The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  Her head jerked back as if she’d been struck across the cheek. “I have an aptitude for medicine, Dr. Rome. And I didn’t spend all that time poring over Gray’s Anatomy for nothing.”

  “Very well, then.” He removed the mask from the boy’s face. “There’s a butcher’s apron in the closet over there. Let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER 5

  More than a week had passed, and still she found it nearly impossible to sleep, impossible to put out of her mind the helpless young boy who had lain unconscious on Dr. Rome’s operating table. Impossible to forget what had happened to him and how she had been a participant—if not a willing one, at least a compliant one.

  But no, she was willing. She had wanted to assist Dr. Rome. When faced with the alternative—to leave and give up the rare opportunity on which she had blindly but perhaps fortuitously stumbled—she had quickly made her choice.

  A choice that, since then, she had examined and reexamined until she was exhausted and nearly ill.

  Dr. Rome had said what took place was not at all unusual; surgeons did it all the time. He’d assured her the boy’s family, what there was of it, had given consent. She wanted to believe him. But at times her sense of guilt was nearly crippling. Guilt not only for her participation in the surgery but her reluctance to take Dr. Rome at his word.

  And now he wanted her to assist with Miss Hadley’s surgery as well. He had found it a convenience to have her with him in the operating room, fetching whatever he needed, handing him each instrument as he asked for it, wiping up the blood after every cut. She should have been ecstatic, and she was—except for her conscience. She still questioned whether what had taken place with the boy was in fact justifiable.

  She wondered, too, if Dr. Rome sensed her unease; if he did, surely he must resent it mightily. Who was she, after all, to judge him? And how foolish he must think her! The first real opportunity to work side by side with him, much as she had with her father, and she was ready to retreat into her shell like a little box turtle!

  But still she couldn’t stop worrying about the boy. She had to know. She had to be sure that Dr. Rome, and she along with him, had not violated the doctor’s sacred oath to do no harm.

  It was Friday morning, the tenth of May. Dr. Rome was at his desk casually thumbing through the morning paper when she finally found the courage to approach him with a plan.

  “Excuse me for interrupting.”

  He looked up with an expression of mild annoyance. He had told her before that he preferred not to be interrupted while reading.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “Then speak.”

  “I have a request. I want to see the boy—the one we operated on.”

  He shoved the paper aside. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “The boy—I need to see him.”

  He studied her for a moment, as if disbelieving of her impertinence. “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to find him. Not now. Besides, what possible reason would you have for wanting to see him?” He drummed his fingers a few times on the desktop. “I suppose I can understand how, with your lack of experience, you’re not able to imagine the final result just from seeing the patient on the table. But it was quite obvious the technique worked superbly. You must take my word for it. Everything went exactly as it was intended.”

  Again, she saw the young boy’s innocent face, freckles scattered like stardust across his nose and cheeks. It was an image that would haunt her forever unless she could find out what had become of him. “That fellow Shark must know where he is. Can’t you tell him to take me there?” She lowered her eyes, aware of how very strident she must sound. “I don’t mean to be a burden to you, really I don’t. But my worry over the boy gives me no peace.”

  Dr. Rome retrieved his newspaper and began folding it slowly, deliberately. “Are we going to have trouble between us? I hope not, because I have no intention of spending another second of my time trying to appease the person whose job it is to appease me.”

  “I’m only asking to see that the boy is all right.”

  He didn’t answer right away and, though his displeasure was obvious, she was encouraged that he seemed to be considering her request. “And there will be no more of this nonsense talk?”

  She nodded, realizing with a desperate longing just how much she wished to put this behind her. If the boy was fine, if no harm had been done, if Dr. Rome was telling the truth about everything . . .

  “All right, no promises, but I’ll see if I can arrange it.” He raised a finger and shook it at her. “But you’re not to speak with him. Do you understand?”

  The next afternoon Abigail found herself mounting the step of a horse-drawn hansom in which Shark already sat, smoking a fat cigar that had filled the closed compartment with a stinking cloud of smoke.

  “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly, determined not to give him the satisfaction of even a single complaint.

  “Ma’am,” he replied, tipping his gray bowler.

  She settled herself into the seat, as far from him as she could. “And where exactly are we going?”

  “Not any kind of neighborhood you’d know about. Down past Canal Street.”

  There was no reason to tell him that she was not a total stranger to such places. Her father had allowed her to accompany him a few times to the tenements on the Lower East Side, where he went to treat victims of dire diseases such as influenza, typhoid, tuberculosis—always at the behest of distraught relatives who were suspicious of the official public-health doctors. They had heard that Dr. Platford had no political agenda, nor did he make a distinction between those who could pay for his services and those who could not. Remembering her father’s heroism, she felt a swift stab of remorse. Her current mission was not one of mercy but of guilt.

  Shark blew a smoke ring and watched it drift gently to the cab’s low ceiling. “Course I can’t guarantee we’ll find the boy. Didn’t count on nobody havin’ a soft spot for him.” He yelled up through the hatch, “Let’s get goin’.” The cab lurched forward, and they headed toward Madison Avenue and its typically chaotic traffic.

