A Deadly Affection (17 page)

“Good evening, Fiala,” the Reverend replied. To me, he explained, “Fiala is a member of the mission's sewing club. Her mother is ill—I suspect with consumption, from the tobacco dust—but refuses to go to the hospital. Fiala has asked me to try to convince her.”

“Hello, Fiala,” I said. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Good evening, miss,” she answered with another little curtsy.

“This is my friend, Dr. Summerford,” the Reverend told her.

The crease softened on her forehead. “You're a doctor?” She turned excitedly toward the Reverend. “You've brought a doctor to see Mama?”

The Reverend cocked an eyebrow at me. “Would you mind? If Mrs. Petrikova doesn't go to the hospital, you may be the only physician she'll have a chance to see. We could ride back together afterward, and you can tell me about Mrs. Miner. Unless you feel it can't wait…”

“No, I'd be glad to take a look,” I said, mindful of the little girl's hopeful eyes upon me.

As we walked toward the entrance, I peered into one of the ubiquitous ash cans. It was filled with a brown material resembling wet straw—the source, my nose immediately informed me, of the pungent smell that was permeating the street.

“Tobacco stems,” the Reverend explained over my shoulder. “That's all that's left when they're done.”

We followed Fiala up the narrow, dark stairs to her living quarters, where the odor of fermented tobacco was so intense, it took an act of will not to cover my nose. Two people were sitting at a workbench in front of the dark windows: a very young girl, perhaps three years younger than Fiala, and a sickly looking woman of indeterminate age. The woman rose slowly to her feet as we came forward, erupting into a dry, hacking cough. She was frail as a twig, with stooped shoulders and yellowish-gray skin drawn tightly around her protruding eyes.

“This is my mother, Kamila Petrikova,” Fiala told us, “and my sister, Milka.”

I smiled in greeting as the Reverend bowed and said, “Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“
Ne angli
č
tina
,” wheezed Mrs. Petrikova, waving her hand.

“She doesn't speak English,” Fiala translated for us.

“Please tell her that we're sorry to hear she's ill,” the Reverend said, “and that we're here to see if we can help.”

Mrs. Petrikova received this information without comment, eyeing us warily.

“Tell her that Dr. Summerford here is a highly trained physician and would like to perform a brief examination to determine the nature of her condition.”

Fiala did so in the tongue-twisting Czech language of her family's homeland.

Mrs. Petrikova shook her head, breaking into an agitated reply that ended with, “
Ne nemocnice! Ne nemocnice!
”

Fiala glared at her, her lips clamped shut.

“
Rekni jim!
” her mother commanded, waving toward us.

The girl turned to us, her lips quivering. “She says she knows you are here to take her to the hospital but that she won't go,” she translated. “She says thank you but no, she is needed here.”

For a moment, I thought the girl was going to break into tears, but instead, she turned back to her mother, stamped her foot, and launched into what even I could tell was a frustrated entreaty, although “
doktora
” was the only word I recognized.

Mrs. Petrikova's expression gradually softened as she listened to her daughter's plea. As Fiala sputtered to a close, her mother leaned forward and ruffled her hair, speaking to her in a teasing tone. Gesturing to me to come closer, she stuck out her tongue with an exaggerated “ahh,” making Milka giggle.

I stepped forward and peered into her throat, willing to play along. But Fiala's concerns were clearly well-founded. Continuing with my examination, I found that her pulse was far too fast and her forehead abnormally warm and moist. The nails on her hands were thick and cupped as well. When I tapped my chest, pantomiming a palpitating heart, she nodded in response.

Though she didn't have the phlegmy cough of the typical consumptive, her shallow breathing and clubbed nails indicated an advanced stage of lung disease, most likely brought on by exposure to tobacco dust as the Reverend had surmised. Her heart palpitations, sallow skin, and sweating suggested she was suffering from chronic nicotine poisoning as well.

“If you won't go to a hospital,” I urged her when I was done, “you at least need to get away from the tobacco.”

