Bones of the Barbary Coast (22 page)

"So it is a flawed thesis?" I persisted.

"It is in direct contradiction of holy Scripture."

"Says the deacon and stalwart pillar of Good Savior Church. What does the naturalist say?" I maintained a small smile, as if unaware of how daring such a question was.

He was most exasperated with me, but soon became thoughtful and resigned. "Oh, Lydia," he sighed, "flawed or not, I cannot accept it. Step on that slope and I am afraid it will become an avalanche that bears all mankind down with it. Look at the wretches we tend to every day. Their aspirations are fragile enough, aren't they? Their hopes of better things? The naturalist, too, prefers to maintain a belief in divinity."

He had answered more candidly than I ever expected. In sympathy, I put my hand on his arm, and we said no more for a long time. We were nearing the mission when I spoke again, as if it had just occurred to me: "Deacon, last week a woman told me that she knew of a man in most miserable circumstances. He is elderly, she says, living in the streets, afraid to ask for help. Have you time for a short detour? She told me where he is . . . I am thinking we might find him if we go now."

In this deception there was little risk of discovery, for I am well known for seeking out unfortunates; Rev. Smith calls me his "scout," good at locating souls who have been prepared by desperation to receive Christ.

Deacon Skinner assented, and I pretended to recall the woman's directions uncertainly as I guided him toward that gangway. We found Nottingham, turned, then came to the alley in which I had encountered the two men. This was too narrow for the deacon's rig, so he tied the horse with some uneasiness and we walked in together, Deacon Skinner looking stern and carrying his brass-headed stick prominently, though we did not encounter anybody.

"Perhaps here," I said when we arrived at the narrow passage.

I felt considerable anxiety about what we might find, but in daylight its aspect was somewhat different; the sense of menace was lessened, the air of squalor and pathos amplified. I had not noticed the buildings in the dark, but the one on the left was in fact empty, obviously fire-damaged, with its windows and doorways boarded. We walked uneasily in the cut between, our shoulders brushing the walls on either side. At the end, the little courtyard opened, cut off by the wall, and the stairs came down just as I remembered.

Seeing it now, I realized that it would be a feat of considerable athleticism to leap and catch the top of that wall, and abruptly I became afraid that the creature might turn on us. My wish had been to have Deacon Skinner glimpse him, too, to gain both a naturalist's and a religious man's perspective, and so enlist his help in determining what this being was and what we as Christians ought to do. Thinking of the strength the creature had displayed, I became afraid I had brought dear old Deacon Skinner, knob-head cane or no, into grave danger.

But aside from refuse, the courtyard was empty. Deacon Skinner peered first into the cellar stairwell, and announced, "Well, here's his nest, that's for certain."

And when I looked in, I was shocked. I had pressed myself to the left wall, up into the shadows of the descending stair; only a few feet from where I'd stood was a pile of rags, clearly a spot where someone had slept repeatedly. There were bones of small animals, as if many meals had been taken there, and a few bottles arranged in a row. The door into the cellar was of thick oak planks, iron-bound and heavily padlocked, so he had not been somewhere inside; I had stood within inches of the creature all that time.

"Are you all right, Sister Lydia?" Deacon Skinner asked.

I had no doubt grown pale, and felt so weak I gripped his arm to steady myself. "Well, we have found the place, if not the man," I said. "It is a wretched spot to call home, isn't it?"

"We'll send a group to find him another time," Deacon Skinner said consolingly, mistaking my reaction. He turned me decisively toward the end of the gangway. "But now we had better get back to see if my horse has been stolen. Or eaten," he added darkly, glancing up at the hollow-seeming windows above us. "Or whatever they do with horses hereabouts."

WEDNESDAY, MAY 22, 1889

In the mission, speaking to those who come for spiritual nurture, we talk constantly of faith—the virtue and power of faith. I myself use the term, but realize that I mean it differently than Rev. Wallace or Rev. Smith do. We have the word to describe a form of belief that is acquired through insight, not through mere reason, and that is energized by passion. We speak of faith as an act of great courage, for with it comes the capacity to overcome immediate circumstances, to ignore the reasoning mind's observations and objections, if need be, along with pain, doubt, and temptation.

