CHAPTER 2

WE RETURNED TO THE DISSECTING room to clean up and put things in order for Charlie. When we were about to leave, we waited for the Professor to lead us back across to University Hospital. Instead he said somewhat brusquely, “I wish to remain here for a bit and check some notes. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Thank you for your participation.”

I lingered briefly, wondering if the Professor would wish to talk with me privately, as he often did. But he had busied himself poring through an old journal, so I made for the door.

Turk was waiting for me outside, hands in his pockets, his weight on his left leg, the very picture of ease. “Well, Carroll,” he said, smiling affably to reveal a set of uneven teeth, “it seems that we’re all free for the evening.”

“Your wish granted,” I replied. “Now you can go to the theater.”

“What about you?” he asked. “You’re not going to spend the night prowling the wards, are you?”

“I haven’t decided,” I told him, although that was probably my intention. There was always something more to do and, in truth, I lacked an alternative.

“Well, then, why don’t you join me?”

“At the theater?” I wondered briefly at the coincidental timing of Turk’s intriguing reaction to the young girl in the mortuary and his unexpected cordiality, but could not see how the two could be related. Perhaps it was simply that my overtures had borne fruit after all.

“Absolutely. I’ll call for you at seven-thirty.”

As Turk ambled back to the hospital, I turned to see Simpson standing next to me. A strand of hair had fallen out from underneath her cap, and she absently shoved it back into place. “So, you’re spending the evening with the mysterious Turk?” She watched him recede down the path. “I suspect you will never be seen again in this hemisphere.”

“I’m told white slavers generally prefer women,” I replied.

“Fortunate, then, that he didn’t ask me,” said Simpson. “Although,” she added, “I expect that I would not be to Dr. Turk’s taste even in that capacity.”

“Nonsense,” I said quickly. “You’re a very appealing woman.”

“Appealing,” Simpson repeated with a knowing smile. When she smiled, which was all too infrequently in the hospital, it altered her face utterly. “Now, there is an ambiguous word.”

I began to babble a clarification, but she interrupted. “It’s perfectly all right, Ephraim. I’m naturally cantankerous. Where are you going tonight, by the way?”

When I told her, she said, “The theater? What are you going to see?”

“I forgot to ask.”

We started back along the path, not speaking for a few moments. I became increasingly uncomfortable in the silence, a symptom of my awkwardness in the presence of women, which I found odd, as I never thought of Simpson in those terms.

“We seem to have some time,” I said, the words tumbling out by reflex rather than intention. “Would you like to join me in the doctors’ lounge? I was going to have tea.”

Simpson stopped, uncertain, her head cocked to one side. “All right,” she replied with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, her reaction to my invitation much the same as mine to Turk’s. “I’ll meet you there after I change.”

When I had first gone on staff, “doctors’ lounge” had conjured up the image of a commodious, collegial, high-ceilinged chamber, furnished with wing chairs and divans, similar to the illustrations of English men’s clubs that I had seen in The Saturday Evening Post. In actuality, however, the room was small and uninviting, tucked into the southwest corner of the first floor, above the laundry. The only touch of gentility was Jefferson, the ancient, white-jacketed Negro attendant, on duty from eight in the morning until ten at night, serving tea or java, as well as surprisingly tasty biscuits.

I arrived first, obtained a cup of Earl Grey and two shortbreads, and then repaired to one of a pair of ocher club chairs in the far corner to wait. Only two others were in the room, Drs. Peters and Dodd. Both were elderly, from a generation of physicians that would soon pass into history. Each nodded to me perfunctorily.

Simpson arrived minutes later, wearing a dark blue wool dress with a high lace collar. While her garb was hardly à la mode, it was proper and not unfeminine. She had repinned her sorrel brown hair, which sparkled slightly in the afternoon sunlight that poured in through the west window. As she walked past, Peters leaned over to Dodd and whispered something. Both stared at her with undisguised distaste.

