CHAPTER NINE
Department of Life Sciences, Tulane University, New Orleans, waning moon.
There was a knock, and a pretty young woman stuck her head around the door of Armantine Bastien’s office. “Doctor Bastien?” she enquired. “Bonjour, my name is Mary. Mary Church Terrell.” She entered the office, limping slightly on her left leg, and closed the door behind her.
Armantine rose from her chair and went to welcome her visitor. “Bonjour, Mary, come on inside. Let’s see if I can find you somewhere to sit. My office is always a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.”
Armantine lifted a pile of papers and journals from a chair and dumped them onto the floor next to some books and other piles of work. She moved the chair in front of the wooden desk that sat in the middle of the room and motioned for Mary to sit. “Call me Armantine, by the way.” She extended a hand to shake Mary’s hand. The young woman’s grip was firm and gave the impression of confidence and self-assurance. It was surprising given all that she had been through.
Armantine had been briefed by the university’s Admissions Tutor on Mary’s unusual background. A Negro star medical student at Chicago Medical College under Dr. Daniel Hale Williams, Mary’s prospects had seemed assured. Then it had all gone wrong. After a prolonged research project with Mary Church and two other students, Doctor Williams had gone through some kind of mental breakdown, submitting a research paper that had been universally denounced and ridiculed. Of course, his findings could have been completely sound. He was, after all, a Negro doctor in America. Some found that threatening. That’s why she hid her own ancestry—it was hard enough being a woman and a professor of science, let alone a Negro woman. Thankfully, she thought, I can pass for a swarthy white woman.
She was told that Dr. Williams had taken to the bottle, leaving Mary and the two other students to fend for themselves. She seemed to have come through her experience remarkably unscathed.
“Is your leg all right?” Armantine asked Mary, noting the way the young woman leaned on the back of the chair for support.
“It’s fine. I slipped while out walking last night.”
Armantine carefully navigated her way through the mounds of books and other detritus that covered her office floor then seated herself at the desk, opposite Mary. She studied the woman in more detail. Mary was nearly forty, according to the Admissions Tutor’s notes, but looked closer to twenty-five and was strikingly pretty. She wore a brown linen skirt, a white cotton shirtwaist and brown leather shoes with large gold buckles on the instep.
“You don’t feel the cold, then?” Armantine enquired, indicating Mary Church’s summer-weight clothing.
Mary Church shrugged. “Not really. After you’ve spent two winters living in Chicago you realize that it doesn’t really get that cold in Louisiana.”
“I suppose not,” Armantine agreed. “Personally, I prefer a hotter climate. I’d spend the winters back in Ayiti if I could.”
Mary regarded her with cold eyes. “You’re Haitian?”
“I was born in Port-au-Prince. You couldn’t tell from my accent?” Armantine laughed. “I guess I must be starting to blend in.”
“I guess.”
“So, I understand you’d like to transfer to Tulane University to continue work on your post-graduate studies. Is that right?” A request to change university mid-course was unusual, but perhaps not so surprising under the circumstances.
“That’s right,” Mary said, nodding. “But not just to continue at a different university. I want to start again in a new direction.”
“In what way?”
“After all that happened with Doctor Daniel… err… Doctor Williams, I want to move to a new field, in a different department. I guess I feel that all the work I did with Doctor Williams has been discredited. I need a fresh start.”
Armantine consulted Mary’s paperwork on her desk. “According to your application, you were studying Cardiolgy under Doctor Williams but you want to switch your studies to Life Sciences.”
Mary nodded again enthusiastically. “I’ve read your papers on infectious diseases and I can see that you’re one of the leaders in the field.”
Armantine returned a practiced smile. She was used to such flattery from prospective students. Flattery from her colleagues was much scarcer, unfortunately. “Tell me a little about your work under Doctor Williams. I read the newspaper reports at the time, but nothing that carried any scientific credibility.”
Mary sighed. “Doctor Williams was a bit of a renegade. In his opinion, a possibility existed for the direct transfer of genetic traits from one subject to another—even from one species to another; a new approach to evolutionary biology.”
Armantine raised her eyebrows. “That’s certainly original. Did he make much progress with his theory?”
“You saw what happened when he tried to publish,” Mary said. “Universal scorn. That’s why I want to start my research in a new field.”
Armantine nodded. “That makes sense. Tell me, what happened to Doctor Williams in the end?”
Mary shrugged indifferently. “He just disappeared. He left the school’s campus to go downtown one day and never came back. The local constabulary conducted a search, but they never found him. Nobody was very surprised by that. The constables don’t care much about the welfare of Negroes. Not even prominent Negroes like Dr. Williams. Most likely he took his own life. He’d been under a lot of stress. He was drinking heavily near the end.”
A shiver went down Armantine’s spine. She scrutinized the woman sitting opposite her carefully. For all her beauty, Mary had an icy coldness, revealed in her eyes and sometimes in her words. She showed indifference to, or even resentment of, her former teacher and mentor. She didn’t seem to be aware of how much she revealed.
