The Virgin Cure

  “This is Alice Creaghan,” Mae said, handing me a saucer with a steaming cup of tea.

  “Mae brought me here too, when I had no place to go,” the girl confided. “She spotted me running for my life and stepped up to save me.”

  Alice had the same crazy-eyed zeal when she talked about Mae as the missionaries I’d seen up on their soapboxes along the Bowery, shouting for people to come to them to be saved. They pounded their fists against their bibles and read lengthy passages about temptation and hell to anyone who’d listen. “When she brought me to Miss Everett’s,” Alice said, “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

  Reaching for one of the little cakes on the tray, Mae said, “Who knew heaven was a brothel.” She winked at me as she bit into the treat with her shiny white teeth.

  I reached for one of the cakes as well and stuffed the whole of it in my mouth at once. The thick icing stuck to my tongue, its sweetness melting and humming down my throat.

  “Mae came in through Miss Rose Duval,” Alice continued. “Miss Duval has her own room and a steady gent. He brings her anything her heart desires and pays for her to be seen by only him. There’s even talk he’s planning to put her in an apartment soon, in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He’s Chief of Detectives, you know.”

  Shaking her head, Mae frowned at Alice. “You shouldn’t have said that last bit.”

  “What’s the harm in it?” Alice complained. “Moth will soon be one of us.”

  “If Miss Everett agrees to it,” Mae said, taking another cake.

  “And if the doctor says you’re clean,” Alice added, then smiled at me reassuringly.

  Doctors rarely came to the slums of Chrystie Street. The people there either couldn’t afford their care, or were too scared to call for them. I’d grown up hearing stories of the bad things that happened when the doctor came. Aside from the pain and tears he’d likely bring to your door, the bill he’d leave behind would take you straight from the sickbed to the poorhouse.

  Mrs. Popovitch’s on Broome Street was the place most people went when they needed healing. Using remedies from the old country, she’d help women when they didn’t want to have babies, or when the babies they did want got stuck. She yanked out bad teeth and knew how to cup away disease. She was a quiet woman, with large, strong hands, and hair gone white before its time. I liked walking past her house, especially on sunny days. She kept her cups sitting upside down in her window. They sparkled there, on a long, lace runner, waiting for Mrs. Popovitch to heat them up with a flame and stick them on a person’s back. She claimed they’d suck the sickness right out of a person’s body.

  But Mama didn’t trust physicians or Mrs. Popovitch. She said that if a person couldn’t be cured by drinking a bit of tonic and taking to bed for a day, then maybe they weren’t meant for this world after all.

  When Alice mentioned the doctor, my cup slipped in its saucer, hot tea sloshing over the edge of the cup. “Don’t worry,” Mae said, shaking her head. “The doctor is a lady physician. She looks over all us girls.”

  Belly rumbling, I wondered if a lady doctor was any better than a man, and if I dared reach out and take a second cake for myself. The meal I’d shared with Mae felt like it had been days ago, and I longed for every last one of those cakes.

  Mae pinched two cubes from the sugar bowl with a pair of silver tongs. Letting the cubes fall one after another into her cup, she gave me a sly grin as she reached back to the bowl once more. “Two makes it sweet enough, but I always add a third … just to make myself happy,” she said. The last cube splashed into her cup, making the tea jump, but she didn’t spill a single drop. She placed the tongs in front of me. “What makes you happy, Moth?”

  I didn’t pick up the tongs or take any sugar. I drank my tea fast, feeling the heat of it going down my throat, warming my belly.

  Mrs. Wentworth’s gold bracelet circled around my arm. A handful of coins in my pocket. Sugary cake melting on my tongue.

  “Plenty,” I told her, taking another sweet from the tray and popping it into my mouth.

  With clasping arms and cautioning lips,

  With tingling cheeks and finger tips.

  “Lie close,” Laura said,

  Pricking up her golden head:

  We must not look at goblin men,

  We must not buy their fruits:

  Who knows upon what soil they fed

  Their hungry thirsty roots?

