Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain (9 page)

Dressed in a top hat and shadbelly coat of broadcloth, Doctor Willis Steenwycks carried a whip, though he never once struck his mare with it. The cool air bestowed a healthy glow to his skin, and even as he gazed absently ahead he appeared content. Only his wife, Elizabeth, and his closest friends at the philological society would note his wrinkled brow and know him to be preoccupied. He had, in fact, been troubled all morning by his headstrong daughter, Edith.

The girl, a comely brown-haired child with her mother's eyes and narrow shoulders, was practically a woman. She'd completed her schooling: she spoke French and played piano — Mozart and Bach, as well as the latest sonatas by Dussek; she wrote sums as well as the doctor could; she was well versed in the natural sciences and had much of the
first book of the
Scientific Dialogues
committed to memory; she tutored her six-year-old brother — a slight, pale boy who tended to sleep under his bed where no one could see him — and helped him tie laces and fasten buttons. She'd been taught grace and good posture; she knew how to receive men and how to flatter them. Yet she took no suitor, despite numerous offers. Instead she spent her days at Newgate Prison helping George Stuart, a queer Quaker reformer, “improve the prisoners' condition.”

Doctor Steenwycks was, he admitted, partially to blame. Ever since George Washington and the capital moved away from New York to Philadelphia, then to Washington, D.C., he'd felt such a dearth of intellectualism that he encouraged his daughter to seek out what few thoughtful men remained. As much as the doctor mistrusted George Stuart's radical ideas about reform, the man was well connected. With him came possibilities, potential mates, mates other than Edmund, the banker whom Elizabeth had handpicked for the girl. The boy was earnest enough, but his mind was as soft as the line of his chin. Modern women should have choice, and the doctor hoped that his daughter would find her own well-bred young man and leave good works to the less fortunate, who required such pastimes in lieu of fine dining. He didn't want his daughter to settle for anything less than she desired. He didn't want her to reach his age and begin to wonder, What if I had married someone else?
What if the perfect lover still waits for me, only I gave in too soon? What if happiness, perfect wedded bliss, exists? What if … And so he let the girl continue her work and let his wife's hard stares wash over him — at least until last night, the girl's sixteenth birthday.

“She said she won't ever marry, not when so many poor souls need her so much more,” Elizabeth sobbed as the doctor stroked her hair. The sixteen years of their marriage had taught him that outbursts such as these required immediate attention, and his evening brandy languished on the bedside table beside a smoke-blackened lamp and a slice of sweet currant bread. Elizabeth hated crumbs, particularly in the bedclothes, but Doctor Steenwycks enjoyed a late-evening repast and, with some trepidation, did on occasion defy his wife's wishes. The house was his, after all: 62 Orchard Street, an establishment three stories tall, with four chimneys and both a front and rear porch. His father had built it after Willis's half brother, Lubbert, died in the war fires that burned down the old residence on Crown Street. Best to start over, he'd said, and he purchased a substantial stretch of the old Delancy farm. From their new back parlor, first Theodorus and then Willis himself provided the best medical care in New York. Framed letters from four senators, mayor's wives, and world-renowned academics, dating as far back as 1718, attested to the family talent. Doctor Willis Steenwycks's fees, which Elizabeth collected
and transformed into flocked wallpaper or a Turkish carpet or a string of pearls, were the highest in all of New York.

“I'll speak with her,” he said.

“You'll speak with her at once.” Elizabeth pulled away, her face red and puffy. “I won't have her going to that horrid prison. Enough! She'll be a penniless old maid, like my poor dear sister.”

“No, no,” the doctor said. Elizabeth's sister, who lived on nothing but fish heads and sour milk — or at least so it seemed by her smell — would have nothing to do with his lovely daughter. Still, he said nothing to Edith the next morning, even when the girl stood before him coaxing her young brother from the corner of the china cabinet, where he was attempting to hide a handful of feathers, not a dead bird, the doctor decided, though he detected what appeared to be a pronged foot and the curve of a wing. The doctor waved good-bye when Edith donned her hat and set out on foot for the prison. Not until Elizabeth threatened to go to the prison herself did he agree to fetch the child.

