Over the years Amelie had trained or mentored a hundred midwives, and she tried to keep track of all of them.
“Not mine. She came up from Washington, maybe twenty years ago. But maybe she’s not the one who stepped in for Sarah. You’re thinking that this Dr. dePaul, whoever he is, watches for women coming out of Smithson’s? That seems a very chancy way to set a trap. If that’s what’s going on.”
Anna said, “But it’s written in such vague terms, anyone might think themselves the target of his attention. If he only gets one response a month, that’s probably more than he can deal with. I hope.”
Amelie hummed to herself as she poured more tea. “Practicing medicine requires a cynical turn of mind, but this—” She shook her head. “Let me understand you correctly. You think there’s a man who trolls for women in distress, offers them his services, and operates in a way that assures that they don’t survive, and even that they die in terrible pain. That his purpose is what—to punish them? To make examples of them?”
“I don’t know,” Anna said. “But I have this sense that it would be a mistake to dismiss the possibility.”
Amelie went quiet, her head turned away as if she were looking out into the garden, but in fact Anna knew she wasn’t seeing anything at all. Her cousin had a way of climbing right inside a problem and sitting there until she found a way out. She had been trained by her own mother, Anna’s aunt Hannah, a doctor of almost mythic fame on the New York frontier, and it seemed to Anna that Amelie understood the minds of doctors as well as she did the women they cared for.
She tapped the newspaper advertisement. “You know where to start.”
“I was thinking the same thing, but it helped to talk it through with you. I’ll send word if I make any progress. Now I have to go meet some fifty Mezzanottes, so please wish me luck.”
“Luck is greatly overrated,” said Amelie. “Your native good sense will serve you far better.”
? ? ?
THE ANNUAL ITALIAN Benevolent Society picnic and band concert was a popular event, one that might even overflow the boundaries of Washington Square Park. Since early in the morning groups had been coming in on foot carrying baskets or pushing wheeled carts, by omnibus or streetcar, others driving their own rigs. There were families from as far away as Long Island and Jersey City, street urchins watching for unattended purses and free meals, and police and roundsmen who strolled at a leisurely pace, stopping to watch a game of horseshoes.
Elise sat with Chiara and Bambina on a bench on the corner opposite New York University, where the Mezzanotte family was busy getting ready. A familiar freight wagon stood at the curb, with Mezzanotte Brothers, Greenwood, N.J. painted on its side. Elise had first seen it waiting to cross an intersection not a block from where she sat now. Then it had been filled with flowers, but this time it carried benches and planks and barrels, boxes of linen and dishware, and baskets of food. The unloading was happening under the sharp eye of one of the Mezzanotte aunts, all in black, bent low by age. She ordered young men around with all the authority and finesse of Sister Xavier.
The three of them had been spared physical labor, assigned instead to supervision of the run-arounds, all the Mezzanotte children or the children of Mezzanotte cousins old enough to walk, but less than four. They tumbled and rolled around on the grass, and occasionally made a break for freedom, often for no other reason than the joy of being chased by Chiara or Elise. Bambina stayed where she was, knitting lace from fine white thread as quickly and evenly as a machine. Knitting didn’t slow down her conversation, though. Together with Bambina they were giving Elise an education on all things Italian.
Bambina pointed out families: the barber Amadio, a widower with four married daughters who lived in the same building and competed for his favor by feeding him multiple times every day; Maria Bella, who was already twice a widow at age thirty; Signore Coniglio, who taught at the Italian school and talked all the time about becoming a priest, though he was more than forty; Joe Moretto, who had lost both legs fighting under Grant, but had managed to produce seven sons anyway. Elise paid attention but knew that most of the names and faces would blend together by the end of the day.