A Deadly Affection

by Cuyler Overholt

  Eventually, our talk turned to recent social events and, inevitably, to the Fiskes’ upcoming ball. “I suppose you’re going?” Emily asked me.

  “I suppose.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  “Well, you know how it is. The same old faces, talking about the same old things.”

  “Now, you mustn’t go all cynical on me,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “Promise me you’ll be there. We spinsters have to stick together, to spread the pity around.”

  I laughed, shaking my head. “I don’t think anyone’s putting you in the spinster category just yet. From what I’ve heard, you’re more likely to be included in a Bowery ‘Believe It or Not’ for all the offers of marriage you rejected last year. Speaking of which, whatever happened to that golden-haired fellow from London you were so keen on last time I saw you—the one with the fabulous library?” Emily, one of the few women in our set who actually liked to read, had a tendency to measure a man by the size of his library.

  “The books were fakes,” she said with a sigh. “Every last one of them. Nothing but false covers with gilt trim.”

  “Oh, Em…”

  “It’s a sign of the times, I’m afraid,” she said, sipping her tea. “Men today are all form and no substance.” She eyed me speculatively over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of golden boys, how’s Bartie Mattheson? He must be glad you’re back in town.”

  “That’s the second time today someone has put me and Bartie in the same sentence,” I told her with a frown.

  She shrugged. “There are worse places to be. I know plenty of girls who’d like to share a sentence with Bartie Mattheson.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ve known him since he was in short pants!”

  “Yes, and he’s always had a soft spot for you.”

  I waved this aside. “Only because I never joined in when Billy Eastman called him Farting Bartie.”

  We both laughed. I wished things could go on like this forever, just the two of us before the fire, making small talk, untouched by the world outside. But when the maid returned to ask if she should put on an extra plate for dinner, I reluctantly rose to go.

  “Are you sure you won’t stay?” Emily asked. “There’s still so much to catch up on.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. My parents will be expecting me. But I’ll see you again on Saturday at the ball.”

  “I’ll take that as a promise.” She walked me to the vestibule and helped me into my coat, giving me a parting hug before she let me out into the night.

  I cautiously descended the steps, relieved to see that the only policeman in sight was directing traffic two blocks up the avenue. My relief couldn’t keep a pall from settling over me, however, as I watched the tide of humanity returning uptown. A side-whiskered man was climbing the steps to the building next door, jangling keys in his pocket, while two little girls with dancing frocks peeking out beneath their coat hems skipped past him on the sidewalk, holding their governess’s hands. It was a familiar neighborhood scene, the wearily peaceful end to a busy day. Tonight, however, the well-ordered universe it suggested seemed to belong only to others, as out of my reach as a stroll in the park was now out of Eliza’s. I’d spent years trying to ensure that I’d never be uprooted from that safe, predictable world again, and yet somehow, in just a few short hours, everything I’d thought was solid had been thrown into flux. And whatever I did to try to fix it only seemed to make things worse. Not only were my professional credentials in jeopardy, but now I was a fugitive as well. And for what? What had my latest little adventure gained me? Nothing but a list of dates and initials—hardly the compelling evidence I’d been searching for.

  I passed through the gate and fell in behind a trio of young ladies bearing armfuls of Bergdorf Goodman boxes, staying close enough that I’d appear to be part of their group if anyone was still looking for me. Their lighthearted chatter made me feel even more alone. An elegant carriage spun past us on rubber wheels, carrying men in gleaming opera hats and women in flashing tiaras. I felt a pang as it rolled by, remembering what it was like to have nothing more pressing on my mind than what Broadway show to see or which dress to wear for dinner. By the time I reached home, my spirits had reached an all-day low.

  Glancing into the dining room, I saw that the table had already been set for breakfast. Dinner was served promptly at six o’clock at our house and waited for no one. I proceeded to the sitting room, where I found Father reading the evening paper in front of a crackling fire.

  He looked up as I entered. “There you are. We missed you at dinner.”

  I sank onto the floor in front of his armchair and pulled off my damp shoes, stretching my feet toward the flames. “I’m sorry,” I said, flexing my icy toes. “The time got away from me.”

  “I don’t know why we bothered to install a telephone if no one is going to use it,” he grumbled, snapping his newspaper straight.

  I dropped my head against the arm of his chair, too tired to spar with him. The day’s toll seemed to have caught up with me all at once; I could have sworn there were little people hanging from my eyelids. I gazed up at the back of his newspaper, struggling to keep my eyes open and, for the second time that day, found myself staring into the face of Dr. Herman Hauptfuhrer. “East Side Doctor Murdered,” read the caption under the artist’s sketch. “Guest of Czar Meets Grisly End.”

  “What was it that kept you, if I’m not prying?” asked my father.

  “I was visiting Emily,” I mumbled, twisting my head to view the article.

  He folded the paper against his chest and looked down at me. “Emily Clark?”

  “Yes.”

  “I always liked Emily,” he said.

  I pointed to the article. “Father, did you see this, about the doctor who was murdered?”

  “Yes, I was sorry to learn of it. He struck me as a decent enough fellow.”