But I prefer mere hope. Hope is the real act of courage, it seems to me. To hope is to say, to admit, "I wish it could be so, I want it to be so, I can envision it so, I will auger for it to be so." It is not dependent upon any abstraction; it is not based on reason; it makes no claim to know any larger truth. It does not attempt to say, "This is how the world is; this is God's will," which must be forever subject to interpretation. Hope is to simply choose an ideal, by oneself, to want and to aspire; it is inarguable, because it is not some guess about something external, it resides immediately and palpably inside one's heart. It can be thwarted, denied, crushed; but its existence cannot be denied. Hope is thus more real, more honorable, and more courageous than faith. Hope is entirely one's own.

So I lie when I say I am faithful. It would be more accurate to say I am hopeful, deeply and irredeemably so. I hope my ministrations to others result in some relief of pain and sorrow. I hope mankind will elevate itself from its squalor and cruelty, and that my actions contribute to that elevation. I hope my sister will someday live a happier life in which she is not subject to such degredation. I do hope there is a plan for mankind and that it is a kindly plan, though I cannot claim certainty thereof. I hope I will always please and honor my husband. I hope I have not burdened old Cook with too much work today. I hope in the long run kindness trumps cruelty, though I have no evidence it will.

Perhaps it was hope that propelled me to visit Dr. Mahoney yesterday. He makes a point of showing himself a cynical, jaded man; he drinks too much whiskey and is often surly. But he has chosen to keep his office in this district, and since there cannot be much money in caring for the residents here, I have always suspected he, too, is secretly a man moved by hope and is pursuing his own small mission in its service.

Early in my shift, I thought of an excuse to visit his office: We needed medical supplies. I walked the blocks to Broadway quickly, uncomfortable even at mid-day. The row where his office is located is comprised of saloons and shabby storefronts, and during the day a great many idle men lean against the clapboards there, spitting, smoking, and calling out crudely; though there is enough traffic that I did not fear outright attack, I was still anxious as I shouldered between them to Dr. Mahoney's doorway.

There are times when his office is thronged, but I was right in assuming that Tuesday at early afternoon would not be one of those times. Upstairs, I found his waiting room empty, and I sat for only a short time before his office door opened and his patient limped out.

I asked him for iodine, and we talked as he filled a smaller bottle from his store.

"Dr. Mahoney, I have an unusual question for you," I began.

"Now what would that be, Mrs. Schweitzer?" Dr. Mahoney comes from Dublin and retains a strong brogue; the tonsure of hair that remains around his bald dome is still red.

"Have any of your patients reported seeing a very strange person . . . a freak, perhaps?"

"What sort of freak?"

"A man who has many attributes of a dog."

I expected that he would scowl and say no, and from there I could ask questions of a medical or scientific nature, about whether such a thing was possible, or what afflictions might make it appear so. Instead, he looked greatly startled and fumbled with his bottles, dropping the smaller, which rolled on the table, splashing iodine like blood. Dr. Mahoney cursed awfully, found a rag, and began mopping up the stuff.

"What on God's green Earth would prompt you to ask that question?"

"Several people at the mission have mentioned seeing such a creature. It seems as if you have heard similar stories?"

"Yes," he snapped angrily. "There's a werewolf. It prowls from here to Chinatown and out to the docks and it kills men, ravages women, and steals babies for its dinner. If I am to believe everything I hear, I tended one of its victims myself! It is a wonder what primitive superstition will do to the mind, Mrs. Schweitzer, especially when augmented by the fumes of opium, or an excess of laudanum or absinthe. Or the late stages of syphilis."

As unlikely as it may sound, the idea of the creature being a werewolf had never entered my mind until that moment. I could not think of a reply and must have appeared dumbstruck, for Dr. Mahoney looked at me piercingly.

"Why I am so hot and bothered, you might ask? Because to a doctor superstition is a deadly enemy! It ruins more people than any disease. 'Seventh time is lucky, roll the dice once more and I will make back all I have lost.' 'This hex will keep me from all harm.' 'A woman cannot get pregnant at the new moon.' "

At that, he must have become concerned he had offended me, for he stopped his tirade abruptly and peered at me over the top of his spectacles with a guilty look. I was by then more desperate than ever to confide in someone, but I bit my tongue. He recovered himself and began filling the little bottle again.

"Yes, I can imagine," I said. "Oh, and gauze and sticking plaster as well. If you can spare it."