Fiala anxiously translated.

Mrs. Petrikova's labored breathing stilled for a moment. Her gaze slid to the girls, lingering on their sallow faces; then she turned and looked me straight in the eye. I knew what she was thinking without her uttering a word: she would never get away from the tobacco. She would end her life as she had spent it, here in this reeking, dust-filled room.

Despite the Reverend's protests she insisted on serving us tea, shuffling over to the tiny kitchen area to brew it while Fiala brought out two more stools and set another kerosene lamp on the workbench. I moved my stool next to little Milka, who hadn't stopped working since our arrival, watching as she lifted an enormous, fan-shaped leaf from a pile at her feet and cut out the center vein with the thimble blade on her finger. Fiala took a seat beside her and started rolling bunches of smaller leaves into thin cylinders, binding each in one of Milka's large leaves before placing it on a slotted tray.

“You're awfully good at that,” Reverend Palmers said, positioning his stool at her side.

Fiala smiled at him. “We used to make four thousand cigars a week, before Tata died and I had to go to school.” Her face clouded. “But now we can only make three thousand. And next year, Milka must go to school too…”

Under the Reverend's gentle probing, we learned that their employer/landlord paid the family six dollars for every thousand cigars they rolled, providing just enough money each month to pay his exorbitant rent, plus the grocer and butcher bills. To meet their quota, the girls had to work from six o'clock in the morning until nine or ten o'clock each night, with Fiala taking hours off for school.

Mrs. Petrikova returned with a box lid holding five mismatched cups, passing them around before she took her seat again at the workbench. With Fiala interpreting, we commenced a halting conversation, discussing the classes at the mission and the possibility of borrowing a book for Milka from the circulating library. When I asked Fiala what she was going to do when she finished school, she told me she was planning to marry a boy who lived in the tenements as soon as she came of age, an arrangement that had apparently been worked out by the parents. And so the cycle would be repeated, I thought, with Fiala living out her days in another room much like this one.

Mrs. Petrikova was trying hard to be a good hostess, but her tobacco-stained hands were shaking as she wrapped each of Fiala's bound cylinders into yet another, more finely textured leaf and secured the ends with a dab of clear paste. It was obvious that our visit was tiring her, and as soon as we'd finished our tea, we rose to go.

“Please, don't get up,” the Reverend insisted as Mrs. Petrikova started pushing herself to her feet. “We can show ourselves out. Fiala, if you'll stop by the library after sewing class, I'll have some books waiting for your sister.”

“You have two wonderful daughters, Mrs. Petrikova,” I added after I'd said my good-byes. “You must be very proud.”

Fiala translated for her mother, who glanced at the girls with affection. As her head swung back toward the worktable, I saw her catch sight of her reflection in the dark window. She stared at her shrunken face for a still moment, her expression unreadable in the glass. Then she picked up the next cylinder, and a large leaf, and began wrapping another cigar.

• • •

“Why doesn't she join a union?” I asked the Reverend as we were descending the tenement stairs a few moments later, for I'd heard that the unions provided financial support for ill members.

“The unions don't like the tenement factory workers, because they undermine their bargaining leverage. They resent the women especially, since they're more apt to accept slave wages from the factory employers.”

“But if the unions would accept the women, they wouldn't have to accept slave wages, and that would solve the problem, wouldn't it?”

He sighed. “You're right, of course. And there's nothing in the union charter to exclude them. But the local shops just won't take them in. Which is especially ironic when you consider that in Mrs. Petrikova's home country, only the women are employed in the trade and are therefore the ones with the greatest skill.”

I was familiar with such antipathy, having had to wheedle my way into what was once an exclusively male domain. But I had had my father's help. What was someone like Mrs. Petrikova supposed to do without a man's money or influence to aid her? Her real curse, it struck me, was not that of poverty, but of gender. A woman born poor stayed poor, but for a man's good graces. For perhaps the first time, I sensed how thin the line was that separated me from women like Mrs. Petrikova—a line drawn by men, which could change any moment at their whim.

