There Is a River

by Thomas Sugrue

  “I don’t know what happens to all the pairs of rubbers you get,” she said. “You’ll be lucky if you don’t catch cold, walking two miles to get here and two miles back again in a snowstorm with nothing on your feet but those light shoes.”

  “It wasn’t snowing when I started,” he said.

  “You should wear rubbers anyhow. The ground is cold and damp even when there isn’t snow.”

  She smiled.

  “Well, I’m glad you came, anyhow. It’s nice to see you. I know you’re working too hard, staying at the studio all day and being up with Gertrude at night. You shouldn’t bother even to talk with these people who come here to do their so-called ‘investigations.’ If you ask me I think most of them are bigger fakes than the poor soul they try to bedevil. They go and get a little learning and then run around being superior to everybody else.”

  “He didn’t bother me, mother, except to start me bothering myself again. I could see his viewpoint: standing there, asking me questions, and comparing the answers with what he knows to be true in science. I kept realizing more and more that the only answer that to me would answer the whole thing satisfactorily would just make him certain that I’m crazy.”

  His mother nodded.

  “Everybody takes it for granted—even the best Christians, the ministers and missionaries—that the things that happened in the days of the Bible and the days of the saints can’t happen now,” she said.

  He shook his head gloomily, agreeing with her.

  “Suppose I had said to him, ‘Dr. Münsterberg, when I was quite young I became attached to the Bible. I resolved to read it once for every year of my life. When I was twelve years old I finished it for the twelfth time . . . reckon I whizzed through it most of those times, reading the parts I liked best.

  “‘I had built a little playhouse for myself in the woods on a creek that ran through the old Cayce place, by a bend at the willows. Every afternoon I went there to read my favorite book. One spring day when I was reading the story of Manoah for the thirteenth time, I looked up and saw a woman standing before me.

  “‘I thought it was my mother, come to fetch me home for the chores. Then I saw that she was not my mother, and that she had wings on her back. She said to me, “Your prayers have been answered, little boy. Tell me what it is you want most of all, so that I may give it to you.” I was very frightened, but after a minute I managed to say, “Most of all I would like to be helpful to other people, especially children.” Then she disappeared.’

  “Suppose I told him that, and then, how the next day in school I couldn’t spell a word, and was kept after school, and how that night I slept on my spelling book and knew everything in the book when I woke up. What would he say to that?”

  Wistfully his mother looked at him.

  “I reckon they’d have the wagon after you and send you up the road to the asylum,” she said. “But to me it’s the most beautiful story I’ve ever heard. I remember the first day you told it to me . . . the day it happened, before you even knew it meant anything. And we never told it to anyone else . . . You were so solemn, and so worried about what it meant. And you looked so angelic. I prayed then that you would always remain that way.”

  He was embarrassed and drank his coffee noisily.

  “That’s the trouble,” he said. “If it had happened to an angel it would be all right. But I’m no angel. There are so many people who are better than I am. Why did it happen to me, unless it’s the work of the devil?”

  His mother got up and took her Bible from the kitchen shelf. “Good men,” she said, “always worry about that. You’ll find it in here”—she tapped the Bible—“everywhere you look. You know that. It’s the people who are actually the tools of the devil who never worry about whether they are wrong or right. They’re sure they are right.”

  “But we’re sure the readings are right . . .”

  “So long as you are right, son, they will be right. The devil cannot speak through a righteous man. I saw the Dietrich girl on the street yesterday. She’s a beautiful girl, and as bright as can be. There’s proof on every street in this town that the readings are right.”

  She opened the Bible and turned to the Gospel of St. John. “We read this together the day you had the vision. I found it for you, remember? It’s in the sixteenth chapter.

  “‘Verily, verily, I say unto you, Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it you. Hitherto have ye asked nothing in my name: ask, and ye shall receive, that your joy may be full.’”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said. “St. John: ‘Let not your heart be troubled . . . In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you . . . that where I am, there ye may be also . . . love me . . . keep my commandments . . .’

  “Read from the fifteenth, Mother.”

  She began: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman . . .”

  When he left she kissed him and patted his shoulder.

  “As long as I’m sure of you, I’m sure of the readings,” she said, “and I’m still sure of you. Now put on your father’s rubbers and don’t fuss about it.”

  He stepped into a night that was quiet, windless. The snow fell straight down, noiselessly. Large, fuzzy flakes fell on his cheeks, his nose, his lips, his eyelashes. He turned east and started the long walk home.

  Behind him, down the rolling hills and shallow vales of Christian County, snow fell on the scattered farms of the Cayces, and on the creek that runs through the old place, where it bends to pass the willows.

  —

  During the night the snow stopped. Only a light covering was on the ground next morning when Dr. Münsterberg left the hotel and walked to North Main Street. He turned right at the corner and went halfway down the block, stopping at the red-brick building next to the bookstore. A sign pointed the way upstairs to the “Cayce Studio.” The doctor trudged up the steps and paused in the hallway. One door led to the studio, another was labeled, “Edgar Cayce, Psychic Diagnostician.”