He stoppered the bottles and busied himself at his cabinets. "There are conditions that can make a person appear fearsome. A severe hunchback, for example. I had one as a patient in Dublin—the children would stone him. I treated a sailor whose face had been consumed by an infection that left him without a nose or upper lip, who was shunned and could no longer work because he was 'bad luck' to have on ship—whatever became of that one, only God knows. There are individuals given to growing an excess of body hair. There is even a skin condition that affects the teeth and causes them to take a sharp and conical shape, like a dog's. If there is any shred of truth to these rumors, it stems from something of that sort. And if there is such a person here, he would seem a good candidate for the mission's mercies, Mrs. Schweitzer."

He handed me the supplies and I took them.

"Yes, in that we are in complete agreement, Dr. Mahoney. Please let me know if you hear more about him. Thank you for your trouble today; please put the expense on the mission account."

24

TUESDAY, MAY 2 8 , 1889

L
AST NIGHT WHEN I came to Margaret's room she was with a man; the door being partly open, I had gone right in and surprised the three of us. I recognized him from his photo as her lover, Percy, a nervous and enterprising dandy in a cheap striped suit, high collar, and bowler hat. He was leaning against one wall while Margaret, fully dressed in decadent frills, worked at her hair with the comb I'd brought. Percy is a slight man, but has sharp features and over-bright eyes that convey utter ruthlessness, the sort of person who keeps a straight-razor or derringer in his boot-top. Margaret's eyes flared wide as she saw me, a look almost of terror.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I did not know you were with someone. I'll leave."

"No, stay," Percy said, eyes alight with curiosity. Then, to Margaret: "Who is this?"

"Just a nun from one of the missions," Margaret mumbled. She went back to preparing her hair. "Not now, Sister Lydia. We're busy."

"Some pretty special kind of nun," Percy said, shouldering himself away from the wall and coming toward me. "Who comes alone to a whorehouse in the middle of the night."

His eyes seemed to gauge everything about me in an instant. Before I could move he had reached out his hand and slipped the button loop at the neck of my cloak; taken aback by his assertiveness, I was too stunned to protest. When the cloak parted, it revealed only my ordinary clothes, yet I felt frighteningly exposed. I tugged it closed immediately, but he had seen what he wanted.

His eyes narrowed though his smile remained. "Without a habit, too . . . and a figure going to waste in a nunnery. Maybe this is the same 'nun' that brings five-dollar gold pieces to a dollar whore?"

"She's a bother. Don't worry about her," Margaret said.

Percy tossed his head, yawned and stretched, and now gave every appearance of disinterest. "Mag and I were just going out," he told me. "But I'll leave you two to your business. Meet me downstairs, Mag, when you're done with Sister Lydia. Make it quick."

He left, closing the door after himself. I wondered if he truly went away or just put his ear to the door, then decided I did not care: I was her sister and had prior claim.

The moment he was gone, Margaret rounded on me fiercely. "I don't want you ever to come here again! Didn't I make that clear last time?"

"Yes. But I can be just as stubborn as you."

"And bring grief to us both. You have no idea what you're doing. Get out."

I shook my head sadly. I took out of my pocket the little sewing kit I had brought her, a set of spools of thread of every color, good needles, and a fine, sharp scissors. I opened the box and showed her its contents, then left it on the table. She gave it barely a glance. She was gathering her things and putting them in her purse with the air of a woman in a hurry.

"What do you want this time?" she asked.

"Have you ever heard talk of a wolf-man or werewolf?"

"Sure, and every other awful thing. There are ghosts and gollums here, too. And there's far worse. Now, I have little enough time to call my own, and I'm going now. And so are you."

"What do people say?" I persisted.

"They say he killed that man two weeks ago. And the one before that. That it wasn't dogs after all."

"But what is he?"

"Some say he's the scion of some Nob Hill royalty, who changes over and comes down to feed where the hunting is easy. Billy Royal knows for sure he's a Chinaman, some perversion from the Orient, come uptown to eat White meat. People say anything. What do you care? You're safe in the arms of Jesus."

"But, truly, Margaret, I think I have seen him! He ran on all fours!"

"So what? It's what goes on two legs you should be afraid of."

