A New York Haunting: Pt. 11

(Note to admin: story contains bold and italics ---- please remove this line)

Author's note:

Due to the mystery/suspense plot, the individual parts of this tale are unlikely to make sense as stand-alone reads. Please see note at the beginning of Part 1 for more information.

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Chapter 44. THIN ICE

Even as Anders brooded over how to contact Ondine, the days of December steadily passed.

He continued to take the iron pills and was hosted weekly by Dr. Mullenix either at his home or at Delmonico's or Sherry's for a hearty filet of beef. His strength and wind gradually recovered. For his injured arm, the recuperation regimen advanced from frigging to flexion exercises holding increasingly heavy textbooks for resistance. Three weeks after the tower incident, with the pain abating, Anders took the train north to the Nassau Rowing Club boathouse where he began using the hydraulic indoor rower. Every subsequent Saturday and Sunday, he was there to train.

As difficult as it was to see the future beyond his immediate concerns, he forced himself to compose letters of application to residency programs at Columbia, Bellevue, Syracuse University, Harvard, Boston University, and Yale.

The article Dr. Mullenix and he had submitted describing the triangulation technique of reconnecting blood vessels --- accompanied by Ondine's illustrations --- was accepted by The Boston Medical and Surgical Journal.

Christmas eventually arrived. The Mullenix clan left for Newport to enjoy the end-of-year festivities in the company of other Society families. Fulton returned to Rochester for the holiday and invited Anders to join him. But he was obliged to refuse --- while the rest of his classmates had the week off, he was making up for the missed week of school after his surgery. It was an odd sensation, being the only student on the wards with the residents and staff physicians.

With no formal lectures or laboratory sessions that week, Anders spent the extra free hours upon his unceasing infatuation. In the afternoons, he walked the paths of Central Park --- now blanketed in snow --- searching for the nimble, dark-haired girl who was never far from his heart. Back at the boardinghouse, he had taken to scouring the landlady's weekly Town Topics newspaper for any mention of her. Occasionally he saw her name in lists of guests at social events; most recently, he learned the Cornelissens had gone to Newport for the holiday as well.

Evenings, he lost himself in his treasure trove of erotic images of her --- jerking himself off to the point of exhaustion.

Once turned in for the night, he lay on his cot, picturing her in a big, silk-canopied bed. Was she reading? Was she asleep? Did any thought of him ever cross her mind? And was the ghost of Peter Van der Veen yet having his way with her guileless, nubile body? When he at last would drift off to sleep, she haunted his dreams.

He stopped by the office of Dr. Prudden to inquire if Ondine still visited him to review cases. The pathologist informed him he had received a message from her a month ago suspending the meetings until further notice.

Score another point for Mrs. Cornelissen

It would seem the determined lady had effectively curtailed her niece's unapproved activities. Pondering the complete absence of any sightings of Ondine --- even after the gossip rag reported the family's return to New York City from Newport --- he even considered the possibility that she was being kept a prisoner in the mansion.

Unable to telephone her lest his voice be recognized, he solicited the assistance of Dr. Mullenix's secretary, Miss Schmidt. She obligingly called and asked to speak to Mrs. Van der Veen --- only to be informed the young lady was not presently at home.

The first Saturday in January, Ondine was again on his mind as he left the rowing club after a satisfying session on the indoor rower. Discovering he had just missed the train downtown, he yielded to the urge to walk around for a while rather than wait on the platform for the next one. It was a glorious winter morning --- cold, bright, and almost windless. Never had he fully explored the Fort George district, and he now took pleasure in the hilly, snow-decked neighborhood. The motionless Ferris wheels and roller coasters of the closed amusement park shone in the sunny sky.

Here at its northern end, the island of Manhattan was only about a mile across between the Harlem and Hudson rivers --- it was not long before he found himself on a road along the high bluff overlooking the Hudson. The terrain was heavily wooded between a few scattered mansions --- the absence of wheel tracks and footprints on their unshoveled driveways and paths recalled to him something he had once heard about the houses on this hilltop being summer homes of millionaires.