  The doctor opened this door, entering a small reception room. Beyond it was a large office room. From his place behind a massive desk Leslie Cayce waved him in.

  “Our patient ought to be here soon. Due on the ten o’clock train from Cincinnati,” he said. “Sit down.”

  The room was elaborately furnished. It held two large rocking chairs, two overstuffed easy chairs, a center table, a desk and typewriter for a stenographer, and Leslie’s desk. All these were bedded in the pile of an enormous, deep rug.

  Dr. Münsterberg sat down but did not remove his coat. He complained of the cold.

  “Edgar’s in the studio, developing some plates,” Leslie explained. “He’ll be here shortly. The reading is set for ten-thirty. I have ten-twenty now.”

  “Where will the reading take place?” the doctor asked.

  There was a small room opening off the large one. In it was a high, bare couch, like a doctor’s examination table. Near it was a small table and chair. Straight chairs sat against the wall. Leslie pointed to the room.

  “In there,” he said. “Edgar lies on the couch. I stand by him to give the suggestion and read the questions. The stenographer sits at the table and takes notes.”

  “And on the couch he will put himself into this state of self-hypnosis, only waking when you suggest it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That will be very interesting. That is what I wish to see,” the doctor said.

  The door opened and Dr. Ketchum came in. With him was a sallow-faced man who identified himself as the patient. He was escorted to the large desk, where he sat with Leslie Cayce, answering questions and filling out several blanks. Dr. Ketchum chatted with Dr. Münsterberg. In a few minutes a young lady entered, took a pad and some pencils from the stenographer’s desk, and went into the small room, seating herself at the
table.

  “And here is the young man himself,” Dr. Münsterberg said as the door again opened.

  The young man smiled and shook hands. Then he took off his coat and loosened his tie.

  “You are going to lie on that couch and sleep?” Dr. Münsterberg asked, pointing into the small room.

  “Yes,” the young man said. “I’ll bring a chair in and you can sit right beside me.”

  “That will be unnecessary. My seat here is very comfortable. I can see the couch and hear what you say. I will remain here.”

  The young man went into the small room. Sitting on the side of the couch he unfastened his cuff links and loosened his shoelaces. Then he swung his legs up, lay flat on his back, closed his eyes, and folded his hands on his abdomen.

  Leslie Cayce escorted the patient into the small room and gave him a straight chair. Dr. Ketchum remained in the large room, as a courtesy to the visitor. Leslie Cayce stood by the couch, at his son’s right hand, and prepared to read from a small black notebook.

  Dr. Münsterberg watched the young man keenly. His respiration deepened gradually, until there was a long, deep breath. After that he seemed to be asleep. Leslie Cayce began to read from the black notebook.

  “Now the body is assuming its normal forces and will give the information which is required of it. You will have before you the body of”—he gave the patient’s name—“who is present in this room. You will go over the body carefully, telling us the conditions you find there, and what may be done to correct anything which is wrong. You will speak distinctly, at a normal rate of speech, and you will answer the questions which I will put to you.”

  For several minutes there was silence. Then the young man began to mumble in a voice that sounded faraway and haunting, as if he were speaking from a dream. Over and over again he repeated the patient’s name and the phrase, “present in this room.” Suddenly he cleared his throat and spoke distinctly and forcibly, in a tone stronger than that he used when awake.

  “Yes, we have the body,” he said. “There is a great deal of trouble in this system.

  “Along the spine, through the nervous system, through the circulation (which is perverted), through the digestive organs, there is trouble . . . also inflammation in the pelvic organs, trouble with the kidneys and slight inflammation in the bladder. Seems that it starts from digestive disturbances in the stomach. The digestive organs fail to perform their function properly . . . there is lack of secretion along the digestive tract . . .

  “The pancreas and liver are also involved . . .”

  The voice went on, continuing the diagnosis. Dr. Münsterberg hunched forward in his chair, listening intently. His eyes went back and forth from the young man to the patient.

  How did the patient feel?

  “There is a dryness of the skin and disturbed lymphatic circulation, aching in the arms and legs, particularly noticeable under the knee, on the side of the leg . . . he feels stretchy when he gets up . . . pains in the arms, pains and a tired feeling between the shoulders and back of the head . . .”

  How to cure all this?

  Many things were to be done. First: “Get the stomach in better shape . . . we have some inflammation here. Cleanse the stomach: when this is done we will stimulate the liver and the kidneys . . . drink large quantities of water, pure water . . . hitherto we have not had enough liquids in the system to aid nature in throwing off the secretions of the kidneys . . .

  “When the stomach is cleansed, not before, give small doses of sweet spirits of niter and oil of juniper . . . use vibrations along the spine . . . not manipulation but vibration . . . all the way up and down from the shoulders to the tip of the spine, but not too close to the brain . . .”

