A New York Haunting: Pt. 02

He checked his pocket watch, this time not pretending. As the minutes passed, his gaze shifted from the street scene below to the silent hallway before him --- his mind grappling with the mystery of the girl's presence in this building and specifically in Dr. Prudden's office. The man's specialty was pathology, and he did not see patients, so she could not be there as a patient. Knowing the fundamentals of her family situation, she was not his daughter. Could he be some other relation? Dr. Prudden had spoken often enough about his wife, so he was not a suitor for Ondine's hand.

Could there be some clandestine amorous relationship between the two? If so, it was certainly a brazen act to meet at his office in plain sight of anyone who happened to be in the halls. Or could the very forthrightness of the meeting be intended to disguise its true nature?

Or perhaps there was a perfectly innocent explanation.

At length, the girl reappeared, shutting the office door behind her. Anders checked his watch again --- she had been in there a half-hour. No glance did she extend in his direction. Slinging her satchel onto her back, Ondine grasped the shoulder straps and headed away from his hiding place. At the opposite end of the long hallway, she turned and disappeared down the far stairs.

After a second's debate, Anders hurried down the stairs next to him. Reaching the first floor, his eyes shot down the corridor and beheld her at the further end, leaving the building. Damn! He was going to miss which direction she took on the street! His pulse increased as he rushed down the long hallway and swung open the street door where he made a frantic survey of the busy avenue. Where was she?!

From the left came the rumble of the nearby El train and its shrill whistle. At that moment, a strong arm clapped over his shoulder. "Anders!" His classmate Robert McCully grinned at him.

"Hey, Rob." Ah! He spotted her among the pedestrians on the sidewalk, heading east with her impatient stride, already with a half-block advantage on him. "Forgive me, I have an urgent appointment." He twisted free from his friend's arm and started after her.

"Are you rowing tomorrow?" Rob called over the sound of the train.

"Ya, sure." Anders gave a distracted wave over his shoulder as he sidestepped around an oncoming couple. There was a squeal of train wheels, then a cloud of steam bloomed over the Columbus Avenue El station at the end of the block. For a second, he lost sight of his quarry, then spied her running along the sidewalk, nimbly dodging passersby. He broke into a run as well.

Seizing up her skirts, Ondine sprinted up the iron stairs to the El station, two steps at a time. Shit! He was not going to make it in time! The train whistle sounded above his head as he dashed across the street to the stairs. He pushed past the descending, disembarked passengers on the steps --- a clacking and rumbling arose from the tracks above. He reached the gate by the ticket window just as the downtown-bound train pulled out of the station. Not a trace remained on the platform of the agile, dark-haired girl.

Descending back to the street, Anders stood deep in thought as the thunder of the train receded, a few cinders fluttering down from the tracks to mark its passage. No point was there in boarding the next El south --- she could have gone anywhere in this vast metropolis. He slowly retraced his footsteps along the block back towards the medical school, deliberating as to his next course of action. As he neared the entrance to the building, a man emerged --- some fifty years of age with a receding hairline, spectacles, and a full mustache --- none other than Dr. Prudden.

"Dr. Prudden!" Anders called, hastening towards him, his mind racing.

The man's head turned, and he smiled. "Mr. Røkke." Pausing in his stride, he shook Anders' hand. "How are you?"

"Very well, sir. Where are you headed?"

The pathologist motioned with his chin in the direction of the hospital across the street. "To the operating theater. Dr. Weir sent for me to look at an ovary he just removed --- claims it's involved by a remarkable tumor. Would you care to come along?"

Anders nodded. That did sound intriguing. As they set off along the sidewalk, Prudden said, "I understand you and Dr. Mullenix are collaborating on another article. What is this one about?"

"A new surgical technique for connecting blood vessels." He cleared his throat. "Erm --- Dr. Prudden, has Columbia reversed its policy on admitting female students to the medical school?"

"Alas, no. What inspired that question?"

"I stopped by your office a short while ago but saw that you already had a visitor ---" his voice trailed off. He prayed he was not speaking out of turn.

Dr. Prudden nodded. "Of course, my visitor. A young woman who perfectly illustrates the idiocy of that shortsighted stricture."