  —from The Goblin Market,

  Christina Rossetti, 1862

  While I sat waiting with Alice and Mae, two of the other young ladies who lived in the house came into the parlour. Half dressed, in flowing silk robes, hair tied in rags, they each filled a napkin with tea cakes and then wandered off again, busy, I assumed, with the task of preparing themselves for the evening ahead. One of them, a willowy girl with a mole on her cheek, nodded to me and smiled, but neither she nor the young woman at her side said a word.

  “Miss Emily Sutherland and Miss Missouri Mills,” Alice said, after they were gone.

  As I saw Miss Everett coming down the hall to fetch me, Mae whispered, “Make sure you’re quiet on the stairs—Miss Rose Duval’s still sleeping.”

  I followed Miss Everett to the topmost part of the house. I worried as we went, every step reminding me of the first night Nestor had led me to the servants’ quarters at Mrs. Wentworth’s.

  Miss Everett ushered me into a room with three spool beds lined up the middle, each one dressed with soft-looking quilts and clean, fluffed-up pillows. Three dressing tables sat along one wall, pages from magazines picturing ladies in expensive-looking gowns pinned like wreaths around their mirrors. Hat boxes were stacked five and six high in the corners, piles of colourful hair ribbons draped over their tops. Compared to the space I’d shared with Caroline, the room was a warm, bright nest of girlish wonders. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself asleep here, my cheek resting on the pillows, my eyelids fluttering with dreams.

  Miss Everett shut the door behind us. “Dr. Sadie will be joining us shortly,” she announced, “but for now it’s just the two of us.”

  I nodded to her, my belly turning. Graff’s oyster stew and too much cake were threatening to make a terrible return.

  “Strip off your dress,” she said, arms folded, making it clear it was a command rather than a request.

  I reached into my pocket and held tight to my knife. What if Mae was just leading me on, and there was a man waiting to take me right then and there.

  “I assume you’ve a blade there,” Miss Everett said, staring at the spot where my fist was clenched under the folds of my skirt. “You’re welcome to keep it in your hand if it brings you comfort, but please remove your dress.”

  I’d wanted to seem confident, as if I understood everything that was going on, but it was too late for that. Letting go of my knife, I fumbled with the buttons at my collar, loosening the dress. When I was finished, the dress fell, the knife along with it, to the floor.

  “You needn’t worry,” Miss Everett said, bending down, fishing in my pocket for the rusty blade. Placing the handle of the knife in my hand, she said, “If I was the kind of person who meant to hurt girls, you’d already be ruined and back on the street.” Circling around me, she took hold of the edge of my worn, thin chemise and rubbed it between her fingers. “How old are you?” she asked.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Good.”

  Discovering the ribbon I was wearing around my neck, she tugged at it, threatening to pull Mrs. Wentworth’s fan from under my garment.

  I put my hand to my chest to keep the fan in place.

  “Shh,” she said, “I only want to have a look.”

  I gave in to her request, and allowed her to draw it out.

  “What a lovely thing,” she said, turning the fan in her hand. “Where did you acquire it?”

  “It was my mother’s,” I answered, praying she wouldn’t detect my lie.

  “I see,” she said, as she let the fan drop. “Is she living?” br />
  Not wanting to bring bad luck by saying Mama was dead when I didn’t know it to be true, I simply said, “She’s gone.”

  “Please take off your kerchief,” Miss Everett said. “The doctor will need to check for nits.”

  Pushing the calico scarf off my head, I felt the greasy slick of my short hair. It had grown since leaving Mrs. Wentworth’s, but was nowhere near being an acceptable length, especially for a whore.

  Miss Everett let out a frustrated sigh. “You sold it, I suppose?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, stacking yet another lie, neat and close to the rest, like sticks bundled for burning.

  There are many choices to be made in the daily life of a doctor’s work. When faced with the choice to participate in the care of the residents of 73 Houston Street, or to dismiss said inhabitants as unworthy of my consideration, I chose the former.

  My intention was not, as some have outrageously assumed, an attempt to satisfy depraved desire or base instincts on my part. It was, quite simply, for the sake of the young women who lived there and for the benefit of science. I’ve logged many pages of case histories, noted many valuable observations while visiting there.

