Harold Ernst, Harvard Medical School's bacteriologist and curve-ball {85} pitcher, and the Chinese herb doctor from the South End had put their heads together…well, what wouldn't they have cured?
'They would not have cured orphans,' wrote Dr. Larch when he woke from that dream.
And the orphans of the South End: Wilbur Larch remembered them from the branch hospitals of the Boston Lying-in. In 189-, less than half the mothers were married. In the institution's charter it was written that no patient would be admitted 'unless a married woman or one recently widowed, and known to be of good moral character.' The benevolent citizen groups who had first contributed thousands of dollars to provide for a lying-in hospital for the poor… they had insisted; but in truth almost everyone was admitted, There was an astonishing number of women claiming to be widows, or claiming marriage to sailors off to sea—gone with the Great Eastern, Wilbur Larch used to imagine.
In Portland, he wondered, why were there no orphans, no children or women in need? Wilbur Larch did not feel of much use in the tidy town of Portland; it is ironic to think that while he waited to be sent somewhere where he was needed, a prostitute's letter—about abandoned women and orphans—was making its way to him from St. Cloud's.
But before the letter arrived, Wilbur Larch had another invitation. The pleasure of his company -was requested by a Mrs. Channing-Peabody of the Boston Channing-Peabodys, who spent every summer on their coastal property just east of Portland. The invitation suggested that perhaps young Larch missed the Boston society to which he'd doubtlessly become accustomed and would enjoy some tennis or croquet, or even some sailing, before a dinner with the Channing-Peabodys and friends. Larch had been accustomed to no Boston socifity. He associated the Channing-Peabodys with Cambridge, or with Beacon Hill—where he was never invited—and although he knew that Channing and Peabody were old {86} Boston family names, he was unfamiliar with this strange coupling of the two. For all Wilbur Larch knew about this level of society, the Channings and the Peabodys might be throwing a party together and for the purpose of the invitation had agreed to hyphenate their names.
As for sailing, Wilbur Larch had never been on the water—or in it. A child of Maine, he knew better than to learn to swim in that water; the Maine water, in Wilbur Larch's opinion, was for summer people and lobsters. And as for tennis or croquet, he didn't own the proper clothing. From a watercolor of some strange lawn games, he had once imagined that striking a wooden ball with a wooden mallet as hard as he could would be rewarding, but he wanted time to practice this art alone and unobserved. He regretted the expense of hiring a driver to take him to the Channing-Peabody summer house., and he felt uncomfortably dressed for the season—his only suit was a dark, heavy one, and he hadn't worn it since the day of his visit 'Off Harrison.' As he lifted the big brass door knocker of the Channing-Peabody house (choosing to introduce himself formally, rather than wandering among the people in their whites at play at various sports around the grounds), he felt the suit was not only too hot but also needed a pressing, and he discovered in the jacket pocket the panties of the woman who'd aborted the birth of her child 'Off Harrison.' Wilbur Larch was holding the panties in his hand and staring at them—remembering their valiant, epaulette position, their jaunty bravery on the woman's shoulder—when Mrs. Channing-Peabody opened the door to receive him.
He could not return the panties to his jacket pocket quickly enough so he stuffed them into the pocket in the attitude of a handkerchief he'd just been caught blowing his nose in. By the quick way Mrs. Channing-Peabody looked away from them, Larch knew she'd seen the panties for what they were: women's underdrawers, plain as day. {87}
'Doctor
'They would not have cured orphans,' wrote Dr. Larch when he woke from that dream.
And the orphans of the South End: Wilbur Larch remembered them from the branch hospitals of the Boston Lying-in. In 189-, less than half the mothers were married. In the institution's charter it was written that no patient would be admitted 'unless a married woman or one recently widowed, and known to be of good moral character.' The benevolent citizen groups who had first contributed thousands of dollars to provide for a lying-in hospital for the poor… they had insisted; but in truth almost everyone was admitted, There was an astonishing number of women claiming to be widows, or claiming marriage to sailors off to sea—gone with the Great Eastern, Wilbur Larch used to imagine.
In Portland, he wondered, why were there no orphans, no children or women in need? Wilbur Larch did not feel of much use in the tidy town of Portland; it is ironic to think that while he waited to be sent somewhere where he was needed, a prostitute's letter—about abandoned women and orphans—was making its way to him from St. Cloud's.
But before the letter arrived, Wilbur Larch had another invitation. The pleasure of his company -was requested by a Mrs. Channing-Peabody of the Boston Channing-Peabodys, who spent every summer on their coastal property just east of Portland. The invitation suggested that perhaps young Larch missed the Boston society to which he'd doubtlessly become accustomed and would enjoy some tennis or croquet, or even some sailing, before a dinner with the Channing-Peabodys and friends. Larch had been accustomed to no Boston socifity. He associated the Channing-Peabodys with Cambridge, or with Beacon Hill—where he was never invited—and although he knew that Channing and Peabody were old {86} Boston family names, he was unfamiliar with this strange coupling of the two. For all Wilbur Larch knew about this level of society, the Channings and the Peabodys might be throwing a party together and for the purpose of the invitation had agreed to hyphenate their names.
As for sailing, Wilbur Larch had never been on the water—or in it. A child of Maine, he knew better than to learn to swim in that water; the Maine water, in Wilbur Larch's opinion, was for summer people and lobsters. And as for tennis or croquet, he didn't own the proper clothing. From a watercolor of some strange lawn games, he had once imagined that striking a wooden ball with a wooden mallet as hard as he could would be rewarding, but he wanted time to practice this art alone and unobserved. He regretted the expense of hiring a driver to take him to the Channing-Peabody summer house., and he felt uncomfortably dressed for the season—his only suit was a dark, heavy one, and he hadn't worn it since the day of his visit 'Off Harrison.' As he lifted the big brass door knocker of the Channing-Peabody house (choosing to introduce himself formally, rather than wandering among the people in their whites at play at various sports around the grounds), he felt the suit was not only too hot but also needed a pressing, and he discovered in the jacket pocket the panties of the woman who'd aborted the birth of her child 'Off Harrison.' Wilbur Larch was holding the panties in his hand and staring at them—remembering their valiant, epaulette position, their jaunty bravery on the woman's shoulder—when Mrs. Channing-Peabody opened the door to receive him.
He could not return the panties to his jacket pocket quickly enough so he stuffed them into the pocket in the attitude of a handkerchief he'd just been caught blowing his nose in. By the quick way Mrs. Channing-Peabody looked away from them, Larch knew she'd seen the panties for what they were: women's underdrawers, plain as day. {87}
'Doctor
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