Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  “You could’ve lied to ‘em,” Buck yelled. “Or if you had to tell the truth, give it to ‘em another way. How hard is it to say, ‘Mr. Davis, you mi’ wanna telegram New York. The spirits are sayin’ there’s been an accident with a boat from Ireland’? They prolly told everyone what cheats we are. Wouldn’t be surprised if we have ta close up shop within the week. All because you two have no tact.”

  I cowered between the bed and the wall, trying to protect Tennie with my body. We both knew what was coming. Once he raised his arm, one blow was much like the last. I couldn’t even tell what he used this time. A piece of firewood? A cold iron? He was nothing if not creative. I concentrated on the cold, half-rotten floorboards as I held my arms over my head, trying to shield myself from the worst of the blows.

  My head was still ringing when I woke in the morning, still crouched over Tennie in a pool of my own blood and piss. Or maybe it was hers. It hardly mattered. We were alive, and thank the Lord it was Sunday so we didn’t have to go to work. My arm throbbed, but I thought little of it. This was not the first time it had been broken, nor was it likely to be the last. Maldron set my arm and wrapped it in a sling, and Polly helped make us presentable for church.

  As we were leaving, Mr. Whiteside, who ran the telegraph office, flagged us down. “This message just came for you, Mr. Claflin.”

  I stood on tiptoe, despite the pain that shot up my legs, so I could see the note.

  MR. CLAFLIN. DEEPEST APOLOGIES TO YOU AND GIRLS. HAVE CONFIRMED WIVES’ DEATHS. WILL REIMBURSE YOU TENFOLD. LOOK FOR CHECK IN MAIL. MR. EUGENE AND MR. WILLFORD DAVIS.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You were right,” was all he said.

  JUNE 1853

  Word of our heroics with the Davis brothers spread quickly, bringing in more clients than we could possibly see in a day. Around the same time, Pa collected the insurance money from the mill, and we moved into the floor above the shop and parlors. The change of accommodation was welcome, as it gave us more space and meant we were living in more luxury than we’d ever seen, even if to most townspeople it was a commonplace establishment.

  But it also meant that we no longer had to spend nearly an hour in a wagon traveling to and from the shop, so Pa considered those working hours we owed him. Every morning when the church bell tolled eight o’clock, he unlocked the front door. With summer’s daylight in full effect, he didn’t pull down the door shade until nine most evenings.

  After a month of this schedule, I began to feel like a prisoner in my parlor, hardly leaving it other than to use the outhouse. In and out the clients trooped, each with their own sad tale of loss and woe or concern they could confide to no one but the “girl healers,” as we had come to be known.

  When Pa decided our business as clairvoyants wasn’t bringing in enough clients, he began spreading the idea that we could heal with our touch. It was true to an extent. Tennie, Polly, and I had each learned from our mother about the magnetic energy that flowed through the body and the power of the faithful to manipulate it to heal. Ma was a devotee of Franz Mesmer, who taught a method of healing that involved the laying on of hands and the use of magnets. Ma had been inducted into the art at a revival meeting in her youth, but she believed her own magnetism was stronger than most and needed no aid, so she taught us to heal using only our hands.

  Many of the women seeking our help suffered from ailments brought on by a lifetime of hard labor, such as Mrs. Angelson’s choleric knees and chilblains or Mrs. Jaeger’s gnarled, arthritic joints and overtaxed back. But others, like Joy, the constable’s wife, suffered from “bouts of clumsiness” I understood far too well. They masked a deeper hurt than bruised skin and broken bones, one brought on by the vile concoction of male temper and drink but which could not be spoken of with candor even in the hushed whispers of the parlor.

  What no one, save Tennie, understood was that working in such intense conditions for eleven hours a day was extremely taxing. Each time I opened myself to the spirit world, a bit of my energy was used to intensify the glow of my soul, like trimming the wick of an oil lamp to make it burn brighter, so the spirits could see a friendly face was walking in their realm. When I worked to soothe injuries, I called upon my own magnetism to heal the ills of my patients. I tried my best to shield myself from the tales of abuse and oppression that were confided in me, but having my own experience with such things, I found it difficult not to sympathize and take on a little of their pain.

