses I’ve ordered!” Dorothy exclaimed. “They’ll make them right away. We found a glorious peach silk and a cream chiffon and—Tillie? Why, you’re white as snow!”

  Tillie held her stomach and leaned her perspiring head against the carriage window. “I feel awful.”

  Dorothy barked an order to her driver to take them back home, but Tillie raised a limp hand.

  “No. I need to see Dr. Erikkson.” She didn’t want her mother to see her like this. Then she would never get those other vials of morphine back.

  “Of course.”

  As the carriage drove uptown toward Dr. Erikkson’s town house, Hazel dabbed her linen handkerchief on Tillie’s brow and fed her a peppermint.

  “Where is the opium I gave you?” Hazel murmured.

  “I left it at home,” Tillie said, wincing at the cramps coming in waves in her belly. “We left so quickly I forgot to bring it with me. Have you any more?”

  “No, but I’ll get some for our next trip,” Hazel said. She rubbed Tillie’s back, and Tillie folded herself over and struggled to keep the bile from rising up her throat.

  By the time they were at Dr. Erikkson’s, she needed her friends’ help to walk even a step. They knocked, and Mrs. Erikkson opened the door, her eyes all astonishment.

  “Goodness! Miss Pembroke! What happened?” She opened the door wider, and Tillie’s friends brought her inside. “No, not the examination room. Take her to my bed. Dr. Erikkson was up all night attending to Tom, and he’s taken the day off to sleep.”

  They put Tillie in a plainly furnished bedroom down the hallway, with a single narrow bed, Quakerish wooden furniture, and no decorations at all. Tillie curled into a ball. Dorothy stood back while Hazel spoke with Mrs. Erikkson.

  “She’s been taking opium, on a daily basis. But I believe she said she started injections recently. No doubt, she missed her dose while we were out. She forgot to bring her medicine with her.”

  Mrs. Erikkson felt Tillie’s forehead, which was cold but damp. She had soaked through the cambric of her chemise.

  “Toilet,” Tillie gasped, holding her cramping belly. Mrs. Erikkson helped her to the water closet, and when Tillie returned, she felt hollow as a reed. Mrs. Erikkson helped lay her down in the bed and brought a cool compress for her head.

  “She needs morphine. It’s the only thing that will make things right, quickly.” Mrs. Erikkson bit her lip and shook her head. “I knew it was a terrible idea. The city is overrun with young ladies becoming morphinomaniacs.”

  “Morphinomaniac? Has it really gotten so far? I thought she only took laudanum,” Dorothy said.

  “She is, and it has gone too far.” Mrs. Erikkson went to another room and returned quickly with a wooden case. “She’ll need treatment to wean herself from the medicine, and a slow tapering of her doses, or she’ll be quite sick all the time.”

  “I’ll tell her mama directly,” Dorothy said as she backed slowly toward the bedroom door. She’d put her handkerchief to her mouth, as if suddenly afraid to inhale the miasma in the room.

  “No!” Tillie reached a trembling hand toward Dorothy. “Please, don’t tell her. I’ll be well. Just give me an hour or two.”

  “But—”

  “I beg you. Don’t tell her. She’ll b
e so angry with me! And then I’ll never be let out of the house, not with you or with anyone.”

  “Very well,” Dorothy said. She looked at Hazel, who did not seem overly concerned. It was as if she were used to seeing morphinomaniacs every day of her life. Or perhaps this was Hazel’s job, as a lady’s companion—to allow her mistress the full spectrum of emotion while she calmly stood by, awaiting her next order. “We shall be back in due time. Let Mrs. Erikkson do her work. Come, Hazel.” And they were gone.

  Mrs. Erikkson looked at the vials of morphine in the box, checking the dosage. “A full syringe should make you feel quite better. I’ll go get Tom.”

  Tillie sat nearly upright, which made her whole body jolt with pain. “Tom! Your son? Why do you need to call him?”

  “My husband is asleep, and I shan’t wake him. Someone must administer the medicine.” She reddened with embarrassment. “I should have liked to have been a doctor or a nurse myself, but I cannot bear being so close to needles. I faint at the sight of them. Tom administers his own injections, and he shall do yours as well as any doctor. He’s quite good, with a steady hand.” Mrs. Erikkson held hers up, and they were already trembling. “You see, even thinking about needles, I’m useless.”

  “I can do it,” Tillie said. She stretched out her fingers to show their steadiness, but she was shaking so badly she could hardly focus on them. Mrs. Erikkson raised her eyebrows, and Tillie dropped her hands in surrender.

  “I’ll get Tom,” Mrs. Erikkson said, leaving. After a few minutes, Tom entered. He was wearing a gray plaid robe, old soft trousers, and a nightshirt. As usual, he seemed too tall for his person, hunching over slightly. A hand nervously swept his curls away from his temple.

  “Mother said you needed some morphine. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve done this so many times I could probably perform the procedure in my sleep.”

  Tillie’s cramps were coming in waves again. All she could do was wave her hand and gasp.