The Virgin Cure

  We climbed a winding, gilt staircase to the waxworks. The place was windowless and dim, the gaslight turned down to a hazy glow, Mr. Dink explained, to preserve the integrity of the models, as they were susceptible to damage from the heat and light of the sun. The air in the room was close, and smelled sweet like honey.

  204. THE MANIAC, a truthful portrayal of insanity.

  205. The deathbed of ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

  206. Execution of MARIE ANTOINETTE, with model of the guillotine.

  207–209. Waxworks of CHARLES DICKENS, NAPOLEON, and WILLIAM TWEED.

  210. EVE and the Apple.

  In the centre of the room was the new attraction Mr. Dink had brought us to see, a life-size figure of a naked woman lying on a bed of pink satin. The top half of her body was whole and beautiful, her nipples like perfect little buttons, her eyes open just a glimmer, seeming to beg anyone who came near to take her home. Below her belly she’d been opened up to reveal her wormy insides and the mysteries of the female anatomy.

  300. THE GREAT AND WORLD-RENOWNED GERTU, imported from Vienna by the proprietor, at a cost of $15,000. This has been pronounced by the many thousands who have seen it to be the very “Ne Plus Ultra” of feminine beauty, the development of all the organs are magnificent, and being life-size it is more than worthy of admiration.

  “Isn’t she divine?” Mr. Dink asked as Dr. Sadie approached the display.

  “Indeed she is,” she whispered, clearly fascinated.

  Mr. Dink’s desire to please Dr. Sadie, and the care she took with it was, to me, the most interesting curiosity of all.

  My nose almost touching the glass, I stared at Miss Gertu. Her skin was dark, with a golden cast like Mama’s. Standing there, I wondered if my mother had been aware of all the nights I’d lain awake beside her, trying to work out the arithmetic of my blood. My eyes, nose, voice and hair had all come from her, but it was the space between my front teeth, that pauper’s share of my father, that made the sums in my head go wrong. It was a crack so small I couldn’t even spit through it, but it made Mama frown every time I smiled.

  That’s not real, I heard Mama say in my head. A belly and a slit is all there should be. That’s all there is to a girl.

  Looking away from the figure, I noticed a doorway at the back of the room with a sign over it that read, The WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH. As Mr. Dink and Dr. Sadie stood talking, I went through it.

  One entire wall was filled with heads covered in boils, their noses sunken, their skin crumbling and dissolving away. Model after model of infected body parts was lined up, every last one disfigured by oozing chancres.

  425. Very fine dissection of the penis and bladder.

  426. Healthy genital organs of the male.

  427. Half-dissection of the penis and bladder of a victim of self-abuse, showing the genital organs not fully developed.

  450. Early circinated syphiloderma.

  451. A waxwork of CUPID, suffering the ravages of the French Pox. “Love is Blind.”

  Gone was the beauty of Miss Gertu. All that was left was Mama’s voice and the horror that I was seeing. I stared at the suffering CUPID, his mouth open with fear. Tongue dry, hands shaking, I turned and ran out the door.

  A belly and slit is all you have, Moth. You must fill them as best you can.

  Whistle, daughter, whistle

  And you shall have a man.

  Mother, I cannot whistle

  But I’ll do the best I can.

  Before going back to Miss Everett’s, Dr. Sadie took me to her rooms to see about the dress. She went straight to a trunk at the end of her bed and began pulling things from it—a pair of silk slippers, a couple of old tintypes, squares of half-finished needlework and a box full of letters. Finally, wrapped in the folds of a large white sheet, was the thing that she was after.

  She cradled it in her arms, then she held it to her cheek, closed her eyes and smiled. “I wore this the night of my seventeenth birthday,” she said. “There was a stone fountain in the middle of my aunt Charlotte’s ballroom that had been shipped all the way from Paris, and an entire orchestra playing my favourite songs.” Holding it out to me she said, “Here, try it on.”

