It surprised me when Mama and Celia grew tense as we approached the Barlow home shortly before eight.
“What is it?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s that fanatic, Reverend Halsey,” Mama replied. “Every time we hold a board meeting, he’s lying in wait outside, ranting and waving his Bible at us.”
“Thank goodness he doesn’t seem to be here tonight,” Celia said with a little shudder. “He makes my skin crawl.”
“Speaking of Halsey,” I put in, “Mr. Godfrey and I saw him today preaching outside Woodward’s Gardens. Actually, screaming fire and brimstone is more like it. He actually incited a riot and the police had to be called out.”
“I just wish he’d go back to Los Angeles or wherever he comes from,” Mama said. “I wonder if he realizes how many enemies he’s making?”
And with those naively prophetic words, we went inside.
E
veryone gathered in the Barlow front parlor. The room was large enough to accommodate two wine-colored velvet sofas, placed on either side of a bay window, as well as several gentlemen’s chairs and a scattering of smaller ladies’ chairs. A lush Oriental carpet lay on the floor, and a number of delicate Chinese and Japanese prints hung on the walls. A fire crackled in the oversized hearth, and silver coffee and tea services had been set out on low tables. My eyes were drawn to an intricately beautiful tapestry hanging at the end of the long room. Upon examining it more closely,
I was astonished to see that it looked like a genuine Gobelin.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Mama said, coming up beside me. “I don’t know how they do it.”
The meeting began, and I had no time to question this remark. On the way over, Mama had explained that the hospital board comprised roughly a dozen people, including the new chairwoman, Margaret Barlow, her husband, Judge Tobias Barlow, Margaret’s mother, Adelina French, Mama, Celia, my brother Charles, one or two other doctors and a few civic-minded individuals from the community. Several members were missing tonight, including Charles, who’d been called out on a case, and Judge Barlow, who was attending a function with my father at their club.
Reverend Nicholas Prescott was also in attendance. Catching my gaze, my mother whispered that when Margaret assumed leadership of the board, she begged the minister to take on the role of the hospital’s spiritual advisor. Eyes twinkling, Mama promised that I was in for a rare treat.
Everyone settled into a seat, and Mrs. Barlow called the meeting to order. She introduced Reverend Prescott to those who had not yet met him, then asked if he would lead us in a prayer. Smiling, he rose and bowed his head. I noticed that every eye in the room was fastened on the handsome cleric, as if drawn there by a magnet. Especially, I saw with amusement, the women.
As Prescott began his invocation, I closed my eyes and found myself falling beneath the spell of those warm, fluid tones, so comforting and soothingly intimate. The tension began to drain out of my body and I slowly relaxed. It seemed as if my body were floating in a world of perfect peace.
Then someone coughed and I came back to myself with a start. Opening my eyes, I saw that everyone around me was equally
spellbound. Margaret Barlow had an otherworldly look on her face, while her mother, Mrs. French, seemed to be in some kind of trance. Even Mama and Celia were clearly enraptured by the man. Had he mesmerized us? I wondered. I’d heard of this practice, but I hadn’t believed it possible. Now I wasn’t so sure.
Mama flashed me a knowing smile in the silence following Reverend Prescott’s prayer, pleased she’d been proven right. The quiet did not feel uncomfortable; rather, it seemed companionable and calm. I had the impression no one wished to shatter the serenity the tall minister had created in the room.
After several moments, Mrs. Barlow cleared her throat and asked Lucius Arlen to present his financial report. The accountant stood and, looking about the room as if to ensure he had everyone’s attention, placed his spectacles atop his globular nose and opened a black ledger.
“Largely due to the one hundred twenty thousand dollars raised at Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey’s charity dinner,” he began, “we were able to reach an agreement with the owners of the Battery Street warehouse and have signed the lease papers. Renovations on the new hospital have already begun and, according to the survey we commissioned, will be less extensive than we originally feared. This will not only reduce our initial costs, but will allow the hospital to accept its first patients several weeks earlier than scheduled.”
An excited murmur swept through the room. Celia clasped her hands together in delight as Mama whispered that women were already begging for admission to the hospital. Now, mercifully, they would not have to be turned away.
Mr. Arlen turned a page in his ledger, then removed his glasses and again regarded the room until it became quiet.
“Having said that, I must stress the need for fiscal restraint. For
instance, I question the amount of money that has been allotted the kitchen staff, especially as the cook is Chinese.” This last word was uttered with obvious disdain.
All eyes went to Margaret Barlow. “I assure you Mr. Chin is a Fine Chef and comes highly recommended.” Her tone was a bit defensive. I knew from Mama that Mrs. Barlow had hired Chin Lee Fong away from an upscale hotel on Turk Street.
“The man is
Chinese,”
he repeated, as if Mrs. Barlow had missed the significance of the man’s racial origin. “You are paying him a white man’s wages.”
Mrs. Barlow seemed unable to find a suitable retort. She looked helplessly at her mother, who said, “Mr. Chin has been offered a wage commensurate with his skills, Mr. Arlen. Are you suggesting that in good conscience we should offer him less than a fair living?”
“I’m saying we must not lose sight of our limited resourses, Mrs. French. As Chin will be cooking for a charity hospital, I consider it reasonable that we readjust his salary or hire someone who will do the job for less.”
When this statement elicited loud opinions, both for and against the proposal, Mrs. French gave her daughter a sharp look, at which Margaret hastily recalled her duty as chairwoman. Thanking Arlen, she asked one of the doctors to report on the number of beds and the amount of medical equipment required to accommodate the first patients.
