The New Colossus

by Marshall Goldberg

  Nellie took the Sixth Avenue Elevated train back to the room she shared with her mother in Harlem. It was an arduous ninety-minute trip: a four-car train, pulled by a coal-powered locomotive twenty rickety feet above the street, connecting with the newer Ninth Avenue Elevated at Fifty-Third Street, then making the dramatic “suicide curve” 150 feet above the street at 110th Street and Morningside Heights, where Nellie closed her eyes and prayed like a schoolgirl that the tracks would not collapse. On this trip, she carried two carpetbags filled with World clippings on Emma Lazarus. At first she had kept the bags closed, as Cockerill warned her that reporters on Park Row were notorious for stealing stories, but then curiosity got the best of her. She was also eager to get moving on the story—the sooner she could finish with Emma Lazarus, the sooner she could get to work on her Jules Verne story. By the time she arrived in Harlem, she had formed a plan, or at least her next step.

  When she walked inside the shabby Harlem brownstone, her mother was in the downstairs sitting room, staring out the window. Life had been fickle and cruel to Mary Jane Cochran. All the heartache since her husband died had destroyed most of her spirit, and she was incapable of taking care of herself. Despite two other children and ten older stepchildren, the burden of caring for Mary Jane had fallen solely on Nellie.

  “I have a job, Mother. I think,” said Nellie.

  “Well, do you or don’t you?”

  Nellie explained the meeting with Pulitzer and her fear that if she didn’t deliver the story he wanted, he would fire her.

  “I don’t believe that,” said her mother. “You’re a wonderful writer.”

  “He doesn’t know that.”

  “Now, Pink.” Nellie’s mother had always dressed her in pink, from the time she was an infant, and had given her the color for a nickname. “They were smart enough to hire you in the first place. They know what they’re doing. What about pay, dear?”

  “Thirty dollars a week.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “It’s less than I was making at the Dispatch.”

  “Yes, but you’re in New York now.”

  Nellie didn’t respond. Sometimes her mother didn’t make sense these days. She wished her father were alive so that she could tell him all about the new job. He would be so proud and want to hear every detail. But her mother had shown great resilience, she had to acknowledge that. Though the accommodations were less than ideal, Mary Jane had been uncomplaining about moving to New York, albeit a little daft from the idleness.

  “Mother, we need to put on your coat.”

  “Where are we going, dear?”

  “To see the doctor.”

  “Are you feeling ill?”

  “No, Mother. You are.”

  The New York Cancer Hospital on Central Park West between 105th and 106th Streets, the newest and largest hospital in New York, was a favorite target of Joseph Pulitzer and the World. In the summer of 1884, while living in Manhattan, former President Grant had developed throat cancer. Out of loyalty to the man who had shielded their fortunes from the rapacious masses, some of the country’s wealthiest men—John Jacob Astor, Joseph Drexel, J.P. Morgan, and Henry Clay Frick—laid the cornerstone for a cancer hospital that same year. It opened three years later, in March 1887—for a sum, as Pulitzer liked to point out, that would have paid for twenty-five bases for Lady Liberty.

  Nellie and her mother made their way through the rancid butter smell of carbolic acid and up three flights of steps, through what looked to Nellie like a French chateau, to the office of Doctor Nathaniel T. Barker. The two women from western Pennsylvania had never been inside a hospital before. After a two-hour wait in a reception area decorated with Rococo furnishings, they were taken to an interior room for another hour of waiting. Finally, three hours after they arrived, the doctor walked in.

  Barker was younger than Nellie expected, in his late thirties. He wore a business suit with a long cutaway coat and had wavy brown hair parted down the middle, a thick handlebar mustache, dull eyes, and a surprisingly unimpressive mien. Nellie had anticipated more gray matter from one in his position.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Dr. Barker.”

  Barker momentarily dropped his professional air when he beheld Nellie and held on to her hand longer than was the custom. She didn’t mind. She hoped his leering would make him more cooperative.

