Make Me a City

by Jonathan Carr

  She is about to tell him about the babe, when another idea stays her tongue. How cruel, but how wonderful too, to hold him just a little longer in this state of suspense.

  “What is it?” he is forced to ask.

  “Wait on,” she says, giggling, as she releases more buttons on his coatee.

  She insists he allow her to undress him and, as if they have all the time in the world, she removes the coatee first, easing it off his shoulders before she shakes it free of sand. She lays it beside them, folded and flat, and while she is doing this she notices that he is beginning to smile, one of his slow, gradual smiles, and she hears a chuckle begin deep in his throat as her fingers fumble with the top button of his shirt and then she can control herself no longer, and nor can he, and they fall upon each other mostly clothed and moments later he is inside her. She moans, again and again.

  Until, above her panting breath, she hears the thin, distant cry of Cicely.

  “Eulalie? Eulalie?”

  She rises to her knees, adjusting her skirts, and manages a strained response.

  “Mrs. Heald,” Cicely calls out, “she sent that man lookin’ for us.”

  “I’m comin’.”

  They straighten their clothes, and after exchanging a hurried kiss, Isaac takes from his pocket a sheaf of letters. He asks her to keep them safe with her. “It will be easier for you to carry them tomorrow,” he says, “than me.”

  She slides them beneath the bodice at her breast, the paper cool against her skin, joyful that he has entrusted his precious writings to her. She shall keep them there, even when she sleeps. It will be as though Isaac is speaking directly to her heart.

  He embraces her so hard she can feel his heart, beating like an Indian drum.

  “Isaac?” she whispers. But before she can continue and say she is with child and it is a boy and does he agree they must call him Isaac, he has pulled away.

  Cicely calls out again, “Eulalie? Eulalie?”

  “I’m comin’.”

  The last thing she sees is Isaac doing up the top button of his blue silk coatee, and there is only time for one brief look into each other’s eyes before she turns and hastens back through the long grass toward the river to help Cicely collect the clean linen. They must return as quickly as possible to Fort Dearborn.

  1812

  A DOCTOR IN ST. CHARLES

  October 13

  Awakened this morning by a hullabaloo at my own front door. The peace was being disturbed by Sable, the old mulatto with the store on Jefferson Street. I remarked that the hour was still early and that even the good doctor needs a wee repose. I would be down in due course. I manage only a short nap before rising. My wife and I pray that I shall be permitted to save another life today.

  * * *

  The patient is Sable’s granddaughter. She is confined to bed in a garret room above his store. The fire in the hearth needs tending and the window closing, I warn him, to avoid the influx of poisonous miasma from the street. The girl has been in an accident, though I have not yet been able to ascertain the circumstances. Severe cranial bruising is evident, with some associated lacerations. Her mind is in disarray. She is aged sixteen years, a specimen of slight build with a peaked complexion, of developed hips and mammaries. Her hair is thick and fair. Her character tends to violence. Although slumberous, she attempted to resist an examination of her heartbeat. I administered laudanum for pain relief and to ease her sleep, in addition to castor oil and molasses. When my wife asks, I tell her that I am treating a member of Sable’s household.

  October 14

  Sable tells me the girl was in Chicago during the Fort Dearborn affair. Although the massacre occurred two months past, he had heard nothing, either from or about her, until the previous morning. He found her on his doorstep, “hugging herself and scratching her neck and she don’t know what she’s seen or who she’s been with or maybe she knows but she don’t say…” The man’s a blatherskite. I raise my hand. Your point, I tell him, is made. I carry out a further examination. This time the girl is more slumberous than before and offers no resistance. I advise Sable to keep her well happed, tucking the blanket beneath her to show him how. I would return again on the morrow. “Is the girl with child?” he asks. No, I say, she is not. I have noticed this before with these people. They are obsessed by matters copulative. I tell him it is the girl’s mens, not her corpus, that should be his concern. When my wife asks, I tell her the patient’s life is in the balance.