I stood and offered to fetch a beverage. I realized I probably would not have done so if we were both still on duty, but meeting Simpson thus, it would have been discourteous not to. She declined my offer, however, and got her own, not even glancing at the other two doctors as she walked across the room.

When she returned, she sat in the other chair and placed her cup on the table between us. After a few seconds, when she did not speak, I realized that it was I who would be forced to begin the conversation. I had too much respect for Simpson to open with platitudes, and so chose instead to say what had been on my mind.

“You puzzle me.”

“Why?” she asked, looking me straight on. Her eyes were flecked with amber. I found it odd that I had not noticed previously. “I don’t think of myself as an especially puzzling person.”

“You are so diligent … as dedicated to medicine as any man, yet …”

“Yet?”

“Perhaps I am perplexed that you seem to believe that you can achieve personal fulfillment without those domestic qualities from which most women acquire satisfaction.”

Simpson’s lips curled slightly, as if I had committed some terribly amusing faux pas at a social occasion, but she did not wish to embarrass me.

“I am not sure how to respond, Ephraim. How do you know that I have not achieved domestic fulfillment?”

“I don’t,” I replied, stumbling over the words. “I just assumed that … well, with the hours you spend here … and you are not married … do not have children …”

Simpson suddenly flushed. “You know nothing of my private life,” she snapped. “Nothing.” She paused, regaining her poise. “I think, Dr. Carroll,” she continued evenly, “that you shall be forced to accept that the nature of womanhood is changing. You can expect to find the Mary Simpsons of the world becoming more commonplace.”

“Of course,” I replied hastily. “I’m sorry. I had no intention of insulting you. I value you highly. I would rather work with you than anyone else on the staff.”

“Thank you,” she answered, seemingly assuaged but yet not prepared to grant full absolution. “I as well. And I am not insulted. I’ve become inured to the shortsightedness of men, although I did not expect such Paleolithic sentiments from you.” She sighed and her expression softened. “I expect, however, Ephraim, that in your case, ignorance is vestigial.”

“I suppose I should accept that as a compliment of sorts.”

“It is.”

“Surely you consider Dr. Osler an exception,” I said.

“Of course,” Simpson replied, taking a sip of tea. “I expect we both owe Dr. Osler more than we can ever repay. But what of your own domestic fulfillment? Do you expect to find it stepping out with Turk?”

“Not fulfillment, perhaps, but at least a relief from tedium.”

“Is your life tedious, Ephraim? I would not have thought so.”

“Each of us seems to have misjudged the other, then,” I replied. “I’ve lived in Philadelphia for almost two years and have not succeeded in establishing any society outside of my profession, and not a good deal within it.”

“But you are young and successful. There must be no shortage of opportunities.”

“I prefer to live simply. I rent a small sitting room and bedchamber on Montrose Street from a widow named Mrs. Mooney. Most of my free evenings are spent in my rooms with a book or journal.”

I looked carefully to see what sentiments my confession of dullness would engender, but Simpson seemed unperturbed. “Dedication to self-improvement is certainly admirable.”

“Admirable perhaps, but hardly gratifying,” I rejoined, encouraged by her response. “Except for those times when I am invited to dine with Dr. Osler or other members of the staff, or occasional visits to lecture halls or museums, my existence away from medicine is reminiscent of that of an aging widower or cloistered monk.”

“So your monasticism is not altogether by choice?”

“Is your life so different?” I asked.

To my surprise, Simpson paused, considering her response. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “It is. One is not required to seek self-improvement in isolation. But I daresay my ardor is no less than yours.”

I began to ask her for elaboration, but she stood to leave before I could speak. “I have enjoyed this, Ephraim, but I must go now. I have other commitments.”

“Are you sure?” I found myself not wanting our conversation to end.

“Another time perhaps. I really must go.” Her expression turned serious. “Be careful tonight,” she said. “With Turk, I mean.”

I thanked Mary but assured her that there was no reason for concern.

As she left the lounge, I watched until the door had closed behind her.