  “Hello, doctor. I’m Elizabeth Cochran and this is my mother.” It felt strange to use her given name working on a story. She had taken the pen name “Nellie Bly” after a character in her father’s favorite Stephen Foster song.

  “How may I be of help, Miss Cochran?”

  “We moved here recently, doctor. My mother has been feeling tired and weak, and it’s gone on much too long.”

  “How long is ‘too long,’ exactly?”

  “Three weeks.”

  He frowned and turned to Mary Jane. “Let’s have a look at you, Mrs. Cochran.”

  “I don’t think she has a cancer—” said Nellie.

  “That’s all right. Cancer is only a part of my practice.”

  “See?” said Mary Jane. “I told you.”

  “We were afraid you would send us away,” said Nellie. “My mother was insistent we see you and only you.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We are both admirers of Emma Lazarus.”

  Barker smiled at the mention of Emma’s name. He enjoyed being linked with the rich and famous.

  “Yes. Very sad. A marvelous woman.”

  “Had you treated her for a long time?”

  “The past few years.”

  “Since she developed the cancer?”

  “Well, actually, she became my patient a year prior. I was recommended to her by a former classmate at Yale.”

  “Mr. DeKay?” asked Nellie.

  “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  “I told you, doctor. Mother and I are devoted admirers. We read everything we can about Miss Lazarus.”

  “Yale,” nodded Mary Jane with approval. “I told Elizabeth I was in good hands.” Mary Jane almost overacted the part, but Barker was too vain to notice.

  “Lean forward, Mrs. Cochran.”

  Mary Jane leaned forward. Barker crouched, placed his right ear against the back of her ribs, and stole a glance at Nellie. He saw her staring at him and looked away, though he smiled with vanity.

  “Breathe deeply.”

  She did so. Barker listened intently with his ear. Then he stood erect and impassively took Mary’s wrist in his hand and pulled out a gold pocket watch. He counted her pulse rate while checking his watch.

  “Nothing irregular,” he pronounced and returned the watch to his vest pocket. “Do you ever get colds, Mrs. Cochran?”

  “Not very often.”

  “Any fevers?”

  “No.”

  “And yet you feel tired.”

  “Yes. Almost all the time.” She looked to Nellie for confirmation that she was playing her part right. Nellie nodded reassuringly.

  “What about your breasts?”

  Mary Jane blushed. “Excuse me?”

  “Do you feel pain or discomfort in the breasts? Irregular pain in the breasts, coupled with fatigue, can indicate something serious. Have you experienced any of that?”

  Mary Jane was so tongue-tied, she didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m sorry,” interjected Nellie. “Mother has never seen a male doctor before.”

  “Or even discussed such matters with a man,” added Mary Jane in a huff.

  “I am here to help you, Mrs. Cochran,” Barker said soothingly.

  “I suppose next you’ll want to look at me there.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “No!” said Mary Jane firmly. “Absolutely not!”

  “We need to explain the fatigue. It could be related to hormonal imbalance or something else, and it would affect the
breasts—”

  “No!!”

  Nellie saw her opportunity to question Barker slipping away. Unless she acted quickly, it was about to come to an end.

  “Mother, I’ll let Dr. Barker examine me. You’ll see that it’s not so bad.”

  “I don’t want you examined either. Or whatever it is he wants to call it.”

  “Just watch, Mother.”

  “Thank you, Miss Cochran,” said Barker, struggling to contain his eagerness. “Remove your waistcoat, please.”

  “I don’t believe this—”

  “Mother! Stop it.”

  Nellie removed her coat and placed it on a chair.

  “And now your blouse.”

  She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a satin undergarment with thin straps and a shallow neckline that barely covered her breasts. Barker tried to remain professional, but his eyes and an involuntary gasp betrayed him. Nellie was a beautiful woman, and he could not help admiring her. He motioned for her to place her blouse on the chair.

