“Constable!” she cried, raising a drenched arm into the driving rain.
Edwin stopped, uncertain. Would an officer listen to him, a clerk, over a woman invited to the Grand Duke’s ball? Likely not, and there was no telling what Madeline might say. She was the one deranged, not he, though his passion for her remained.
“You must not walk the streets alone!” Edwin cried after her, but his voice held no strength. Water beaded in his hair, flowed down the sides of his face. His evening had only just begun. He hadn’t even taken her to dinner.
Stunned, he followed a crowd of street revelers — young men who moved like their laughter, in bursts interrupted with wild boasts and confident wagers — through a wide doorway. Absently, he handed the ticket booth a nickel and passed into a grand hall lit with brilliant torches. Flickering shadows colored the room in formless blue-gray swatches; the muffled sound of pouring rain dulled the audience’s applause. Hundreds of occupied seats faced a central stage, which stretched long and flat in an oval. An organ grinder played, but Edwin didn’t hear the music, didn’t even realize that he blocked a young girl’s view of the stage, till her mother rapped his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Onstage, a lace-clad woman stood on the bare back of a white stallion. Feathers and glittering jewels. A hunchback stood center stage calling out tricks: “Jump!” or “Spin!” which the woman performed. Clowns with white faces and lurid red smiles strolled among the seats with candied apples, which they offered to children and then pulled away. For me! All for me! they seemed to cry. To one side stood a midget dressed as a leprechaun, an obese woman in a tremendous silk dress, a man with an extra arm, an albino whose pale skin seemed to shimmer, identical twins dressed in matching striped trousers, and Mistress Gradiva, who danced just as she had in the department store, except that she now wore a short-sleeved gold dress and no stockings so as to reveal the hair on her arms and legs. She spun, kicked, raised her arms above her head. Then she reached toward a large wooden crate, which exploded as a bald man in a bright blue suit jumped out. He bowed to the audience, took the mistress’s hand, and together the two waltzed.
Edwin watched, though his thoughts were far from the parading grotesques. Cold, despite the heat of the crowd and the flaming torches, he waited only for the rain to subside so that he might return alone to his squalid apartment. The first inklings of a plan had begun to take form in his head. He would see Madeline again, tomorrow night. He’d hold her, dance with her, sweep her off her feet. And in the morning, to prepare, he would become confident beneath the healing shock of Doctor Steenwycks’s magneto.
BENEATH THE LOW ceiling of the doctor’s office, Edwin’s muscles twitched in violent spasms. The current built inside him, hot as burning oil: pure energy, intoxicating. He raised his arms as the electrodes passed over his forehead, his chest. Doctor Steenwycks’s fingers and the damp sponge encasing the metal disks had no weight on his skin. Only the current touched him. Eyes shut, Edwin could see it: a tidal wave of orange and red. “Yes!” he cried. The force had never been so strong, so constant. The howl of the magneto rose, piercing and high, louder than even a moment before. Exploding. Only after the shock ceased, did Edwin recognize the cadence of his screams. “Very good,” Doctor Steenwycks told him. “Very good.”
THE EVENING OF the Grand Duke’s ball found Edwin in high spirits. Without any trouble, he’d smuggled a smartly cut tailcoat, fitted trousers, and a pair of fine leather boots from Macy’s. And he had only to shave and trim his hanging cuticles without drawing blood before he set off for the dance. The fact that he did not have an invitation no longer deterred him.
He left his carriage-sized room, his cast-off clerk’s garb strewn over the floor, and walked barefoot up Broadway — a plan he’d devised to preserve the soles of his shoes so that he might return them to Macy’s shelves unharmed. The night stretched hot and humid. Sweat collected in the fabric of his shirt and threatened to stain the fine weave of his borrowed outer garments. But Edwin felt calm. Madeline could not resist, would not resist his request for a dance, and he’d win her subtly, avoiding her mad politics till she hung limply in his arms and agreed to abandon her notions forever.
