A Deadly Affection

by Cuyler Overholt

  Epilogue

  Sunday morning, one week later, I started out early for the church mission. Four days of blazing sunshine had melted off the record snowfall dropped by the storm, leaving the sidewalks steam-cleaned. I walked east with a light step, enjoying the faint scent of beer that floated in the air, sweet and nutty as a hazelnut crisp. Every now and then, I patted the bulge in my book bag, part of the proceeds from the sale of Grandfather’s stock, thinking of the office I was planning to lease. It was in a good location, offered for a reasonable rent, and just ten blocks south of my home. I’d happened past the realtor’s sign the day before and had already contacted him by telephone. We’d arranged to meet after class so that I could take a closer look.

  The stock proceeds would be sufficient to cover the rental for quite some time, if necessary, until I had built up a paying clientele. Once that happened, I planned to rent one of the residential apartments above the office as well and set up housekeeping on my own. I hoped this moment would arrive sooner rather than later, as I had a hankering to be out on my own, and suspected that my parents would be too busy in the upcoming months to notice my absence. Father had agreed to oversee a research project for Charles Fiske, testing the relative efficacy of chloral hydrate, valerian, and belladonna in the treatment of Huntington’s chorea, using volunteers supplied by Dr. Huntington, while Mother would be taking over as head of the garden committee when Lucille traveled to Germany to investigate the merits of the promising antispasmodic, benzene.

  Though the chances of discovering a cure in time to help Olivia were admittedly slim, I wasn’t above praying for a miracle. And not only for Olivia; Professor Bogard and I could use all the help we could get, weaving a unified personality out of Elizabeth Miner’s many selves. Though it was a daunting goal, Eliza was responding well in our sessions, and it was deeply rewarding to see her old wounds starting to heal. On a more mundane level, I was hoping that my work with Eliza would take my mind off of Simon. He’d left for Saratoga the previous morning to put things in order at his new stable, and despite the harrowing tenor of our last few encounters, I was already longing for his return. I wasn’t sure which had been more nerve-racking: having him to lunch and watching Father choke with the effort at being civil, or working at the Tammany winter fireworks festival a few days later, where I’d volunteered to serve cider and fried donuts—and where the way he’d kept looking at me from his perch on the fire truck had made me spill more cider than I served.

  When I arrived at the parish hall, little Fiala Petrikova was waiting for me in the hallway. “It’s finished,” she said, holding up a stack of typewritten pages.

  “All of it? Already?” I’d persuaded the professor to hire Fiala to type up our research papers, instead of his usual service. With lessons from the Reverend’s secretary and the use of an old church machine, she was quickly becoming a first-rate typist, making up in dedication what she still lacked in speed. In fact, I was having trouble churning out drafts quickly enough. Soon, she’d be earning more from typing than she ever had from rolling cigars. I hoped that Milka would eventually follow in her big sister’s footsteps, and that both girls could leave the cigar tenements behind.

  I gave Fiala another installment, telling her I’d be by soon with more medicine for her mother, and descended the parish hall steps to the basement. I’d given myself ten extra minutes to straighten up the room and review my notes. But as I walked toward the wood partition, I could hear conversation and laughter on the other side. Rounding the partition’s edge, I discovered that all of my patients had already arrived.

  I shook my watch, holding it up to my ear. “Am I late? Or are you all early?”

  “You’re not late,” said Anna. She was wearing green silk trousers under a wide-sleeved blouse, with a pair of red Chinese slippers. There were knitting needles in her hands and a ball of yellow yarn at her feet.

  “I see you’ve brought some busywork,” I remarked as I spread my notes across my desk.

  “I thought I might as well do something useful if we’re going to have to listen to another of your boring lectures,” she replied, drawing a titter from Margaret.

  “If you don’t like my lectures,” I asked her curiously, “why are you here?”

  She shrugged, looping the yarn around the tip of her needle. “I heard they were serving shepherd’s pie for lunch.”

  This time, Margaret laughed outright. Dr. Cassell’s warning against allowing patient alliances rang faintly in my mind. I felt disinclined to do anything about it, however, for I was frankly too pleased to hear Margaret laugh. “I think you might find today’s lecture particularly relevant,” I told them. “I’m going to talk about techniques for suppressing unhappy thoughts.”

  “Now there’s an unhappy thought,” murmured Anna.

  I was about to protest that enough was enough when I realized that all of them were either smiling in agreement, or trying not to. Something was going on here, something I ought to pay attention to. I sat back. “Doesn’t anybody want to hear the lecture?”

  They glanced at each other. “It’s not that I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” Florence ventured.

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s just that I’d like a chance to talk about it more. Like what you said last time, about it being normal to feel angry. I’ve been wanting to ask…” She stopped, glancing at the others. “What about feeling glad? Is that all right?”

  Before I could respond, Margaret rushed in to confess, “I was glad when my mother passed; I just couldn’t help it. I hardly even recognized her by the end.”