"In what manner?"

They waited on the curb for a gap in the carriage traffic. Prudden shook his head with a frustrated expression. "Here is a brilliant young woman who aspires to be a physician --- to follow in the distinguished footsteps of her father and older brother. There is no problem of financial resources for tuition, yet her family has forbidden her to pursue the career. Indeed, lest she attempt to countermand their verdict, they have limited her income to pocket change."

Anders listened intently.

"If the university fails to remedy its archaic stance on this issue in the next two years, we shall lose this budding scientist to a more enlightened medical school."

"What happens in two years?" Anders asked.

They started across the street. "Her twenty-first birthday and access to her trust money. When she gains control of her own finances, she intends to formally apply to medical school. In the meantime, she has been studying her brother's medical textbooks, and --- in preparation for entrance exams --- has used her limited funds to arrange what would best be described as a course by correspondence at Barnard's Women's College --- all covertly, of course."

Raising his eyebrows, Anders murmured, "Impressive."

The pathologist nodded. "Yes. For the past six months, she has been coming to the campus when she can, and I've been reviewing interesting cases with her." He chuckled. "I never would have anticipated supporting a willful girl's disobedience of familial authority, but this case has opened my eyes. As Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell demonstrated, medicine is a field that can only benefit from women's contributions, and this young woman has astutely matched her aspirations to her aptitude."

Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, Anders knew, was the first female physician in America, receiving her degree in the 1840's. With her sister, Emily Blackwell --- the second woman to earn a medical degree --- she had founded the New York Infirmary for Women and Children.

Anders absorbed these revelations in a dazed state as they entered Roosevelt Hospital and made their way to the operating theater. Upon entering, they discovered the surgery finished and the patient to have already been wheeled away. Yet remaining were Dr. Weir (a colleague of Dr. Mullenix), a resident, and a dozen or so third-year students on the observation benches.

"Ah! Here's Dr. Prudden to enlighten us!" exclaimed Dr. Weir, beckoning him to the operating table. There, in a blood-streaked, enamel basin was a structure the approximate size and shape of a football.

The pathologist accepted surgical instruments from the resident. "You've already cut into it," he scolded, giving Dr. Weir a reproachful look above the rims of his glasses. "You surgeons are like children with presents on Christmas morning."

Dr. Weir cast an amused I told you so look upon his resident. Meanwhile, Prudden used the forceps and scalpel to further open the enlarged ovary. All the watchers leaned closer as the pathologist revealed the remarkable contents, pointing out hair and teeth in the cyst wall.

"This is good news for the patient," he announced, straightening. "Despite its bizarre appearance, this tumor behaves in an indolent fashion." Dr. Prudden proceeded to expound upon the evolution of the tumor's formal name and the two theories as to its genesis. "In summary, both are fascinating hypotheses requiring further research, but perhaps not as colorful as historical explanations attributing them to sexual congress between the patient and a demon or the Devil."

There were murmurs and exchanged looks among the students in the gallery.

Dr. Prudden nodded sagely. "Fortunately, the advances of science have disabused us of such absurdities."

*****

Ten minutes until Dr. Schuller emerged from the session with his current patient...

Anders paced up and down in the empty drawing room of the psychoanalyst's mansion, checking the clock on the mantel each time he faced the fireplace. Ten minutes ... now nine. In nine minutes, Schuller would undoubtedly summon him into the library to give his report on the morning's surveillance.

What, by God, was he going to tell the man?

He had uncovered a most unexpected secret about Ondine Van der Veen, and his heart and mind were in conflict. Anders reflected on all the years he had worked to save money for college and medical school. Absorbed in that mission, he had naïvely identified the want of money as the only obstacle to pursuing his dream. He had never fully appreciated that there was an entire segment of society whose aspirations --- of whatever variety --- might be thwarted simply by virtue of their sex.

His mother Ingarde ... she had flouted convention to become an accomplished skier. With that family legacy, why had he never spoken up when his male classmates debated women's proper role in society --- whether they should be allowed to work outside the home, have access to higher education, own property, or have the right to vote?

