Maintaining their standard distance, they moved toward the whitewashed fence that partitioned off the federal lighthouse. Far too quickly, they would complete their lap, reminding Cora of just how narrow her world had become.
A world that might close to her entirely if the doctor didn’t find her cure soon.
Ten Months Later
June 1904
ll that remained on the tin breakfast tray was a single crescent of syrupy, canned peach—the brightest object on the island. During her two and a half years at Riverside, the cafeteria food—and her newfound trust in God—had been among her only sources of comfort.
The bitter taste of loneliness heightened her craving for another few seconds of sweet distraction. According to Dr. Gettler, as the pests continued to breed within her, she was becoming even more dangerous to the other teenagers on the island, whom she secretly longed to befriend. With a clammy, gloved hand she maneuvered the morsel onto her spoon.
Her body always felt feverish beneath the heavy wool, yet today she seemed to be radiating heat. Perspiration trickled down her sides.
Now queasy, she dropped her spoon. Ever since Dr. Gettler had voiced his concern that her germs might eventually best her immune system, she’d been watching for this symptom and a host of others.
To assess her throat, she breathed into the cloth wrapped around her head. She felt no rawness, and the Williamsburg Bridge still appeared sharp in her vision.
Cora raised a forearm to bring her veins to eye level. “You haven’t beaten me yet,” she jeered.
In her head, she could hear their response: low growls, followed by the gnashing of teeth.
In disgust, she lowered her arm and strummed her fingers, sweaty within their glove, against her thigh.
Today, especially, given the heavy winds, she longed for the cool relief that would come with removing the pair. But Dr. Gettler was pacing along the beach. Earlier this morning he’d informed her that his family would be attending St. Mark’s annual Sunday school outing. He planned to wave at them as the grand steamboat churned past on its way to a picnic site on Long Island Sound’s southern shore.
Even though the doctor hadn’t said as such, she was certain he wished he was going with them. As the months had passed, their conversations about his family had become a careful dance, in which both were afraid of a misstep.
“Deficiency of affection.” That’s what he’d termed the sorrow that felt like a grinding stone against her heart. Presumably out of compassion, he’d stopped referencing the blessings in his own, full life. But those awkward silences, when she knew he was missing his wife and children, made Cora feel even worse. She would ask him to share his thoughts, then regret it as the warmth in his eyes reached his lips in the form of a story. Envy would surge through her as he recounted the time Ulrich had spilled a flour sack while they’d been making Apfel Küchen, turning all four of them into Geisten (ghosts). Or when Ingrid had convinced herself that a troll was living in the tunnel that was being constructed beneath Kleindeutschland for the new underground transit line.
Cora stared at the peach, which had slipped from her spoon. If she turned to look at the doctor now, his restlessness while he watched for the steamboat would deepen the void she felt. Yet, at the same time, her curiosity begged her to observe this rare exhibition of love. To fortify herself against the hurt she would surely feel, she ate the last wedge, allowing its sweet pulp to linger on her tongue, then pivoted on the wall to face him.
He’d stopped moving, so completely that the shorebirds paid him no heed as they strutted past, plunging their beaks into the shallows for fish. With his body steel-beam straight, his mouth agape, his hand affixed atop his hat, he stared downriver.
A chill passed over Cora.
She followed his line of sight. An orange orb, far brighter than any sunset, hovered above the waters at the head of Hell Gate. Rising from it, a thick band of black smoke strangled the cornflower blue sky.
It had to be a boat on fire.
Cora flung her breakfast tray and pushed herself off the seawall.
Her shoes met packed, wet sand, and she ran toward the doctor, stopping herself only five feet from him.
“It’s headed our way,” he said, still motionless, his eyes wider than his spectacles.
The wind buffeted her cloak, nearly knocking her over. She gathered the folds and held them tight at her sides. “Is it theirs?”
“Ich weiß nicht,” he snapped and swiped the river mist from his lenses with the cuff of his shirtsleeve.
Of course he doesn’t know, she thought, and chided herself.
The blaze erupted angrily.
Squawking, the birds in the shallows took flight.
Either the vessel was approaching them, or the fire had spread. Or both.
The brilliance burned her eyes, yet she couldn’t look away.
A small hodgepodge armada had formed in the floating fire’s wake, and Cora became consumed with the plight of the passengers who must be evacuating the vessel. Most likely they couldn’t swim. Twisting the fabric in her grip, she wondered why the captain wasn’t docking her along the wharf.
Through the smoke emerged the outline of the ship’s white bow, three decks high, topped by a flag. Engulfed now, a bridge and two smokestacks towered over the midsection. A steamboat, Cora realized, designed to hold hundreds of passengers. For day trips to destinations such as Locust Grove. She stole a glance at the doctor, whose narrowed eyes and rigid jaw told her that he’d reached the same conclusion.
Her legs wobbled; her mouth tasted like ash. The stench of burning wood, still familiar from the tent fires in the overflow encampment two winters ago, seeped into her nose.
“Mein Gott.” He tore off his boater hat. “The captain. He’s going to beach her. Hier. I have to mobilize the staff.” His feet remained fixed to the sand, his eyes barely blinking.
“Go,” Cora said in a commanding tone.
His shoulders