At the end of the road, Anders had to smile when he beheld so-called Libbey Castle --- a stone mansion complete with a tower and crenellated roof top. This was the residence that had once been owned by Boss Tweed and was said to be haunted --- what a new appreciation he had for that claim! Heedless of his shoes and trouser cuffs, he left the sidewalk and trudged through the snow across the yard --- past the silent castle until he reached a snow-covered terrace behind it on the ridge above the river.

Standing at the stone balustrade, he gazed down over the steep, tree-covered hillside. The snow-festooned evergreens and icicle-dripping branches of deciduous trees shimmered en masse, forming a wintry palace more splendorous than any mansion in the city --- at least to Anders' way of thinking. Between the tree limbs, the dark slate ribbon of the Hudson was visible, broken ice plates drifting past.

He inhaled deeply of the cold air, his exhaled breaths expanding in clouds before him. While his eyes absorbed the peaceful sight of Nature's beauty, his mind turned in turmoil.

He thought of his homeland of long ago --- poised thus as he was upon the snowy promontory above the river, he could be almost anywhere in Norway. Indeed, indulging in whimsical thinking, he argued that until the moment he encountered a street or shop sign or was addressed by a passerby in English, he could continue to believe he was indeed there.

He thought of his parents and the story of how they had first met skiing in Trysil. To hear their account, it had been mutual love at first sight.

And he thought of Ondine. What was one to do when such love was not mutual? Yes, he owned it --- it had gone beyond an erotic obsession. He loved her and had done so ever since he had first laid eyes upon her in Dr. Schuller's clinic --- he had loved her even knowing his feelings were improper and his hopes impossible.

It had now been five weeks since the incident on the tower --- five weeks without a glimpse of her or a word from her. Despite his conviction to the contrary, he was forced to consider the possibility that Mrs. Cornelissen had spoken true --- that Ondine wished no further contact with him.

A bird's cry rose and receded in the stillness. An iridescent mist of snow floated from a spruce bough beside him.

And Anders knew then that he must abandon his dream. It was the start of a new year and his final semester in medical school. When he should be buoyed by optimism, he was overwhelmed with despair. Notwithstanding her intent gaze and squeezing hand, the girl was not for him --- it was time to acknowledge the bitter reality and move forward with his life.

Accordingly, on his return trip to the boardinghouse, he stopped at a shop familiar to him through Fulton and purchased a new collection of French postcards. Henceforth, images of Ondine would be banished from his frigging sessions.

A week later, after a night on the town with Fulton, he readily agreed when his friend suggested they return to Mrs. Monroe's establishment. Anders was determined to put an end to his monkish rumination: he was sober, alert, and ready to fuck a girl. By such means would he break the spell of Ondine. Happily, the pretty Swedish girl Ilsa was available, and she seemed equally pleased to see him.

Once ensconced in her chamber, his organ rose promptly under her ministrations as she washed him with warm soapy water at the porcelain basin. As one in a trance, he stared down at her practiced hand, then up at her pleasant, purposeful face. All he could think of was Ondine's pale little hand with the stray smudge of pink paint ... her innocent, willful fingers exploring him and her enigmatic eyes lifting to search his. At that moment, his resolve failed him, and he stepped abruptly back out of Ilsa's reach, swearing, "Dæven! Dæven!"

"What is it, Anders?"

Fists clenched, he shook his head. "There's ... there's a girl. I thought if I ..." He looked pointedly at the bed, then at Ilsa. "...then I would stop thinking about her."

"But no?"

"No. My heart won't ..." He exhaled in frustration.

Ilsa smiled ruefully. "Alas, it does not work that way. Not for men like you anyway. Your friend, I think, is different." She handed him a towel. "Then we will sit and talk instead, ya?"

They ended up playing cards for the remainder of the hour --- giggling through the game Kasino they had both played as children --- and hugged each other on parting.

*****

With the passing weeks, Anders had mixed success adhering to his vow. No longer did he rove Central Park searching for Ondine, but he continued --- while feigning nonchalance --- to scan Mrs. Sullivan's weekly gossip newspaper for her name. Likewise, his mind held firm against her incursion while studying, but erotic echoes of her intermittently reverberated in his mind while he masturbated. And of course, he could not help her appearance in his dreams.

