CHAPTER 12
IF TURK KNEW HE HAD been poisoned, his refusal to be taken to a hospital was not delirium, but instead lent credibility to his insistence that a doctor was trying to take his life. But which doctor? And why?
There were a plethora of facts with no confirmation—the cause of the young girl’s death, her identity, the medical problem for which Rebecca Lachtmann was seeking treatment, the identity of the man who had appeared at The Fatted Calf, and whether my hallucinatory sighting of the Professor had been hallucinatory after all. But the most pressing unknown, that which threatened not only my future but also everything that I had come to believe in, was what role, if any, the Professor might have had in the death of George Turk and possibly of Rebecca Lachtmann. Distrust coincidence indeed. I knew the instant that I withheld mention of Rebecca Lachtmann in Dr. Osler’s office that I feared he was involved in some way.
I needed to unburden myself, to talk the questions through. There was only one person in Philadelphia in whose judgment and discretion I trusted sufficiently.
I knocked on the rectory door at about seven and Reverend Powers himself answered. I inquired whether or not I was interrupting his dinner, but he assured me my visit was welcome. He escorted me through the hall, allowed me to pay my respects to Mrs. Powers, and bade me join him in his study.
He poured us each a small glass of port and we sat in two red leather wing chairs set on diagonals to each other, with a small, low table in between.
“I am in need of guidance,” I said.
“I’m happy to be of whatever help I can,” the Reverend replied, leaning back, allowing me to tell the tale at my own pace.
I took a sip of excellent port and then began. I detailed the incident in the Dead House, stressing that my observations had come at the end of a grueling day and that I could not be precisely certain of what I had seen. I then described my evening with Turk, attempting to be as complete and as unsparing of my own behavior as possible. I told him of Eakins, Rebecca Lachtmann, and Abigail Benedict. I omitted nothing, not even my suspicions of the Professor and my hallucinatory vision of him at The Fatted Calf. I found myself speaking as well of my work at the hospital, the great respect with which I and everyone in medicine held the Professor, and how intensely flattered I was by his decision to offer me such an important post at Johns Hopkins. By the time I had finished recounting Sergeant Borst’s visit, I had spoken for almost an hour.
“I am sorry, Reverend,” I said, embarrassed. “I have been interminable.”
“Not at all,” he said with an easy and genuine smile. “As you were flattered by Dr. Osler’s faith in you, I’m flattered by yours in me. In addition, it is an intriguing tale and does not strain concentration in the least.”
I thanked him for his understanding and asked what course of action he would advise.
“I cannot advise a course of action, Dr. Carroll,” he replied. “Every man’s actions must come from his own Christian sense of what is right. Perhaps, however, I can help you plumb your conscience.”
“I would be grateful.”
“You are, I take it, aware of no specific behavior by anyone involved that would require you at this point to notify the authorities?”
“That is true,” I replied. “The great dilemma in all of this is a lack of certainty on any front. The Professor may have known of Rebecca Lachtmann, or he may not have. He may have had some awareness of Turk’s activities—whatever they were—or he may have been as surprised as I. Rebecca Lachtmann may have been the cadaver in the Dead House, or she may be alive and safely secreted somewhere in the city. Miss Benedict may have feelings for me, or she may be pretending simply to secure my assistance. There has been sufficient peculiarity of behavior to create irrepressible doubt on nearly every count, but not enough to suggest resolution. I can be sure of nothing. I am a man of science, Reverend. I am used to the unknown, but not to ambivalence. I feel an increasing desperation for answers.”
“And you do not think Dr. Osler was the man to whom Dr. Turk referred in his comments to his landlady?”
“No.”
“Well, then, why not inform the authorities of your suspicions and let them try to make sense of things? They are certainly more capable of settling these issues than you.”
“I cannot, Reverend Powers. Sergeant Borst made little secret of his dislike of doctors and the man would certainly, at the very least, cause a scandal. One does not have to be guilty to be judged guilty. Even if he was completely without culpability, if Dr. Osler was seen by Johns Hopkins to have been involved in disreputable activities, even peripherally or simply by his association with Turk, the hospital might withdraw its offer. His career might be ruined.”
“Your future would also be in doubt, would it not?” asked the Reverend.
“There is no denying it,” I said. “But I ask you to believe that while I have no desire to risk all that I have worked for, in this I am guided by a different motivation.”
“He is not simply my superior. He is more like … There are two types of parenthood, Reverend Powers, one an accident of birth and the other an adoption by choice.”
“And you feel toward Dr. Osler as you would feel toward a father?”
“Yes.”
“But what of your own father?”
My own father? My mouth opened to once more begin the well-practiced legend, but I did not. “My own father was a drunk and a wife-beater. He was shot for desertion during the war.”
Reverend Powers nodded without evidencing surprise. I might have just told him that the sun would rise the next morning.
I realized in that moment how desperately I wanted to tell him, to lance the abscess of my memory, and the entire squalid tale came flooding out. “My father enlisted soon after Fort Sumter. The farm was doing poorly … mostly because of his own laziness and penchant for drink … and he thought, as did most people in Marietta, that the war would be short, and so the army would be a good way to acquire some ready cash. Events played out quite differently, of course, and in February 1862, he found himself in Kentucky, at Fort Donelson with Colonel Grant.
