The Beauty Doctor

by Elizabeth Hutchison Bernard

  Eric helped her down from the high seat. Abigail thanked him for his trouble, and he hastily departed, leaving her standing alone in the overgrown driveway, feeling again that strange sense of apprehension. She stood for a moment gazing up at the redbrick façade. It looked the same as before except that the windows were no longer boarded up. She saw now that they all had iron bars, a stark reminder of the purpose for which this facility had originally been built. She hoped Joe planned to remove them. Incarceration would hardly be necessary for patients whose only mental anomaly was the imperative of their quest for beauty.

  She had noticed the Ford parked off to the side but not Joe’s Stoddard-Dayton. She was probably too late for the official tour. Most likely Joe had already left with the Indiana doctors for the train station. But at least Franklin was still there.

  The soles of her boots crunched on the gravel as she approached the building. She passed through the wide arch onto the portico. The entry doors had been left open. She hesitated, feeling that mixture of anticipation and fear. The anticipation was for all this place might mean to her future; the fear was much the same.

  Again, she had the fleeting thought that she was about to lose everything.

  But why must she?

  Perhaps she ought to think seriously about dermatology. It was not a field in which she had ever imagined herself having an interest, but Franklin probably was right. It was something at which she could excel, even without a medical degree. Her position at the Rome Institute would automatically impart credibility; patients would assume she was knowledgeable.

  She stopped, shocked at her own dishonesty. She did not wish to deceive anyone!

  No, if dermatology was to be her path, she would approach it scientifically. A thorough understanding of the skin and its disorders obviously was a necessary prerequisite to developing products for its beautification. She would need first to study, then to experiment and test. One could easily whip up a lotion that felt smooth and smelled pretty, slap on a label with a doctor’s name to give it “legitimacy,” and claim all sorts of benefits from using it. But all that was worth nothing if the concoction didn’t work! If Franklin was to tie his reputation, and that of the Institute, to any sort of products, they must be clinically proven to solve the most common problems of the skin: blemishes, redness, dryness, dullness.

  All this was running through her mind as she took her first tentative step into the foyer of the Rome Institute of Transformative Surgery.

  She caught her breath. She had not expected something so spectacular!

  The entry chamber was long and narrow with high coffered ceilings and walnut paneling polished to a deep luster. The floor, made up of large squares of gleaming white Carrara marble laid in a diagonal pattern and bordered with black marble all around, had either been recently installed or expertly restored. The only light, other than what filtered in through the open doorway, came from a huge hanging lantern of heavy black iron. It cast a warm glow sufficient to illuminate the lifesize bronze bust of Plato positioned beneath it, in the center of the room, on a tall marble pedestal. She moved closer to read the inscription:

  The good is the beautiful.

  There was something thrilling about the opulent entry—something that imparted seriousness and dignity to whatever might take place within these walls.

  She looked to her right; a pair of tall, ornately carved doors closed off the south wing. Franklin had said the Rome Institute would eventually occupy that space, while Joe’s museum would be located opposite, in the north wing.

  Almost in spite of herself, she headed to the left. It surprised her that she felt such curiosity about Joe’s museum. She walked over to the heavy doors and gripped the brass handles, giving them a sharp turn and a push. They opened with a groan.

  The room before her was dark. Abigail groped her way along the wall until she located the porcelain base of a mounted switch. She twisted the key.

  The scene was, at first glance, nothing unexpected, considering that it was a museum in progress. There were a number of wooden crates scattered about the floor, some opened and empty, others still sealed. Straw was everywhere, the air infused with its raw, slightly rancid smell. But amid the chaos, she saw evidence of a plan taking shape.

  Along the wall opposite her were four huge display cases, completely assembled and positioned at equal intervals. Inside, a number of glass containers had been arranged on shelves, four to a row. They held objects of various sizes and shapes that, from a distance, were unidentifiable. But as she approached the cabinets and began to discern what was inside the individual glass bottles, suspended and preserved in clear fluid, she felt a sudden queasiness.

  The first specimens to catch her attention were the babies, each fully developed or nearly so. There was one with a single centrally located eye, a human cyclops. In another bottle was a pair of twins joined at the stomach, their faces pressed together and two of their arms twisted like pretzels underneath their chins. There were babies with deformed feet and hands, babies with unsightly tumors growing from their foreheads, from their mouths. In one container, a preserved child’s head had the top of the skull removed so the brain was exposed. In the two receptacles next to that, adult heads—a man and a woman—were displayed in the same manner.

  Sickened, she turned away, her gaze falling on the life-size forms of several bizarre-looking creatures. A bearded lady with long hair flowing over her abundant breasts stood next to a man whose face was covered with wolf-like fur. Beside them was a tiny, skeletal woman with eyes that slanted downward, no chin, and a beak-like nose. In contrast to the other specimens on display, these were like the attractions one might encounter at a cheap carnival. All three of them looked as if they might spring to life any second.