  A quiet knock came at the door, followed by a woman’s voice. “May I enter?”

  “Yes,” Miss Everett answered. “Come in.”

  The doctor came in, carrying a large, black bag. It sank into the quilts when she placed it on one of the beds. I wondered if there was anything in it that might stop my belly from lurching.

  “I’m Dr. Sadie,” she said, giving me a short nod as she took a bright red bar of soap from her bag.

  Looking down at the floor, trying not to get sick, I replied, “I’m Moth.”

  She was dressed in black from head to toe, the fabric of her dress expensive, the cut so fine I was sure it had been made just for her. The buttons down the back of her collar and at her sleeves were silver, each one made to look like a tiny rosebud. They pointed to wealth and good breeding, but her forthright attitude said she didn’t want anyone to make too much of it.

  Untying the ribbon on her hat, she pulled it off to reveal dark brown hair, braided and pinned in a bun. After setting the hat on the edge of a washstand that was against the wall, she folded back the sleeves of her dress and went about washing her arms and hands in the basin. The smell of the soap was as harsh as tar.

  When she’d finished, she came back to her bag and took out a crisp, clean apron. Pulling it over her head she tugged it into place and then tied the strings around her waist. “I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing before she’d even started. “I’ll try to make this easy.”

  Miss Everett patted the edge of the bed closest to her and motioned for me to sit.

  My legs, weak from nervousness, nearly buckled as I took my place. I wondered for a moment if I’d ever be able to stand again.

  The doctor took a flat piece of silver from a chain at her waist. It looked something like Mrs. Wentworth’s letter opener, but with rounded edges instead of coming to a point. I pulled back when she came at me with it.

  “I need to see inside your mouth,” she said, gesturing for me to open up, the tool still in her hand.

  I did as she asked and she pressed the thing against my tongue and peered at my teeth, telling me to say “ah.” Then she removed the thing from my mouth and set it on the washbasin. Gently tugging at my eyelids she stared at my eyes. Spreading the hairs apart on my head, she checked for nits, Miss Everett hovering the entire time. Thankfully I’d been spared them.

  Then she had me lie back on the bed so she could feel my arms and legs and all around my belly with her fingers. After that, she asked Miss Everett to leave.

  The woman seemed disappointed by the doctor’s request, scowling at her all the way to the door. “I’ll be waiting right outside,” she said.

  In a soft voice, Dr. Sadie explained, “I’m going to have to lift your undergarment now for an internal examination. I don’t mean to hurt you. Please spread your legs wide and do your best not to move.”

  Feeling trapped and confused, I put my hand between my legs and held my knees tight together. As a child I’d held myself there in my sleep, one hand nestled, fingers cupped over the softest part of me so I’d feel safe. I’d thought nothing could harm me as long as I could feel the warmth of it, holding, holding, holding.

  “Don’t,” I said, ready to run from the room. “I won’t let you.”

  “All right,” the doctor said, pulling my skirt back down over my knees before sitting herself at the end of the bed. “How old are you?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

  “Fifteen.”

  “How old?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Shaking her head she said, “You’re welcome to tell Miss Everett anything you like, but I ask that you not lie to me. I’m here to be of help, if you’ll allow it. Your proper age, please?”

  I refused to answer.

  She took a small book from her bag and began to write in it. “Have you any family?” she asked, pencil in hand.

  “My father left when I was young.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She left too.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “It’s been a while now.”

  The pencil was in a pretty ivory holder, carved and spiralled around like a ribbon.

  “Do you have regular courses?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Have you had your first blood?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve never lain down with a man? Never been put upon or seduced?”

  “No.”

  “You understand what that means, and what Miss Everett expects from you?”

  The thought of being with a man was frightening. Though I’d seen her that once with Mr. Cowan, Mama had explained very little to me about how things should go, saying she thought it was best a girl get her start not knowing any better.

  “Do you understand?” the doctor repeated.

  “Yes.”