“My father was part of a brigade ordered to mount a frontal charge at the rebel lines. Instead, he turned and ran, and was shot down by one of his own officers. The wound suppurated and it was determined that his arm had to be amputated. As a deserter, he did not rate the regimental surgeon. The assistant assigned the task completely botched the surgery. Afterward, my father lay in the field hospital, moaning, loathed, and ostracized. When it was deemed he could travel, he was thrown out of the army and sent home. It was only because the officers felt that the loss of the arm and the agony he was forced to endure from the butchery were punishment enough that he was not shot.
“When he returned, he told my mother and my brothers that he had lost his arm in a heroic action, in which he had charged an enemy position to save his comrades. He was lauded and we had more callers at the farm than my mother could remember. A collection was even taken up in the church. It was only when one of the neighbors from the same troop returned home two months later with the genuine version of events that my father’s deceit was revealed. From that point on, our family was reviled.
“My father descended even deeper into bitterness, drink, and abuse. My brothers became responsible for almost all the chores, and my mother’s main task seemed to be to try and deflect his rage. After he died in ’76, I found out that I was the product of a night of whiskey and violence, which ended with him forcing himself on my mother.”
There. It was out. I sat, waiting for the look of revulsion. Reverend Powers, however, seemed completely at ease. He merely took a sip of port, rolling the stem of his glass between his fingers. There was no sound in the room, except the muffled ticking of the clock.
“So you chose to become a physician yourself in retribution?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I admitted. “Of everyone, my father held the most antipathy to the doctors who had treated his wound. ‘Robbers,’ he called them, as if it were they who were responsible for the loss of his limb, rather than his own cowardice.”
“But how could you make your ambition a reality with your family destitute?”
“I was always bookish. My mother decided that having a learner in the family was desirable, and sent scrawled notes to the schoolmaster, Reverend Audette, asking for help. He agreed to tutor me. I spent hour after hour in his study or on walks in the woods. He was the most educated man I’d ever met.
“After my father died, he encouraged me to join a seminary, but once he realized that my calling was in science, offered to help find the right place to study. He said that the finest medical colleges were back East, but eastern schools were costly and attracted students who would look down on someone from an Ohio farm. A boy like me, from the West, he said, should look to the West. The country was opening up and every new town would need a doctor. He suggested Rush Medical College in Chicago and I agreed.
“There remained the question of cost, of course. One day, Reverend Audette asked me into his study and offered to endow my education. When I protested, he told me that I would be doing a service to him by accepting. He was childless and widowed and said that he had more money than he needed to last out his days. To aid me in pursuing such an honorable career would provide him with posterity.”
“You must have been very grateful,” said Reverend Powers.
“I have never ceased being grateful,” I replied.
“So it seems you have done him a great service as well, then, by justifying his trust. What has he had to say of your great achievements?”
“He died just before I left Chicago.”
“I’m sorry. And your mother and brothers … they must be extremely proud.”
“Yes … well … I send them money.”
“Ah.” Reverend Powers thought for a moment. “Which do you think is the greater need, then,” he asked, “to justify Reverend Audette’s trust or to wipe away the sins of your family?”
I was stunned by the question. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “Do you think of my family as sinful?”
“Do you?”
Did I? The immediate answer was yes, that I despised them all … my father for being a drunk and coward, my mother for allowing him to abuse her without protest, my brothers for being uneducated louts, and all of them for wanting nothing from me but pieces of silver. But was it true? Or was I merely ashamed?
“No,” I said. “Not sinful.”
“Perhaps it is Dr. Osler then. Do you feel a need to justify his trust as well?”
“Of course. It is only natural.”
“Yes,” said Reverend Powers. “Only natural. But do you feel that he has an equal need to justify your trust in him?”
“Dr. Osler owes me nothing,” I said with finality.
“Of course.” Reverend Powers replaced his glass and rose from his chair. “I hope I was of help, Dr. Carroll,” he said, but with a note of distinct warmth.
“You gave me no answers,” I said.
“That is not my role, Dr. Carroll,” he replied. “I was hoping simply to allow you to see the questions.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You must trust me when I tell you that you know all you need to know. The voice of Christ lives in all of us. Some simply listen better than others. You are one of those who listen quite carefully. I have no doubt that you will take the correct course.”
I was flattered at his words, but nonetheless departed feeling less than satisfied. I had arrived with questions and was evidently supposed to leave with more questions. Still, I had too much faith in Reverend Powers to simply dismiss his remarks. Perhaps I was asking the wrong questions. And if that was true, what should I be asking?
When I returned home, I discovered that the boy I had hired earlier in the day to retrieve Turk’s books had been efficient in the task, and two boxes awaited me in my rooms. One of the boxes contained the Greeks and the other the Bancrofts. They were, as I had instructed, packed carefully, and I found myself comforted as I removed one volume after another of Plato, Aristotle, and Thucydides, and placed them in my own bookshelves. I decided to read one of them before bed, and chose a volume of the Dialogues. After all, Socrates had imparted wisdom by means of the interrogative. Perhaps I might glean the Reverend’s meaning from the pages of Turk’s books.
I remained in my sitting room long into the night, the light from the gas lamp casting a warming glow, reading the wisdom of the ancients until at last I felt that I could rest.