American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Yet, somewhere at the outer fringes of her mind a dark, familiar whisper taunted her with the possibility that Caterina’s confidence might just possibly be misplaced.

  It was late when they boarded the night ferry. Only Rosa Navaro accompanied Susanna and Caterina up the river. Michael had stayed in the city, in preparation for the following night’s concert.

  They had barely settled themselves when Caterina, lulled by the darkness and the rocking of the boat, curled up next to Susanna and fell asleep.

  In the dim glow of the lanterns, Rosa, seated across from them, smiled and nodded toward Caterina. “It seems that you have become very important to her.”

  Susanna smiled down at the sleeping little girl. “And she has become very important to me. She’s really quite wonderful.”

  Rosa nodded. “The child needs you in her life, Susanna. It’s good that the two of you have taken to each other so quickly.”

  Rosa’s accent was mild, not nearly so pronounced as Michael’s, but even in the soft shadows of the night, her strong, distinct features and snapping dark eyes were unmistakably Mediterranean. She lifted a hand to pat her hair, setting off a delicate chiming sound from the heavy gold bracelets encircling her wrist. Not for the first time, it occurred to Susanna that Rosa was really a very striking and exotic woman in appearance.

  But it was Rosa Navaro’s kindness she appreciated most. The opera diva had a warmth, a comfortable way about her that made her easy to be with and seemed to invite the confidence of others. Although Susanna hadn’t forgotten some of the unpleasant things Deirdre had written about “that Navaro woman” in her letters, she chose to form her own conclusions—and she had decided to accept the friendship that Rosa seemed more than willing to offer.

  “So, Susanna—did you enjoy the concert?”

  Susanna blinked, hoping she hadn’t been staring. “Oh, yes, very much.”

  Rosa nodded. “Nobody understands the Beethoven like Michael, I think. He is a brilliant musician.”

  Susanna studied her. “I wonder, though—doesn’t he miss the opera? It must have been very difficult to give up such an illustrious career.”

  Rosa glanced away for a moment. “Michael finds his work with the orchestra fulfilling. He seems content.”

  “Did he stop performing because of his blindness?” Susanna knew she was pressing, but her curiosity overcame her customary reserve.

  Rosa turned to look at her. “Only Michael could explain his reasons.” She paused, then added, “I do know he wanted more time for his own music. Composing is very important to him.”

  “Yes…I’m sure it is.”

  Susanna deliberated over whether to raise any further questions. This woman was, after all, a good friend to Michael. She clearly doted on him, much as an older sister might. No doubt she would resent any attempt to pry into his personal life.

  But what about Deirdre’s life?

  “Rosa?”

  The older woman’s expression had become somewhat guarded.

  “Would you mind—I was hoping you might tell me more about Deirdre’s accident. I’ve never really understood what, exactly, happened the night she died.”

  Rosa’s normally open countenance now took on an unfamiliar, closed appearance. “But surely you already know about the accident, the buggy overturning—”

  “Yes, I know about the buggy,” Susanna said, catching a breath in an effort to curb her impatience. “What I don’t know,” she went on, choosing her words carefully, “is what Deirdre was doing in the buggy, at that time of night—in the middle of a thunderstorm.”

  The lantern light flickered, bathing Rosa’s face in shadows as she turned her gaze downward. “You should ask Michael about this, Susanna.”

  “I have asked Michael about it—”

  Caterina stirred just then, and Susanna broke off. But the child showed no sign of waking up.

  “There never seems to be a…a convenient time for him to talk with me,” Susanna continued. Even to her own ears, she sounded petulant, but Rosa’s features remained unreadable. “He always insists it will have to wait until later.”

  “You must try to understand,” Rosa replied. “No doubt it is still very difficult for Michael to speak of the accident. I think you will need to be patient, to wait.”

  “It seems to me that I have been patient,” Susanna said, swallowing down her resentment. “I’ve been here for nearly a month now. How long should I have to wait?”