A dozen fine carriages stood before the music hall, each with a driver dressed nearly as well as Edwin. Women in tremendous skirts required two or three gentlemen escorts before they could travel the yards between their coaches and the hall’s grand entryway. Edwin slipped into the shadows and tied his boots, his eyes adjusting to the landscape of wealth. He must remember to approach with confidence.
“Why, Edwin Macready! Such an unexpected pleasure.” Strolling through the shadows was none other than Doctor Steenwycks, his hair soaped back, and his suit impeccably clean. “I came out for air,” he explained. “Have you met everybody?”
“I’ve only just arrived,” Edwin said, deciding that anything more might sound suspicious.
“It’s good to see you feeling so well!” The doctor threw a welcoming arm around his shoulder and led him up the marble steps to where a cluster of gentlemen stood. Doctor Steenwycks made introductions, turning first to a stooped, bearded fellow in a towering hat.
“Another patient of yours!” the man said. “The last made such a fine manager.” He extended his hand, the skin as soft as worn fabric. “You’re not seeking employment, are you?”
Edwin turned to the doctor, unsure of how to respond. Was the man hiring him? Here on the steps of the Grand Duke’s ball?
“Edwin’s a wonderful worker,” Doctor Steenwycks said. “A fine man all around now that he’s cured.”
“I’d expect nothing less from one of your patients.” The man peered into Edwin’s half-open mouth, perhaps counting the teeth, or confirming their quality. “Karl Harrison,” he said at last, “at your service.”
Edwin looked past him, to the far side of the street where a familiar voice cried out. “Shorter work days! Higher pay!” Madeline stood behind a small table, her short hair framing her lovely features. She wore her day clothes, a gray skirt with matching blouse and only a ribbon for jewelry. No one stopped to take her fliers; no one listened, though several young men pointed to her and laughed.
“She’s been at it for hours,” Harrison said, shaking his head and turning to join the party.
“Why spoil the evening?” Doctor Steenwycks agreed. “Come along, Edwin. The show’s begun.”
Edwin stood at the doorstep. Inside, well-dressed women paraded over parquet floors. The light played over bodies, grown wider and taller with the clothes Edwin sold, the female form, distorted by garments, was no longer human, though none of the gentlemen seemed to mind. At the center, upon a raised platform, Mistress Gradiva danced, hairy arms and legs bared for the spectators, fur twitching as she spun. The hunchback had come as well, Edwin realized, along with the midget who now carried a miniature parasol.
“Come along, Edwin,” the doctor repeated.
“Why can’t we vote? Why can’t women vote?” Madeline called. Edwin couldn’t bring her inside dressed as she was. He couldn’t dance with her now that she’d upset the guests with her foolishness. But he could slip out of the party and talk to her later. He could leave the ball to help her, make her come to her senses. Or he could find her tomorrow, he decided, on Fourteenth Street. He’d share news of his profession: a manager, for Karl Harrison. He’d point to himself, a healed man, a man who required a respectable wife. He’d offer an ultimatum: me or the vote. She would make the right decision. And with one step, Edwin entered the celebration.
THE SIBLINGS
When the snow had gone but winter had not yet lifted, Abraham returned to New York. He’d left the city as a slight, dark-haired youth, a boy who made promises like a man: “I’ll cure you,” to his mad sister, Lillian; “I’ll write every Sunday,” to his older sister, Chastity; “I’ll marry you,” to Hilda, the judge’s daughter; “I’ll take over your practice,” to his father, who had no intention of passing on any time soon,
God rest his soul. He returned from abroad, after squandering the family fortune on ill-fated bets, with a holy kind of pallor. He wore his hair long on top and slicked back in what was likely the latest Swiss fashion, and he squinted through a pair of eyeglasses engraved with his initials so that anyone meeting his eye was distracted by the curve of the letters cut into the glass.
His ship took twenty-one days to arrive in New York, allowing his father’s patients to learn of Abraham’s return before the boy set foot in Manhattan. People speculated whether the elder Doctor Steenwycks would disown the boy, or if Hilda, the judge’s daughter, would still consent to marry him. Since most of Doctor Benjamin Steenwycks’s patients lived in the area and frequented the same barbers and restaurants, even healthy people began to have opinions about what might transpire between their doctor and his son, which is why John’s Saloon, which served exclusively cider and tea, was standing room only the day Abraham’s ship arrived.