“It's for her own good,” Elizabeth said, and the words still echoed in his head as he reigned in Tulip and turned onto Amos Street toward the imposing walled structure that stood on the river's shore. He would have a few words with George Stuart and then see to it that Edith returned home. Her days at the prison had come to a close.

N
EWGATE
P
RISON, WHICH
had opened its imposing arched wooden doors nearly twenty-four years earlier, rose like a fortress at the edge of New York, complete with a single domed turret and thick stone wall. The main gate was shut fast when Doctor Steenwycks arrived, and he had to tie his horse and wait for the sentry to guide him inside.

The warden's office was little more than a cell, the doctor noted as he introduced himself to George Stuart, a small, gray-haired man in dark trousers and an ill-fitting jacket — a man doomed, by appearance alone, to work with society's outcasts. How the warden had managed to gain so much influence troubled the doctor, in the way that magic tricks did, or a passion for music, or his son's tendency to spend long hours beneath the pantry shelves — all things beyond his comprehension.

“A pleasure,” George said. “Your daughter tells me you're a medical man. Please sit down.”

The doctor sat in the room's one chair, the cane seat worn nearly through, likely by George himself, who dragged the piece from the far side of his desk so that his guest could rest more comfortably. George leaned on the desktop and waited for the doctor to announce his purpose.

“A fine day,” Doctor Steenwycks said, reluctant to express his concerns immediately. George Stuart was well
respected and not a man to cross lightly. Single-handedly he had convinced the state legislature to fund prison reforms, and people whispered that he had connections to the governor and even the president. Besides, the message the doctor carried in truth belonged to Elizabeth, and the words felt heavy on his tongue.

“I have yet to go outside,” George said.

The doctor nodded. Generous men, those devoted to selfless causes, made him uneasy, and he could think of no other small talk. “I've come about my daughter.”

“A fine girl,” George said. “Very kind and capable.”

The doctor prided himself on his role in his daughter's upbringing. It was he who had found Mrs. Isabella Graham's Academy for Women and he who sat with his daughter as she learned arithmetic and logic. Years ago he'd hoped his firstborn would be a boy, but now that he had both a daughter and son, he realized that he much preferred to dwell on Edith, who required his guidance.

“It's time Edith marries,” the doctor said.

“She'd make any man a fine wife.”

“Very true. But she'll never find a husband among your prisoners.”

“Once a man's been rehabilitated —”

“My daughter will not marry a murderer.”

“We have only arsonists and burglars here,” George said.
His eyes were the blue-gray of lichen or mold, and he didn't smile. Did he truly believe his prisoners suitors?

Doctor Steenwycks shook his head. “She leaves today.”

“Would you like to collect her yourself?” He led the doctor through the narrow stone hallways lit dimly by the pale daylight.

The doctor never imagined the prison to be so large, nor that so many criminals had been apprehended. French Negroes, held four to a cell, stared at him with no sign of the remorse rehabilitation promised. Swarthy men in filth-covered work suits cussed, dirty fingers wrapped around iron bars. The air hung rank with decomposing straw and mildew.

“Not a place for a woman,” he said.

“The women are in separate quarters.” George smiled. “They have a separate recreational area as well. It's time for the afternoon exercises.”

George unlatched a heavy wooden door and stepped aside so that the doctor could better view the small stone-walled courtyard. Packed dirt with matted brown clumps of dead grasses stretched beneath the bare feet of nearly two dozen women dressed in poorly fitted gowns that dragged along the ground on the shorter prisoners and barely covered the knees of the tallest — a redhead, with only one good eye and a mouthful of blackened teeth. She
frightened even the doctor, who stood safely above her on an observation deck.

“She's new,” George explained. “Got here yesterday. Stealing sweets.”

The redhead gazed up at the men and laughed.

“When she first arrived, she was raving, tearing at her skin. But Edith spoke to her. Your girl works magic. Another week and even this madwoman will be healed.”