  October 17

  Sable tried to lecture me on the Fort Dearborn affair today! At least the girl wasn’t scalped or worse by those savages, I reminded him, as so many of the Americans were—ladies in particular. The corpuscular indignities that were inflicted upon the fairer sex by those brutes have no place, said I, in the imagination of a Christian. He went quiet. My wife would doubtless chide me for speaking with such candor, but I believe the truth must out. A doctor cannot be squeamish. I inquire about the girl’s appetite. He says she is eating more bread and broth. That is the effect of the castor oil and molasses, I tell him. The scars will take time to heal, but in a day or two, she will be back on her feet. When my wife asks, I tell her that the patient is showing no signs of recovery.

  October 21

  The girl continues to be without her senses. Sable says she calls out names. What names, I ask? He lists them—Cicely, Kinzie and one of Indian origin—“my grandson,” he says without shame. It was the grandson who brought the girl to St. Charles. Is her recital of names a sign, asks Sable, that her wits are returning? I tell him that such a conclusion would be premature. A woman’s mind, in the grip of such powerful and dangerous delusions, does not recover without due treatment. Prescribed calomel, ½ teaspoon of grains daily. When my wife asks, I tell her the patient’s mind is diseased.

  October 26

  Today, I uncover subterfuge. Sable has been giving the girl patent medicines. Alas, these people imagine a doctor is like a magician. Explain to them the truth, that cures don’t happen overnight, and they run off (or hobble off, in Sable’s case) to a huckster calling himself Professor This or That and thereby contaminate my treatment with quack potions and unguents. I make my displeasure clear. Tell him to throw them away, or I would be compelled to cease my visits forthwith. When my wife asks, I tell her there have been complications.

  October 28

  Double dose of laudanum. Sable helped me hold the patient down while I bled her. Shortage of leeches in town so I lanced the flesh, piercing a vein in the forearm, which set off a caterwauling. She howled the name “Isaac” repeatedly. I asked Sable if she knew her Bible. In her madness she must have seen me as Abraham, herself as my sacrifice. Removed a pint of dark, malodorous blood. When my wife asks, I tell her the patient continues to teeter on the edge of life and death.

  November 6

  Informed Sable that the girl is with child. He says she had already told him, and was it not obvious? Her belly is swollen, she vomits. I note his presumptuous tone and remind him that a doctor works only on the evidence of medicine and science. How far into her term is she? he wants to know. I estimate between four and five months. He says that is what the girl told him too. His attitude is most disagreeable. If he did not always plank the cash, I would have second thoughts about treating the girl. I tell him I will return in three days’ time. He does not respond. When my wife asks, I tell her the patient is still in limbo and may pass through either portal.

  November 9

  Sable is reluctant to admit me. He alleges that my treatment is not taking effect and that the girl grows weaker by the day. I remind him that I trained with the esteemed Benjamin Rush in Philadelphia. Sable has a duty to obtain the best possible medical attention for his own flesh and blood. We proceed to the parlor, a room full of paintings. D____d if I know how or where a colored person got them, or why. The girl is there, dressed to the nines, despite her perilous condition. She has even braided her hair and painted her face. I do believe she tries to catch me wi
th her eye, the hussy, as if I were a libidinous young billy rather than a doctor of medicine, not to mention a husband of mature years. Sable is fussing about, asking if she’s comfortable, if he can get her anything, etc. The girl always did like to “slick herself pretty,” he tells me. I am sure she did, think I, because I am by now well aware of her kind, and the sin they bring into the world. When my wife asks, I tell her the patient needs our prayers.

  November 12

  I enter without knocking, to prevent any recurrence of what happened last time. Sable is telling the girl a story about a monster living beneath a lake with the face of a cat and the back of a dragon, and a shiny copper tail. I am politeness personified. Please continue, say I, it sounds delightful. You must wear copper to make yourself safe, Sable tells her, because that fools the monster into thinking you are one of them. The girl herself was adorned with a hideous copper necklace. A story with a sting in the tail, I quipped pleasantly. “Surely the opposite,” she said, tossing her hair and giving me another of her pussy looks. It is the first time she has said anything moderately intelligible in my presence. The treatment, I tell Sable, is working. But she now needs purging. “What for?” he asks. To clear her wind tunnels, I explain. He frowns. Mr. Rush, I point out, would advocate the same. I prescribe jalap. When my wife asks why I did not tell her the member of the Sable household was female, I remind her that a doctor must keep details about his patients confidential. How demeaning that my helpmate should be consorting again with the town’s gossips.