Anders thought he knew the answer: in addition to his inherently reserved nature, he still felt like an interloper in his adopted country (even fourteen years later) and was reluctant to call attention to himself by questioning its social mores.

And now he had six --- no, five minutes to decide whether to tell Dr. Schuller Ondine's secret.

Herregud! He could not do it. His conscience was already perturbed from covertly observing her --- he could not compound that wrong by betraying her secret. Dr. Schuller might relay the shocking news to her aunt, who as her guardian, was likely the source of the prohibition against medical school. Moreover, Ondine's quest lent no support to the theory of her suffering from a dangerous degree of melancholy --- thus arguing against revealing it for her own safety.

And yet, there still remained the evidence of her pervasive unrest, and the mysterious transaction with the man in Central Park. Anders could not clearly connect these observations to her educational goals. Was something else going on? The girl's circumstances were unquestionably more complex than met the eye.

Inwardly, he rehearsed his report of the excursion and immediately realized two things. Firstly, Ondine's coachman must be in her confidence at least to some extent. Secondly, he could not reveal to Dr. Schuller the fact that she had changed her clothes in the carriage. The same instinct of discretion that had stopped him from divulging the details of her climbing into the fountain, now sealed his lips on this point. But, was it purely discretion? He paused in his pacing as he caught a glimpse of his agitated expression in the mirror above the mantel. Or was it something else?

Could it be ... jealousy?

Was he guarding these erotically charged images of Ondine close to his heart, unwilling to share them with another man? He confronted his own gaze ... after several moments he shook his head, defying the telltale in his reflection. Absolutely not! It mustn't be so. She was a patient!

"Mr. Røkke, you've returned," Dr. Schuller said from the hall door. "Come into the library and share your findings."

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Anders followed the doctor across the hall, taking a seat in the chair opposite the desk. With his hands splayed lightly over his tense thighs, he narrated a censored version of the surveillance mission: Ondine had dismissed her coachman and walked along Park Avenue and 59^th Street. She had stopped in a drugstore and paused to pet a puppy by a Milk Depot. Then he had lost her when she jumped on the train at the El station on Columbus Avenue.

With each omission, Anders' fingertips increased their pressure on his legs, fighting the threatened reddening of his cheeks. For someone committed to integrity, these repeated lies by omission were causing him untoward distress. The dissembling was bad enough on its own, but to visit it upon a man he respected --- a physician who had done him the honor of taking him on as a student --- doubled his shame.

"So, she gave you the slip, as they say, at the train station?" The doctor regarded him.

Anders nodded. "She ran to the station and jumped on the train just as it was leaving."

Schuller's eyebrows lifted. "A dainty young lady --- with a corset and all those skirts --- outpaced a fit young man such as yourself?"

Conceding the point with an embarrassed nod, Anders explained, "Being as it was near the medical school, I was waylaid by one of my classmates, sir. During that conversation, although brief, I lost sight of her among the people on the sidewalk." To himself, he rationalized that if she had indeed still been clad in her fancy gown and corset, she wouldn't have escaped him.

"Ah. That accounts for it." Dr. Schuller leaned back in his chair with his fingertips together. "The ninth Street El heading downtown --- where could she have been going?"

Anders experienced an inward sigh of relief as the doctor's attention moved forward. Several minutes of silence followed, doubtless occupied by contemplation of the question of Ondine's destination. At last, he ventured to speak. "Dr. Schuller, is it possible that she simply desired a moment of solitude and respite from ... from the weight of society's scrutiny?" Anders caught himself --- he had almost revealed the extent of his knowledge about Ondine's situation.

The psychoanalyst gazed at him with an uncomprehending expression upon his countenance. His steepled fingertips drummed against each other. "An interesting hypothesis, but it does not align with what she has revealed in her two sessions."

Of course --- her sessions with Schuller! There was an entire aspect of the case to which Anders was not privy. Having been excluded from the appointments, he naturally dared not broach the topic.

"Perhaps following her is not going to prove as enlightening as to her state of mind as I had hoped," Schuller said, pressing his lips together in a troubled line. "Over the weekend I shall review my notes and consider what approach to take before her next appointments." He leaned forward with a rueful smile. "I may even send a telegram to Dr. Freud in Vienna for the master's opinion."

