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  A murmur went up among the other doctors. Mary leaned over and asked Mr. O’Neill why they were talking about horses.

  “The best thing,” the man went on, “is to always bleed from the carotid vein, and not the jugular. The jugular will weaken the horse too quickly, and in most cases results in less blood collected. But even more important, the use of supports must”—he banged his fist on the chair for emphasis—“become standard practice across the labs. A large male horse can be suspended with two stout ropes, one passing behind the forelegs and one in front of the hind legs. Once the support is in place, the cannula should be inserted into the artery. By this method it’s possible to obtain five usable gallons from a single horse.”

  “And where do you stand on the Mallon case?” the DOH lawyer urged the doctor.

  “In terms of Typhoid, I think the answer lies in widespread milk pasteurization, cleaner water, better education on personal hygiene. Typhoid is entirely preventable.”

  “Should she be let back into society or not?”

  “I—” the doctor faltered, looked over at Mary. “It’s my opinion . . . that she should not.”

  One Department of Health official asked the judges to consider what exactly motivated Mary to take the job uptown at the Bowen residence in the first place. Did she harbor a resentment of some sort against the upper classes? Did she resent the Bowens in particular? Perhaps because of the food cooperative Mrs. Bowen had attempted to organize? Without waiting for answers, the official then sat back as if he’d just put the final piece in the puzzle.

  “I worked for the Bowens because of what they paid me,” Mary whispered urgently to Mr. O’Neill, who bellowed an objection. It was illogical, Mr. O’Neill pointed out. A woman can’t be accused of lacking the ability to comprehend her affliction at one moment, and then accused of wielding it like a weapon the next.

  “And why did her employment with the Warrens end in Oyster Bay? Why did she not continue to work for them once they returned to the city?”

  “Because it was a temporary job,” Mary whispered to Mr. O’Neill, but he shushed her. He’d asked her the same question during their preparation meeting and already knew the answer. The Warren job was never meant to be permanent. Their regular cook was to resume her position in Manhattan once they returned from Oyster Bay.

  Mary studied the judges’ faces and saw doubt.

  • • •

  She got home from Oyster Bay on a Friday in September 1906. It was a beautiful day, and better still because she had a pocket full of money that had been pushed into her hand from a grateful Mr. Warren. Little Margaret Warren would play again, would beg ice cream off another cook, would grow up and marry and do all the things a girl should do. Her sister, her mother, the two maids, and the gardener would also live. All the family except for Mr. Warren had already returned to Manhattan, and Mary had left two of the maids drinking cold watermelon soup on the back patio. They’d hugged her good-bye together, squeezing her between them and saying again what a shock each of them got when she pushed them into an icy bath, clothes and all. They blessed her, thanked her, said they knew they wouldn’t have their lives if it hadn’t been for her.

  She’d gotten to the station in plenty of time to catch an earlier train, but she’d written her plans to Alfred the previous week, and wanted to stay with the schedule she’d sent in case he planned on meeting her. So she sat on a bench in breezy Oyster Bay and watched a train pull in and then pull away. When she got to Grand Central Station she waited on a bench again with her bag on her lap to give Alfred a chance to find her.

  After thirty minutes she pushed through the grand doors onto Forty-Second Street and began walking home. Something had come up, she decided. He didn’t have time to send word. He probably had a perfectly good reason for not showing up. Because it was a Friday, every rusted fire escape in their neighborhood would be weighted down with damp cottons and thin wools in every muted shade of white, gray, brown, from Patricia Wright’s careful calico to the yellowed squares of muslin Mr. Hallenan used to strain his coffee. Where twenty years earlier this had shamed her, now she took comfort in the sight and knew she was closer to home. A few tenants had gotten hold of the new roundabout lines that could be extended out a window into the sky without needing to be anchored on another building or another fire escape.

  The rooms Mary shared with Alfred were on the sixth floor, at the very top of the stairs. Unlike the narrow tenements of the Lower East Side, 302 East Thirty-Third was a broad building that held within the yellow brick of its exterior walls thirty-six flats. There was a central staircase wide enough for three bodies to climb the stairs side by side, and from this central stair branched two halls that reached north and south, three flats per hall, six per floor. The sixth floor saw the highest turnover, and some of the rooms stayed empty for weeks at a time. Anyone with rooms on the top floor aimed to get lower as soon as possible, but Mary liked the sixth floor. Their rooms always seemed to get better light than those on lower floors and Mary liked standing at the sink and looking out over lower rooftops. When lying in their bed she could turn her head toward the window and see nothing but blue sky.

  When Mary arrived home that Friday in September, she opened the door to their rooms and was hit by the odor of linen that needed washing, rotting banana peels on the counter, the single window shut tight. The letter she’d sent to tell Alfred what time her train was due was open on the table, and she could see that he’d made an effort to flatten the folds. He might have gotten work. It happened that way sometimes: no prospects on the horizon and next thing someone comes looking for him with a tip about a company looking for a driver, or need for a man who could shovel coal.