  Abigail approached the trio cautiously. Was it possible they had been alive once? Had someone gutted and stuffed them for display?

  Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch the bird-woman’s peculiar face. The skin was cold and smooth—not skin at all. The creature was made of wax! She breathed a sigh of relief. The artistry was superb. Even up close, it was almost impossible to discern that she wasn’t real.

  Abigail’s eyes began to roam again, to another darkened corner where several skeletons stood together in repose. There was a giant next to a dwarf, and next to that was a child’s skeleton with two skulls—Siamese twins remarkably similar in form and stature to Valencia and Melilla.

  Closer to her, two large poster-board displays leaned against the wall. She went over to them, bending on one knee to view each, in succession, at eye level. The first was a series of illustrations comparing the embryonic development of humans and pigs. At the bottom was the attribution “Courtesy of the American Breeders’ Association, founded in 1903.” The other board featured photographs taken at carnival sideshows, odd human beings half-naked and caged like animals or else mockingly portrayed in dignified poses, dressed like kings and queens.

  She recalled then how Ludwik had said Joe wanted to celebrate the strength and courage of the human spirit. Yet Abigail saw nothing of the sort here. There was no celebration of anything, only grotesque and grim reminders of how fragile we are—and how callous.

  She rose to her feet, going back to the first cabinet where babies floated in formalin, each one like a miniature ship in a bottle. If these sad, rejected ones could only speak! What would they say? She glanced again at the skeleton of the Siamese twins whose anatomy so closely resembled what she knew of Melilla and Valencia. They were obviously young. Had they died of natural causes? Had they ever been loved, or, like Ludwik’s little sister, were they cast out and subjected to unthinkable cruelties? And the others—what were their stories? Did anyone know or care?

  She closed her eyes, fighting an overwhelming revulsion and the sudden impulse to flee. Then, forcing a slow and measured step, she returned to the entrance. She again found the light switch, turned the key. The room plunged into darkness.

  She had just closed the
double doors behind her, gently as if afraid of disturbing someone’s sleep, when she heard swift footsteps on the stairs. A second later, Franklin appeared on the landing above her.

  “Abigail! What are you doing here?”

  “I was trying to find you—and the others,” she said, wondering if she looked as overwrought as she felt.

  He continued toward her, the shadow of a frown between his brows. “When did you arrive?”

  “Maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

  “You walked here by yourself?”

  “No, Joe’s stable master drove me over in the cart.”

  He greeted her with a light kiss on the cheek. “Genworth and Sorrel had to be on their way. Joe took them to the train station. He should be back shortly, though. I was going to wait for him here. There are a few things he and I need to talk about—privately.”

  Could he be as sickened as she was about the displays in the north wing? Perhaps he intended to tell Joe exactly that. She glanced toward the closed doors and drew a deep, tremulous breath. “So you saw his museum?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid you may find it disturbing.”

  “I’ve seen it already. The door was unlocked. What do you think—is there anything to be learned from it? Or is it just an opportunity to revel in the misfortunes of others?”

  “I don’t know, but Genworth and Sorrel seemed to find it interesting. They were eager to explain that such examples of human defects further illustrate the pressing need for their research.”

  “I’m not surprised, though what proof exists that such deformities have anything to do with heredity? Maybe they’re simply random occurrences.”

  “Be that as it may, Genworth and Sorrel suddenly seem to have Joe’s ear. I suspect they’d like it fine if he were to give them space in this building for their research, not to mention some of his money.”

  She looked at him in astonishment. “What are you talking about? They want to use this building as a base for their eugenics research?”

  “Don’t worry. I put the lid on that idea rather quickly.”

  “But why would Joe want them here?”

  “I don’t think that he does. Not really.”

  Her fleeting optimism about the Institute, her future in dermatology—all of it suddenly seemed absurd. She wanted to tell Franklin he ought to simply walk away from it all. Leave Joe to the doctors from Indiana. Franklin didn’t need him. He didn’t need any of this. But she knew it would only drive a wedge between them. If he were ever to arrive at such a decision, it would have to be his and his alone.

  “Are you concerned that Joe might change his mind about the Institute?”

  “Change his mind!” Franklin sounded almost offended. “No, he’s not going to change his mind. He’s entirely committed to the Rome Institute and the potential of transformative surgery to alter human destiny. What I propose is to work with nature, not against it. Joe understands and appreciates the difference.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  He frowned. “Stop being so negative about everything.”

  “But why would Dr. Genworth waste his time here unless he thought there was a good chance of winning Joe’s support?”

  “Genworth doesn’t understand that Joe has a habit of spreading himself too thin. Look how far he’s come already with this museum of his. And yet the Rome Institute, behind those doors, is still just a pile of rubble. I need to get him back on track, and I’m the only one who can. Don’t worry—I’ll straighten him out. He needs to remember that we’re a team, he and I, and he can’t simply do as he pleases.”

  Abigail felt his words like a slap across her face. They were a team! He and Joe . . .