She snapped the clasp of her bag and made clear she was ready to go out. Her cheeks were rouged with round spots, her lips red, eyes made dramatic with kohl, hair gathered into a clasp and falling heavily on one shoulder, figure pulled into a generous hourglass shape by her corset. I saw suddenly how a man of a certain type might find her very attractive: shapely and voluptuous, a knowing and ironic manner, her mismatched gaudy finery making her look half a fine lady and half a child waif or gypsy. Abruptly, I was moved by her, for reasons I cannot describe.

"You look so lovely!" I exclaimed. I could not help myself and put out a hand to touch the hair on her shoulder.

To my shock, she snatched my arm and clenched it so tightly her nails dug into my flesh. Through her teeth, she said into my ear, "You listen to me! When we go downstairs, do not speak to Percy. Do not answer his questions. Do nothing to attract his interest or attention or I swear to God I will scratch your eyes out!" With that she flung my arm away, pulled open the door so hard it slapped the wall, and stormed out.

Now it is late Tuesday night; I am weary from my shift at the mission and yet I am writing here in the pantry while Hans sleeps upstairs and Cook snores in her room. I have turned off all the gas and write by the one oil lamp so that I can carry it up with me when I go.

My sister's grip has left a line of little crescents in my skin, not so much painful as a burning reminder of distressing emotions. When I came down the stairs, she was on Percy's arm and they were at the door; he cast one bland glance back at me, his little smile cold beneath his moustache, and then they vanished into the darkness outside. I proceeded quickly through the gas-lit streets and into my alleys, frightened by her outburst, wondering what had prompted such intense emotion. She has told me Percy also entertains another whore whose company he enjoys and with whom she feels she competes; perhaps his crude compliment to my looks had set her jealousy afire? It is not utterly incredible, for like all sisters we battled for our parents' miserable attentions and have never quite lost that sibling instinct. And everything about her has turned base and crude; needless jealousy could be just one further expression of it.

Yet I cannot quite believe it is that simple. I realize as I think of it that in some way Margaret is right, I have always proceeded into the Barbary Coast, and every district where the unfortunate congregate, with the assumption that mine was the actual and correct world, that my duty was to bring some light from mine into their sullied, savage, little one; that my circumstances and society, the lives of the good people of my church and those like them, are righteous and universally aspired to, while theirs are simple, base, and naive. Given education and opportunity, I have assumed, not one of them would want anything but to emerge into the bigger, brighter, civilized world.

But hearing Margaret's urgency and authority as she gripped my arm, I suddenly feared that the opposite might be true: that my world is the smaller, the innocent, the transient one, the one built on illusion, a mere island in a vast, dark and turbulent sea. That there are ancient and inexorable workings and ways of mankind about which she knows, truths she knows absolutely, about which I have no understanding. It is a terrifying prospect; I feel the way a sailor must, when his ship is going down, feeling the ocean clutch at him and realizing for the first time its real depth and coldness.

Comes Hans's sleepy voice from the top of the stairs: "Lydia? Look at the time! Come to bed,
meine Liebling."
And the thought of lying next to his warmth and strength in our safe place gives me some reassurance.

TUESDAY, JUNE 4, 1889

In the week since my last encounter with Margaret, I have been confused and undecided. I have gone about my business and maintained all my deceptions as I am accustomed to doing, yet have all the while been desperately pondering what to do with her. But no amount of pondering has moved me toward a decision or any understanding. I cannot solve the riddle of her behavior or her life.

Nor can I solve the mystery of the wolf-man. Whenever an opportunity has presented itself, I have asked the people at the mission about rumors of a strange freak or wolf-man, and have learned that he has been sighted here and there over some months. Each person claims some sure knowledge of what he is or where he comes from, but all their accounts are at variance. The best I can gather is that he is glimpsed in different places, always briefly, and that he is blamed for all kinds of misfortunes. It is mostly foolishness and superstition, Dr. Mahoney's bane; one old woman shook her head when I asked and told me it was bad luck to talk about him. I eagerly awaited the report of Deacon Skinner and the committee of church brothers who returned to the nest in the gangway, but they said it was empty and unchanged; having been discovered there, I suspect, the wolf-man has abandoned what was for a time his safe haven.

I have not taken the time to write here because beyond my concern there is no real news and my thoughts are endlessly repetitious and circular, not worth the ink it would require to record them.