  Though we were given a few short minutes to recover between clients, soon it was not enough. I was empty by the end of the day, wrung dry like laundry on the line, with nothing left to give. My mind quivered like raw liver, overwhelmed with pity and concern for the women with whom I so closely identified. I fell asleep even before I had fully climbed into bed, though Tennie gently guided me to the pillow and tucked me in.

  Soon I learned I was taking on some of the ills of my patients, developing rheumatism that made the motions of healing painful, even as the women reported better health. Breaking out into a cold sweat while channeling a spirit or shivering so violently between clients that I could barely sip my tea was not uncommon for me. But I worked through it all, knowing a request for respite would only earn my father’s fury and my mother’s scorn.

  One morning in late June, I found I could not rise from bed. My body was leaden, my limbs weak. When I moved but an inch, hot pain shot through me, tracing through the veins beneath my skin. I tried to speak but could only manage a garbled utterance that even Ma, who frequently spoke in tongues, could not decipher. When I made the mistake of closing my eyes, they would not open again.

  I lay in a state of semi-consciousness while my family bickered around me. My hearing remained attuned to the mortal world, so I heard my father’s oath when Ma told him I would not be working that day.

  “You’d best work twice as hard to make up for your good-for-nothing sister, you hear me?” he spat at Tennie.

  I could imagine her shaking in response, so I tried to again to rise—but to no avail.

  “You must preserve your body and spirit if you are to rise to the heights God has prepared for you.” The voice was male, but it was not my father’s.

  My inner eye opened, and I beheld my spirit guide, a man of middle years with tightly curled brown hair, wearing the white toga of an ancient Greek. He had been with me for nearly seven years now.

  I found all my senses returned to me in this spirit world, which made an odd sort of sense as I spent nearly as much of my time in it as I did in the realm of mortals. “Demosthenes, what ails me? Am I dying?” I certainly felt as though I was.

  Demosthenes smiled. “No. You have many things to accomplish yet. You will rise to great distinction, emerge from the poverty you have known, and live in a grand house. You will amass great wealth in a city crowded with ships and become a great leader of your people.”

  As he spoke, I saw it, this fabled future of mine. There I was, grown and beautiful, standing in the drive of a spectacular brick mansion overlooking a bay teeming with merchant and passenger ships, their tall sails billowing in the breeze. Gone was the adolescent awkwardness I saw in the mirror each morning, smoothed into the sleek lines of adulthood. I was outfitted in a sumptuous gown of navy silk with black lace trim, my brown curls piled artfully beneath a matching feathered cap. At my side was the most handsome man I’d ever seen. He was tall, a good half foot taller than me, with smiling eyes of deepest brown. He held himself erect like one of noble bearing, and most importantly, he was holding my arm the way gentlemen often did with women they fancied. That meant this stunning creature was mine.

  “Victoria.”

  I heard my name not from his lips or those of my spirit guide but as though from a great distance. I looked around to find its source, only to find I was alone and the gray of the spirit realm was brightening as if with its own personal dawn. My name sounded again, and my eyelids fluttered open. At first I was blinded by bright sunlight, then a figure blocked its source. As my eyes
focused, I found myself staring into the face from my vision. An involuntary sigh slipped from my lips as I tried to understand if I still dreamed or was awake.

  “Victoria, this is Dr. Canning Woodhull. He’s here ta fix ya right,” my mother said from somewhere out of my line of vision.

  He could have been the president or Jesus himself for all I cared. I had eyes only for him, the man of my vision, the one who stood by my side in that wonderful future that was so unlike my present.

  “Can you feel this?” he asked.

  A sharp pain pricked my wrist. “Ow!”

  The doctor’s face lit up in a charming grin. “Good. That’s the first reaction we’ve gotten from you in three days. And you can speak too. I predict you’ll be well soon enough. Still, I would like to visit you daily until I am confident you are on the mend. Would that be agreeable to you?”