  November 14

  For once, Sable does not seem displeased to see me. He takes me into the parlor and closes the door. He whispers, very hugger-mugger. He says the girl gave him four letters to send to a judge in Fishkill, New York. But when he has “tortoised” to the stage, he finds there are five letters, not four. The four that are sealed, he duly dispatches to Fishkill. The fifth is open and grubby. It appears old Sable can read a wee bit. Says he’s never seen “scribing so straight and pearty” nor a letter filled with such “love and learning.” The letter was written to the girl by an Isaac Van Voorhis, son of the judge in Fishkill. “Though Isaac don’t say he’s the father of the babe, there ain’t no doubting it.” I beg to differ, but hold my tongue. “I don’t never meet him but I know he’s a good man. How she must be missing him. You see the tragedy, doctor? Isaac Van Voorhis, he don’t come a-living from Fort Dearborn.”

  He begins to weep. In my presence! I take the opportunity to tiptoe upstairs, to examine the girl. I am relieved to note that the shameful behavior I observed on recent visits does not reoccur. Depraved female patients who attempt to beflum their doctor by flaunting the flesh are a pest, and we must always be on our guard. She is awake. I advise her that if she continues to follow my treatment, there is hope that both she and the babe will be saved, as long as she doth truly and honestly repent. “Repent for what?” says the ingrate. I point out that although she may be able to deceive her doting grandfather, she will have no such success with a doctor and gentleman of science. She is unwed, I remind her. “You don’t know that,” she retorts. The babe in her womb, I insist, was conceived in sin and will therefore be brought into the world only if God so chooses. Again, I advise her to repent. She does nothing of the kind. What an effluence of words pours forth, so vile they cannot be repeated, not only against my own person but against the stronger sex in general. If Isaac were here, she dares to say, he would put me in my place. The girl needs a sound wallop. Told Sable that the diseases of the mind, as Mr. Rush has shown, have their genesis in the flesh. When my wife asks why I did not say the patient was a young woman with child, I give her the same response as before.

  November 18

  Sable says she does not wish to see me. Hostility toward our profession is to be expected, I explain, given her ailments. It would be folly to let her dictate to him on the matter. We find the girl in her room, mixing yellowed Indian tobacco in Sable’s pipe. She pretends to ignore me. She adds grains from another pot and tells the old man she likes the smell. “They’re grains of paradise, ain’t they?” she says. Sable says indeed they are, and that they come from Africa. He then attempts philosophy. “The smoke is like hope, because it never dies,” he tells her. “Jus’ because you can’t be seeing it no more, don’t mean it ain’t there.” I point out that he is hardly comparing like with like, before reminding them that I do have other patients to visit. Sable launches an extraordinary, unwarranted attack. Have I no heart? Do I not understand how the girl has suffered, and how she needs to have some hope in the future? “Medicine,” he pontificates, “din’t never save no soul.” The impertinence. I tell him I am not a priest or midwife, but a doctor. My interest is in ailments of the flesh and diseases of the mind. The girl then makes a comment I shall not repeat. I tell Sable I will return only when she remembers her manners. When my wife asks why I did not tell her I was in the habit of conducting aural examinations of the girl’s heartbeat, I give the same answer as before.

