The Doctor and the Diva (19 page)

“That won’t be necessary, thank you,” the tallest of the lot said. “We’ll keep our business here brief.” He explained that he was an attorney, and he pointed out that the man to his left was the brother-in-law of the governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. “We appear here with regard to a matter of great personal concern to all of us. At one time or another, each of our wives has been a patient of yours.

“You stand accused of repeated attempts to seduce Mr. Farquahr’s wife,” the lawyer announced, “and though Caroline Farquahr has managed to resist, it seems that Mr. Appleton’s wife, Amanda, has been subjected to the same type of advances. In fact, Mr. Appleton’s wife admits to having succumbed.”

Ravell’s collar felt soaked at the place where his hair touched it, but he did not dare to take a handkerchief and wipe the back of his neck. He stood before them and said nothing. He did not move.

The attorney went on talking as Caroline Farquahr’s husband gave hard, sharp nods of satisfaction, his eyes never leaving Ravell’s face. Obviously her husband regarded this as his rightful bounty—to enter this office and watch the reaction of his prey.

How long had they been lurking outside his office this morning? Ravell wondered.

Even before the lawyer described the proceedings they intended to initiate against him, Ravell foresaw how absolute it would be, the shunning. He understood at once that this encounter was only the beginning. He heard only random words and phrases as the attorney went on speaking in dire terms:
investigation . . . censure . . . Board of Obstetrics . . . American Medical Association . . . your license revoked . . . the possibility of criminal charges . . .

He saw how patients would vanish from his waiting room. Even if female patients remained loyal, their husbands would forbid them from submitting to any examination by him. Even if he moved to another city or state, the vengeance and righteousness of men like these would follow him.

The foursome departed just as the first patients arrived. Passing through his waiting room, the four gentlemen gave the arriving females concerned, regretful glances—as though they disliked entrusting any woman to Ravell’s care, even for another day.

After they’d gone, Ravell fell into his desk chair and turned to the window and watched the color blanch from the sky. In their indignation these men did not even suspect the worst breach Ravell knew he had committed—but God had already punished him for that.

He suspected that it had been Caroline, not Amanda, who had sent the posse here. An arsonist—that’s what Caroline was, and she would not be satisfied until she’d hurled torches through the windows of his practice.

Amanda’s frankness had always been a risk; she had no talent for lying. When confronted by her husband or a group of inquisitors, she must have found it difficult not to speak the truth.

Dear Hartley,
he wrote in his mind,
Please disregard my recent letter about a visit next fall because you may be seeing me on your island of coconut palms far sooner than that. Everything has changed for me since I mailed my last letter. My career as a physician has unexpectedly ended. I must begin a new life as far away from this one as possible.

T
he barbershop smelled of men—the pungent spice of Havana cigars and rum and aftershave. White towels protected men’s clothing like bibs. Peter savored the camaraderie he felt whenever he stepped into the place. It was not simply an establishment where one paid one’s fifteen cents for a shave; the shop was more intimate than the Club, really. Men came and went daily and fell into reclining leather chairs and spoke their opinions and released their cares to barbers whom they trusted to draw sharp-edged blades across their jaws and throats.

As Peter entered one morning in early March, he noticed one customer engrossed in a copy of the
Police Gazette
. Another rather portly gentleman pressed his belly against the counter as he trimmed his cigar with a device that resembled a miniature guillotine. The fellow puffed with relish before settling into a chair.

A wall held dozens of shaving mugs, each one bearing an individual customer’s personal insignia. The barber pulled down Peter’s mug and had him swiftly draped and lathered up.

“I suppose you’re aware of the troubles with your friend Doctor Ravell,” the barber said, his expression grim.

Before Peter could express his perplexity, the cigar-smoking fellow in the next chair gave a hard cough that sounded like a laugh. “That one,” the fat man said. “That’s a doctor who enjoys reaching up the skirts of half the wives in the Back Bay!”

The man reading the
Police Gazette
glanced up from his pages. “Let’s hope they put him behind bars. Quite an earful we’ll all get after his trial.”

“Trial?” Peter winced. “Are you talking about Doctor Ravell?”

“It’s all allegations at this point,” the barber said.

As the barber and the two other customers recounted bits and pieces they’d heard, Peter thought he might choke. In the mirror his jaw looked white, painted with whipped cream. He wrestled his way to an upright position and turned to face them.

“I happen to know Ravell quite well,” Peter declared, “and I don’t believe a word these women are saying. They’ve made it up—like those young girls in Salem, pointing fingers at witches. . . . God knows, a man in Ravell’s profession must be vulnerable to all sorts of female hysterics.”

The barber stepped back, silent and cautious as he wielded the straight-edged razor. He waited for Peter to recline in his chair. Then he dipped the badger brush back in the mug and continued to stir.