  Its colour was deepest, emerald green, and the silk of the skirt was so soft and smooth I couldn’t stop touching it, shushing the cloth between my fingers. The bell sleeves had embroidery stitched around them, rings of flowers and hearts covering every inch from cuff to shoulder. Although it wasn’t in the current fashion, its quality was far above any of the dresses, suits or gowns Miss Everett had given me. It was elegant, yet sweet, and I couldn’t wait for it to be mine.

  In the spring of 1836, Miss Helen Jewett, a wildly successful courtesan, was found murdered in her room on Thomas Street. The details of her death were gruesome—a scorned lover had taken up an axe to end the girl’s life and then burned her body in her bed. When the accused gentleman was put on trial, a swell of sentimental support rose up among the young women of the city on behalf of Miss Jewett. Girls from all walks of life donned dresses of green (the colour of Miss Jewett’s eyes) to parade in the streets outside the proceedings. For many years after Miss Jewett’s death, debutantes wore green dresses for their entrance into society—most of them not knowing the reason why.

  But when Dr. Sadie helped me lift it over my head to slip it on, it didn’t fit. Too long and too loose, the tapered pleats of the neck fell off one shoulder, the cloth drooping across my chest. I tried to gather the fabric tight at my sides to make the gown stay in place, and insisted, “It’s perfect.”

  Dr. Sadie just grinned at me. “Don’t worry, I can fit it to you.” She took my hand and helped me to stand on top of the trunk. Bringing out a sewing basket, she put pins between her lips, a thimble on her thumb, and set to work.

  I watched my reflection in the dark of the window as she pinned the dress around me. Admiring myself, I held my hands up to my heart, just like the girl in the lodging house ladies’ broadsheet I’d kept hidden in my crate on the roof on Chrystie Street.

  Tugging at a sleeve, Dr. Sadie said, “Hold still.”

  I wasn’t used to such thoughtful attention. Staring down at Dr. Sadie, I couldn’t help but wonder what was in this for her. What did she want of me? Mrs. Wentworth, Miss Everett, even Mama had never given me anything without expecting something in return. Mrs. Riordan was the only person I’d ever known to have a selfless heart. I figured the world simply couldn’t afford to hold another woman like her in it. If I told Mr. Dink about Mrs. Riordan, he’d surely fetch her from Chrystie Street and put her on display.

  “Did you dance in it?” I asked, wondering what secrets the dress might hold.

  “Of course,” she answered. “The more a girl dances in a dress, the more luck it brings.”

  “Do you think there’s any luck left in this one?”

  Nipping the shoulders up, pinning one side and then the other, she looked at me and said, “Yes, I’d say there’s plenty.”

  That’s good, I thought. I’ll need it.

  Honest and horrible all at once, those cankered, frightful models in the museum had held more than their share of truth about men. Even the parts of a gentleman shown in health looked strange to me, and I shuddered when I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a man’s body naked and close to mine.

  “What’s it like to have relations with a gentleman?” I asked Dr. Sadie, daring to stutter out the question I’d had on my mind since we left the place.

  Not looking up, she replied, “Surely Miss Everett’s explained it to you, hasn’t she?”

  She hadn’t, and I wasn’t certain she ever would. I’d heard the sounds of Rose with the Chief of Detectives and spied Mama in her bed with Mr. Cowan, but those occasions, as real and shocking as they’d been, hadn’t made things any clearer to me.

  I’d never seen a wedding band or any rings on Dr. Sadie’s fingers, but I assumed her profession didn’t allow her to wear them. I couldn’t tell if she’d ever been someone’s wif
e or not. Like the dress, I guessed she had plenty of secrets.

  “Is it always ugly, loud or awful?” I begged. “I want to know the truth.”

  Sighing, she motioned for me to turn so she could begin to pin one of the cuffs. “I certainly hope not.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I can tell you of love, but outside of what’s in my head from physiology texts, I’m afraid I know nothing of the other.”

  “You’ve never been married?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve been in love?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you still?”

  “It’s a difficult situation,” she answered, closing her eyes for a moment as she worked to find the right words to say. “My choice of occupation is an embarrassment to my family. If I were to follow my heart in love as well, I’d wound them even more.”