  Mary set about stripping their bed and washing the linens, but when she had everything soaking in the tub, she couldn’t find any soap. She decided to run down to the grocer. Not wanting to break one of the new paper bills Mr. Warren had given her, she went to the jam jar of coins they kept by the stove for the gas meter. But there was no jam jar, no coins, and after seven weeks of missing him, of hoping he was getting on, Mary was as furious as she’d been the day she left. Sometimes—and staring at the empty space where the jam jar used to live was one of these times—Mary felt she’d tripped into a space beyond fury, a place where all of this was so astonishing that perhaps she was the one who was wrong. She took a deep breath and went over the facts: I told him to not dare touch the gas money. Do not dare, I said to him. And he looked at me like he wouldn’t dream of it. His look said: the nerve of you to say that to me. I told him I’d send word when I was due home and if he could have the rooms straightened a bit. After a seven-week job I don’t want to walk into a pigsty. He was insulted. And now Mary stood in the middle of the kitchen and contemplated the naked bed in the next room, the dirty plates and mugs on the sideboard. She could walk out the door with the same bag she’d just hauled from Oyster Bay, and leave him to manage the sopping bedsheets. She smiled. That would be a surprise to him.

  But if he’s working, Mary reminded herself, he might have needed those coins to make himself presentable. Unpeeling one bill from the thick fold in her pocket and leaving the rest hidden in the closet, she went down to the street to buy a cake of soap. She hoped that by the time she came back, washed the sheets, and hung them on the fire escape, Alfred would be home.

  But the dinner hour came and went, and still, Alfred did not return. She went down to visit with Fran.

  “And how’s Alfred?” Fran asked. “Glad to have you back?”

  “Oh sure,” Mary had said, avoiding her friend’s eye. “Of course he is.” Mary knew for a fact that Fran’s Robert came home for lunch on any day when he could take the full hour.

  When five o’clock arrived, Mary wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and went out to look for him.

  For several blocks around their building, quitting time found the streets thick with men: men rushing for streetcars,
men leaning against buildings and in door frames. As Mary crossed over Thirty-Third Street she observed that even the horses were wild at quitting time. Several water wagons were heading in a line toward the stables on First, and each horse that passed bent its long muscular neck and turned a vein-threaded eye toward Mary.

  Once she crossed Thirty-Fourth Street, she could see the blue door of Nation’s Pub on the next block, the flag above, the pair of potted plants that welcomed patrons inside. She walked by the wide door without slowing her pace, granting herself only a small sideward glance as if the place meant nothing to her, no more than any other business that lined the avenue. The late-summer afternoon brought a cool breeze, and Mary pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her hands. Her knuckles felt like two rows of rough stones.

  When Mary passed Nation’s again, she took a better look. The window next to the door was clouded, but yes, she thought she saw him, slumped at the end of the bar. Yes, that was the posture he would have after so long sitting. She had no plan except to pass by and confirm that he was there, that he was safe, that he wasn’t in any trouble. Once she found him, she planned on going back to their rooms to wait. Or to pack her things and leave. Or to go about her business and sleep, pretending there was no Alfred, and that she was obligated to no one but herself.

  But on her third pass, the bright blue door swung open, and a man stepped out. Mary looked past the open door at the man she thought was Alfred—a blond man, she saw now, heavyset, his nose a bit like Alfred’s, yes, but nothing else. Then the door slammed shut. He’s told them about me, Mary supposed. Our arrangement. Might have said how much it suits him. Might have had a laugh about it. He was cruel when he drank, but then when he drank more he was kind again. It all depended on the dose, and sometimes Mary hoped that if he had to drink at all that he would drink past cruelty and into the Alfred she loved, the one who loved her and told her that he would never have lived so long without her, and my God, she was beautiful. Did she know? Why didn’t he tell her all the time? Just one or two drinks past kind Alfred was helpless Alfred, and this was the Alfred she feared she’d meet later on that night. There was no arguing with helpless Alfred, no high horse to ride out into the city streets and away from him. Helpless Alfred would get home around three or four in the morning and would call for her from the bottom of the stairs. One by one, doors would open from the first floor to the sixth. He’d sit on the very first step, head in his hands, and shout for her without pause, and when every person who had a door onto the stairs woke up from his shouting, they’d shout for her, too.

  “Where were you?” he’d ask when she finally ran down the six flights. She used to bother with tying her robe, but not anymore. “Why didn’t you hear me?”

  “I was all the way upstairs,” she’d say in a whisper, hoping to shush him. “I was asleep. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mary,” Mr. Hallenan on the first floor would say. “Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you hear him?” Mr. Hallenan didn’t care who in the world saw the graying hair on his belly.

  Then Alfred would put an arm around her shoulder, his other hand on the railing, and she’d haul him up the six flights. In their rooms, she’d take off his shoes, his stinking socks, his pants and shorts. Sometimes he’d realize he was naked and he’d cry: long ugly sobs full of phlegm that shocked and embarrassed her every time. Sometimes, when she was lucky, he just sank into their bed and went to sleep. The worst nights, even worse than when they fought or when she had to strip him, were the nights when she finally got him upstairs and he sat by the window for an hour or so, looking at the quiet below, before staggering to his feet and going out again. More than any other kind of night, those were the ones that drove her to the agency to ask for another situation, one that would keep her away full-time, somewhere far away, where the train back to their rooms would be too long, too expensive for a day’s journey. It was a night when he came back home only to go out again that had driven her to Oyster Bay.

