Tales of Jack the Ripper (3 page)

He should never have let his son see that horrible movie. Although the film contained much that was pure fantasy, the story attached a great deal of emotion to what were essentially simple medical processes. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the effect on his son. Jack was accustomed to atrocities of the flesh. But the boy….

Faber was not proud of the way he handled that incident. He had punished Wayne in front of the others and made him sit in a corner and read a book for the rest of the day.

He always wondered if this had contributed to his son’s problem.

“I’m going to let you rest, now,” Dr. Springer said. “If Wayne comes at a decent hour and isn’t too intoxicated, I’ll send him in to see you.”

White Chapel District, London: Aug. 31st 1888, Sept. 8th, Sept. 30th and Nov. 9th; four were women in their 40s, the fifth victim 24, three months pregnant. The first two looked much older than their years. 3rd & 4th within the space of an hour. All occurred outdoors accept the last. Mutilation increased with each—

—but you must remember,
Faber reminded himself,
the penance you have paid since then, all you’ve done to balance the scales. Advisor to the National Pediatrics Foundation, member of the American Cancer Society and the Multiple Sclerosis Society, served on the National Board of Medical Examiners; all of it, so much good, so much to wipe away the sins of youth when you were so angry and had no idea how to channel that fury, that lust and energy—

—he opened his eyes and saw standing at the foot of his bed a figure wearing a dark hat and cloak, a physician’s black bag held in its left hand. There was not enough light in the room for Faber to see the figure’s face, so he opened his mouth and tried to beckon the figure to come forward, but all that emerged from his throat was a pitiful, thick gurgling sound, not even remotely human.

“Shhh,” said the figure, opening the bag and reaching inside. “I only mean to worship your body, dearie, worship and enjoy it in a way few of us ever know.”

No!
Faber screamed inside himself.

“No need to be afraid, dearie,” said the figure, raising the scalpel into the light and admiring its gleaming. “It will bring you such bliss.”

Not any more,
screamed/thought Faber.
I’m not you any more. I left you behind, I was never you, never, and you’ve no part of my life now!

“What life is that, sir?” whispered the figure. “This world of four walls and a bed, is that the life to which you refer? Think about it, Jack, my friend, my creator; bit by bit, little by little, the boundaries of your world have shrunk; first it was the hospital, then this house, then only a few rooms of this house, and now your world, your life, is this bed.” The figure leaned in closer, but the darkness covering its face only grew deeper.

“Soon, dear Jack, your world will shrink until all that is left for you is the central core of Dr. Howard Faber, and do you know what you’re going to find waiting there for you?

“Me, dear sir. It’s been a long time, and I’ve missed you.” The figure dropped the scalpel back into the bag. “So, until then.”

And Howard Faber fell back into the darkness of disease to find its familiarity broken by an immense, organ-crumpling pressure that he feared would crush his bones down to the very marrow.

Tubes.

He was aware of the plastic tubes in his body; a Foley catheter in his bladder, a nasogastric tube through which he was provided sustenance, and a nasopharyngeal tube pumping extra oxygen into his lungs from the bottles by his bedside.

“Just like Frankenstein!”
he heard seven-year-old Wayne cry.

Uncomfortable, he tried to reach with his left hand to pull out the tubes, but found he was unable to move anything but his eyes.

He had a vague memory of Springer saying something about “‘Locked-In’ Syndrome,” and “…a stroke.”

If he had been able to, Howard Faber would have laughed.

What he had done to Catherine Eddowes, Polly Nichols, Alice Mackenzie, and all the others, that was not undignified death; no, they had died in such a way that everyone would remember their names and the unique manner in which he’d worshipped their flesh. It had been quick—brutal, perhaps, but quick nonetheless, much more than those whores deserved. They weren’t conscious for most of the so-called “indignities”; they didn’t have to depend on people to turn them over in bed, to daub the perspiration from their brows or wipe their asses when they could no longer control their bowels; they didn’t have to listen to the
tsk-tsk-ings
and the
isn’t-it-sads
and—the worst of them all, the most infuriating and degrading—those horrible, terrible, disgraceful
Well-at-least-his-suffering’s-almost-at-an-ends.
Bloody idiots, all of them. Talking about him as if he weren’t even in the room, as if he had no grasp of the language any longer. At least Springer, the tough old bastard, at least he had the nerve to address Faber directly, to look him in the eye and speak his mind.

“You look me in the eye, guv’ner,” said the one in the tattered blue velvet, the one who must have been… what was her name again? Polly Nichols—yes, that must have been her. “You’re going to do that to me, you at least look me in the eye so’s you remembers what was in m’heart before you took ever’thin’ away from me.”

A brave one, that Polly Nichols. Almost too bad about that one.

Almost.

From outside his bedroom door he again heard the seemingly perpetual cacophony of whispering voices: Springer, and the nameless nurse, and of course Miss Lumbly… but today there was an additional voice, slurred, pained, but still recognizable.

“He’s my
father
, dammit! I’ve a right to see him if I want.”

“Not in your condition, Wayne,” replied Springer curtly. “I’ll not stand for your upsetting him.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” said Miss Lumbly. “Your father lying in there on his death-bed and you show up here in a drunken state. Have you no respect for him? The man was—”

“—such a saint,” snapped Wayne. “Yes, yes, I know—
believe me,
I know. All my life I’ve had to listen to everyone tell me what a fine, wonderful, upstanding man my father is. ‘‘You’ve quite a large shadow to step out from behind, Wayne,’ you say to me. Well, I’ve tried! I did everything I could. It wasn’t my fault the Army wouldn’t take me for duty in Korea—”

“—that was because of the condition of your liver, Wayne,” said Springer. “The drinking has taken a toll on your system. You weren’t fit for active duty. Couple that with your history of emotional instability and—”

“All right!”
snarled Wayne, nearly shouting. “All right, maybe I have brought a lot of my problems on myself, but you have no idea what it’s like to be… to be the offspring of a
saint.
Compared to a miracle worker like my father, I’ll always be a failure.”