  How had her being a doctor, as rare and strange a thing as it was for a woman, caused anyone any harm? As far as her being in love was concerned, I found it something of a relief to know that even the heart of a fine, educated woman could have trouble getting what it wanted.

  “So you love him, even now?” I asked.

  She looked up at me with sad eyes, colour fading from her cheeks. With great regret in her voice, she answered, “Yes.”

  By the time she’d finished making her tucks and darts, the dress clung to my skin like it was made for me. With proper petticoats and a modest hoop, it hid my too-small breasts, my memories of Mama and Mrs. Wentworth, and my worries over a man I was yet to meet.

  Female physicians learn to suture in much the same way young girls learn to sew. We sit together in a circle, looking over each other’s work, vying for the straightest, most pleasing stitch. There is friendship, of course, but competition too, and a shared pride in knowing that this aspect of medicine, so vital to the care of wounds, is best executed by nimble, feminine hands. Many a face in the slums of Manhattan has been made right by “women’s work.”

  Along with the dress, as it turned out, I was to wear a pair of angel’s wings. They came from Mr. Dink, who said they’d appeared one morning, dangling from the museum’s awning.

  “It was a beautiful thing to find them there, all happy and white,” he said. “It was like seeing a perfect Christmas goose in the butcher’s window.”

  “You’re a liar, Mr. Dink,” I said, grinning at him.

  Curling his finger, he motioned for me to come close. “I’ll tell you the truth,” he whispered. “They belonged to a girl I used to love. She kept track of the illusionist’s rabbits and doves before Miss LeMar. Magnifico could make her disappear, right out of a box, wings and all.”

  It worried me to hear him say he used to love her, because I thought it meant they’d had a falling-out. Maybe he’d done something so bad that he didn’t deserve to be loved any more.

  “If she catches me with them, won’t she want them back?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, looking sad. “She’s dead and gone, my dear. Diphtheria.”

  I tried not to show him how much that relieved me. I didn’t want him to think I was unkind. Still, I didn’t mind that the wings had belonged to someone who was now dead. I felt bad for him, of course, but was happy to have them, and happier still to find that there was no one to get in the way of my keeping them.

  From the place where I stood as the cartes de visite girl, I had a fair view out the museum’s front windows, and could see much of the entrance hall as well.

  Miss Eva Ivan sat at the ticket counter just inside the door. Holding her fan over half her face, she’d wink at the gentlemen patrons with the long, fluttery lashes of her right eye.

  “Just the museum,” she cooed at a young man who came in on my first day there. “Or are you staying for the show?”

  The young man put a quarter on the wooden countertop and slid it towards her.

  She reached out and stroked his hand before giving him the ticket. “Enjoy yourself,” she told him, and then snapped her fan shut to reveal the other side of her face.

  “Shit,” the young man cursed. “Holysaintoffuck, half of you’s a man.”

  Miss Eva laughed, big and booming, dark and rough.

  Shaking his head, the young man grabbed his ticket and shouldered his way into the museum. “Shit,” he said again as he passed me. “Shitshitshit.”

  Miss Eva feathered out her fan and got ready for her next customer.

  Nearly all of the gentlemen who came to the museum stopped to stare at my wares, many of them choosing to buy at least a card or two. The images of Mr. Dink’s human oddities were quite popular with them. Legless wonders, lizard men, bearded ladies, dog-faced boys, and an entire family of albinos, including Miss Sylvia LeMar, entertained the men to no end.

  But it was Mr. Dink’s collection of exotic ladies from near and far that garnered the most attention. This was due, in no small part, to the fact that I kept them hidden away, to be viewed only by request. On Mr. Dink’s request, Dr. Sadie had sewn a secret panel in my skirt, which could be revealed with the simple pull of a ribbon. The panel was lined with red silk and was the perfect place for such wonders to inhabit. “Men clamour for the unknown,” Mr. Dink had said, knowingly.