  She realized her voice had risen, but although Caterina moved slightly, she slept on.

  “Rosa,” she tried again, “was my sister…happy? In the marriage, I mean?”

  The older woman regarded Susanna with a studying look, then lifted a hand to smooth her hair. “How well did you know your sister, Susanna?”

  Surprised by the question, Susanna stared at her. “I…we were sisters.”

  Rosa’s gaze never wavered. “But there were a number of years between you. And you had been separated for some time, no?”

  “Yes, that’s true. But she was my sister. I cared about her. That’s why I want—why I need to know what happened.”

  “These are not questions for me to answer, Susanna,” Rosa replied, her tone firm but kind. “I’m sure Michael will explain. In time.”

  The ferry was docking now, and Caterina began to stir again. Susanna was surprised when Rosa reached to take her hand. “Give Michael time, Susanna. As difficult as it was for you to lose your sister, you must remember that he lost his wife.”

  In the carriage on the road home, they maintained a polite but meaningless exchange. Rosa’s obvious reluctance to talk about Deirdre had only sharpened Susanna’s suspicions. Where else could she go for the truth? She was beginning to feel as though she were locked outside a door to which there was no key—perhaps a door to which someone had deliberately hidden the key.

  She stared out the carriage window into the thick darkness of the night, then glanced at the drowsy little girl snuggled against her. If only Caterina were older. Perhaps then she could learn the truth from her, the truth about what had really happened to her mother.

  And why it had happened.

  Suddenly weary, Susanna leaned her head back against the seat. She could feel Rosa’s watchful gaze on her, but she closed her eyes and pretended to doze until she felt the carriage slow in its approach to the Navaro mansion.

  Susanna straightened, careful not to rouse Caterina, who slept curled up like a kitten, her head in Susanna’s lap. Rosa was smiling at both of them, but as she started to step from the carriage, she turned back and again reached to clasp Susanna’s hand.

  “Try to trust Michael, Susanna,” she said, her dark eyes intent. “I’m sure that in his own time, he will tell you what you want to know. But if I may, I would caution you to be absolutely certain you want your questions answered.”

  She paused, still gripping Susanna’s hand. “Sometimes,” she said, “the answers to our questions are so painful to hear that we end up wishing we had never asked.”

  Then she was gone, leaving Susanna more disturbed than ever as she absently stroked Caterina’s hair the rest of the way to Bantry Hill.

  17

  PHYSICIANS IN THE CITY

  Your greatest challenge will not necessarily be the attainment of the title, “physician,” but instead may well be the overcoming of the opposition—especially that of your “manly” colleagues—once you attain that noble title.

  IN A LETTER FROM DORSEY COLE TO HIS GRANDDAUGHTER, BETHANY

  A cold autumn rain began early Monday morning, and by now Bethany Cole had begun to question her own common sense.

  Although Uncle Marsh had offered a carriage, so far she had managed to get around the city just fine either by walking or using public transportation. Last night’s change in the weather, however, reminded her that winter would be upon them in no time, and the walks she usually enjoyed would no longer be so pleasant.

  Bethany enjoyed being self-sufficient—up to a poi
nt. She insisted on living in her own flat rather than rooming with her aunt and uncle, not only because she valued her privacy and wanted to fend for herself, but also because she was keenly aware of Aunt Mildred’s feelings about “women who worked.” Her aunt’s resentment of Bethany’s career included any attempt on the part of Uncle Marsh to make things a little easier for her. As far as Aunt Mildred was concerned, if Bethany wanted to be an “independent woman,” she would be completely independent, with no assistance of any kind from her family.

  Of course, Aunt Mildred was an incurable skinflint, so Bethany wouldn’t have expected anything else.

  Still, the Scriptures did counsel against pride. Being on her own was all well and good, but a day like this served to remind her that there might be such a thing as too much independence. At the moment, her umbrella was doing little to ward off the wind-driven rain, and by the time she reached the corner of Seventeenth and Fourth, her skirts were soggy, her boots were leaking, and she was chilled all through.