The bar was dingy and cold, and the tables shook whenever John picked up or set down a glass, but the pub’s two picture windows faced the Steenwyckses’ brownstone on Eighteenth Street and afforded the best view on the street. Nearly fifty people saw blind old Miss Harding race onto the street with her blouse on inside out and her hair undone and falling round her shoulders so that even those who weren’t given to imagination could tell that she’d once been quite attractive.
“He’s dead! He’s dead!” she wailed.
A dozen people raced out to the brownstone-lined street to help her, because although she was blind and not well liked, she wasn’t crazy, like Lillian Steenwycks, and if she said someone was dead, someone most certainly was.
“Come here, out of the street,” Hilda said. The judge’s girl had been in John’s Saloon since eight that morning. She’d painted her lips a pretty red and wore the family pearls in her ears, the ones saved for special occasions. Her shoes were new and tight and no one thought she could run in them. But she reached Miss Harding first and led the blind woman away from the street where automobiles sometimes sped by at such reckless speeds that the neighborhood agreed the machines were the devil’s own invention.
“What happened? Who’s dead?” John spat out his chewing tobacco — a habit everyone forgave him for because his nature was kind and pleasant — and set down the tea cup he’d been drying. As the proprietor, he took charge while the others, mostly older folks in pinned hats and black garb, owing to mourning, pressed close to hear at least a few words.
“Doctor Steenwycks,” Miss Harding said.
Mrs. Chadwick, who read cards for a living and was used to jumping to conclusions, raised her arms above the crowd and called out. “He’s killed him! Killed his own son!”
“Quiet!” John said and, turning to Miss Harding, asked, “Have you seen the body?”
“Seen it? Seen it?” the blind woman asked. “I was with him when he died.”
“Tell us everything. Everything, from the beginning.”
Miss Harding began to cry, her lids shut fast and the tears appearing to push through skin. “I loved him,” she said. “I adored him.”
“He’s been away for so long —” John began, before a realization corroborated by the blind woman’s state of undress made him catch his breath. “Doctor Benjamin Steenwycks? Were you with Doctor Benjamin Steenwycks?”
“Dead! He’s dead. Died in my arms.”
Were it not for the fact that the good doctor was dead, the excitement over the discovery of his romantic liaison might have drowned out the blind woman’s testimony. As it was, those gathered swallowed the revelation like a large chunk of stewed beef.
“Have the police been notified?” John asked. “Have you notified the police?”
“How horrible!” cried Miss Stein, known for feeding every feral cat and dog in the neighborhood.
Others began to comment as well: “And he never laid eyes on his son,” and “It’s for the best, poor, dear man,” and “God moves in mysterious ways.”
THE STEENWYCKSES’ BROWNSTONE, a three-story structure in which the doctor had lived and practiced for decades, despite his promise to move to the family estate on Orchard Street (a property he coveted but never inherited), at once became a center of activity, with neighbors arriving every few hours with baked hams, loaves of fresh bread, apple pies, scones, flowers, melons, and, for the young surgeon, a bottle of brandy. The eldest sister, Chastity, presided over each visit with a sad smile and a formality that made everyone uncomfortable and quick to leave despite the unusual circumstances of Doctor Benjamin’s death, the newly arrived Abraham, and the mad sister, Lillian, who had always been a source of neighborhood interest.
Chastity, who had her father’s firm chin and oddly sloped forehead, appeared withdrawn and noble in a black wool skirt and jacket, which was a little short in the sleeves. She wore her hair in a low bun, and as usual, she’d pulled and fussed with so many pins that not one strand of hair fell over her face where it might have softened her features. Over the course of the ten years that she assisted her father, she witnessed half the block in nothing but smallclothes, leading the majority of patients to dislike and avoid her. She was the only Steenwycks receiving visitors, and therefore an obstacle between the guests and the upper floors, where her more interesting siblings were mourning. Whispered rumors that she was not only severe but also unmoved by her father’s passing began to circulate.