  “Sit on the examining table, please. Facing me.”

  Nellie did so. Her stomach tightened. Flirtation to get a story was one thing; baring her breasts was something else altogether. But she willed herself to sit on the table in her satin undershirt and uncovered shoulders.

  “Stop this! Right now!” snapped Mary Jane.

  Nellie, too, wanted it to stop—she knew where it was headed—but if she didn’t find out the medical specifics of Emma’s death, there was no story to tell, and she would probably find herself back on the street scrounging for work, trying to talk her way past foul-mouthed sentries for another eight months. Who knew how Pulitzer would respond if she came up empty so early on?

  “Mother. Please.”

  “Remove your undergarment, Miss Cochran.”

  Nellie took a deep breath and did so. Barker’s eyes widened at the sight of her pointed breasts and tender, cream-colored skin.

  “Is it all right if we talk about Miss Lazarus?” Nellie asked. “It will relax me.”

  “Of course.” He would have talked about recipes for maggot pie at this point. He reached out to touch her left breast as if it were a sacred jewel.

  “What was the nature of her cancer exactly?” she asked.

  “I surmised it was a cancer of her lymph nodes.” He touched it. The experience was even more wondrous than he expected.

  “ ‘Surmised’? ” she said. “You weren’t sure?”

  “Not entirely.”

  She sat up tall and thrust out her chest so he could touch even more, since it seemed to have the effect of truth serum. He caressed the breast, affecting an examination.

  “But you told the authorities she died of cancer.”

  “That was my best assessment. Miss Lazarus was abroad during most of the period when she was ill. I only saw her for the three months after her return.”

  “Did she receive treatment in Europe?”

  “Medications and rest. No surgery.”

  He reached for the other breast, cupped the front of it in his hand and stroked the nipples with his thumb. She flinched.

  “Problem?” asked Barker.

  “No. Sorry.”

  His touch was rough, and she was feeling violated. Not only did she find Barker unappealing in every way, but he was enjoying himself far too much. She fought to take her mind off his fondling and focus on the story.

  “How can you be so certain it was cancer?” asked Nellie.

  “I examined her blood on the microscope. I saw many more white cells than there should have been. She also had weight loss, exhaustion, and pain in her abdomen and joints. All consistent with lymphatic cancer.”

  He probed both breasts for irregularities—or for pleasure, it was hard to say which. She could feel his quickened breaths against her cheek.

  “And what is the standard treatment for lymphatic cancer?”

  “Arsenic.”

  “I thought arsenic was a poison,” she said, surprised.

  “It can be, yes. But arsenic has had profound medicinal properties for thousands of years, dating back to the Greeks.”

  She couldn’t bear it any longer. He was hurting her now, his fingers pressing and squeezing without any regard for her dignity or, she suspected, medical information.

  “Doctor.”

  The term seemed to bring him back to professionalism. His touch became more detached, more clinical.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you prescribe arsenic for Miss Lazarus?”

  “No, no. It was too late. The cancer was not reversible.” He pulled his hand back. “Nothing untoward or amiss, Miss Cochran. You can put your blouse on now.”

  Nellie walked over to the chair and began putting on her clothes. Barker did not turn away or make any effort to give her privacy, though she did notice he had an erection. Instead he turned his attention to Mary Jane.

  “Not on your life,” she snapped.

  “What about your fatigue? And pain?” he asked.

  “I’ll endure them.”

  “Perhaps you can prescribe some medicine?” asked Nellie tactfully. She didn’t even bother to button her blouse. She simply put on her coat and buttoned it up.

  He handed Mary Jane a piece of paper with his scribbling on it.

  “Get this from the apothecary on the first floor. Take one spoonful every night. If the problem persists, I want you back here promptly. Along with your daughter.”

  A dozen insults flashed through Nellie’s mind, but she held her tongue.