  “Where exactly do you expect we’ll find him?”

  “He’s most likely hangin’ somewhere around the alley next to Shorty’s Tavern. He’s got kind of a business goin’ there.”

  “What kind of a business?”

  “The kind that ladies like you wouldn’t want to talk about. They call it the oldest profession in the world, if you catch my drift.”

  What he said brought a knot to Abigail’s stomach. Child prostitution was a scourge on the city that no one seemed willing or able to eradicate—especially when the victims were immigrants, who much of American society persisted in viewing as a notch or two below human.

  She sank into silence as Shark puffed away on his steadily dwindling cigar, wondering suddenly if Dr. Rome’s motivation in having her assist with the boy’s surgery could have been to make certain she kept quiet about it. Surely if she was involved, she would have good reason not to talk.

  She pushed the thought aside, reminding herself again of all that Dr. Rome had done for her. Hadn’t he been the one to recognize how capable she was, to elevate her from a mere office girl to a surgical assistant? Or at least it seemed that he had seen her potential. He believed in her—perhaps more than she believed in herself.

  They arrived at the eastern stretch of Canal Street—an area that, prior to the turn of the century, was chronicled by journalistic muckrakers for its rampant violence and squalid living conditions. Abigail recalled, as a young girl, reading the shocking exposés, so graphic as to be almost unbelievable. Even a few years ago, prior to the enactment of sanitation reforms, one could not walk these streets without wading through a thick layer of human waste. Rotting carcasses of rodents, dogs, and horses routinely littered the pavement; trash was piled everywhere in small mountains of smoldering stench that had become permanent features of the la
ndscape. Five Points, as it was called, was not a place to find oneself alone and defenseless, not by day or night—even now.

  Shark began barking orders at the driver through the rear hatch. “Wait a minute!” He stuck his head out the window, craning his neck to the right, excited as a dog on a scent. “Go back ’bout half a block.”

  The driver abruptly turned his horse around in the middle of the road, causing a near collision with a cart full of watermelons, and they headed back in the direction from which they had just come. Abigail felt a rush of anticipation but also a touch of apprehension. What if the boy had not fared as well as expected?

  “That’s him all right! See?” Shark pointed just ahead. “Right there, next to that shack with the green awning.”

  She recognized the boy immediately. He was leaning against a huge trash barrel, aimlessly tossing a ball in the air, dressed much the same as on that dark night when Shark’s accomplice carried him into Dr. Rome’s operating room wrapped in a sheet. She remembered how Dr. Rome had pinned a note to his shirt, saying not to remove the bandages for a week. It had been eleven days now. From this distance, he appeared fine. He had slicked back his hair, exposing his ears. Abigail wondered if he was proud of them.

  “Tell the driver to pull over,” she said.

  Shark flashed a look of warning. “Those ain’t my orders from the doc.”

  She extracted a few coins from her handbag. Defiantly, she tossed them on the seat between them. Shark wasted no time in snatching up the money and instructed the driver as Abigail had told him.

  The cab came to a halt. She eyed the boy, not quite sure what she intended to do next. She had promised Dr. Rome that she wouldn’t approach him directly and, until this moment, she had not planned to do otherwise. But suddenly she was no longer satisfied with merely seeing him from afar. She wanted to get a better look. She wanted to hear him say that all was well, that his ordeal had not been too horribly painful or frightening, that he’d been well taken care of afterward and not simply dumped in an alley somewhere. Though perhaps it was still too soon, she wanted to know if he was happier than before. Wouldn’t it prove beyond any doubt that everything Dr. Rome had promised was true? Perhaps he really had made this boy’s life better; if that were so, wasn’t it possible that even the poor lad himself might agree the end had justified the means?

  The driver released the door, and Abigail eagerly jumped from the cab, knowing full well that she was being more than a touch reckless. In neighborhoods like this, outsiders were often looked on with suspicion if not outright malice. She could imagine the reasons for it, among them that despicable entertainment of the wealthy, called slumming—strolling through the poorest areas of the city to gawk at the desperate conditions in which the other half lived. Such was not her intent, of course, and neither did she think that she appeared particularly affluent. She was dressed in her office clothes, a simple black skirt and white shirtwaist; her ostrich-feather hat, though she was inordinately fond of it, was far from new, and the dark shade of blue didn’t really match the rest of her outfit.

  She started walking, keeping her eyes on the sidewalk as she passed by a crowd of men drinking and laughing. She could hear snippets of their conversation, none of it suitable for a lady’s ears, but was determined to let nothing rattle her or cause the sureness of her step to falter. One of them called out to her—something about her hair that she couldn’t quite make out, but surely it was not a compliment in the usual sense. She ignored it and kept on walking with her head down, fearing that even an innocent glance, a smile, the swish of a skirt or less was apt to be misinterpreted.

  The boy stood in front of a butcher’s stall, where a few emaciated chickens, a rabbit, and a small goat dangled from fierce metal hooks. As Abigail approached, he raised his head and stopped tossing the ball, peering at her intently.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling uncertainly as she stopped in front of him.