Only those who arrived in the late afternoon overheard the cries of the mad sister, Lillian. The family had built a special room for the girl on the top floor, where she spent long hours at the one small window singing and gazing at wrought iron railings, well-tended window boxes, maple trees, and scrawny mutts stretched out on the sidewalk. She never noticed the pairs of old women pointing to her from the street and exchanging quick whispers, or the influx of immigrants and luxury-line passengers who began arriving the day Chelsea Piers opened. The pedestrian traffic enraged the neighbors, who complained of noise and inappropriate dress, though they were mostly interested in themselves: in the fact that Mrs. Chadwick sometimes walked in her sleep or that John’s eldest daughter had run off with a drunk or that Hilda had colored her lips a shade too bright.
Lillian herself had lost her color: hair gray and brittle as fish bone, her loose gown white, her cheeks and lips a single shade, pale as the fingernails she refused to have cut. Miss Stein had seen Lillian once and reported that the girl’s nails curved round like spirals, so long and heavy she couldn’t lift her hands. “That’s how they restrain her,” she said, unable to explain, when asked, how the madwoman found her way down two flights of stairs to the doctor’s office.
Usually the pillows on the walls and floor muffled Lillian’s cries, but Abraham, who had arrived home only hours after his father passed away, had led the girl to the family parlor, where he attempted to explain that Father had died and would no longer bring her chocolates. In fact, Doctor Benjamin had long ago ceased bringing sweets, believing that they excited his daughter and made her more violent. But Abraham hadn’t consulted Chastity before speaking and had no way of knowing either this or the fact that over the ten years he’d been gone, Lillian had grown to detest slow, comforting words and smiles. She became increasingly nervous as Abraham attempted to calm her, and at last she rushed at her brother. Surprised, he fell to the floor, where he suffered the disgrace of calling to Chastity for help. He did not like to depend upon others. Even as a child, he’d preferred to run about with his laces trailing, unwilling to admit that he could not tie them himself.
Chastity excused herself from Mrs. Landers to race upstairs. And though the guest had arrived with a pudding and a tin of fudge, she had to show herself to the door.
“Lillian, stop.” Chastity took Lillian’s hand and pulled her up, careful that the girl’s feet did not strike the clawed couch leg or the cabinet containing the few remaining pieces of the good china. Her father’s French novel lay overturned on the floor along with a spilled glass of brandy dropped in the scuf
fle.
The madwoman spat. She’d been close to her father, or at least, she appeared to have been, as she often followed him as if she were a pale puff of a duckling and he a feathered ass. The Steenwycks siblings were close as well: Abraham had indeed written Chastity every Sunday for the past ten years, and Chastity had kept her brother’s gambling debts hidden from her father, her loyalty remaining with her sibling and her belief that he would make good his promise to win back the fortune.
“She’s far worse than when I left,” Abraham observed from the floor.
“She’s excited,” Chastity said.
“Does she often attack people?” A thin red line cut across Abraham’s upper lip. He dabbed the blood with a handkerchief he kept in the breast pocket of his suit coat. His luggage had not yet arrived from the port, but he’d shaved with his father’s old kit and combed his hair neatly. He regarded Chastity through his initialed spectacles. “I worked with violent patients in Switzerland, as you know. I have acquired a great deal of expertise regarding them.”
“She’s rarely violent.”
“She’s certainly not sane.” Abraham pushed back the cuff of his left sleeve, revealing a crescent of soft pink scar tissue. “A garden shovel,” he explained, “in the hands of one of Doctor Gottlieb Burckhardt’s patients. I’ve been marked for life — but it was well worth it. Now the patient is fully docile. The last time I showed him my arm, he ran his fingers over the scar with absolute tenderness.”
“Father and I …” Chastity’s voice faltered a bit as she spoke. “We’ve been instructing her in art and music. If you saw her watercolors.”
Lillian’s paintings hung all over the doctor’s office: bright green landscapes, each with a dog or two — usually a large, mangy mutt. She described light with spirals of color and never concerned herself with shadow, so that each image had a haunting quality, a flatness, a sort of impossibility.
“She lives in a prison,” Abraham said.
Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain Page 13