THURSDAY, JUNE 6, 1889

I am in great upheaval and danger, and it is no one's fault but my own. In just two days, everything has changed. All my artifices are about to collapse around me, and I have nowhere to turn, no one to confide in or to help me. Only an hour ago I took Hans to me in our bed, I desperate for closeness and he full of manly passion; yet while he slumbers happily in the aftermath I have run downstairs to make this silent scream upon the ledger page.

I am an idiot. It has all come about as Margaret said it would, in ways I would not have suspected because I am a foolish woman and refuse to accept the darkness in the hearts of men and the strangeness of the world's ways. As if to further confound me, I am doubly mystified and troubled because I have seen the strange person again, the werewolf or wolf-man, under very different circumstances that cause me confusion and a different kind of anguish.

Yesterday, Hans had gone to Sacramento to explore an opportunity to expand his business there; it being Wednesday, I did not have a shift at the mission and was therefore at home in the late afternoon when the doorbell rang and the knocker pounded urgently. I hastened to the door to find Percy, Margaret's lover, standing on the step, twisting his hat in two hands, most ill-at-ease and unhappy.

"Mrs. Schweitzer, Margaret needs you," he blurted. "She asked me to come for you. If you could come at once, ma'am. I have a carriage."

"But what has happened?" I exclaimed. "Is she hurt?"

"Yes, she needs you. Just come quickly. I'll tell you as we go."

I ran to get my bag, into which I hastily threw a few things I feared I might need: gauze for bandages, iodine, paregoric. I snatched some bills and coins from the box where I keep household cash, and then ran to the door, not even taking the time to tell Cook I was going.

Percy took my arm and hastened me down the stairs and to his waiting carriage, a two-seater. We mounted and then were off in haste, down the hill.

"Should we get a doctor?" I asked. "The police?" I was so alarmed I could hardly think.

"She said just to get you. It's a bad situation, Mrs. Schweitzer. I'm sorry to bring bad news. But if we hurry it may turn out all right."

The carriage jolted and rocked so I had to cling to the board to avoid being thrown out. Percy worked the hill brake, then whipped the horse when we came to the flat. We turned east, toward the city center, narrowly missing a cable car, which rattled its bell in complaint. In the same way, we skirted other wagons and pedestrians, drawing angry looks; preoccupied by driving, Percy offered nothing more until I demanded it of him.

"Tell me what happened!"

"I'm not sure myself," he said. "I got a message and went to her. All I know is, she's afraid she's dying, and she needs to see you. She says she loves you dearly and wants you near. I'm just doing what she told me."

We drove on breathlessly, my mind full of terrible imaginings. To my surprise, we did not turn south toward her place of work but on Bay Street continued east. We rolled past drays loaded with shipped goods, and then came close to the bay shore and the old docks, where the city slopes down and falls away. To the south, closer to Market Street and the steam ferry docks, the piers are newer and very active, but at this end they are smaller and in poorer repair, and many of the boats moored are old sail ships, some out of commission and abandoned. Coming toward the waterfront, one passes poorhouses and shanties, then some warehouses, and then the broad frontage where cargo is stored as it is taken off ships. The quay appears as a maze of piled crates, bales, stacks of lumber, a few tiny shacks and roofed sheds, cut randomly with avenues just wide enough for wagons.

I had never been to this section, but Dr. Mahoney once told me it is called the Morgue by the police, a dark joke, because dead men are so often found here. Some are killed at the place, while others are brought by their murderers, to be tucked under cargo or among crates where their bodies are not found until the goods are moved or the smell alerts some stevedore.

"What could she have been doing in this place?" I exclaimed.

"God only knows, ma'am. I'm sorry. But we're only a minute away."

Percy slowed the horse and brought us onto the quay, then into the labyrinth of crates and bales. Near the inland side, we passed a rough man who sat on a tall stack of raw lumber, whittling a stick with a big knife, who lifted his chin at us as We passed. Farther in, we passed another man, walking quickly out; otherwise the avenues of the quay were deserted but for a gull or two perched atop a stack or an occasional stray cat. The sun was still above the western hills of the city, but low enough to fill the avenues with shadow. Percy chose his way carefully, pausing, then deciding, until we were deep among the stacked goods, mostly lumber in long boards and beams of irregular length.