  He kept staring, with a slightly insolent look, and did not reply.

  “You don’t know me,” she began again, “but I’ve been watching you and—”

  He took a step back, as if he might bolt at any second.

  “And I’ve noticed you look different.” She touched her ear and smiled again, hoping he’d understand.

  His eyes narrowed to a squint.

  “I hope you’re well and everything is all right. I—I have a little something for you.” Reaching into her handbag, she took out some change and held out her hand, offering it to him.

  “What’s that for?” he said. She was surprised by his voice—it was deeper, more mature than she’d expected.

  “Nothing in particular. I just thought maybe you could use some help.”

  He glanced around. Then, with a quick motion, he scooped the coins from Abigail’s gloved hand and shoved them into the pocket of his trousers.

  “Good,” she said, still smiling. “So . . . you’re all right?”

  “You best get out of there!” Shark was yelling at her, and from the tone of his voice she sensed there was trouble. She looked behind her to see that several of the men whom she had passed by before had ceased their revelry and turned their attention to her.

  Just then, her purse was ripped from her hand. Startled, she turned back to the boy, instinctively grabbing at his arm to stop him, but he was too fast. He easily evaded her and took off sprinting down the street. It was no use calling after him. In a matter of seconds, he had ducked down the nearest alleyway and was gone.

  Shark shouted again. “Listen up! I ain’t riskin’ my hide to save yours! Get over here now!”

  Abigail looked behind her and saw that two rough-looking characters were headed in her direction, one of them wielding a large stick. Why would they be coming after her? She’d done nothing wrong. She’d only been talking to the boy. Why should anyone care about that?

  Her mind flashed back to the only time she’d ever been threatened by a man—the night her stepfather came to her bedroom, drunk and intent on violating her. She remembered his smell, the sweet and salt of liquor and sweat, and the feel of his hands grabbing at her breasts through her nightgown. She remembered his animal grunt and her own scream and the flailing of arms and legs before she threw him off and he fled amid curses condemning her to hell.

  But if violation was what these men had in mind, what hope would she have of repelling them? How foolish she had been to think her good intentions would save her! They cared nothing for who she was or her motive for trespassing onto their territory. As far as they were concerned, she was fair game.

  She glanced about, looking for a weapon that she might use to defend herself. There was nothing. Her eyes darted to the cab and then back to her would-be assailants as she tried to measure how much time was left before it would be too late. But what did the measurement matter? It was obvious she hadn’t a moment to lose.

  “Hey, Red! I ain’t seen nothin’ fine as you around here for a long time!”

  She took off toward the hansom, not quite running but walking very fast, making a wide circle to avoid the two thugs who now veered to the left in a direct line to the cab. They appeared to have calculated the distance better than she and had no intention of breaking a sweat. They might well have simply been out for a stroll except for the lust in their eyes and how the one with the stick kept slapping it into the palm of his hand.

  Abigail’s heart was pounding as she approached the hansom, so near it now that through the open door she could smell the smoke from Shark’s cigar. She saw him motioning for her to hurry, the driver tense and ready, the horse shuddering in anticipation of the whip. She was almost there, almost safe. There was no way they could catch up to her now, and it seemed they weren’t trying very hard. It was more of a game than anything else—she hoped.

  It was then that she lost control. The thin film of muck coating the bricks—perhaps a bit of washed-down horse manure, or maybe only a light coating of mud from a recent rain—laid a trap for the smooth leather sole
s of her boots and down she came, her ostrich-feather hat landing next to her, upside down in the slime. Her skirt, stockings, gloves, even her face—everything was splattered with brown sludge.

  And the laughter behind her was alarmingly close.

  The next thing she knew, Shark was at her side, swearing under his breath. Roughly, he grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. “Hurry up, get in the feckin’ cab!”

  He dragged Abigail the last few feet to the hansom, where somehow she managed to mount the step and climb inside. Shark jumped in beside her, slamming the door shut just as the man with the stick halfheartedly swung it at the side of the cab. The driver cracked his whip, the horse whinnying in protest but nonetheless obliging by breaking into a fast trot.

  Headed north, toward relative civilization, they rode most of the way in silence. Abigail was embarrassed that she had needed Shark, of all people, to rescue her. She worried that he might be angry enough to tell Dr. Rome what she’d done. She dared not imagine the consequences if he did. Most likely she would lose her position.

  She had been foolish to ignore Dr. Rome’s warning. And she was angry at having been robbed. One would think the little ragamuffin might have shown greater consideration for a stranger who so obviously wished only to help him! But perhaps with a little less sympathy, she might find it easier now to accept things as they were. It wasn’t that the child’s behavior justified hers, but at least it had reminded her that sometimes each of us, in our own way, does what he thinks he must in order to survive.

  It was over now. The boy had come to no harm, and neither had she. Isabelle Hadley’s surgery was in three days. She would assist Dr. Rome and be grateful for it.

  When the driver finally pulled up in front of the office, Abigail turned to Shark with a sheepish look. “Thank you for helping me back there. I appreciate that you put yourself in danger to save me.”