  November 23

  The patient is deteriorating. It is always the same. In an emergency, they come begging for our help. She is already half asleep. I administer a triple dose of laudanum before examining her eyes, pulse, tongue and ears. When I test her heartbeat, her eyes flicker and I detect a modicum of resistance. I administer a further dose of laudanum and leave Sable alone with her. I tell him to build up the fire and smoke his pipe. He can tell her one of his stories, if he wants. That should aid slumber. When I return, the room is well heated and she is in a profound sleep. I send a reluctant Sable downstairs into the shop. I must do tests, I inform him, regarding the progress of her term. I raise the girl’s shift and carry out an aural examination of her heartbeat. The mammaries have begun to swell in accordance with lactatory activity. I then raise the blanket and part her legs to locate the infant’s exit route. The odor is intense, and unpleasant. The lips are concealed by much maiden hair and, despite the plentiful use to which they have doubtless been put, are in need of dilation. I manipulate them, as is necessary, with my fingers. When my wife asks why I did not tell her I was prescribing laudanum, I give the same reply as before.

  November 24

  I have to force my way into the house. Sable is in a temper again. He will not pay “another cent” for my services. The girl is no better today than she was yesterday. I remind him that, in accordance with the Hippocratic oath, I cannot abandon a patient, especially when not one, but two lives, are at risk. I therefore offer my services today at no cost. I administer sufficient laudanum and suggest we both retire to his shop. It is a dark, disorderly place with not a spare foot of space. He seems to sell everything from corn to whiskey to cloth. I inquire whether his crippled state is the result of falling beneath the wheels of a carriage. I have seen such an effect before. He says he did not fall, he was beaten. I express no desire to hear the details.

  In due course, I proceed upstairs. Although the room is already warm, I build up the fire and remove my coat. The patient is asleep. I raise her shift and proceed with an aural test of her heartbeat, before carrying out a full examination of both mammary glands. It was an oversight not to cover them again once the examination was done. I had raised the patient’s hips for ease of movement and was making excellent progress with dilating the lips through which the babe must pass, when the door burst open. My concentration, when at work, is absolute. Otherwise, I would surely have heard Sable climbing the stairs. I tried to usher him out, requesting that he keep silence for fear of waking the patient. But rather than follow instructions, he struck me a vicious blow across the jaw with one of his sticks. I landed on the girl who, though still drowsy, awoke before I could stand up or cover her nakedness. She went into a conniption fit, uttering a string of profanities, and sank her teeth into my arm. Blood was drawn. Sable continued to wield his stick against me. It was unwarranted and unseemly. When my wife asks why my breeches were undone I give the same reply as before. And I remind her that colored people always lie.

  1834–183
5

  1834

  NEXT YEAR WILL BE EVEN BETTER

  JOHN WAS TROUBLED by the fact that he could remember neither the precise day nor the particular circumstances under which he first set eyes upon her wispish, bustling figure. It did not matter how busy he had been. That encounter should have struck him with the force of a blinding light. He ought to have been able to remember every word they exchanged as accurately as he could recite passages from Homer or list the Elements of Euclid. But he was unable to do so. He knew only that they must have met for the first time in the old store, sometime in May or June. Probably, she had been looking for ink and paper. That was what she usually bought. She wrote a lot of letters, she told him. And how often did Miss Eliza Chappell come back over the next few weeks? Eight, ten, twelve times?

  That second summer in Chicago was the finest of his life, to which the arrival of Miss Chappell added the most thrilling element. John had never been happier. There was something magically unstoppable about the way things were changing, as though nature itself might have been behind the frantic mix of hastily constructed houses, the stores and warehouses that he watched rise higgledy-piggledy out of the virgin swamp to the grind of saws and the thump of hammers in clouds of sawdust, the air reeking with the scent of fresh-cut timber and filled with oaths in half a dozen different tongues from morn to dusk. And maybe nature was in collusion too with the plumes of blue-gray smoke, with the glow of lamps and candles reflected off the waters of the Lake by night, just as it was responsible for the earth’s invigorating perfume after a summer squall, for the release of the rich odor trapped in the clayey depths of its old soil.

  John, whenever he wasn’t working, would briskly walk the growing grid of dirt tracks, dotted here and there with shacks and frame houses, that stretched and crisscrossed the flat, empty land in the four directions of the compass. He would count the new houses going up and answer questions from newcomers like the old-timer—at just eighteen years of age—he had already become. Always, he was on the lookout for lots worth bidding for. He imagined a future in which Chicago was five, ten, even fifteen times bigger.