  There were other things: exercises, a tonic, a diet. Then the voice said, “Ready for questions.” Leslie Cayce read a few which he had written down in the notebook. They were promptly answered. Then the voice said, “We are through for the present.”

  From the notebook Leslie Cayce read the suggestion that, “Now the body will have its circulation restored for the waking state, and feeling refreshed and with no ill effects, you will wake up.”

  After about a minute the deep, long, sighing breath that had preceded the sleep was repeated. The young man’s eyes opened. He stretched his arms over his head, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and sat up.

  The stenographer got up from her seat and came into the large room, where she sat at her typewriter, preparing to transcribe her notes. Leslie Cayce stood by his son, waiting for him to get down off the couch. The patient stood up and stared at him, smiling awkwardly. Dr. Münsterberg suddenly surged up from his chair and walked into the small room.

  “What do you think of this man?” he said to the patient.

  “Well, he’s described my condition and the way I feel better than I could possibly do it myself.”

  “Then, if I were you—” Dr. Münsterberg was measuring his words carefully—“if I were you I would do exactly as he says. From what I have heard and from the people I have talked with who claim his readings have helped them, I would say that some extraordinary benefits have come from these experiences. Where did you hear of this man?”

  “I read about him in one of the Cincinnati papers. I wrote and asked for an appointment. Then I decided to come here for the reading.”

  “You told, in your letters, of your condition?”

  “No, not a thing. I just said I wanted a reading.”

  “Remarkable, remarkable.”

  Dr. Münsterberg retreated within himself. His eyes glazed. He stood lost in thought.

  The patient turned to the young man on the couch and offered his hand.

  “Thank you very much,” he said. “I don’t know how to express my appreciation, but I’m going to follow all of your suggestions.”

  The young man shook hands and laughed.

  “That’s the best way to make me happy,” he said. “If this thing works, we want to know about it. If it doesn’t work, we want to know about it, even more so, because if it’s a fake we want to stop doing it.”

  “Dr. Ketchum will explain how everything is to be done,” Leslie Cayce said. He led the patient into the large room.

  Dr. Münsterberg watched the young man tie his shoelaces. When the bows were knotted he said:

  “Young man, I would like to know more about this. I have never encountered anything quite like it. I would hesitate to pass any opinion without a long and thorough examination. But if it is a trick, I am convinced you are not yourself aware of it.”

  “If it is a trick, doctor, I would like to know about it before I go too far and cause some harm,” the young man said.

  “I do not think it will cause harm,” the doctor said. “But”—he glanced toward the large room—“I believe you are mixed up with the wrong crowd. This thing should not have a material aspect to it.”

  Quickly he thrust out his hand, seized the young man’s hand and shook it.

  “Well, I must be going,” he said. “Keep your feet on the ground. Someday you may find yourself. However, if you never accomplish anything more than you did in the Dietrich case, you will not have lived in vain. I must go now.”

  The young man escorted him from the office. At the stairhead they parted. The doctor expressed a regret.

  “It is too bad we could not know more about the so-called powers of your grandfather,” he said. “It would be very interesting to know whether heredity is a possible source for this thing.”

  The young man watched him until he reached the street, then went into the photographic studio. In the great, bare room, with its prop chairs and backdrops stacked in a corner, Mrs. Doolittle was waiting for him with her small son.

  “It’s his fourth birthday,” she explained. “I thought it would be nice if we had a picture taken together.”

  “Sure,” the young man sa
id. “Jim will be tickled. And this is Danny, I reckon.”

  “I’m Daniel Doolittle,” the boy said solemnly.

  His mother laughed. “He won’t have the nickname,” she said.

  The young man posed them with Daniel standing beside his mother while she sat sidewise, looking over the back of a light, low parlor chair.

  “You’re too big to sit in your mother’s lap, aren’t you?” he said to the boy.

  “A gentleman should always stand,” Daniel said coldly.

  The doctor’s last words clung to the young man as he arranged the camera and inserted a plate.

  “The so-called powers of your grandfather . . .”

  Had his grandfather really possessed psychic powers? Had he inherited his ability from old Thomas Jefferson Cayce, the tall, kindly man with a beard? His grandmother always told him there was nothing wrong with strange powers so long as they were used in God’s work. She must have known about her husband’s abilities, if he had them. Only once had she mentioned the subject. “Your grandfather could do certain things, but he always said they came from the Lord and were not his to be showing off and misusing.” But what were they? Certainly his grandfather could not have given readings, or he would have done so. He always wanted to help people.

  It was hard to remember him. There was the memory of going to the big house and sleeping with grandfather and grandmother, and waking up at night and feeling with his hands for their faces, to find which was which. If there was a beard, it was grandfather.

  There was the memory of riding behind him on his horse, of listening to him call to the men in the tobacco fields, of hearing him ask the blessing at Sunday dinner.

  There was that sunny, hot day in June, 1881 . . . the eighth of June.

  The young man sighted through the camera. He saw Daniel’s proud, unsmiling face, with its upturned nose and freckles.

  He was just four himself on that June day.