“I hope that wasn't too much for you,” Reverend Palmers said as we climbed into the buggy.

“Of course not,” I replied. “I'm just sorry I couldn't have been more help.” In truth, however, the visit had left me badly shaken. In the past, my small successes had led me to believe that if I just tried hard enough or thought long enough, I could find a solution to most any problem that came my way. But with every passing hour, the world was proving to be a far darker, less responsive place than I'd ever imagined, and my own effectiveness far less certain. I couldn't think now what had possessed me to believe I could help Eliza. Clearly, I was no more capable of overcoming the forces against her than I was of healing Mrs. Petrikova's withered body. It terrified me to think that her life was in my hands.

And yet, it was. As the Reverend started the buggy up with a snap of the reins, I drew a deep breath and told him about Eliza's arrest and the claims of her mental impairment, remembering what I had come for. He asked a number of questions, mainly concerning her current condition and whereabouts, which I was able to answer, and whether he might be allowed to visit her, which I was not. Though he was clearly sympathetic to her predicament, he did not seem as shocked by her arrest as I would have expected.

“Forgive me, Reverend, but you don't seem very surprised,” I remarked.

“When you've seen as much as I have, my dear, surprise is a rare commodity.”

I couldn't help wondering if it was life in general, or Eliza Miner in particular, that had failed to surprise him in this instance. “You don't mean that you would have expected something like this of her?”

“No, no, not at all. I only meant that I have come to expect the unexpected.” Muttering what sounded suspiciously like an oath, he swerved the buggy to the left to avoid a clanging streetcar. “But tell me, Doctor, what can I do to help?”

I explained that I was trying to bolster her defense in light of what I considered a biased investigation and asked if he would share with me his impressions of Mrs. Miner and her family.

“Why, certainly,” he replied. “Of course, we haven't had a great deal of contact, but I have known Elizabeth for several years. We first met when she started volunteering at the Sunday school, right after it opened ten years ago. She was a very reliable worker, always willing to fill in when the other teachers were indisposed. She stayed on until she gave birth to her baby boy, about three years ago. Then, as you know, the boy died in his crib, and she took it very hard.”

“Did you visit her after his death?”

“Yes, although there was little I could do but pray for her. She didn't speak for several days, just lay in bed sleeping or staring at the wall. It was weeks before she regained any semblance of her former self. As you might expect of a mother who's just lost a child.”

“Have you noticed anything odd since then, in either her behavior or her physical movements?”

“I'm afraid our paths haven't crossed as much these last few years. I do see her in church, of course, but she's never sought me out, and we rarely exchange more than a greeting after the service. That said, I can't recall ever noticing anything wrong with her physically.”

“Have you seen anything that might suggest the beginnings of dementia?”

He frowned. “What sorts of things do you mean exactly?”

“Lashing out in anger, perhaps, or engaging in wild flights of fancy. Or any kind of unlawful or socially inappropriate behavior, for that matter.”

“Good heavens, no. Nothing like that. She's always struck me as a decent, rather ordinary young woman. Not one to complain. Certainly not one to cause trouble. I've never heard of any brushes with the law.”

When I asked him about the comments from other parishioners he'd entered in her clinic file, he explained, “Those were made after her son died. The couple who used to own the bakery next to the butcher shop came to speak to me after church. The wife had been friendly with Mrs. Miner and was worried that she wasn't recovering from her loss. She had noticed that Mrs. Miner would have several good days, but then become depressed and withdrawn again. One morning, Mrs. Miner was wearing a bandage on her wrist in the shop and became agitated when her friend asked her about it. The friend was concerned that she might have attempted to take her own life, by cutting her wrist. I called on Mrs. Miner that same afternoon, but it turned out that she had only burned herself on the iron. She was happy enough to remove the bandage to show me.”

“So her friend was mistaken.”

“That was my conclusion at the time, yes.”