  Standing outside Nation’s Pub, she tried to think of what else she could do to pass the time and stop herself from wanting to see him, but it was no good. She needed to know what he’d made of his weeks away from her. And she needed to know how he was faring. A body could not hold up long against such an assault, and all summer long, before leaving for Oyster Bay, she’d observed him becoming weaker, his pants drooping around his hips, his broad chest narrowing inside his shirt. His face had taken on a gray-green tinge, and the skin at his neck had loosened, become slack.

  “Sometimes I think about when we met,” she’d said to him on that early-August morning when they last fought. Even in a weakened state he was no fool and knew the ultimate point she was driving at. Once upon a time, not so long ago, he’d worked, he’d been strong, he’d been handsome. Years ago, she had an employer who held back two weeks’ wages because he thought she was in league with a tutor who’d stolen jewelry from his wife, and Alfred had gone directly over to that grand, glossy black door on West Eighteenth Street, the entrance the family and their guests used, and put the man straight. When Alfred came back and handed over her wages, Mary was so relieved that she sobbed into her hands like the kind of woman she considered her opposite.

  “What could you have said to him that I didn’t already say?” she’d asked, looking at the bills fanned out on the table.

  “Nothing,” Alfred had said, and then grinned. “I guess I had a different way of putting it.”

  She’d been over the story before, hoping to shame him into seeing the difference between now and then, hoping to light the fire that would drive him back to the way he was. On that morning in August, the day she left for Oyster Bay, Alfred wouldn’t even humor her.

  “Leave then, why don’t you, if you’re so disgusted. Go on.”

  Mary knew women were supposed to be the softer sex, a species so warm and nurturing that God granted them the gift of bearing children, caring for them, looking after a home, nursing the sick to health. But sometimes Alfred made her so angry that all the warmth went out of her body and instead her thoughts became murderous, if she managed to have thoughts at all.

  Mary pushed open the door to Nation’s and took one step inside. One man glanced up and then nudged the man next to him, who nudged the next man, and so on. There was a plate of crackers, cheese squares, and a few slices of bread on a table near the back, and Mary’s quick eye told her they’d been out since morning; the cheese had gone hard at the edges. The man behind the bar tucked his apron into his belt and came around. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “I’m looking for Alfred Briehof. Have you seen him? He hasn’t been home.”

  “Jesus,” one of the men at the bar muttered. “Briehof has a home?”

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “I’m his—”

  “You’re Mary.”

  “I am.”

  “He left a while ago. Did you check with the chestnut man on Thirtieth Street?”

  “Was he . . .” Mary hoped he wouldn’t make her say it. “All right?”

  The bartender shrugged. “He was all right, I guess.”

  Mary tried to decide what to do.

  “I think you should go home,” the bartender said as if hearing her thoughts. “He had that mopey look that means he’s homeward bound.”

  What do you know about his looks, Mary wanted to ask. I’ll kill him, she vowed. I’ll stand behind the door and get him before he even enters the room. Fran had killed a man in Jersey City a few years back. Robert was on nights at the time and the man had broken into their rooms, was standing at the foot of her bed, and she’d grabbed her husband’s spare gun from under the pillow—the one he’d left for her for exactly that sort of crisis—and shot him dead.

  “Thank you,” Mary said to the bartender, and left.

  What Alfred did when Mary was away was never clear to her. She wanted to ask Jimmy Tiernan, who lived on the third
floor and went to Nation’s himself sometimes, but whenever she thought she had her chance, Patricia Tiernan appeared over his shoulder and gave her the daggers. Fran didn’t have a door on the stairs and claimed to never hear Alfred on the nights he howled. Joan had a mind the size of a thimble, and all that thimble contained were thoughts of future babies she’d have with her husband. Once, when Joan mentioned that they’d been married going on six years and hoping all that time, Mary had snapped, “My God, Joan, do you need the formula written down for you? Do you know what goes in to making a baby?” But as she watched Joan close her eyes against her question, keeping one long, delicate finger on the lid of the coffeepot, Mary realized Joan would never have a baby. “I’ve heard it takes a long time for some women,” she offered by way of apology. Joan must have forgiven her because she continued to wave Mary inside whenever she caught her passing.

  It was useless to ask Alfred himself, because according to him he never drank more than he could handle, and when Mary was gone he never drank at all; he only worked or tried to get work. The longest she’d been gone without returning home was three months, but even on the jobs where she was close enough to get home for the odd Sunday, one day was not enough to see what was happening. Who helped him up the stairs when he called and called but never got any answer? Not Mr. Hallenan, who hated both Alfred and Mary. Not Jimmy Tiernan, who wouldn’t be allowed out. Maybe he got up the stairs himself. Or maybe he slept wherever he landed. Or maybe he told the truth, that when Mary was gone he didn’t drink at all. Maybe that behavior was something he saved for her, a punishment, perhaps, for always leaving.