  Franklin consulted his watch. “I guess I have time to drive you back to the house. I just hope I don’t miss Joe.”

  “Don’t bother,” she replied, all at once anxious to be alone. To think. To lick her wounds. Franklin undoubtedly didn’t even realize how he’d hurt her.

  Perhaps she’d best get used to it.

  Abigail easily navigated her way through the woods, though her thoughts were on Franklin. The Institute was a complete disaster. Why couldn’t he see it? They were so much better off in the Manhattan office. They had everything they needed there.

  They had each other.

  But clearly that was not enough for him. He had grandiose ideas. He wanted to be world famous. He needed to be admired.

  As for what she needed, she no longer knew. She felt helpless and frustrated; there was nothing to be done but to wait. Either the Institute would proceed, or it wouldn’t. And if it did, Franklin would bring her along to share in his success—or she would know with certainty that, after all, he had never really cared for her.

  She tried to shake off her concerns, to think about something else. She reminded herself of the mystery still to be solved. She must find out what had happened to Ludwik. And Lillian seemed the one who might be able to help her. If nothing else, Abigail wanted to hear her say that she was looking forward to assuming guardianship of the twins. If she really were, it would be at least some comfort. She quickened her pace, resolved to talk privately with Lillian—away from Joe’s watchful eye.

  Arriving back at the Radcliffs’ home, however, she found that Lillian and Ronnie had taken Joe’s new silver Rolls Royce into the city and would not return until early evening. Her questions would have to wait.

  Hot and sticky from her walk, and with nothing better to do, she decided on a bath and rang for a servant to prepare the tub. Half an hour later, she was soaking in rose-scented water, the salts and the heat slowly chipping away at her built-up tension. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Joe’s museum, couldn’t turn off the disturbing images that kept flashing through her mind.

  She closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the water, resting her head against the back of the tub. She tried her best to imagine something infinitely serene: the lovely rose gardens that surrounded the gazebo. But soon her thoughts were turning again to Ludwik. He’d said he wanted to be a sculptor. She remembered his haunting photographs, how he’d spoken of beauty as emotion. His kindness, the gentleness of his touch . . .

  And then she fell into a dream.

  She was wandering alone through the exhibits in Joe’s museum when she heard a noise from one of the display cases. She went over to investigate. The conjoined twins, the ones connected at the stomach, were moving inside their glass container. As she watched, two pairs of eyes snapped open, four little fists started to beat on the glass. Horrified, she tried to open the display case, but it was locked. She looked around for something she could use to smash the glass. In the dimness, she saw a baseball bat leaning in the far corner of the room, next to where the wax figures stood. She ran to get it, and as she leaned in to retrieve it, the wolf-man’s hairy hand grabbed her wrist. She screamed and managed to pull away. But when she turned around, she saw that the skeletons in the opposite corner had come to life and were walking toward her, the giant and the dwarf in the lead, then the two-headed child with an awkward hobbling gait. By now, all the babies inside their containers were moving, their eyes rolling in their heads, their tongues hanging out as they pounded and kicked the glass.

  “I see you’ve grown accustomed to a life of leisure.”

  She awoke, startled. Franklin stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, watching her in the bath. Instinctively, she covered her breasts with her hands.

  “No need to do that. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  She looked at him questioningly, thinking she might have imagined the angry inflection to his tone.

  “There’s something I want to ask you about.” He appeared to be very tightly wound. “I understand you were looking for Ludwik the other day. Joe said you called here and asked for him.”

  “I was just following up on some information Ludwik had promised me—about his camera.”

  “Oh, I see. And since when did you develop a passion for photography?”

 
Did she detect a note of jealousy in his tone? Or was it that he disliked having heard about it from Joe. She decided it was best to tell him, after all, about the strange telephone call from Ludwik and that she’d seen what appeared to be his camera sitting on Joe’s desk. Maybe then Franklin would understand why she had been asking so many questions.

  “Do you know when Ludwik left here?” she asked.

  “Joe said it was a few days ago. Why?”

  “And he was going back overseas right away?”

  He scowled at her. “What is this fascination you have with Ludwik?”

  “It’s not fascination. It’s just that certain things don’t make sense to me. Starting with why Ludwik would abandon the twins after eight years as their guardian.”

  “I told you why. He needed money. And maybe he thought they’d be better off here anyway.” Franklin grabbed a towel from the rack and tossed it toward the tub. It landed in a heap on the floor. “Stay in there too long and you’ll shrivel up like a raisin.”

  She was seeing a side of Franklin that was new to her. He was possessive, accusing her of being fascinated with Ludwik! It filled her with a peculiar sense of power.

  “The telephone call that Joe mentioned—” she began, still not moving from the tub. “Yes, I was looking for Ludwik. But it’s not what you think. And it’s not what I told Joe either. What happened was that Ludwik—”

  “You can keep your excuses to yourself. That’s not why I’m here. I came to tell you to get packed—right away.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “I thought we weren’t leaving until tomorrow.”