The redhead had both hands on her breasts and was leering up at them. Her nails sank into the fabric of her dress, which she ripped open. Pale and bared, her breasts inspired the other women, who began to pull at their clothes as well. Hysterical, all of them — or worse, downright mad. One condition invariably led to the other, or at least so Doctor Steenwycks believed. He'd seen hysterical women on the streets — women so mad they'd forgotten language — and he had to walk briskly in order to avoid them. Just the week before, a young mother, her unfortunate babe pressed tight to a naked breast, had run after him, demanding small change and a crust of bread. The impropriety shocked him even now.

“Stop! Stop that right now.”

Doctor Steenwycks turned at the familiar voice. Edith, dark hair pulled away from her face in a loose bun, was among the prisoners. She had a confidence he had never
noted before, and he wasn't sure the change suited her. She looked too mature, less like a girl and more like a spinster.

“Come with me,” Edith said. She placed a hand on the madwoman's forehead, stroked her hair. Silence fell over the courtyard.

“Edith!” the doctor called, but the prisoner, two feet taller and far broader in the shoulders than his daughter, had already accepted the girl's hand. The two strode together toward the courtyard door.

“Yes, your daughter has a way with prisoners,” George said, his tone softening, his thin lips nearly forming a smile. “Even the most desperate and depraved — particularly those — respond to her. Respect her. Come, we can meet her by the cells.”

Had he known the nature of his daughter's service, Doctor Willis Steenwycks would have come for her long before. He'd imagined that she read to the prisoners or taught them the Bible — tasks she could perform while the criminals remained behind bars.

“We have fifty-four eight-person cells here,” George explained as he led the doctor down a short flight of stairs and through two more passageways, “and well over five hundred inmates — the largest rehabilitation facility in New York.” He selected a key from his ring and unlocked an iron-braced door. “Your daughter —”

“Edith,” the doctor said, more firmly now that the girl stood before him, beyond the threshold and so close he could reach forward and nearly touch her. Behind her, the redheaded woman pressed her face against the barred cell window. “Your mother and I —”

“Father! It's so kind of you to visit. You've met Mr. Stuart, I see.”

“Yes.” The doctor endured his daughter's embrace, certain she would not respond as fondly to the words he must now share. “Your mother and I need you to come home.”

“Is everything all right?” Concern crossed the girl's face, and she stepped back.

“Your mother is very upset.” Doctor Steenwycks reached out and took the girl's hand.

“I'll come home right after work. I promise.”

“Edith.” The doctor pulled the girl to his side. “You don't understand.”

“If I leave, there'll be no one to help them.” She turned to George, her eyes soft with a plea for his confirmation. When George said nothing, she frowned. “I suppose just this once — if it's truly important.”

“I'll stay later tomorrow,” she promised George, who looked past her to a mess of thrown porridge on the dusty prison floor.

“Your father —” George began.

“Your mother,” Doctor Steenwycks interrupted. “Your mother and I have decided that your time here is done.”

The meaning of her father's visit had at last sounded, and the doctor could feel his daughter's understanding in the muscles that tensed beneath her dress.

“This is my work, my calling,” she said.

She struggled, attempting to free herself from his restraining arm.

“Edith, darling, you're hardly acting a lady.” The doctor smiled at George, though the warden did not return the pleasantry. “You are a role model, a young lady. Come now, let's go home.”

W
HEN THE DOCTOR
led Edith into the front parlor of 62 Orchard Street, the house smelled of butter. The cook had baked sugar cookies, a rarity reserved for special occasions. The fire was lit and the harpsichord stood open, bared keys inviting Edith to play. On most afternoons, the instrument remained closed and silent. A watercolor landscape for which the girl had won a blue ribbon hung on the wall, where it clashed with the red and gold wallpaper. For years the picture had remained in the bedroom cabinet for precisely this reason. Elizabeth, who usually retired for a nap in the early afternoon, sat on the couch, one arm wrapped around her young son. She'd been picking lice
from the boy's scalp, or at least she had a cross expression, which the doctor attributed to contemplation of the minute and irritating. She extended an arm in greeting. “How nice of you to join us.”