A New York Haunting: Pt. 01

Dr. Schuller nodded. "What did she do next?"

"Well, a man started getting fresh with her, and she left the terrace."

"A man?" Dr. Schuller repeated. "What sort of man? What did he do?"

"A man in his mid-30s, dressed as a gentleman --- a suit, waistcoat, pocket watch, walking stick. He appeared to be a stranger to her. I could not hear what he said from where I was, but he made a rude gesture with his stick." Anders demonstrated the motion.

The doctor's eyebrows shot up. "Well, we certainly don't need Dr. Freud to interpret that, do we? How did she respond?"

"She rebuffed him most coldly, stalking away without a word and promptly leaving the terrace."

A smile lifted the corners of Dr. Schuller's mouth, and he said something in German. To Anders' inquiring look, he said, "Good for her."

More questions followed Anders' description of the girl's transaction with the odd man on the Mall: what did the man look like, how old was he, how close together did they stand, how long was the conversation, to which cab company did the hansom belong?

"So, she met a man of some means but questionable character in a public place and exchanged money for a mysterious package," Dr. Schuller summarized with a quizzical expression.

Anders nodded.

"Did she appear to have a prior acquaintance with the man?"

"No, sir. The exchange was quite formal and short. They did not even shake hands."

"You say she gave him a stack of gold coins --- how many coins?"

Eyeing his cupped hand, Anders speculated, "Maybe ten?"

"Ten gold coins of uncertain denomination --- that could be anywhere from twenty to two hundred dollars," mused Schuller. "And the irregular, lumpy package fit into her purse. What could it be ... what could it be?"

Anders shook his head, equally puzzled.

"Did she give him anything else? A card ... a letter ... anything else at all?"

"No, sir."

Schuller's lips pursed. "What was her demeanor over the period of your observation? Did you witness any evidence of a disconsolate state? Did she weep ... or ... eye the train tracks ... or linger on the bank of the lake?"

Again, Anders shook his head. "If anything, her predominant mood seemed to be one of agitation --- for example, in the wild motions of her sketching." After a minute of silence, he cleared his throat. "Dr. Schuller, do you think what she purchased could be something she might use to harm herself? Like a gun? Or poison?"

The doctor frowned. "An excellent question, Mr. Røkke." He sat back in his chair, silent for several moments as he twisted the cap of his pen. At length, he sighed. "Our data are incomplete. It appears that we must repeat the exercise. Would you be willing to again follow her after her appointment the day after next?"

Anders sorted through his troubled thoughts. He nodded. "Yes, sir."

Chapter 5. IMPROPER MUSINGS

After leaving Dr. Schuller's mansion that afternoon, Anders rode his bicycle across town to the Columbia medical school campus near Columbus Circle. He found Dr. Mullenix in the anatomy lab, just finishing a session of Operative Surgery on the Cadaver with a group of Anders' fourth year classmates.

"There's my favorite alienist!" joked the surgeon, removing his oilskin apron. He washed his hands at a sink near the entrance to the laboratory.

"What procedure did you demonstrate today, sir?"

"Leg amputation --- above the knee. And I found a jim-dandy leg for our article's diagrams. Come look at this specimen." Mullenix dried his hands and led the way along the row of dissection tables. The scent of formaldehyde permeated the air. "He's a strapping young fellow like you --- a casualty of gang violence in the Five Points neighborhood. Unsurprisingly, no one claimed the body."

A lab assistant was covering the cadavers with oilskin sheets; Dr. Mullenix motioned for him to uncover a body at the end of the row. The odor of formaldehyde wafted up even more strongly as the sheet was drawn back. There on the table was indeed a young man of impressive physique, clearly dispatched from this world by numerous stab wounds in the chest and abdomen. An old scar distorted his cheek, and there were tattoos on both forearms. His left leg had been amputated at midthigh, and the stump was closed with a neat row of sutures.

"The leg is on a shelf in the storeroom, wrapped up and labeled with our names." Mullenix motioned with his chin towards the rear of the lab. "The femoral artery is a lulu --- as thick as my little finger. It will be a splendid specimen for the diagrams."

"Sounds perfect."

Dr. Mullenix rolled down his sleeves as they headed out of the laboratory. "I also have good news about the Paris trip. The dean approved your special clerkship."