  It was more than agreeable; it was ideal. I nodded.

  He gave my mother some parting instructions before leaving with a promise to see me every afternoon at four.

  When he had gone, Ma sat on the edge of my bed just as she had done when I was small. After feeding me a spoonful of bitter liquid—doctor’s orders—she stroked my forehead. “You gave me quite a fright, my girl. I was afeared you were dead.”

  “I think I may have been.” My voice was rusty from disuse. I cleared my throat. “Oh, Ma, you would not believe what the spirits have told me. This”—I raised a hand to indicate our living conditions—“is not our fate. So much more awaits us. And the good doctor is part of it. I have seen it.” My cheeks were burning, but whether with fever or girlish excitement, I could not say.

  “Is he now?” Her gaze was appraising, as though she was simultaneously weighing my worth and deciding whether I could snag such a man. “He is a bachelor and a good age—twenty-six.” She spoke more to herself than to me. “Good breeding. He could practice medicine anywhere, yet he chose this town. Mayhap it was fate.” Her eyes sparkled. “Well, we’ll see. It’s not enough that you fancy him. He has ta take a shine ta you too.”

  True to his word, Dr. Woodhull visited me daily, checking my temperature and pulse. When he placed his strange, pipe-like wooden stethoscope on my chest to listen to my heart, I was certain he could hear it flutter at his nearness.

  As my strength increased, he insisted on accompanying me in a turn about the small back garden to get me on my feet again. During those brief walks, he would grasp me firmly under my left arm. Ma supported my right until I was strong enough to walk with only him—but still under her watchful gaze. At first he and I spoke of nothing at all—mostly goings-on around town, the idle gossip of strangers seeking to gauge one another. But as the days passed, our conversation turned more intimate, and he charmed me with tales of his adventures in the big city while I told him of my work with the spirits.

  One day he surprised me by pausing before we turned back toward my mother to bring our time together to an end.

  Dr. Woodhull turned to face me, one hand resting lightly on my waist as though we were about to dance. “You are nearly recovered, Victoria, but I find I do not wish to end our acquaintance. If your parents are agreeable, I’d like the pleasure of your company at the Fourth of July picnic. Will you accompany me?”

  Every ounce of my willpower was required to avoid nodding enthusiastically like a fool. “Why yes, thank you for the invitation. I would be honored.”

  Pa was less enthusiastic about letting me go with Dr. Woodhull than Ma had been—truth be told, she was over the moon about the match—but he agreed to let me, provided we stayed within the watchful gaze of Maggie and Enos.

  We must have made quite a picture strolling down Main Street in our summer finery, he in his smart white suit, I in my white dress and new shoes, hollyhocks twined in my hair like a fairy princess. I felt like a princess, more alive than I had in weeks, with that strong, handsome man at my side. As we walked past the bank and the barber, the general store and the boardinghouse, all decorated with red, white, and blue bunting, I felt the open stares from Mrs. Goodwin and her pudgy spinster sisters and heard the calls of “You’ve got a prize one there, Doctor!” from the men gathered around a barrel of beer in the town square.

  But they had it backward; it was I who had indeed snagged a prize—the man my spirit guide had shown me, the one who would rescue me from my life of drudgery, lies, and scheming. Between the compassionate way he’d treated me during my illness and the gentle way Dr. Woodhull held my arm, I knew he was not a man of violence like my father. With him, I would be safe. The spirits had all but said so.

  We watched the volunteer militia march, re-enacting the time when our country had won its independence from England, with great solemnity. Behind them marched men in bandages, leaning heavily on crutches, representing those who were wounded or had died in battle. Following were the families descended from those who had fought in the war, holding flags and mementos from lost loved ones, and transporting elderly uniformed veterans of the Revolutionary War in carts, followed by the survivors of countless conflicts since. Bringing up the rear, the mayor stood in a black wagon pulled by a team of white horses, reading the Declaration of Independence at the top of his lungs.