  Without her small savings, she would have had to swallow her pride and accept a loan from her uncle—at least the loan of a carriage. Her inheritance from her grandparents was far more modest than Aunt Mildred probably thought, but at least she had something of her own to dip into, if necessary.

  As she struggled to anchor the umbrella against the wind, Bethany scanned her surroundings as best she could. The neighborhood was reasonably pleasant and might even have been fashionable at one time. Now there were unmistakable signs that its more well-to-do residents had moved elsewhere—more than likely, farther north. Commercial establishments seemed to have taken over many of the spacious brick and stone houses.

  Stormy as it was, the streets nevertheless teemed with Monday morning traffic, both pedestrian and carriage. A mix of workers and businessmen hurried along, darting in and out among the buggies and omnibuses, while the pungent smell of rain, sodden leaves, and horse droppings permeated the air.

  Throughout the three-block walk from her apartment, Bethany had tried not to be too optimistic about Dr. Carmichael’s invitation to stop by his office. It wasn’t as if he had spoken of anything specific, after all. Still, she hoped she hadn’t misunderstood him. He had alluded to the possibility that he might be able to help her in her efforts to set up a private practice, as well as in her ongoing struggle to obtain hospital privileges.

  Hadn’t he?

  The hope of hospital privileges alone would have been enough to bring her calling long before now, but circumstances had intervened, and she’d found herself working almost around the clock for three weeks running. Influenza had drastically reduced the Infirmary’s staff, and Bethany had more or less been living there, grabbing an hour’s sleep whenever she could, eating whenever she thought of it.

  In spite of the long hours of hard work and the lack of acceptance—or outright contempt—of many of her male colleagues, Bethany couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t wanted to be a doctor. As a child, she had made patients of her baby dolls and every stray animal that happened to venture into the backyard. By the time she was in her teens, she had read all the way through her grandmother’s household medical manual, going on to cajole her physician-grandfather into allowing her free access to his bookshelves. Within another year, she was pressing him to make her his assistant.

  Wise man that he was, Dorsey Cole had gently but firmly resisted his granddaughter’s badgering. “Bethany, these days anyone can become a doctor. At least anyone can become a quack. But not just anyone can become a good doctor. If you really want to hang out a shingle alongside mine, then you must first equip yourself with a good education.”

  In his usual unhurried manner, he’d gone on to emphasize that a physician’s knowledge should not be limited to diseases and injuries. “If you want to be a good doctor, you need a keen understanding of your patients’ minds and hearts as well. To attain that kind of insight, you need to learn as much as possible about people, about life, and the world we live in.”

  Bethany adored the grandfather and grandmother who raised her after the train accident that killed her parents. She wanted to make them proud, and so, despite her youthful impatience, she had taken her grandfather’s advice to heart. After the prerequisite education at Miss Haverhill’s Feminine Academy—where she would have doubtless succumbed to total boredom had it not been for the good-humored mischief she and her companions foisted upon their roommates almost nightly—she left for the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania.

  She graduated first in her class. But as it happened, her grandfather had not lived long enough to take her into his practice. His health had been failing for some time even before she entered medical college, and shortly before graduation, he passed away. Not long after, her grandmother followed.

  With both of them gone, Bethany couldn’t imagine returning to the home where she’d grown up, much less taking over her grandfather’s practice, which had diminished considerably with his poor health. Instead, she decided to settle in New York, not so much because her only surviving aunt and uncle lived here, but more because she believed the prospects for a woman physician might be greater in such a highly populated city. Almost immediately, she found a position at the New York Infirmary for Women and Children, allowing her to further expand her training under the founder, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, and other excellent women physicians, such as Dr. Mary Jacobi.