Anders' eyebrows lifted. "That's wonderful, sir." For his senior surgery clerkship elective, he and Mullenix had requested permission for him to travel to Paris to assist the surgeon and his French co-author in writing a surgery textbook.

His mentor nodded. "With your academic record, that collaboration, and our articles --- if we can get the current one published quickly --- you'll secure any residency position you want. Have you the draft with you?"

Opening his knapsack, Anders retrieved his notebook. They halted in the hallway next to a window where the late afternoon sun cast a slanted rectangle of light upon the floor. "This won't do at all," was Mullenix's immediate comment as he looked at the page. "It's entirely too legible. You have a year to get this handwriting into some respectable disorder."

Anders grinned.

The surgeon twirled the tip of his dark mustache as he read the outline. By-and-by, he nodded his head. "Excellent work. Just flesh this out and start on the diagrams." He gestured towards the stairs. "Come to my office. I just received the prototype clamp from my colleague in the engineering department. You must render a verdict on whether he accomplished our vision."

As they walked, Mullenix shared his woes over being commandeered by his wife into planning a dinner party.

A thought occurred to Anders, provoking a dilemma. To pose the question smoldering in his mind about 'Mrs. Smith' would only be inquiring about what was common knowledge among people who were cognizant of such happenings. He himself, ever engrossed in his studies, had evidently missed this news story. His landlady Mrs. Sullivan often discussed Society page gossip with the female lodgers, but he had never paid attention to these conversations. She might be someone to ask, but as Dr. Mullenix actually moved in the relevant circles, Anders trusted that his knowledge would be more accurate.

Simple curiosity about publicly known facts was not a violation of a patient's privacy, he reasoned.

He cleared his throat. "Dr. Mullenix, are you familiar with an incident in a Society family involving a bizarre death that left a very young widow? Perhaps a year or so ago?"

The man nodded. "The Cornelissen girl, you must mean --- Ondine Van der Veen née Cornelissen --- ward of her aunt and uncle, Adele and Warren Cornelissen."

Ondine, Anders repeated to himself. Out loud, he said, "That must be the one. Cornelissen --- why does that name sound familiar?" He searched his memory as they exited the stairs on the third floor. Then it came to him: the lecture hall where most of the first-year lectures were given. "Cornelissen Hall."

"There it is," Dr. Mullenix said. "They're an old money family, true Knickerbockers. Her brother received his medical degree at Columbia and their parents donated millions to the medical school before their deaths several years ago."

Anders absorbed this news. After a moment he asked, "What happened to the Cornelissen girl, sir?"

"With that sterling family name, it was no wonder the would-be suitors lined up, even before her debut at age eighteen --- despite her not being the most socially polished girl among the top 400 families."

Regarding his mentor with a puzzled expression, he murmured, "Sir?"

Mullenix exchanged greetings with a faculty colleague passing in the hall before replying, "She has a reputation for being an unusually reserved, quiet girl. I recall my wife and her friends being scandalized by Ondine's refusal to have a coming-out reception. Her aunt enforced the convention, but the girl played a trump card, refusing all her prestigious suitors and, a couple months after her debut, marrying Peter Van der Veen, an unknown, nouveau riche bounder --- much to her aunt's dismay. Made his fortune in gun manufacturing, I believe."

Halting at his office, the surgeon unlocked the door. "In the end, Fate had the last laugh. Peter Van der Veen collapsed at the wedding reception --- dead from a heart defect, the autopsy concluded."

Dr. Mullenix shook his head at Anders' shocked expression and teased, "See the scandalous stories you miss when you don't pay attention to the world around you." With a knowing look, his mentor continued, "Why do you ask about Ondine Van der Veen? She is a beauty, true, but you'll need to make a name for yourself --- and some money --- to even be considered as a suitor." He winked.

Anders felt the heat in his cheeks and mumbled, "Some of the fellows were talking about her at the rowing club. They were joshing me for not knowing who she is."

Mullenix nodded, rummaging in his desk drawer. "Ah, here it is. Clap your eyes upon that gadget." He handed Anders a delicate vascular clamp.

In wonder, he turned the smooth steel instrument over in his hands, scarcely believing that the idea Mullenix and he had conjured up and sketched the past summer had come to fruition. He opened and closed it several times, testing it on a small stack of paper, then gently on the pad of his little fingertip. "It's perfect," he said at last.