The accountant closed his ledger with a sharp snap and returned to his seat. Was he anti-Chinese? I wondered. Since I’d met the enigmatic tong lord, Li Ying, I’d begun to grasp the misunderstanding that existed between our two cultures. While it was true the average Chinese immigrant preferred to isolate himself from the
fan kwei
(foreign devils), it was because once he’d earned enough money, he planned to return to his homeland. The few
brave souls like Chin Lee Fong who ventured outside Chinatown were usually regarded with distrust. Was this what was bothering Arlen, or were the hospital’s finances really so dire?
On the whole, I considered the accountant’s report favorable. The fact that at least some of the hospital’s rooms could be put to immediate use was vital to the plan I had come here to propose.
When the general business of the evening had concluded, I asked permission to address the board. Standing, I explained Lily Mankin’s situation, then proposed a practical solution to her predicament: we could allow the widow and her children to occupy one of the existing rooms in the hospital while the rest of the building was being renovated.
“Wait, please,” I put in, when my suggestion produced a murmur of disapproval. “Mrs. Mankin is honest and hardworking. What’s more, she’s adept at sewing, ironing and cooking. I have no doubt she would make a fine nurse if properly trained. I believe it would be to the hospital’s benefit if she lived in as a full-time staff member.”
“What about her children?” asked a heavy-set matron, who sat ramrod straight on her lady’s chair. “Who is going to care for them while Mrs. Mankin performs her duties?”
“We’ve made plans to establish a nursery for children confined to the hospital, as well as for the offspring of women who are giving birth,” Mrs. French replied, giving me a conspiratorial smile. “Allowing Mrs. Mankin’s children to use this room would not pose a problem.”
When there were no further objections to my proposal, Margaret requested a vote, and it was unanimously decided to permit Mrs. Mankin and her children to move into the hospital as soon as a room could be made ready. Celia gave my arm a little squeeze, sharing my elation that the poor widow and her children would not be forced out into the street.
As Margaret saw us to the door after the meeting, she invited anyone interested to tour the new hospital the following afternoon. Mama and Celia accepted with alacrity. I thought about it a moment, then I, too, accepted her kind invitation.
I think everyone gave a collective sigh of relief when we exited the house to find no sign of the volatile Reverend Halsey lurking outside.
“Perhaps he finally realized the hospital isn’t an instrument of the devil,” Celia ventured.
“Perhaps,” Mama said doubtfully. “Somehow I can’t imagine Mr. Halsey giving up that easily, though.”
I silently agreed, and on the walk down the hill found myself wondering what Halsey was up to.
As it happened, I did not have to wait long for an answer. Samuel and Charles were waiting for us when we arrived home, their somber faces declaring louder than words that something was wrong.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s Reverend Halsey,” Charles answered. “He was found dead tonight. One of my colleagues—who was also a guest at the Godfreys’ charity dinner—was the first doctor called to the scene. He recognized the victim as Josiah Halsey.”
“How did he die?” Celia asked, eyes wide with shock.
“It appears Mr. Halsey suffered a fatal heart attack.”
I
t was past midnight when Mama and Papa retired for the night. The rest of us were equally fatigued, but Charles, Celia, Samuel and I decided on a nightcap before following our parents upstairs. Choosing to sit in the more informal—and to my mind cozier—back parlor, Samuel stoked the dying embers of the fire until the
room glowed in flickering shades of amber and gold. After tonight’s shocking news, it felt reassuring to be sitting here with my family. Leaning back in my favorite armchair, I allowed Papa’s aged brandy to spread welcome heat throughout my body.
Charles and Celia sat on the settee. Samuel, who had replaced the fireplace poker, stood with his back to the hearth, thoughtfully rocking back and forth on his heels. Of the four of us, Celia alone seemed edgy and unable to relax.
“What’s bothering you, Celia? Is it Halsey’s death?”
She gave her husband a weak smile, as if embarrassed to admit that the minister’s passing distressed her. “It’s just so unnerving, Charles. Sarah said Reverend Halsey seemed fine when she saw him at Woodward’s Gardens this afternoon. How could something like this happen so suddenly?”
“People die of heart attacks every day, my dear,” Charles told his wife. “Often they occur with no warning.”
I placed my brandy snifter on a small cherry wood table. “Caroline Godfrey suffered from angina for years, yet her attack was every bit as fatal as Halsey’s. And she had medicine and a doctor on hand to save her.”
Charles sighed. “Unfortunately, a physician and the right medicine don’t always guarantee a patient’s survival.” He said this as if he were personally responsible for the shortcomings of modern medicine.
Belatedly, I realized how my words might be misconstrued. “I’m sorry, Charles, I wasn’t blaming you. You did everything possible to save Mrs. Godfrey.”
He gave me that wonderful, big brother smile I’d loved since childhood. Samuel was the sibling I could count on to help me fight my battles. But it was gentle, kind-hearted Charles who provided a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.
“I know you don’t hold me personally responsible, Sarah,”
Charles said. “But it’s difficult not to experience a sense of failure when you lose a patient.”
We were all silent for a few minutes, then I asked, “By the way, where was Halsey found?”
“On Lombard Street. Not far from the Barlows’ house.”
“Hmm. Does anyone know where he was living?”
“I doubt anyone knew him well enough to ask. Your friend George Lewis was at the scene, by the way,” Charles said looking at Samuel. “Evidently, he found no identification on the body.”
Samuel spoke from where he stood by the fireplace. “Why did you ask where he was living, Sarah?”
“I was trying to understand what he was doing on Lombard Street tonight. If he had a room nearby, that would explain it. On the other hand, given his habit of appearing uninvited at hospital board meetings, he might have been on his way to the Barlows’ home when he suffered—”
“A fatal … heart attack?” Samuel finished for me.
That slight hesitation, as well as the way he spoke the last two words, caught my attention. “You say that as if you question whether he died of natural causes.”
Samuel swirled his brandy, then left his place by the hearth to take a seat in an armchair.