No violation of his vow was it, he assured himself, to go to Central Park Sunday mornings as he had always done, even prior to knowing the girl. Ever since coming to New York City, he had availed himself of the park's opportunities for physical exercise --- cycling most of the year, then ice-skating on the lake in the winter.

It was the final Sunday in January --- two months since he had last seen Ondine at Madison Square Garden. Anders sat on one of the innumerable benches along the edge of the frozen lake, strapping on his skates.

In recent years, he had contemplated using his earnings from posing at the Art Students League to invest in a pair of dedicated skating boots with the blades permanently affixed to the soles --- the skates favored by the more affluent park goers. But he had discovered that skates large enough to fit him would have to be custom made, an extravagance far greater than he could afford. Thus, he used his father's skates, keeping the blades sharpened and the leather straps pliant with oil.

The sky was overcast, rendering the park newly beautiful in stark winter hues --- the white expanse of ice and snow-covered terrain was ringed by the dark spindly branches and trunks of bare trees. The grand façades of the Hotel Majestic and the Dakota presided over the western shore of the lake. Anders had been inside the Dakota once --- upon first moving to Manhattan, Fulton Fordyce had briefly resided in a luxurious apartment there before relocating to the Astoria to be closer to the social scene.

Stretching before him, the L-shaped lake was approximately a half-mile along each limb. As usual, it was populated by hundreds of skaters of all ages: children racing, squealing, and flailing on the ice --- women gliding gracefully arm in arm in pairs and trios --- men jostling each other, attempting tricks, watching the ladies, or simply standing as they smoked --- young couples giggling and holding hands.

Recalling winter sports from his childhood in Norway, Anders was always bemused by corresponding scenes in America. Save for the skates, the people looked no different than they did simply walking along a sidewalk. Most of the men wore suits under their coats, and bowlers or even top hats on their heads. Ladies were garbed in gowns and impractical hats.

From his recent perusals of newspapers, he had come to realize there was in fact clothing promoted specifically for winter diversions --- but to judge by the fur and plaid ribbon-trimmed finery on the better-heeled skaters around him, the recommendations were based primarily on fashion, not function. As for himself --- happy for any opportunity to escape the constraints of a suit --- he wore the dense wool sweater his father had worn skiing.

Pulling on his gloves, he picked up the hockey stick he still had from his Rochester days with Fulton and stepped onto the ice. Heading south at a fast clip, he deftly swerved around other skaters --- on the way catching a child who tumbled into his path.

Almost every Sunday, he joined a group of young men for an informal hockey match. They were a haphazard bunch --- students from colleges in the city and working men in various trades --- most of whom knew each other only in this context.

"Anders!" called one of the fellows as he approached the impromptu rink marked with tin cans.

"Yo! He's on our team!"

Soon he was embroiled in a vigorous match, feeling hale and hearty and fully refurbished after his two-month recovery --- refurbished at least in body if not in spirit. The raucous play, as it often did, attracted a gathering of watchers who hollered encouragement along the sides.

A half-hour or so into the game, Anders and his teammates launched another fast drive on the opposing goal, attended by clattering skates, shouts, and whoops. He lunged forward to corral a wild puck passed to him. Surging towards the goal, he swung his stick --- no sooner did the powerful thwock of birch on rubber drive the puck towards the target than he was checked by a grunting opponent barreling into his shoulder.

They both hurtled out of bounds and into a cluster of cheering bystanders --- players and watchers alike scrambling for balance. Anders caught himself before falling, only to crash into a woman in the group. Fortunately, he had the wherewithal to catch her upper arms before sending her sprawling to the ice.

"I beg your pardon, miss." His gaze landed upon the small young woman before him --- his mouth fell open in sudden recognition. "Ond - Mrs. Van der Veen!" He gaped for but a moment before recovering himself and releasing her arms. Sliding a respectful distance back, he reached up to tip his hat, then remembered he was wearing his wool cap. He swiftly slid it off and bowed his head.

"Mr. Røkke."

"Anders, are you in?" someone called from the rink behind him.

He shook his head. "Go on without me." Returning his attention to Ondine, his eager eyes devoured her.