  “You mean you knew him?” I asked in surprise.

  “We ran into each other occasionally. He was friendly with members of the hospital board. His mother’s a Maidlaw, if I’m not mistaken. I believe he was an expert on diseases of the blood.”

  “Why do you suppose someone would want to kill him?” I asked, pulling my knees up under my chin.

  “They say it was one of his patients.”

  “I don’t see how they could know that so soon,” I retorted. “They don’t seem to have any motive.”

  “Here,” he said, peeling off the front section and handing it to me. “I see that your morbid curiosity has been aroused. Gorge to your heart’s content.” He went on reading where he’d left off.

  I spread the page on my lap and scanned the article. It was essentially a recap of Officer Callahan’s story, with allusions to “a blood-smeared blade” and a suspect who “appeared confused.” District Attorney Jerome was quoted promising a quick conviction, based on the evidence in hand. There was some biographical information concerning the victim as well: the doctor was indeed a Maidlaw, although not from the family’s most illustrious branch. He’d attended Columbia and Harvard, was associated with two prestigious laboratories, and had practiced medicine in the city since 1878. He had special expertise in blood disorders and had been consulted regarding the health of several important personages, including, as Detective Maloney had informed me, Czar Alexander’s hemophiliac son, Prince Alexei.

  “You don’t suppose he could have been involved in something sinister, do you?” I asked my father.

  “Hmm? Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. White slavery? Opium smuggling? Or…illegal adoptions, perhaps?”

  He snorted and turned the page. “It’s too bad we can’t think of a more constructive outlet for that imagination of yours.”

  I watched the firelight flit over his face, softening the lines of his mouth and chin. How bad would it really b
e, I wondered, if I were to tell him what had happened? He’d be angry, disappointed, alarmed—but he wouldn’t refuse to help. And help was what I needed now more than anything. I hugged my knees against my chest, feeling a confession rise to my lips.

  A log fell in the fireplace, loosing a shower of sparks. “Well,” Father said with a sigh, folding the newspaper, “it’s getting late, and I have some correspondence to attend to.” He stood. “I’ll leave you this.” He handed me the rest of the paper as I rose clumsily to my feet.

  “Katie left some dinner on the warmer, if you’re hungry,” he went on. “Don’t forget to say good night to your mother before you go up.”

  “No, I won’t. Good night, Father.”

  He walked to the door and turned. “By the way, I’ve given some thought to our discussion this morning, and I’m willing to admit that I’ve been pigheaded. You’re a grown woman, after all, capable of making your own decisions. It was wrong of me to doubt you.”

  “Oh no, Father, you needn’t apologize. You were just—”

  “I haven’t finished. You’ll be pleased to know that I spoke with the hospital board today and told them that you’re no longer interested in the position.”

  “You did?” I asked, forcing a smile.

  “I wouldn’t count them out altogether, though; it seems to me that once you’ve established a record of success, we ought to be able to interest them in this ‘class treatment’ of yours. If it’s as effective as you say, I should think there’d be a place for it at the hospital.”

  “Why, that’s…that’s…” I gripped the back of the armchair. “I hardly know what to say.”

  “You needn’t say anything,” he said, sounding pleased with himself. “I’m just glad we finally see eye to eye. Now, I suggest you get to bed early. You look exhausted.”

  I listened to his footsteps move down the hall and up the stairs, shivering in the cooling air. I sank into his vacated armchair, burrowing into the cushions in a vain attempt to extract what little warmth remained. Except for the whine of the dying embers, the house was silent: the staff in their rooms upstairs or gone home for the night, Mother ensconced in the conservatory, and Father partaking of his nightly palliative in the study—three shots of whiskey, no more and no less, the same dose he’d downed every evening for the past fourteen years. I was alone once more.

  But perhaps not completely alone, I thought. No doubt Eliza was holding me close in her thoughts, praying that I’d produce a miracle. I looked down at the newspaper as tears of fatigue and frustration blurred my eyes. Maybe if I read the article again, I’d discover something I’d overlooked. Pulling myself erect, I started from the beginning, focusing on one sentence at a time. But the information remained the same. Hauptfuhrer appeared to have led an exemplary life. He had had a conventional upbringing, a successful career, a wealthy clientele…

  A wealthy clientele. I looked back up at the doctor’s sketch. Hauptfuhrer’s well-to-do patients could afford to pay for whatever their hearts desired—including, it occurred to me, a newborn child. I remembered the gossip years ago when a close friend of my mother’s announced after years of barren marriage that she was pregnant. People had hinted at an extramarital affair, but while I was drawing on the floor one night behind the sitting room sofa, I’d heard my mother confide to my father that the woman wasn’t pregnant at all—she was only pretending to be, intending to take her maid’s unborn child as her own. Four months later, the friend departed to Europe for the remainder of her “confinement,” taking her lady’s maid with her. In the fall, she returned with the babe in her arms and a wet nurse in place of the maid.