  Why, I wondered, after being so reticent to discuss their feelings in the past, were they so eager to share them here? Why should they find it easier to reveal to virtual strangers what they hadn’t been able to talk about with their families and closest friends? I paused with my hand on my notes, struck by my own question. Perhaps, I thought, because it was only here, among others who’d been through a similar ordeal, that they felt safe enough to talk. I’d experienced it myself the first time the group had assembled, even though I was their leader and of necessity set apart: a sense of finding my level, of belonging here, though I’d hardly set eyes on the others before.

  I slowly sat back, intrigued by the implications. I’d been taught that the patients’ relentless attempts to communicate, whether in or out of class, were disruptive and should be discouraged; but maybe we doctors had been missing something, in our zeal to impart healing from above. Maybe the empathic response of the group was, in fact, the secret ingredient that made the class therapy work.

  I remembered one of Cassell’s patients, an “unreachable” veteran of the Cuban war, who’d spoken for the first time in seven years after one of his classmates, another soldier, hummed “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight” during their session. Cassell learned later that the tune had been the soldiers’ battle song. This simple communication between two survivors had apparently accomplished what no amount of doctor’s lecturing or cajoling could do. I was reminded of the billions of cells in a human body, each with its own unique purpose, acting together to make possible the miracle of life—or of the distinct selves within each one of us that, as Professor Bogard had pointed out, when operating in harmony made us the richly complex people we were. Perhaps healing could be a group effort as well. Perhaps, if we worked together, the whole of our understanding could exceed that of our parts.

  “Doctor?” asked Anna.

  I looked up. “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you going to start your lecture?”

  I looked back at my notes. “No,” I said slowly, “I don’t think I am.” I picked up the notes, lifted them over the side of my desk, and dropped them into the trash can.

  Her eyebrows arched in surprise. “What are we going to do, then?”

  I stood. “Well, we could start by moving our chairs into a circle,” I said, carrying my c
hair in front of my desk. Several more eyebrows rose in question, but they all got up and did as I proposed.

  “There, that’s better.” I sat down, and they followed suit. Here in this room, I decided, every woman would have a voice. Here we would learn from each other’s insights, and build on each other’s strengths. And who knew where that might lead? I suddenly envisioned a whole army of women, helping themselves as they helped each other, lifting each other like seedlings toward the sun.

  “Now what?” Margaret asked.

  I smiled. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. What do you say we just play it by ear?”

  Reading Group Guide

  1. A Deadly Affection takes place during the Progressive Era, a relatively obscure period bookended by the Gilded Age and World War I. Were you familiar with this time period before you read the book? How would you describe it now? Is 1907 New York a place you’d like to visit?

  2. Genevieve has been carrying a burden of guilt over her brother’s death since she was twelve years old. How has this guilt shaped her life? How does it continue to influence her decisions over the course of the novel? Have you experienced similar feelings of guilt in your own life?

  3. Although Genevieve is able to find a male classmate “open to progressive ideas” to help her plumb the mysteries of sexual intercourse, most of her peers would have considered a woman’s participation in premarital sex shocking and shameful. How have things changed? Does sexual activity before marriage still carry more stigma for women than for men?

  4. Considering Genevieve’s past with Simon, do you think she is right to distrust him? Did you worry that Simon might be working against her, to exact revenge?

  5. Mrs. Summerford has withdrawn from life since her son’s death. Do you think she has been a negligent mother to Genevieve by retiring into her own grief? Do you believe she had a choice?

  6. What is Katie’s role in the family? How has Mrs. Summerford’s emotional absence affected her relationship with Genevieve?

  7. Genevieve has been raised to respect authority in all its guises: her father, her professors, the police—even the rational, scientific mind. As the story unfolds, how do each of these trusted authorities fail her? How do these failures, in turn, make her grow stronger?

  8. According to Professor Mayhew, the female brain is “rather too small for great intellect, but just large enough for conceit.” How do you think you would have reacted to statements like these as a woman in Genevieve’s time? Do you believe more subtle prejudice against women’s capabilities continues to exist today?

  9. Genevieve reacts dramatically to the sight of policemen at the ball chasing the young street beggar. Is it simply a sense of injustice that causes her to jump out of the car to help the boy, or do you think her motives might be more complicated?

  10. What do you think it is that attracts Genevieve to Simon? And vice versa?

  11. Mr. Summerford believes Genevieve’s life will be ruined if she pursues a relationship with a poor immigrant Irishman. Given the class distinctions at the time, is there basis for his concern? Do you believe it might be possible for Genevieve and Simon to find happiness in the future, despite their differences?

  12. Lucille Fiske is an ambitious woman in a time when there are few outlets for female ambition. Why do you think Olivia’s marriage to the Earl matters so much to her? Is it really because, as Louisa says, a title is “the only thing they haven’t got”?

  13. Mr. Summerford has had a major influence on Genevieve’s confidence and self-regard. How does the relationship between the two change by the end of the novel? Do you believe Genevieve will be able to live life on her own terms in the future?