Her slim, curved figure was clad in a dark gray wool skirt and jacket decorated with brass buttons and black velvet corded scrollwork on the breast, sleeves, and lower hem. Unlike the other ladies of her class, nary a trace of fur was on her garments. Instead, her dark hair was covered by a hat knit from a greenish-blue wool the color of Norwegian spruce, topped by a jaunty ball fashioned from the same yarn. The bottom edge of the hat extended into flaps covering her ears, fastened under the chin with a bow adorned with smaller yarn spheres at the ends.

Despite the sprightly hat, her countenance was marked by a tender melancholy --- her eyes even bigger and more troubled and her skin even paler than he remembered. Those beautiful, wistful eyes searched his face. "It's good to see you, Mr. Røkke," she murmured.

In that moment, her andalusite irises became the most luminous objects in the austere winter landscape. Lost in her gaze, he was convinced that the girl's reported wish to rid herself of him had been her aunt's fiction. Her aunt! In a flash, he gathered his wits and made a hurried survey of the nearby skaters. "Erm --- are you here alone?"

She shook her head. "I'm here with my cousins."

Anders slid back another couple feet, re-donning his hat. "Mrs. de Jaager and Mrs. Cross?" he asked, recalling Mrs. Cornelissen's two daughters.

"Yes, and their families."

He cleared his throat. "Your aunt and uncle --- are they here as well?"

"No. They're at home." She glanced aside and continued in an offhanded tone, "My cousins went to the Casino Restaurant for a warm refreshment, and their husbands are by the boathouse attempting to teach the children to skate."

Anders met her eyes. The boathouse was at the easternmost end of the lake, almost a half-mile away. To Hell with Mrs. Cornelissen's threats! Without words, they simultaneously began skating in the opposite direction from the boathouse, moving side-by-side at a measured pace. She was clearly at ease on the ice.

For some time, he was oblivious to the laughter and shouts of the skaters around them as he simply basked in her nearness, admiring the graceful motions of her feet below the swirling skirt. Herregud! Here was his chance to speak to her --- but despite the list of questions that had been pressing him the past two months, he found himself tongue-tied.

It was she who broke the silence. "I gather from the boisterous game that you are restored to full health?"

"I am, thank you. And you? Have you recovered from your injuries on the tower?"

She waved a dismissive hand which he now noticed was covered by a mitten matching her hat. "My injuries were nothing compared to yours."

Slowing, Anders stopped and looked at her. "Mrs. Van der Veen, I must thank you for what you did --- calling Dr. Mullenix before the on-duty surgeon resorted to amputation. I am indebted to you beyond words."

Ondine seemed discomfited by his intense regard. Her lips parted as their eyes held through a long pause. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Well, I reasoned it would increase the value of my illustrations to have another patient as proof of the principle."

He laughed. "Speaking of which, the article was accepted for publication. On that score as well, I am happy to be in your debt."

"I'm glad to hear it. It is clearly an innovation worthy of notice."

They began moving again, veering around other skaters.

"Mr. Røkke, I must thank you as well. If not for you, Dr. Schuller would have thrown me off the tower."

His head rotated towards her --- certain unutterable words threatening to erupt. Swallowing, he looked away. "We were each fortunate the other was there," he offered.

Presently they passed a young man and woman skating facing each other, their arms held in the posture of a couple on a dance floor. Anders stole a quick glance at Ondine, overcome with the urge to similarly hold her. But of course, it would be a most improper liberty to take under the circumstances. He inhaled deeply of the cold air to restrain himself.

With a burst of reckless excitement, he jumped from his place at her side to the ice in front of her where he skated backwards, matching her pace. Humor shone in her eyes. "Do all Norwegian men show-off so?"

His heart leapt at her teasing. "Only the ones who are as skilled as I am," he joked.

"I see." She looked him up and down. "That's a most interesting sweater, Mr. Røkke."

"It was my father's. It's a traditional Norwegian sweater called a lusekofte."

"Lusekofte. What does it mean?"

He chuckled ruefully. "Actually, the translation is 'lice jacket'."

She raised a dubious brow. "Then perhaps it would be best if you kept your distance."

"I believe the 'lice' are the black flecks on the gray."

Ondine nodded, studying it. "It's a unique pattern. I would be most curious to see the inside to determine how it was knit."