  Even as both women encouraged Bethany in her efforts to establish her own practice and gain hospital privileges, they urged caution and patience. But Bethany had begun to realize that it was going to take something more than patience to achieve her goals here in New York. And that realization had driven her out on this wretchedly cold, wet morning. If there was any chance that Andrew Carmichael might be able—and willing—to help her, she was definitely going to listen to what he had to say.

  As she approached the entrance of the aging brick building on Seventeenth Street, however, it occurred to her that after all this time the best she could probably hope for was that he hadn’t completely forgotten about her by now.

  Andrew Carmichael lifted a shoulder to catch the perspiration on his forehead, then tied off the last stitch at the corner of Charlie Duffy’s left eye.

  “You’re very fortunate, Mr. Duffy,” he said, adopting a stern tone. “You might have easily lost your eye, you know. That cut was way too close for comfort.”

  The old man nodded vigorously, his almost toothless grin breaking even wider. “Ah, but it was a grand fight, Doc! And wasn’t that black-hearted scallywag more than a little surprised when I trounced him?”

  Andrew suppressed a smile at his feisty patient. “Mr. Duffy, I’m not sure that a man of your years ought to be taking up a challenge, don’t you see? Especially when it involves someone with a name like Dukes Neeson.”

  His patient cackled. “Call me Charlie, Doc! And don’t you fret yourself a’tall about me. I can handle the likes of any knock-a-kneed Kerry-man! No doubt you’re thinkin’ I took the worst of it, but that would be because you ain’t seen Dukes.”

  Andrew shook his head, no longer able to keep a straight face. “All the same, sir, the next time your bluff is called, I’d strongly suggest you walk away.”

  Charlie Duffy was sixty-five if he was a day and no bigger than an adolescent boy, but he clearly thought himself a man to be reckoned with. And perhaps he was at that, Andrew thought with wry amusement.

  “No self-respecting Irisher ever walked away from an honest fight, Doc, no matter his years. Why, that good-for-nothing blackheart accused me of chatin’, don’t you know?”

  The wizened little man sat up, and Andrew winced as dirty fingers traced a line over the wound he had just stitched.

  “Nobody gets away with callin’ Charlie Duffy a chate,” his patient proclaimed, jutting out his chin. “And me who’s never so much as dealt a false hand in me life.”

  Andrew helped the wiry little man off the table and shook his hand, taken aback by the surprising strength
of the other’s grip. “All the same, Mr. Duffy, in the future I hope you’ll take care.”

  Charlie Duffy beamed up at Andrew as he touched his wound again. “You can count on it, Doc. And that’s the truth.”

  He lifted a grimy paw in a kind of salute, then swaggered across the room.

  Bethany Cole stepped into the waiting room, stopping just inside the door. Her first sense was one of confusion and disorder. Two long benches along the walls were lined with patients, leaving many others to stand. There were several children, some whimpering in their mother’s arms, others scurrying back and forth across the room. None of the youngsters paid any heed to her as she entered, but their mothers took her measure with undisguised curiosity.

  The odors of formaldehyde, alcohol, and other familiar chemicals hung over the room. There was also a strong indication that some little person was in serious need of a diaper change. A tall counter divided the modestly furnished waiting room from the reception area and examining doors. Bethany caught a glimpse of an unoccupied reception desk behind the counter. The windows were narrow and dusty, the wooden floor bare but reasonably clean. In the far corner, against an outside wall, an iron stove gave off an acrid odor of smoke, but a welcome warmth.

  Bethany caught the sense of a much used, very busy room that suffered from a dearth of attention. A place where time, not necessarily money, accounted for the lack of neatness and attractive furnishings.

  Clearly, she had come at a bad time. She chided herself for not thinking. First thing on Monday morning was definitely not the optimal hour to “drop by” a busy physician’s office.

  She felt a twinge of envy at the sight of the crowded waiting room. With all her heart, she longed to know both the burden and the blessing of an office filled to capacity with patients—her patients—waiting for her to employ her skills in their behalf. Out of habit, she had brought her medical case, and her fingers on the handle now itched to open it and go to work.