"My view as well," Mullenix said with a grin. "I'll look into securing a patent."

*****

Damn! How many times he had begun reading page forty in Dr. Schuller's translation of Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams? At the desk in his boardinghouse room, Anders' attention had been relentlessly sabotaged from his nightly studying by a disquieted contemplation of the psychoanalyst's enigmatic patient, Ondine Van der Veen.

Upon his return home, he had gently drawn the stocking out of his jacket pocket and examined it, awed at the fact it had been upon Ondine's leg. He had run it between his fingers, appreciating the dull sheen of the soft silk. It was clearly of fine quality, no doubt expensive. The far end showed the intriguing imprints of her dainty toes, while the top had ribbon garter loops.

Reverently, he had held it to his nose. Nothing noteworthy had struck his olfactory senses along the leg --- neither perfumes nor powder were detectable. But at the toe was the faintest hint of warmth and skin, the telltale that it had recently adorned a female leg. With a slow exhalation of breath, Anders had carefully folded the delicate garment and set it on top of his dresser. There was no way to return it to her without revealing his surveillance.

He pondered his conversation with Dr. Mullenix that afternoon. The man's revelations about the Cornelissen family, although thought-provoking, offered no further insight into the soundness of the girl's mind. If anything, the conundrum was only deepened.

By-and-by, Anders stood up from the desk, abandoning reading in favor of practicing his hand knots. Straightforward, one-handed tying he had already mastered, as evidenced by the multiply knotted strings hanging from his desk and dresser drawer handles. To increase the challenge, his latest enterprise consisted of an empty tin can on which he had fashioned a removable bottom. On the inside of the metal disc, he fastened a doubled length of string for him to repetitively knot, training his fingers to maneuver within the restricted space of the cylinder, thus simulating suturing within the confined spaces inside a patient's body.

Intermittent creaking floors and muted thumps attended his fellow boarders settling in for the night. As Anders' agile fingers moved, his mind returned to the subject of his preoccupation.

He would be following her again on Friday. "Ondine," he murmured out loud. His belly twinged with anticipation. But a moment later, his sense of unease at the covert surveillance fought with his excitement at the prospect of seeing her again.

Excitement?! Dæven! What was he thinking? She was a patient!

Ever since the medical school curriculum had taken him from the lecture hall to the wards and clinics, Anders had prided himself on maintaining a strict, professional comportment with even the most attractive female patients, even during the most intimate examinations --- unlike many of his medical school classmates, whom he had witnessed being forward or flirtatious with patients, or had overheard sharing indecorous observations amongst themselves.

And his rectitude on this issue had not even required a suppression of wayward thoughts ... his analytic mind had always segregated itself from that part governing his primal bodily urges and had never been tempted to countermand the division.

Until now.

Why this girl? Why now? Was Dr. Schuller's warning correct about the greater inherent risk of developing feelings of attraction in the field of psychoanalysis? About so-called counter-transference? Was that even the applicable term in this scenario? He had not exchanged a single word with this young woman. Could there be counter-transference without preceding transference?

Of course, the present circumstances were hardly comparable to his past clerkships --- he had never secretly (nor openly) followed a patient from the clinic or ward, observing their activities. Could such an exercise endanger professional detachment?

Meditating upon the perturbed reaction of his mind and body to the innocently provocative scene at the fountain, he identified another confounding factor: it had been a considerable length of time since he had last had sexual relations with anyone other than his hand. Assuredly that could account for his acute susceptibility to erotic stimuli. Most assuredly! Yes --- he reassured himself --- his integrity was not in danger. So long as he kept his feelings under good regulation and entirely unexpressed, he would have nothing about which to reproach himself.

With this vow, Anders at length reasoned himself into a semblance of calmness. He brushed his teeth and stretched out on the bed, pulling the quilt over himself.

*****

In his dream, he was walking along the Mall in Central Park, weaving among the park goers on the golden-leafed promenade as he endeavored to keep the veiled, darkly garbed girl in his sights. Suit-clad men in bowlers and modishly dressed women with grandiose hats strolled the walkway, serving as cover as he observed his quarry. Amidst the meandering people and falling leaves, Ondine walked with a brisk, unswerving gait. As the pursuit continued, the passersby grew more and more numerous, and the sprinkle of leaves swelled into a fluttering yellow torrent until both people and leaves swarmed about him, fully obscuring his line of sight.