  “I promise I will bring her, doctor,” she said politely. “No matter how much she resists. Thank you for your time.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Chapter Four

  Nellie Bly

  Nellie was not always so restrained with men. After being thrown out of their home when she was eight and then growing up in a tenement, she had declared war against her half brothers, the bank, and all other exploiters of women, children, and the poor. She would get into fights with bullies at school and almost took one’s eye out with a shovel. As a teenager, her contempt expanded to authority figures in general, and she was arrested a dozen times. It was about that time that men like Barker began looking at her in uncomfortable ways and making unnerving comments. At first she would throw punches or scratch their faces, but she came to realize that her good looks could work for her as well as against her. She saw how boys would blush and be sweet if she seemed to take a shine to them but would say nasty things and get rough if she didn’t. Her insight didn’t mute the anger, of course, not in the slightest; it just showed her how someone weaker and poorer could gain an advantage if she kept her wits about her.

  She grew into a striking young woman, which only led to more problems—more wounds, more anger, more arrests. She joined the labor movement, thankful to find like-minded people who shared her sense of injustice, and for the first time since her father’s death and living hand-to-mouth, she felt something akin to happiness. She laughed and sang and chronicled accounts of brave strikers setting up picket lines and goons bashing their skulls. Her love affair with writing blossomed, and she became a compelling storyteller, a talent nurtured by spellbinding union men out to organize local mills and mines. But those fellows couldn’t keep their hands off her either, and she had to quit the movement after slicing off one organizer’s ear when he forced himself upon her.

  She had felt the same destructive urges when Barker was taking liberties in his office, but she had held back with a greater purpose in mind. She wasn’t sure if that was a sign of progress or weakness. Or maybe she would just give Barker his just desserts when the time came.

  Unlike Barker, Francis A. Ingram took a noble approach to medicine. Perhaps it was the idealism of youth—Ingram was only 32—or his apprenticeship as an Army surgeon during the Indian wars, but in addition to maintaining a regular practice near Union Square and founding the New Jersey Medical Society, he was the assistan
t superintendent at Bellevue Women’s Asylum. All this despite a constitution left weak by his mother’s rubella when he was still in her womb. The Bellevue position was nowhere near as lucrative as private practice, but Ingram was caught up with the wave of mental illness theories sweeping Europe and the U.S. He had read everything by Brucke in Germany and Charcot in France that he could get his hands on, and he engaged them both in a regular correspondence based on his detailed observations at Bellevue.

  Nellie had been taken to Ingram during her undercover work at Bellevue for complaining about cold baths in the middle of winter. He had discerned immediately that she was faking her illness, but after confronting her, he played along because he, too, found the conditions appalling and hoped she might change them. Ingram became a valuable resource, and she mentioned him favorably in her stories. He had also been one of the few men in New York not to undress her with his eyes, and she appreciated that as well. When she had questions about Barker’s diagnosis and care of Emma Lazarus, it was only natural she would turn to Frank Ingram for answers.

  Ingram’s private office was in the basement of a three-story brownstone on Twenty-First Street. His receptionist, Edith Fairley, the middle-aged, pear-shaped widow of a former colleague, did not care much for Nellie. On her desk she kept a clipping from the Boston Transcript that warned, “Homes will be ruined, children neglected, all because woman is straying from her sphere.” For Edith Fairley, Nellie represented all that was becoming wrong with America.

  The reception area was devoid of patients, as Nellie knew it would be, when she walked in with Mary Jane. Ingram tended to see patients in the morning and early afternoon and caught up on correspondence and research late in the day.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Fairley.”

  “Good afternoon,” replied Mrs. Fairley frostily.

  “This is my mother. Mrs. Cochran.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Fairley?” said Mary Jane politely.

  “How do you do?” replied Mrs. Fairley with no warmth whatsoever.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Mary Jane.

  “No. Should there be?”

  “When you can’t even give a proper hello, I’d say there is. You sick or something? Someone die in your family?”