Chapter 33: An Invitation

“Where does madness leave off and reality begin?”

— H. P. Lovecraft, The Shadow over Innsmouth. Written November–December 1931; first published by Visionary Publishing Co. in 1936. Public domain in the United States.

The recovery ward of Dreibruch University’s medical wing possessed an atmosphere wholly unlike that of the operating theatre below. There was not immediacy of blood nor the sweat of a doctor.

In this place, with rows of narrow beds stretched beneath tall windows whose panes admitted the waning light of an overcast afternoon, there was a faint small of disinfectants, but also the odor of fruit juice mingled with fragrance of some perfume from the nurses (who were mostly nuns) doing the job of checking on the maimed, injured, and healing.

Dean Ashcombe led a small procession through the ward even if he did not wish he had to. He was not a people-person, but this was altogether necessary.

The men accompanying him represented various interests from across New England. Bankers, industrialists, landowners, and investors had answered Dreibruch University’s invitations with understandable curiosity. The one thing they all had in common: They all were from families of good standing and with good reputation. One thing that helped in this situation is that most had connections with New York, where a lot of the country’s money and rumor mill existed.

Stories of remarkable recoveries had begun to circulate through academic and financial circles alike. The schools and hospitals were not especially helpful as they lacked real ability to change things in America, but they had connections to families that could. There were families of wealth and property who had joined the military either in the War of Independence or the War of 1812. Honor was useful, but both wars led to people being injured, maimed, or killed from bloodloss.

Medical discoveries that assisted in lengthening lives or preventing such loss would prove attractive to people who lived through war. Presenting his work like a pony in order to cultivate influence felt demeaning to Ashcombe, yet he would do so.

And so, Ashcombe walked at their head with visible pride, but letting his personal feelings stew beneath the surface. He was grateful that Dr. Kaufman had chosen to accompany him.

The biggest difference between the two at this particular moment was that while Ashcombe projected enthusiasm, Kaufman exuded certainty.

The physician, much like Ashcombe, was wholly uninterested in impressing anyone, for his attention remained fixed upon the patients and the state of care they received. For Kaufman, by Ashcombe’s consideration, the work was not the only thing that came first. Only the effort and the outcome of such study and execution mattered. The public was simply an addition that got in his way.

“This man,” Kaufman said, indicating a bed near the center of the ward, “should be dead.”

The declaration caused several visitors to exchange uncomfortable glances, for saying someone should be dead.

The patient in question was sitting upright and reading a newspaper.

His complexion remained pale, yet there existed within him none of the hollow ruin that terminal illness ordinarily produced.

Kaufman consulted a notebook.

“Cancer of the stomach.”

One of the visitors frowned.

“You removed it?”

“I removed what I could see, ja, but it was the techniques for the care after the removal that made all the difference.”

The physician’s expression remained severe.

The donors moved onward. Ashcombe felt it was because they did not understand what was being done or said that they could not appreciate the immensity of what Kaufman had done.

Another patient had survived injuries sustained during a mill accident. Another recovered from a severe abdominal wound. Yet another displayed a rate of healing which several physicians among the visitors privately described as impossible.

The results spoke more loudly than any presentation, but still necessity required that they explain themselves to the public.

The patients were alive. That fact alone justified much, yet he could not see them becoming especially impressed. Part of Ashcombe wanted to throttle those within his school.

As the procession paused beside one of the windows, a gentleman detached himself from the others and approached Silas.

The man appeared to be in his late fifties. His beard was neatly trimmed, his coat expensive without being ostentatious, and his manner suggested the quiet confidence of inherited wealth.

“Mr. Wolcott, I presume?”

Silas nodded.

“I am.”

The gentleman extended a hand.

“Jonathan Whittaker of Providence.”