  One of the portraits featured Miss Suzie Lowe as Lady Godiva. She was sitting on top of a big, dark horse, her back turned to hide her breasts, her long hair flowing down around her shoulders. A large satin sheet was draped around her waist to hide anything else that might offend. She was looking over her shoulder, straight out of the picture like she shared a secret with only you.

  My favourite of the hidden cartes was the Circassian Beauty, a young woman surrounded by tasselled cushions and Persian rugs. She was dressed in the costume of her native land, her skirt falling above her knee and the neck of her dress dipping temptingly low on her breasts. The most striking thing about her, however, was her hair. Unfettered by combs or ribbons, it graced her head like a lion’s mane, the wonder of it threatening to escape the borders of the picture. She reminded me of Mama in better days, her proud, menacing expression daring anyone who crossed her path to try to bring her down.

  Mr. Dink liked her best of all as well. “One of the biggest regrets of my life, she was,” he confessed. “I let Mr. P.T. Barnum steal her right out from under my nose. Two thousand dollars he paid for her before I could even have my say. Then he told me I’d have to pay three thousand to win her back.”

  Mr. Dink himself had started out with Mr. Barnum: his parents had signed him over to be a sideshow attraction when he was only ten years old. When Mr. Dink attained the age of majority, he told Mr. Barnum he was leaving him. The showman had wished Mr. Dink well when they parted ways, but now there was a fair bit of competition between them. Miss Eva had defected to Mr. Dink’s after the second of Mr. Barnum’s great museum fires. Stealing away the Circassian Beauty had been Mr. Barnum’s way of settling the score.

  “Where did you get her in the first place?” I asked, wondering if there was some secret society that saw to the placement of sideshow performers. “The Circassian Beauty, I mean.”

  “Oh, she wasn’t gotten, my dear girl,” he said. “She was made.”

  He would say nothing else about her and I didn’t press him on it. The wistful look that came across his face whenever he saw her card told me not to tread there.

  In the hour before the museum opened each day, Mr. Dink would sit with me and teach me about the actresses and personalities on the cards as well as the various performers who inhabited his stage. It soon became my favourite part of the morning. His stories of the many performers he’d taken under his wing and the secrets he knew about their lives made me forget Miss Everett and everything that went on in her house. Mr. Dink said his business was also filled with a certain amount of scandal and struggle, but, he assured me, “we’re just like family, only with more curious talents and ties.”

  He’d tell me which stars were currently favoured by the audience and which ones were fading fast. H
e said it was important that I commit their names and histories to memory so that when a gentleman approached, I’d have something to say.

  The men frightened me at first with their eagerness. Respectable gentlemen with fancy watches, pockets full of money, and perhaps wives and even children who loved them at home, would look at me, biting their bottom lip or the inside of their cheeks, lust in their eyes. Like newsboys waiting for the confectioner to hand them a piece of taffy, their hands would tremble ever so slightly as they reached out to take Lady Godiva or one of the other exotic beauties from me, the bolder of them wishing to unpin the card from my skirts themselves.

  In the safety of Mr. Dink’s care, I soon learned to be a little cruel to them, taking my time to hand over the cards, waiting for them to turn red around the collar. I grew to want to make them blush. I wanted them to know that I was watching them just as closely as they were watching me.

  November 23, 1871

  I made a visit to Mr. Dink’s on the Bowery as Miss Eva Ivan was complaining of “sword throat.” It’s a trouble she’s had in the past, due to over-performing. This time, coupled with an eagerness to swallow multiple blades at once, she’s made herself incredibly sore. I prescribed a therapeutic tea, and spoke with Mr. Dink about the matter. He is in agreement that Miss Eva is in need of patience and rest.

  When she is well, I plan to approach her to ask if she is willing to allow me to try a new method of exploratory examination on her. Dr. K_. has been successful in placing a rigid metal tube down the throat of a sword swallower, and they have been touring together the past three years to demonstrate the technique to other physicians. The possibility of seeing down an esophagus clear to the fundus is quite exciting!