“I find your behavior extremely distasteful,” said Miss Lumbly.

“My
behavior? Oh, that’s rich. Let’s talk about your behavior for a moment, shall we, Miss Lumbly? Which of us is worse, I ask you—the one who shows up in his cups to see his dying father, or the one who arrives day after day in her finest dresses and gloves in the hopes that a dying man might take her as his wife before he shuffles off his mortal coil—leaving her with not only a respected name but all his worldly goods, as well? Answer me that, will you, Miss Lumbly? All I want from him is… is forgiveness for not measuring up to his perfection. I don’t give a
tinker’s damn
about the money or the house or any of it. All I’m looking for is some trace of the father I worshipped when I was six. So here we stand, Miss Lumbly, the drunkard and the decaying debutante, and I want you tell me which of us is worse!”

“Enough,” said Springer. Then the sound of the front door opening. “I think you’d better be on your way now, Wayne. If and when you can come back here sober, you can see your father.”

The sound of shuffling footsteps, then Wayne’s voice, empty, defeated, disgraced: “It’s a terrible thing, never knowing if you’re your own man or simply the sum of your family’s parts. Try living with that for a while and see how you’d react. I figure I can either drink or I can weep, and drinking is so much more subtle.” The door closed.

Faber opened his eyes again to see the dark-cloaked figure standing at the foot of the bed.

“That was quite a show Wayne put on for the others, don’t you think?” it said. “Oh, don’t bother trying to say anything; I’ll already know what it is before it’s out of your mouth and you’ll need your strength for later, anyway.

“It seems to me, dear Jack—oh, all right, have it your way—
Howard
—it seems to me that you’ve only now begun to realize what your son has been going through all these years. The boy
does
make a strong case, does he not?

“You’ve made your ‘contributions,’ Howard. You’ve pioneered your research, you’ve helped ease the suffering of others, all the things one would expect of a fine, upstanding saint such as yourself. But the one thing you’ve not bothered to ask yourself,
Jack
—and Jack you are, as you have always been and shall always be—the one thing you’ve never asked yourself is: Does it make any difference?”

The figure walked around the side of the bed and seated itself on what Faber had come to think of as Springer’s chair.

“Guess what, Jack—it doesn’t. Everything you’ve done, the great strides you’ve made in your medical research, the pain you’ve prevented, the diseases you’ve helped to fight, none of it means a thing because it will never erase what you did, what we did.

“Have you ever heard the expression ‘Kill two birds with one stone’? I’ve a way for us to do that. It’s very simple.

“Confess. You’re dying anyway, so you needn’t worry about the authorities doing anything to you. It will not take away from the medical accomplishments, so the advancements you’ve made will go on helping others, and—and this is the most important one, Jack, so pay close attention—it will destroy this aura of sainthood that has protected you lo these sixty-two years, and that destruction will free your son to become the man he was meant to be. No more will others look at him and say, ‘What a waste, why couldn’t he be more like his father?’ No, from now on they’ll look at his accomplishments, however grand or meager they may be, and rejoice in them, for at least he won’t
be a thing like his father!

“A name and reputation only serve you when you’re alive, Jack, and you don’t have all that much longer left, dear fellow. So my suggestion is that you confess to your son what you really are—what we really are. ‘The truth will set you free,’ and all that rubbish. It’s time. You have the ability to speak—it’s going to take everything you have to do it, but you
can
do it. Have him open the safe behind the Botticelli print on the wall of the study.

“Ha! Can you imagine the looks on the faces of Springer and Estell and that puffed-up Miss Lumbly when they read your journals and see the photographs you took? When they compare your handwriting to that of the letters published in the papers and find them to be the same? And let’s not forget the little trinkets and trophies we took each time—though, looking back on it, I think that pancreas was overdoing it a bit. Ah, the
details!
Dear God, the details you’ll fill in for the world after all these years. How I wish I could be here to see it all happen, but…”

It stood up, adjusted its cloak and hat, then paused for a moment, considering something, and set its black medical bag on Faber’s bedside table. “Well then, I have to dash. Fare thee well, Jack. Confess to your son and set him free. Set us all free.”

Faber was awakened by the sound of the bedroom door opening. He looked toward the clock on the fireplace mantel.

1:45.
Morning or afternoon?
he wondered.

The nurse came forward and said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Faber, but your son is here to see you. He said it was important.”

Wayne came in behind her, and Faber nearly gasped at the sight of his son.

Pale, sweaty, and shaking, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but that couldn’t be because he was here only a few hours ago, wasn’t he?

“I’ll leave the two of you alone now,” said the nurse, closing the door behind her.

“I’m guessing she’ll give us about ten minutes before she wakes Springer,” said Wayne. “She actually smelled my breath before letting me come in! My God!” He looked down at his father. “I’m glad you’re awake, Father. I’ve… I’ve got something to tell you.” He sat down in Springer’s chair.

This close, Wayne looked even worse than Faber had first thought. There was a hollowness in his cheeks that reminded him of pictures he’d seen of Jews rescued from Nazi concentration camps. He looked so bad that Faber actually felt frightened for his son.

“I, uh, I finally took your advice, Father. I went down to the Methodist Church on Hyde Street Thursday night. I joined AA. I…” He pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and wiped the sweat from his face. “I haven’t had a drink in three days.”

Three days?
thought Faber. He’d been unconscious for three days?