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ANNA WENT IN on Sunday morning to check on a patient who, as it turned out, had died in the night. It was not unexpected, but sad nonetheless. She spoke to the husband, an old man who shuddered with palsy and grief while she wrote out the death certificate, asking questions with the help of one of the nurses who spoke Italian. He answered in a wavering voice: Anna Maria Vega had been born on the first day of March in the year 1810 in Ragusa, Sicily, to Emilio and Anna Theresa Vega. To this Anna added the fact that she died in New York on a mild summer night of an abdominal aortic aneurysm, one that had been plain to diagnose, and inoperable.
Before Anna left the ward, another nurse stopped her and she wrote three more death certificates and then walked down to the clerk’s office, where she would sign them in his presence so that he could file them with the coroner.
The office door stood open, but there was no sign of the clerk. Anna sat down to wait. If she went back to the wards she would be drawn into one case or another and might not get away in time for the picnic. She was actually looking forward to finally meeting the Mezzanottes she had been hearing about. It would be easier in this setting than any other; the picnic and all the rest of it would come to an end, and she could escape. It was the word that came to mind. She wondered if Jack realized how unsettled she was by the prospect of so many new relatives, all at once. She wondered too if he had engineered the previous evening, if he realized that her muscles would still be twitching, overstimulated from a single hour in the bath. It was hard to worry about much at all when her mind kept wandering back to him, wrapped around her, hot water and soap and sliding skin.
She stood up to go to the window and noticed a newspaper on the desk, folded open to the advertisements. Thinking of Oscar Maroney, she picked it up and began to scan the small print, column after column of breathless announcements for cocoa, short pants, pianos, beer, seaside vacations, miracle cures, straw hats, Makassar oil, crocodile handbags, vaporizing inhalers, musicales, calligraphic pens, Brussels lace, cigars, felt tooth polishers, and hair renewers. When she came to the listing of physicians in private practice she sat down and glanced through the announcements: addresses, office hours, areas of expertise, educations. Interspersed with the legitimate offerings were the questionable ones:
MARRIED AND SINGLE LADIES in need of medical consultation of a private and personal nature can turn with confidence to Dr. Crane, who has had the finest medical education available. Twenty years in practice. Simple removal of all obstructions to nature’s rhythms. Modern hygienic methods, safe, and discreet. Box 29, Broadway Post Office. All inquiries answered by mail within a day.
RESPECTABLE LADIES requiring specialized medical care and treatment should be aware that Dr. Weiss, a specialist in the very particular needs of the weaker sex, renowned for his kind, professional, and efficient methods, is seeing patients at his offices in the Hughes Building.
LADIES IN DISTRESS and without other recourse, married or maiden, may apply to Dr. Sanders, a physician and professor of women’s indispositions with many years’ experience. Inquiries to the Park Avenue Post Office, Box 4. By return mail you will receive a description of services offered. Specific details of your case will make a detailed response, including costs, possible.
She counted thirty ads of the same type, and estimated twice as many for pills and teas guaranteed to restore a lady’s health and circulation, a euphemism that always set Anna’s teeth on edge. As if a woman’s menstrual cycle were an ailment that required a male’s better understanding to bring under control. If she took the time to go through the dozens of daily newspapers she would find hundreds of ads that targeted the most desperate, and none of them could provide the help they claimed to offer. The reputable doctors and midwives who performed abortions didn’t advertise at all and were by necessity extremely cautious in accepting patients.
She read on, skimming the more personal and for the most part, undecipherable ads: A.Y.: all is prepared. Tomorrow at eight at the agreed place. W.G.G. Were A.Y. and W.G.G. eloping, or committing adultery, or planning a robbery? It struck her as quite understandable that people might be caught up in the mystery and intrigue of what could be taken as very short stories, ripe for development. Mrs. Lee and Aunt Quinlan sometimes talked about them as if the parties were old acquaintances.