  What I really knew was that, like the bracelet I’d stolen from Mrs. Wentworth, my virtue was a dangerous thing to keep, especially on the street. I’d never felt this more keenly than when Mr. Cowan had his hands on me, his breath greedy and hot against my cheek. It was inevitable that I should part with my innocence but at least under Miss Everett’s roof I hoped I might get the chance to give it up for a fair price.

  Putting aside the book, the doctor said, “If you haven’t any other place to stay, there’s a girls’ lodging house over on St. Mark’s Place—”

  “I know it,” I said.

  “I’d be happy to help you get a spot there.”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine,” I insisted.

  The doctor sighed. “The nights are getting colder now and the beds there will be harder to come by. They serve hot meals every night and hold classes to teach reading, arithmetic and sewing.”

  “I already know how to read and I’m staying here.”

  She stared at me, her eyes moving back and forth across my face. “You had bruises around your eyes, not so long ago. Did someone hurt you?”

  Like a Gypsy, like a witch, like Mama, she knew how to see things in a person that they’d just as soon forget. Turning away from her, I refused to answer any more of her questions. I stayed silent until she was gone.

  In medicine, there is always the matter of practice before friendship. One tries to make oneself as human as possible.

  I liked the girl the instant I met her. There was not a shred of nonsense about her (unlike so many girls her age). Even at her lowest, she knew who she was. In that way, we were more alike than different.

  October 16, 1871

  Rounds were made to the usual boarding houses today. (Two cases of diphtheria, one infant with catarrh. Preventative powders and tracts on venereal diseases were given to young women at 111 and 112 Spring Street, as well as 97 Mercer.)

  A new boarder has arrived at Seventy-three East Houst
on.

  “Moth” Fenwick, allegedly fifteen years of age. After examining the girl, I would estimate her age to be closer to thirteen years at most. She’s far too young in body and heart to be any older.

  When I told Miss Everett as much, she argued that the child is fifteen and old enough to know her mind. “Malnourished,” she insisted when I made note of the girl’s undeveloped physique. As proof, she went on to say that she’d seen the girl begging on the Bowery on several occasions. Which begs the question—did Miss Everett entice her?

  “She came of her own free will.”

  For my part in today’s deceptions, I lied when Miss Everett asked about the girl’s internal exam. (She got the news she wanted, nonetheless.) The girl is virgo intacta, but I didn’t need to touch her to know it. I’ve seen enough girls in the infirmary, in orphanages, in lodging, boarding and whore houses to know whether or not a child has been had by a man.

  She’s too young. She’s not bled yet. She has no family, no home.

  I’ve been visiting that house for nearly a year, but had never encountered a girl of such tender age. To the child’s credit, she’s intelligent and bold. I only wish she’d allowed me to find a place for her elsewhere.

  Miss Everett was quick to remind me that I’ve nothing to offer a girl that can compare to what she’s got to give. “A spot in a house of refuge? A position as a scullery maid or thread-puller? What sort of life is that?”

  A life free from the threat of disease and the hardship of being put upon by men.

  “Remember Katherine Tully,” she retorted.

  How can I forget?

  S.F.

  Miss Everett chose to take me on. “You’ll do fine,” she’d said, putting her hand on my shoulder after the doctor was done with me. “I’m sure of it.”

  At first blush, life in the house seemed near perfect. Vases filled with pink buds of affection graced every room. Boxes of chocolates and bottles of wine sat crowded together on a marble table at the bottom of the stairs, the cards attached to them addressed to Miss Sutherland, Miss Mills, Miss Duval. Even the house’s cook, Mrs. Coyne, was everything a girl would want her to be, friendly and warm—the opposite of Caroline. She welcomed me with a bowl of chicken stew and a hearty “Pleased to meet you, miss,” the minute I sat down for the first time at her kitchen table. The stew, made from the better parts of a bird, fresh carrots and peas, wasn’t quite as tasty as the dishes Caroline had served Nestor and me, but it was still far above anything I’d ever gotten at home. I tipped the bowl to catch the last drops of broth in my spoon, not wanting to leave them behind.