though. I’m truly sorry about that.”
“But he did see eight people, even though it was over a period of fifteen years. He did see them, right?” Mozelle asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“And whatever their problems were, they’re still alive as far as you know, right?”
“We don’t know anything about them. But there’s no reason not to think so.”
The two men looked at each other in silence for nearly half a minute before Dr. Mozelle stood up and extended his hand to Dr. Kempler. “You’re right; it’s truly a fascinating story,” he said.
12
W HEN D R . M OZELLE BEGAN RELATING HIS STORY TO Montaro Caine, he tried to maintain a sense of calm detachment. But as he spoke of the first time his eyes met those of Hattie Sinclair, he couldn’t help but grow more excited. He had called Sinclair at the Long Island residence of her employer—finding her was not difficult, for there were few Gulkievaughs in the phone book. On the phone, she sounded cautious, but she finally agreed to come to his office.
“She walked into this room,” Howard Mozelle told Caine. “She was a tall, majestic-looking woman. About thirty years old, though she seemed older.”
Mozelle told Sinclair about his wife’s illness, and she said that she was sorry. But even after he pleaded with her to help him try to save his wife’s life, she said, “I just don’t think it would do no good, sir. That man never said one word to Dr. Kempler or any of the other people. Even when I went down there with them, he wouldn’t see them. If it weren’t for my daddy knowing his daddy, he wouldn’t have seen me either. Honestly, I’m truly sorry about your wife, and if there were something I could do, I would do it. I wanted Mr. Perch’s medicine to help other people too, but he’s a peculiar, stubborn man. The way he treated Dr. Kempler and the others was uncalled for, but that’s the way he is and nothing’s going to change him.”
Still, Howard Mozelle was unwilling to give up. “But Dr. Kempler and his colleagues wanted his secrets,” he told Sinclair. “I don’t. All those doctors and government officials must have seemed like the modern world coming to rob him of a sacred tradition. All I want is for a dying woman to benefit from that tradition. Please, Ms. Sinclair, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Mozelle walked over to the door that led to the adjoining room, opened it, and beckoned for Elsen, who had been seated in a chair trying to read a magazine.
Elsen Mozelle had once been a strong, vibrant professor, but the woman who appeared before Hattie Sinclair looked emaciated and exhausted. Hattie gently took Elsen’s hand, and the two women sat quietly, looking at each other.
“Your husband tells me you’re sick like I was,” Hattie said. “I wish there was some way I could help you, ma’am.”
“You can,” Elsen said, her breaths short. “There is no guarantee that he will see me. I know that. And if, by chance, he would, there is no guarantee that he would be able to make me well, I know that, too. But I do want to live, and as small as this chance is, it is all that is left to me.”
“What is it you have in mind?” she asked quietly.
Little more than a week later, Hattie Sinclair was standing beside Howard and Elsen Mozelle on the bow of a rickety sixty-foot motor-boat that chugged among various islands in the Bahamas hauling cargo and mail.
The sky was a deep blue, without a single cloud in it. The little fishing village appeared to glisten in the bright sunshine as the boat approached the makeshift wharf on Perch’s island. During the course of her journey to the Bahamas, Mrs. Mozelle had grown noticeably weaker, though her face did radiate with a glimmer of hope. Dr. Mozelle watched over his wife, very much aware of how deeply he loved her and how much he feared losing her. Hattie Sinclair remained quiet on the trip; Mozelle assumed she was recalling her own boat ride to the island when she first met the
“But he did see eight people, even though it was over a period of fifteen years. He did see them, right?” Mozelle asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“And whatever their problems were, they’re still alive as far as you know, right?”
“We don’t know anything about them. But there’s no reason not to think so.”
The two men looked at each other in silence for nearly half a minute before Dr. Mozelle stood up and extended his hand to Dr. Kempler. “You’re right; it’s truly a fascinating story,” he said.
12
W HEN D R . M OZELLE BEGAN RELATING HIS STORY TO Montaro Caine, he tried to maintain a sense of calm detachment. But as he spoke of the first time his eyes met those of Hattie Sinclair, he couldn’t help but grow more excited. He had called Sinclair at the Long Island residence of her employer—finding her was not difficult, for there were few Gulkievaughs in the phone book. On the phone, she sounded cautious, but she finally agreed to come to his office.
“She walked into this room,” Howard Mozelle told Caine. “She was a tall, majestic-looking woman. About thirty years old, though she seemed older.”
Mozelle told Sinclair about his wife’s illness, and she said that she was sorry. But even after he pleaded with her to help him try to save his wife’s life, she said, “I just don’t think it would do no good, sir. That man never said one word to Dr. Kempler or any of the other people. Even when I went down there with them, he wouldn’t see them. If it weren’t for my daddy knowing his daddy, he wouldn’t have seen me either. Honestly, I’m truly sorry about your wife, and if there were something I could do, I would do it. I wanted Mr. Perch’s medicine to help other people too, but he’s a peculiar, stubborn man. The way he treated Dr. Kempler and the others was uncalled for, but that’s the way he is and nothing’s going to change him.”
Still, Howard Mozelle was unwilling to give up. “But Dr. Kempler and his colleagues wanted his secrets,” he told Sinclair. “I don’t. All those doctors and government officials must have seemed like the modern world coming to rob him of a sacred tradition. All I want is for a dying woman to benefit from that tradition. Please, Ms. Sinclair, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
Mozelle walked over to the door that led to the adjoining room, opened it, and beckoned for Elsen, who had been seated in a chair trying to read a magazine.
Elsen Mozelle had once been a strong, vibrant professor, but the woman who appeared before Hattie Sinclair looked emaciated and exhausted. Hattie gently took Elsen’s hand, and the two women sat quietly, looking at each other.
“Your husband tells me you’re sick like I was,” Hattie said. “I wish there was some way I could help you, ma’am.”
“You can,” Elsen said, her breaths short. “There is no guarantee that he will see me. I know that. And if, by chance, he would, there is no guarantee that he would be able to make me well, I know that, too. But I do want to live, and as small as this chance is, it is all that is left to me.”
“What is it you have in mind?” she asked quietly.
Little more than a week later, Hattie Sinclair was standing beside Howard and Elsen Mozelle on the bow of a rickety sixty-foot motor-boat that chugged among various islands in the Bahamas hauling cargo and mail.
The sky was a deep blue, without a single cloud in it. The little fishing village appeared to glisten in the bright sunshine as the boat approached the makeshift wharf on Perch’s island. During the course of her journey to the Bahamas, Mrs. Mozelle had grown noticeably weaker, though her face did radiate with a glimmer of hope. Dr. Mozelle watched over his wife, very much aware of how deeply he loved her and how much he feared losing her. Hattie Sinclair remained quiet on the trip; Mozelle assumed she was recalling her own boat ride to the island when she first met the
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