The delivery boy who had brought him to the dispensary had done the best he could, and hurried off to complete his work. The Colored Hospital was sixty blocks away, and would have required two hours at least, time the young man could not spare.
Mr. Reason held out his hand, which Sophie took automatically. Large and callused, a firm, dry grip, and she returned it in kind. Both Sophie’s father and Aunt Quinlan put great value on a handshake and had introduced her to the subtleties at a young age.
“I’m a printer,” Mr. Reason was telling her. “From Brooklyn. If you could see your way to taking me to the Fulton Street ferry, I’d be more than happy to pay you for your time and effort.”
“There’s no need,” Sophie told him. “And we must see to that ankle before you try to walk on it. It may be broken.”
At his surprised expression she explained by introducing herself.
“I am Sophie Savard,” she said. “A physician.”
He looked more relieved than he did surprised, and with that won Sophie’s respect and gratitude both.
? ? ?
WHEN MR. LEE left to take Mr. Reason to the ferry, Sophie turned to the men who were waiting for her help. Four of them today, none with serious injuries. As she worked she went over the morning’s events in her mind, thinking of questions she should have asked Mr. Reason about his home in New Orleans, and how he had come north, and if he ever went back to visit. A disproportionate sense of loss sat like a weight in her throat, something too big to swallow.
She treated a scalp laceration, a cracked rib, a thumb crushed by a poorly aimed blow of the hammer. More men came, some with nothing more than a deep splinter, but one with a cough and rales in both lungs. She wrote him a script and suggested that he go to the Colored Hospital to be examined, knowing that he would not, could not spare the time.
At two she was back in the carriage eating the sandwich Mrs. Lee had packed for her. The traffic was even worse, stopping and starting, and it would be a half hour at least before they reached the Colored Children’s Dispensary. She moved her bag aside so she could recline and sleep for whatever time the trip allowed her, and that was when she noticed the business card.
It was printed on heavy paper, smooth to the touch, the lettering raised:
Reason and Sons Printing
Atlantic Avenue and Hunterfly Road
Brooklyn, New York
Samuel Reason, Master Printer
On the back, in a fine, clear, and very small hand, Mr. Reason had written a message.
Dear Dr. Savard: My family and I would be proud to have you join us for services at Bethel Tabernacle and then for dinner, this or any Sunday. At your service, with gratitude—S.R.
Six months later Sophie heard Dr. Garrison mention that she was looking for a new printer, and so she recommended Mr. Reason, but she had never taken him up on his invitation, and she never mentioned the meeting to Anna. She had not gone to Brooklyn for church services because she could not, in good conscience, but neither could she explain to Mr. Reason that she was a nonbeliever. He would be surprised, she was sure, and almost certainly disapproving.
Why she had never mentioned the meeting to Anna was more difficult to explain even to herself. The simple truth was that she felt protective toward him, at least in part because she had recommended him to Dr. Garrison and had put him in danger’s way. One thing was clear, however; it was ten o’clock on Sunday morning, and she had the day free.
Sophie got Mr. Reason’s business card from her desk, checked the contents of her Gladstone bag—she could not make herself go anywhere without it—called into the kitchen that she was going out without providing details, and walked to the Second Avenue elevated train. By el and ferry and taxi it would take her at least an hour to get to Brooklyn; she could only hope that it would be time enough to think of a way to explain herself to Mr. Reason.
? ? ?
CAP HAD BEEN born and lived still in a beautiful Murray Hill house built of marble and sandstone, exactly one and a half miles from Waverly Place. Anna had walked the distance so many times in her life that she could make the trip without thought or conscious effort. Certainly there was little to distract her on the first part of Fifth Avenue, each house almost as familiar to her as her own.