“Well,” the portly customer added more quietly, “I could never be a doctor of obstetrics myself. Too many temptations, if you ask me.” He flourished his cigar in the air.

“Ravell is a scientist,” Peter went on. “A brilliant one. He’s meticulous in his techniques. . . . If you don’t believe my opinion, I suggest you ask a couple who were childless for nineteen years of marriage. Under Ravell’s care, the couple managed to have twins. That wasn’t luck—that was the work of a superlative physician.”

The barber, of course, knew about the little daughter Peter and his wife had lost just two months previously. In the mirror Peter noticed how the barber glanced sternly—warningly—at the other clients. To sharpen the long-handled razor, the barber drew the blade with slow strokes—almost meditatively—over the leather strap that hung from a post. He waited for the redness and fury to drain from Peter’s face before he began the actual shaving. The barber said nothing as he completed his work. Peter sensed doubts behind the barber’s reserve—the man was clearly surprised that Peter would rush to defend a doctor who’d delivered a lifeless child.

“I
’m ruined here,” Ravell told Peter and Erika. “You must see that.” “Where will you go?” they asked him.

“My friend in Trinidad has asked me to manage one of his estates. I plan to start a new life.”

The three of them had gathered before the fireplace in the library, where Peter unlocked a portable case that held crystal decanters. He poured shots of whiskey for himself and Ravell. “Why,” Peter asked, slapping two coasters against a table, “should a couple of women be allowed to wreck a superb doctor’s career?”

“I have to blame myself for what has happened,” Ravell said. “I’m sorry to inform you that I’m no saint.”

“You’re an unmarried man,” Peter said. “Maybe it’s nobody’s business what occurred or didn’t occur.” He opened a box of cigars, offering one to Ravell, taking another for himself. “If George Appleton’s wife seduces a man, is it entirely the man’s fault? Or is it also hers?”

Erika removed her high-heeled shoes and sat on the horsehair divan with her legs tucked under her. “When?” she asked quietly. “How soon will you be moving away?”

“In six days.”

Six days!
She closed her eyes, suppressing the liquid that welled under the lids, but it was no use. When her eyes blinked open, her vision blurred. Slow tears ran into the corners of her mouth, and her tongue licked salt and wetness. Peter got up and slid onto the divan next to her. He pressed a clean handkerchief into her hand and stroked the folds of her skirt, patting her covered knee.

“I’m useless to you both at this point,” Ravell said. He went to a window and looked down at the street. “You don’t know what it’s like. It gets worse every day.” Ravell took a seat on an ottoman close to the fire. He unbuttoned his vest before continuing.

“A man chased me down Marlborough Street yesterday afternoon,” Ravell said. “He came after me with his cane raised.” Ravell sounded helpless, perplexed. “I delivered four of his children, and his wife’s last confinement was exceedingly difficult. For three days I kept returning to their house, and for those three nights I hardly slept. He and his wife seemed terribly grateful at the time. . . . Now the husband chases me with a stick.”

“We’ll come visit you on your coconut plantation,” Peter offered.

“I’d like that,” Ravell said.

Before Ravell left, he promised to write down the names and addresses of other specialists for them to see, and he said he would leave them his boyhood friend Hartley’s address as well. The day before he was due to sail, he stopped by the house to drop off an envelope. Peter was still at work. The maid led the doctor into the music room, where Erika sat at the piano singing Mozart’s “Ridente la calma,” which she had sung like a lullaby throughout her pregnancy. Sometimes the melody and lyrics soothed her, but at other times the aria reminded her so acutely of the baby that she had to stop singing it.

A hundred things remained for Ravell to do before he left the following day, he explained. He did not have time to stay for dinner, nor did he have time for tea. “It’s just hello and good-bye, I’m afraid,” he said. He paused for a last, lingering look around the music room, at the striped wallpaper and the lacquered piano. The pink fringe that hung from a lampshade trembled as his elbow brushed it.

“I won’t forget the night of Peter’s birthday.” He gave a faint smile. “Hearing you sing here.”

She nodded, prepared to escort him out. Just before he reached the music room door, his head fell to one side and he seemed to buck in frustration as he asked, “Is there anything you want to
say
to me?”

Her chest went concave with helplessness and she raised her right arm toward him in a limp salute. “I’d like to give you a hug,” she admitted.

Eagerly he bent, his arms opening to catch her waist as he pulled her against him. She whispered against his ear, “You were so wonderful and so warm!” Her arms reached up, casting a loose wreath of love around him.

Sounds of relief came from him, and this surprised her. Had he thought that she would hate him, blame him for the baby’s fate? For an instant he drew himself away to warn, “You’re going to make me cry.” Under his dark brows, his lashes batted together. During those blinks he reminded her of a four-year-old boy who stood bashfully at his mother’s knee, permitting himself to be hugged.