Frantically he dodged women and shouldered past men, straining to see before him. Where was she?! With his rolled-up newspaper, he swatted at the shower of leaves. Tripping over someone's foot, he plunged forward onto his hands and knees on the leaf-strewn pavement. A faint voice echoed from a distance, "Read all about it! Read all about it!"

He sat back on his heels and saw the golden light of the promenade grow brighter and brighter, rendering the human figures ever darker and spindlier until they vanished away. He realized the rain of leaves had also ebbed. He was alone in the park. Springing to his feet, he scanned the luminous autumn tunnel for the girl ... no trace of her remained. The fear seized him. Was she in danger?

In the silence, a lone scarlet leaf in the sea of gold spiraled down from the heavens, landing plumb on the tube of his rolled newspaper. He stared at it. The elliptical shape was that of a human eye. Was it a clue? Maintaining its orientation, He softly pinched its stiff little stem between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it from the paper. He gazed at it, rotating it from one face to the other, inexplicably certain there should be a message written on it. There was nothing.

Gently, he laid it in his open palm, cradling the rosy oval and observing it as it quivered in the wind. A gust lifted it from his hand, sending it to the ground where it landed in the same orientation in which it had landed upon his newspaper.

Perhaps it was signaling which way to go! With no further delay, he hastened in the direction it pointed, presently descending a stair onto a wide brick patio --- it was Bethesda Terrace, but the statue in the fountain was different. Instead of an angel and cherubs, it was surmounted by a bronze statue of the Norse deity Freyja --- goddess of love, war, and magic. Standing in her chariot pulled by two cats, one of her hands boldly pointed forward, while the other gripped a sturdy staff taller even than she. The skyward-angled end of the staff served as the fount, emitting jets of water that cascaded over her and the chariot, and from thence into the pool.

The terrace was deserted, but his searching eyes fell upon a small black object on a pale stone bench along the side. When he caught it up, he saw it was the girl's beaded black reticule, bulging from the mysterious object stuffed inside it. Heartbeat thudding, he spread apart the metal-framed opening and endeavored to examine the contents, but the diminutive purse was so overstuffed, only two large fingers could he slide inside it. His fingers stirred and probed, but the sought lumpy object had transformed into a tightly balled portion of fabric. Where had the blasted thing gone?!

He withdrew the fabric and shook it out, recognizing in giddy delight what it was: a pristine white, lace-trimmed pair of ladies' drawers! The delicate cotton fabric was so fine it was almost transparent. Irresistibly, his eyes found the slit of the open crotch ... there on the edges at the center was an ovoid smear of a translucent pearly fluid revealing where the cloth had intruded into her little groove.

In unabashed lust did he bring the telltale spot closer to his face, beholding, with a surge of his cock, the glistening evidence of its fresh wetness. Pressing the soft fabric to his mouth and nose, he inhaled deeply the wondrous scent of female. The pressure burgeoned in his organ.

A motion in the distance caught his eye --- it was the girl! Ondine! She was holding her skirts above her knees as she climbed out of the fountain pool. Immediately, she headed for the stair to the carriage road.

He thrust the undergarment back into the reticule and snapped it shut, calling her name. But she heard him not, disappearing up the steps. He sprinted after her, leaping up the stairs three steps at a time and reaching the road at the same moment she stepped into a brougham. As the carriage set off, he ran alongside it and jumped onto the step, waving the reticule in front of the window.

When she saw him, she beckoned with her hand, at which he opened the door and swung inside, plopping onto a seat. He was tongue-tied. Her soft voice thanked him for the return of her purse, then she too fell silent. They sat wordlessly facing each other on the upholstered benches, the glow of her eyes visible through the black veil, and the sound of the wheels and hoofbeats filling the charged air of the cabin.

Glancing down, he saw her skirts were yet bunched above her knees, and her exposed feet and calves were wet from the fountain. He drew out his handkerchief and scooted off the seat, sitting upon the gently swaying floor at her feet. She made no objection, only pressing her knees together and watching him through her veil as he stroked the handkerchief along one leg ... over her charming instep, her slim ankle, her curved calf ... skimming off the sparkling droplets adorning her pale skin.