  There were undoubtedly other women of means who were unable to conceive. Women who could pay handsomely for a discrete adoption. Perhaps the doctor hadn’t been so selfless after all. Perhaps he’d been using his connections to supply illegitimate babies to society women who were ashamed of their infertility and wanted to avoid the stigma that would accompany a baby of unknown pedigree, earning himself a substantial income on the side. In which case, the list of potential murder suspects would include not only the women on the left side of the doctor’s list, but on the right side as well.

  For the doctor’s rich clients would have expected absolute secrecy for their money; if he threatened to disclose their children’s identities for any reason—whether at the request of a remorseful birth mother, for a medical intervention, or even in an attempt to extort more money—one of them might have taken steps to silence him. Since Hauptfuhrer’s baby transfers had presumably never been approved in court at a public hearing, they would have no legal force and likely would not hold up should a birth mother seek to reclaim her child—meaning that disclosure might even cause an adoptive family to lose a beloved son or daughter. Surely, that was motivation enough to commit murder.

  It seemed a real enough possibility. But again, without a key to the names, I didn’t know how to test it. I was staring down at the newspaper, agonizing over how to unlock the mystery of the list, when the simple answer occurred to me: the newspaper society pages. If Hauptfuhrer’s adoption clients were the sort of people I suspected they were, they would almost certainly have published birth announcements, in which case determining the identity of the adopting families—including the one who had taken Eliza’s baby—might be as simple as checking back issues of the New York Times.

  I pulled the crumpled list from my waistband. All I had to do was compare the initials in the third column with those of parents who’d announced a birth around the same dates. If I could find enough matches to defeat an assertion of coincidence, I’d have something solid to show Maloney. I was wide-awake now, vibrating with excitement. I couldn’t wait to test my hypothesis. Unfortunately, the library didn’t open for another eleven hours. I threw a log on the fire, returned to the chair, and bounced back up again. Crossing to the bookshelves, I ran my finger along the titles, looking for something to distract me. I finally selected a book on Robert Scott’s discovery expedition into Antarctica and carried it back to the chair.

  The minutiae of polar expedition preparation proved to be a powerful soporific, and a half hour later, I had closed the book and laid my head back against the armchair. As disjointed images flitted through my mind, dredged up by the events of the day, I found myself reliving the old Simon fiasco. It had taken me years to fully overcome the shame that it had caused me. It wasn’t until I was in medical school that I’d come to fully accept my physical stirrings as normal and to understand that I’d done nothing perverse. My only real error, I’d realized then, was in thinking that any man had the power to make me feel happy and complete, and I’d resolved never to make that mistake again. I had no intellectual quarrel with romantic love; I just didn’t see it in my own future. Experience had left too bitter a taste in my mouth. It would be enough, I had decided, to find a man with compatible interests and values with whom I might peacefully coexist.

  As time went on, however, the sexual question had continued to haunt me. The act itself, the stuff of poetry and peepshows—what was it really like? How did it feel to have another person enter your body, to share, as it were, your very tissue? The question hung over me like the proverbial albatross, too awkward to discuss but too large to ignore, until finally, I could bear it no longer.

  I decided to undertake a scientific study of the matter. After much consideration, I selected a studious young man in the class ahead of me with whom I shared a mutual regard. He was shy, fit, pleasantly deferential, and open to progressive ideas. The weekend before his graduation, I obtained some rubber sheaths from a local midwife and engaged a room at an inn two towns away under a false name. On the appointed evening, we shared a light dinner at the inn before retiring to our room upstairs. At my direction, we undressed beneath the light of a sputtering gas lamp, then turned out the light and lay side by side on the bed. I waited for indescribable excitement to overtake me—but nothing like it ever arr
ived. I had little desire to touch him; I was, in truth, somewhat repelled by the bumpy pallor of his skin, which looked fish-belly white in the filtered streetlight. Having come this far, however, I felt obliged to carry through. It was a good thing he couldn’t see my face when I touched his engorged penis, for I’ll admit that I experienced a moment of extreme indecision. I pushed through it, however, and after some struggle with the sheath, the deed was carried out.

  I had expected the pain of penetration. What I had not anticipated was that it would come as a welcome distraction from the feelings that threatened to swamp me as his damp, alien body pumped furtively, apologetically above me. A few silent thrusts, a stifled groan, and it was over.

  Later, as I braced myself under the scalding shower in the women’s dormitory, I felt both disappointment and relief: disappointment that the experience had been so unfulfilling, relief that the act had been stripped of its festering allure. My experiment had simply proved that forbidden fruit was sweeter in the imagination than on the tongue. The sexual act itself, I saw now, was emotionally and morally neutral: it was like a baseball bat that, when used for its intended purpose, was a highly effective tool but, if taken up by the wrong hands with the wrong intent, could inflict serious harm. I felt freed at last from its pull—and from any need to experience it again, until my time for childbearing had come.

  The last log fell with a hiss in the fireplace. I opened my eyes and stared into the fire’s remains. It was the not knowing, I decided now, that had pushed me into Simon’s arms those many years ago. That, and the loneliness. I had thought to achieve with him some magical union that would take all my pain and emptiness away. But it could never happen again. I didn’t believe in that kind of magic any more.