  14. In light of the fact that there is no cure for Huntington’s chorea, do you think Genevieve does the right thing in telling Olivia that she has the disease? Would you want to know, if you were in Olivia’s shoes?

  15. After discovering that Mrs. Braun is the murderer, Genevieve concludes: “I knew that in her twisted mind, she’d believed she had no choice. With no one to turn to and nowhere to go for help, she’d taken the only path she thought open to her. Her desperate actions had left a trail of innocent victims in their wake; but I supposed that she too had been a victim in a way.” Do you agree that Mrs. Braun is a victim? What actions besides murder could she have taken to protect her daughter and herself, without sacrificing their livelihood?

  16. Genevieve takes a number of risks in her attempt to prove Eliza is innocent, including breaking into a crime scene, walking the streets alone at midnight, and earning Lucille Fiske’s enmity. What do you think motivates her? Do you consider her brave or foolhardy?

  17. Although the reality of alternating personalities, or what today would be called dissociative identity disorder, has been debated for more than a hundred years, the illness continues to be included in psychiatric diagnostic manuals. Did you start the book believing that people could have multiple personalities? After reading about Elizabeth’s experience, are you more inclined to believe that such a coping mechanism could exist?

  18. A historical novelist must walk a thin line between supplying too little and too much historical detail. How well did the author walk the line in this case? Were there things you were curious to learn more about? How seamlessly were the historical details integrated into the story?

  Read on for an excerpt from the next book in the Dr. Genevieve Summerford mystery series

  Prologue

  On the last day of life as she knew it, Teresa Casoria stood at the rail of the steamship Madonna and watched the sun rise over America.

  They had dropped anchor in the middle of the night, too late to see anything but twinkling lights to the east and west. Unable to sleep, she’d packed her one valise and brought it up to the deck at the crack of dawn. She watched the pink light of morning move like a magician’s hand over the entrance to New York Harbor, revealing tidy houses and colorful gardens and an old stone fortress along the shoreline.

  Other passenger ships were anchored nearby in the quarantine grounds, also awaiting inspection. Although their upper decks were nearly empty, she could see clusters of steerage passengers pressing against the lower rails, as eager as she was to see their new home. She felt a twinge of regret, wishing, not for the first time, that she had traveled in steerage herself. Her second-class shipmates seemed to have known that she wasn’t really one of them—never treating her rudely exactly, but simply looking right through her, as if she wasn’t even there. In steerage she needn’t have worried about having only two dresses, or which fork to use, or whether to give the steward money for bringing her a deck rug. She might have made some friends to share her hopes and fears with, and perhaps even tried using her English.

  But these were ungrateful thoughts, and she banished them from her mind. It had been extremely kind of Antonio to send her a second-class ticket. True, she’d thought him extravagant when she first received it, believing they should use the money for other, more important things after they were married—but when she saw the steerage passengers leaving the disinfection station in Naples with their heads shorn and their bags soggy from fumigation, she was thankful for his consideration. Now, with the dreaded Ellis Island immigration station looming up ahead, she was doubly thankful, for according to the Italian waitress in the single ladies’ lounge, anyone rich enough to afford a first- or second-class ticket was presumed to be of sound mind, body, and character and, therefore, subjected to only the most cursory examination on board.

  Even knowing this, she felt a stab of anxiety when she saw the cutter with the yellow flag bouncing toward the Madonna over the choppy water. If they sent her back now, away from Antonio, what would she have to live for? She groped for the cross that hung from her neck, forcing herself to stand up straight. She wouldn’t give into fear now. If she’d listened to fear, she would have married doting but simple-minded Domenico. She would have accepted th
at her poor quarter of Naples was the only world she’d ever know, and that dreams were for other, more important people. Instead, she had found real love, and she was in America, and everything she’d dared to dream was about to come true.

  To her relief, the onboard inspection was as cursory as the waitress had predicted, and within thirty minutes, the passengers were released to prepare for deboarding. Teresa returned to the rail as the ship steamed into the upper bay, watching with her heart in her mouth as the fabled lady of liberty rose up on the horizon, lifting her torch toward Teresa in welcome as if she’d been waiting only for her. Just as she was thinking she’d never seen anything more beautiful, the ship turned on its course and New York City came into view, shimmering like a mirage in the distance. She gripped the rail and drank the sight in, determined to fix it in her mind forever.

  As they steamed closer, the solid city facade broke into separate, pastel-colored skyscrapers standing shoulder to shoulder along the shore. Light glinted off the buildings’ windows and flashed on their copper turrets, giving the scene an otherworldly glow. She found herself blinking back tears, overcome with sudden gratitude for the events that had led her to this moment. She didn’t know what she had done to deserve such good fortune, but she promised God then and there that she’d do everything in her power to be worthy of it.

  A whistle blast broke into her thoughts, making her jump. Looking down, she saw a tiny tugboat darting straight across the bow of the enormous Madonna. A laugh of delight escaped her. Truly I am in America, she thought, where the small and the humble bow to no one.