Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain by Kirsten Menger-Anderson Read Free Book Online Page B

Cortlandts!
    â€œOh, Sarah, he is the worst sort.”
    Sarah turned to find the ladies, rumpled from their fight to the front of the crowd. Faith and Margaret and Elizabeth and Mary, all wearing subdued grays and blacks.
    â€œWell, you do look becoming,” Faith said, though her tone made the compliment snide as she examined Sarah’s finest green dress and pearls.
    â€œGreen suits her,” the Constable noted.
    Margaret took Sarah’s hands between her own and squeezed, “We are so sorry to hear about Nicolas. Such a dear, sweet boy.”
    The wardens succeeded in righting the prisoner, who stood, with one warden at his legs to weigh them down andtwo more bracing his neck and back, directly beneath the crosspiece that spanned the lofting posts. The black man gazed forward, seemingly blind to the assembled audience and indifferent to the insults thrown from all sides.
    â€œNicolas,” Sarah said. The heat of the crowd confused her. “Nicolas is home.”
    â€œWe’ve taken a collection for his headstone,” Margaret said.
    â€œOh, dear, no.” Sarah felt suddenly panicked. “Nicolas isn’t dead. Doctor Steenwycks —”
    The wardens had the rope around the black man’s neck. From where she stood, Sarah could have seen the veins that stood thick as string beans along either side of his throat. But she didn’t turn to look. How could she watch the execution while Nicolas was rising? How could she have left her dear boy at home alone?
    â€œNicolas,” she said. “Oh, Nicolas.” And then she was pushing back against the crowd and struggling to force her grand skirt between the pressing bodies. Behind her, the Constable exchanged a worried glance with the ladies, who sighed and remarked that the burdens their poor friend endured took a toll upon her gentle soul. “Don’t allow Sarah to leave alone,” they scolded.
    The Constable followed the widow, looking over his shoulder more often than not. He knew the black man’sfeet had just left the block as Sarah reached the carriage and he stepped forward to help her inside.
    â€œI must return home at once,” she said, cheeks red from exertion. She twisted the rich green fabric of her dress. Nicolas was awaking. Doctor Steenwycks, New York’s most esteemed expert in matters of life and death, had admitted the possibility. And if not, if justice did not reach her son with its tender breath, she would cradle his head one last time in her arms and bury him in a manner befitting a king — scarves, gloves, mourning rings. She would spare no expense.
    With a word from the Constable the carriage set forth. This time it stopped only once: in front of her house on Bridge Street.
    Without waiting for the Constable to offer his supporting arm, Sarah raced to her front porch and threw open the door. Foul air tore through her like the clawed paws of a bear, and she bent before the sting of the assault. Nan looked up at her, small in the seat Sarah had pulled beside the settee.
    â€œCan I go now, Missus?” Had she seen a ghost, Nan could not have looked more drawn.
    â€œFetch a candle,” Sarah demanded. The Constable stood inside now, coughing, hands clenched against the instinct to cover his mouth and nose.
    Nicolas would rise, or not. The waiting had ended.
    â€œUntie the linens,” Sarah said, stepping aside so the Constable could approach the settee. He paused a moment, regarding her with something akin to fear. “Come along now,” she said.
    â€œMy dear —” the Constable began, but she silenced him with a wave.
    â€œMust I call Doctor Steenwycks?” She moved to stand at the end of what she’d come to think of as Nicolas’s sickbed and placed a hand beneath her son’s head. Moisture had soaked the sheet and the cushion beneath it, leaving the fabric cold and damp.
    The Constable, bent over the boy, ran his fingers between the swathing