She had ready answers for all of Armantine’s questions, and everything she said matched the facts as far as Armantine understood them. But something didn’t quite ring true. Perhaps it was less what she said, and more the way she said it. Her answers were too polished, too neat. But perhaps Armantine was being too harsh. The girl had been through a rough year. She deserved a chance.
“I understand. Well, the university would be happy for you to join as a postgraduate student this term and start work here. You already satisfy our entrance requirements, and I have funding in place for a doctoral student to join my team. We’d waive the normal time constraints, effectively allowing you to make a fresh start. How does that sound?”
Mary nodded eagerly. “Perfect.”
“We can talk about a research project soon, but before that, a question I always ask my prospective students is what first drew them into the field of biology, and into medical research more broadly.”
Mary sat up straight in her chair, considering the question carefully. “I think it all goes back to when I was thirteen and my mother died. She’d been ill with the flu. At first it didn’t seem too serious, more like a nasty cold, but then it became worse and she developed pneumonia. The doctors treated her with antibiotics, but there were complications. I watched her dying. It was a horrible death. And even though my parents were quite wealthy and could afford the best treatment, they still couldn’t save her. I started to learn about the influenza virus and how complex it can be. As a teenager I wanted to be a doctor, to help treat diseases like that. But then as I grew older I realized that my true dream was to work toward the elimination of disease completely, so I decided on a career in medical research.”
“I see,” Armantine said. “It’s clear that you’re highly motivated, but I must warn you that our work here isn’t going to eliminate disease or even cure one type of disease any time soon. At best, it may contribute more to the understanding of how diseases interact with other factors.”
Mary smiled. “I understand entirely,” she said.
Armantine shuffled through the papers on her desk. “So can I ask you about practical arrangements? Do you have somewhere to live? What about financial support?”
&nb
sp; “Everything’s arranged,” Mary replied. “I have a place to live near the university, sharing with two other Negro students. And financially, I’m good. My father died a few months ago and left me a substantial inheritance on top of what my mother left me years ago.”
Armantine stared at the young woman opposite her. “Let’s tell others you are my assistant, Mary. Tulane is still quite… backward thinking when it comes to the acceptance of Negroes.”
Mary looked up and caught her eye. “Oh, but they hired you.” Her eyes seemed to redden then, and she bent her head forward, crying softly.
Armantine reached into her desk, withdrew a handkerchief then passed it to Mary.
Mary took the cloth and blew her nose loudly.
“This must have been such a difficult year for you,” Armantine said. “You’ve lost your father, and your research supervisor. Are you sure you’re ready to start this term? I think it might be better for you to take some time off and make a fresh start next year.”
Mary froze mid-tears and looked up, her face suddenly hard and determined again. Her momentary display of grief was apparently forgotten. “No,” she said. “I want this more than anything.” She folded the handkerchief then stuffed it in the pocket of her skirt. “I’ve already wasted enough time. I want to start work immediately.”
Armantine had never witnessed such a strangely detached display of emotion. She wondered if anything Mary had said, about losing her mother as a teenager, about wanting to cure disease, about her father dying, was true. The whole performance seemed staged somehow. She wondered briefly if the woman on the other side of her desk was mad.
She had to suppress a strong urge to tell Mary to get out of her office and find a different supervisor. And yet she had to make allowance for Mary’s state of mind—it was Armantine’s belief that all Negroes, including her, suffered some level and form of mental illness because they had been removed from their natural culture, way of thinking and way of life. Against her better judgment, she replied, “Let’s start Monday. Come to my office at ten and we can talk more about the research project you have in mind.”
“Thank you,” Mary said, smiling weakly.
“And yes, I am a Negro,” Armantine said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “But we’ll keep that between us.”
CHAPTER TEN
Charity Hospital, New Orleans, new moon.
Robert pushed away the tray of hospital food in disgust. The smell of it made him feel sick. He pulled the string that hung above his bed to ring the bell for the nurse.
When she sauntered into the room, he said, “Please can you take the food away? It’s making me feel queasy.”
The nurse’s name was Susie; Susie King Taylor. She was kinder than the others. Somehow she made time for her patients. She didn’t make Robert feel that looking after him was just another part of her job, like changing the sheets and checking the drip was properly attached. Instead she seemed to really care about people.
She could be strict with her patients too, though. “You won’t get better if you don’t eat,” she scolded him, but she removed the tray anyway. “Is there anything else I can get you? Some fruit, perhaps?”
Robert wrinkled his nose. Fruit and vegetables smelled the worst. How anyone could eat them was beyond his comprehension. He had liked fruit before, he remembered that. But now, the thought of it made him feel nauseous for some reason. He couldn’t even face the cooked meals they brought him.
Susie hovered over the bed, looking concerned. “You haven’t eaten a thing since you arrived,” she said, “and that was over two weeks ago.”
Two weeks. Had it really been that long? He’d been unconscious or delirious for much of the time at the beginning. The last thing he remembered before waking up in the hospital was a woman—a Negro woman constable? He had to have imagined that—pulling him away from the man he’d just killed. Murdered, really. He’d stabbed the man through the heart with a bread knife. That made Robert a murderer. He hadn’t meant to do it, though. It had been to protect the children. That man had been totally deranged. He’d had no choice.