Chapter 8. THE ROWING CLUB

The next morning, Anders indulged in an extra hour of sleep before commencing his usual Saturday routine. A steady income of pocket money was earned through a weekly, two-hour morning stint in the anatomy lab at the medical school --- receiving the embalmed, unclaimed bodies from the City Morgue, sharpening knives, and preparing dissections for the cadaver demonstration and practice sessions.

Work completed, finding himself with a half-hour's wait before the train north, he wandered into nearby Central Park. Walking along the Mall promenade where he had followed Ondine three days ago, images from his dream rose in his mind ... stoking the unsanctioned desire. His hungry eyes scanned the park goers for a glimpse of the restless maiden.

Being it Saturday, there were throngs of people about, and a band was playing on the wrought iron pavilion in the center of the esplanade. As Anders with a furtive thrill surveyed the fountain at Bethesda Terrace, the tenor's clear voice drifted through the trees:

Though she lives in a mansion grand.

She's only a bird in a gilded cage,

A beautiful sight to see,

You may think she's happy and free from care,

She's not, though she seems to be ...

How apt! But alas, no sign was there of the beautiful bird he longed to see.

Conceding defeat, he headed for the El train station and boarded the uptown-bound, Eighth Avenue train. At the next station, his classmates and fellow rowers, Tom Buffington and Rob McCully joined him.

Almost every Saturday, spring through fall, Anders took the train to the Fort George neighborhood at the north end of the island and made his way to Sherman Creek, a small tributary off the Harlem River. Here was located Scullers' Row, a line of boathouses belonging to nearly a dozen competing rowing clubs.

During his first semester of medical school, he had been overwhelmed with studying and had initially resigned himself to giving up sporting activities. But by the second semester, as he had acclimated to the curriculum, he had gratefully allowed himself to be recruited by his classmates as a fourth member of a coxless four --- a four-man rowing team without a coxswain.

"You look admirably suited to row a powerhouse seat," they had told him.

Anders had rowed occasionally with Fulton Fordyce in Rochester, but only for fun. "What is that?"

They had explained that the two middle seats required men of surpassing strength.

Worried about the expense of pursuing this pastime, he had tentatively agreed to try. But quickly he had realized the numerous rowing clubs along the river catered to men of varying financial means --- from the exclusive New York Athletic Club --- whose dignified boathouse echoed the grandeur of its downtown gymnasium --- to the humbler clubs which found their members among the working class and even specific immigrant groups. Finding its dues commensurate with his budget, Anders had joined his classmates in the Nassau Rowing Club.

Over that spring and summer, he had devoted his free time to developing the proper stroke technique --- aided by his teammates and practicing by himself in a single scull. The physics of competitive rowing were indeed far more complicated than horsing around in a rowboat!

Upon arriving at the boathouse, Anders and his comrades found fourth crewmember David Rosenberg already there, and they all changed into rowing kit while comparing notes on their current clinical clerkships. Together they lifted the long, racing shell they had dubbed the Scalpel off the rack and carried it on their shoulders down the ramp to the dock.

As there was yet one more official regatta among the rowing clubs before the weather grew too cold, they trained the rest of the morning, up and down the Harlem River --- David with his stopwatch calling cues from the bow, Tom and Anders in the powerhouse seats, and Rob rowing the stern stroke position.

A feeling of exhilaration swelled anew every time he stepped into the long, narrow boat and fastened his feet in the foot straps. Instead of his everyday clothing with its stiff constrictive layers, buttons, loops, straps, starched collar, tie, and shirt studs, he wore only two knit jersey garments --- a sleeveless shirt and shorts that ended at midthigh. Likewise, hard leather shoes were replaced by rubber-soled sneakers.

Faraway from the bustling, odiferous streets of Manhattan, the fresh air filled his lungs and streamed over his bare, pumping limbs. In unison, the four men slid towards the stern on the rolling seats, legs flexing to bring their knees to their chests. Then the blades caught the water --- the boat surged forward as they simultaneously thrust in the drive, straightening their legs and leaning back, hands gripping the sturdy wooden oar handles.