  It was the first time I’d ever given thought to what it meant to be a citizen of the United States, to live in a country of unprecedented freedom. Tears of pride sprang to my eyes unbidden. Suddenly, I was moved by the sacrifices made by these men for people like me, generations of Americans they would never know but for whom they had given everything so that we might live in peace. We were truly blessed to call this country home.

  “What a sight.” I sighed. “It pulls at the heartstrings, does it not, Dr. Woodhull?”

  He smiled. “Please, call me Canning. I believe we know one another well enough to call each other by our Christian names.” He squeezed my hand. “It does indeed put the day into perspective. But enough solemnity. Let us join the party, my little chick.”

  My heart soared. He felt it too, the connection between us. Were his words not proof?

  In the park, the townspeople milled with great joy, calling to one another over the patriotic tunes played by a brass band in the grandstand, laughing, dancing, and enjoying the high summer sunshine. I noted the envious stares of the town darlings, the McKenzie sisters, as we passed. Chuckling inwardly, I gloried in the irony that I, whom they’d once called the “spawn of a two-bit con man and a madwoman,” was the one to land the man every woman desired. All of their money couldn’t help them one bit when a man valued other qualities more.

  Maggie and Enos waved to us from a blanket under the shade of a great maple. Their children ran in circles, chasing one another and playing games only their fertile imaginations could understand. After filling our plates beyond capacity with slices of ham, turkey, all manner of casseroles, and several types of desserts, we sat next to them. Maggie handed me a cup of cider while Enos and Canning passed a flask of whiskey between them.

  “So, Dr. Woodhull, you know all about us from treating our dear Vickie,” Enos said. “But we know so little about you. Where are you from?”

  Canning removed his hat and wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I was born in Brooklyn, New York. My father is a judge and my mother, a woman of fine standing from just outside Rochester.”

  “Sounds like New York is in your blood. What brings you out our way?”

  “Fate,” I answered for him, patting his arm affectionately. “Why, if you hadn’t come, surely I’d be dead.”

  “Victoria!” Maggie scolded. “Don’t be morbid. Eat your food and let the men speak.”

  I dutifully spooned a bit of casserole into my mouth, then I stuck my tongue out at my older sister.

  She cringed, but Canning laughed. “I love your spirit.” After a brief pause, he returned to Enos’s line of questioning. “Yes. New York is where my family calls home. In fact, my uncle is the mayor of New York—”

  “Truly?” Maggie fawned as though he’d just admitt
ed to being European royalty.

  Canning chuckled, obviously amused. “Indeed. I could have set up practice anywhere in the area, but my heart has never been in the big city. I love small towns such as this. They have a personality, a feeling of intimacy you can’t get in a big city. Here, you all know one another—”

  As if on cue, Mr. Reddings, the head of the town council, called to Maggie and Enos in greeting, which they returned with a wave.

  “You see, that’s just it. You care about one another. I wanted to start a practice somewhere I could get to know people and their children and hopefully treat their children’s children. To me, that’s the place to settle and start a family, preferably a large one.”

  Canning regarded me with warmth as he said that, and my heart flipped. Was that his way of saying he hoped I would be the mother of his children? My face flushed at the thought. I could see it already.

  Enos and Canning spent the better part of the afternoon talking about all things Mt. Gilead, from its history to the farming conditions over the last several years. Finally, Canning inquired about the medical needs of the local orphanage. The two of them left us to speak with the ladies’ group who oversaw the needs of parentless local children, leaving Maggie and me alone to gossip about my handsome suitor.

  By nightfall, my head was swimming from the cider, and my stomach was giddy with butterflies. I rested my head on Canning’s shoulder as he led me back down the lane toward home. I wondered if he would kiss me before we parted. Part of me hoped the answer was yes, but a larger part was terrified at the prospect. It would be my first kiss.

  When we stood on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading up to my home, Canning turned to me. My hands immediately grew slick with sweat. This was it, the moment when I would know for certain whether he cared for me as I did him or whether it was all a figment of my girlish imagination.