If only he could have stopped the little ones from running inside the man’s house. If only they had never knocked on the man’s door that night. If only he hadn’t volunteered to take the little ones out for trick or treat. Robert pushed the thoughts aside. If only led to madness.
And I still didn’t even get a kiss from their mama, he recalled, shaking his head.
He remembered the man’s blood, too. Crimson blood, bright with life. So much blood, all over Robert’s hands, running down the shaft of the knife, smeared over the slippery handle. He remembered the way the blood pulsed like a living creature as it flooded from the man’s chest, the coppery smell rich and tangy. He licked his lips. “You don’t have any uncooked food, do you?” he asked Susie. “Like raw meat, I mean.”
Susie gave him a funny look. “Of course not.” She turned on her heels and left, carrying the tray and its uneaten food with her.
Raw meat. For some reason, he’d got it into his head that he might enjoy eating uncooked meat. He could taste it in his mind now. Smell it. Even imagine how he would feel ripping hunks of it with his teeth and swallowing it down. A nice bloody steak, perhaps, or even some pork or chicken. You weren’t supposed to eat chicken raw, because of the risk of food poisoning. But he had a craving for it. Maybe some raw fish. They might have some of that in the hospital. Yes, when Susie came back, he would ask her about raw fish.
The image of the bloodied knife appeared before him again, his hands twisting the blade ever deeper into the man’s heart. If he could hold that knife in his hands right now, he would lick the blood from its blade. Lick it clean.
He hoped the constables wouldn’t prosecute him for murder, but Robert didn’t believe there was any justice for a Black man in America, so he’d probably do hard time. A government agent, a Black Dispatch, no less, had visited him in the hospital just the day before, making some enquiries, asking him questions about what had happened. His memory had been a bit fuzzy, and the drugs made it hard to concentrate, so the damn woman said she would come back when Robert was feeling stronger.
He was stronger today, even though he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for a couple of weeks. In fact, he felt a lot better, well enough to go home. Maybe they’d let him leave the hospital in a day or so, then he’d be able to get himself some real food. Something bloody and raw. The thought of it made him drool.
“Hello, Robert. How do you feel today?” It was the doctor who had been attending to him. What was his name? Robert pondered. Doctor Jacques Laveau.
“Son of Marie Laveau herself,” one of the nurses had told him. But he didn’t know if that was so. Harriet had talked about Madame Laveau—how the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans hated her because of her close relationship with Baas Bello, Marie Laveau’s former lover.
Robert gave him a grin. “Actually, I feel much better today, Dr. Laveau.”
The doctor was studying some charts and looking concerned. “That’s good, Robert. Very good. Your temperature is back to normal for the first time. That’s a very good sign. And your wound is healing nicely too. You still haven’t eaten anything, though.”
“I haven’t really wanted to,” Robert told him. “When do you think I can go home?”
“We’ll have to see,” Dr. Laveau said. “Let’s take it one day at a time. You had a very nasty infection, you know. We kept you in Intensive Care for the first week. Do you remember anything about it?”
“Not really,” Robert said. “I only remember the last few days.”
“Well,” Dr. Laveau said. “You were in a pretty bad state when you first arrived. The bite wound was relatively superficial, but you were in a state of shock, and suffering from a severe allergic reaction. Do you have any kinds of allergies? Hay fever, food allergies, that kind of thing?”
Robert shook his head.
“Well, whatever it was, it put you into a state of anaphylaxis. Do you know
what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s when the whole body responds to some kind of allergen and goes into a state of shock. You were already unconscious when the paramedics reached you. Your throat had swollen up so you couldn’t breathe properly and your blood pressure had dropped right away. It’s a miracle you got here in time for us to save you. You can thank the government agents who found you.”
Robert nodded. The same woman who had come to interview him the day before. Ida; that was her name.
“After that, an infection set in. We had to pump you with some pretty heavy-duty antibiotics. Even so, it was touch-and-go for a while. You don’t remember any of this?”
Robert shook his head again.
“At one point, you woke up and became violent. The nurses had to strap you down. Your temperature went so high I worried it would cause permanent damage, but you seem to have pulled through all right.” The doctor moved closer, drawing an instrument from his pocket. “Let’s just have a quick look at your eyes. Can you look into this for me?”
Robert stared at the light in the doctor’s device. The bright light hurt his eyes. He could smell the doctor’s hot breath on his face. For some reason it made him hungry.
“Your pupils are still dilated,” Doctor Laveau said. “And your eyes have a yellow tint. There’s a kind of mucous covering that must be a residual infection. I’ve prescribed you some eye drops, and hopefully that will clear up in a day or two. Do you feel any discomfort from the lights?”
Robert nodded. “They seem very bright.”
“Let’s keep that under review,” the doctor said. “But all things being well, I think you ought to be ready to go home in a few days. Let’s just see if we can persuade you to eat something before you go, okay?”
Robert thought of asking for some raw meat again, but thought better of it. It wasn’t really the doctor’s job to bring him food.
The doctor flashed Robert a quick smile. “By the way, I’ve told the agents it will be all right for them to interview you now. Do you feel up to it?”
Gunsmoke Blues Page 5