The House Call

The House Call


         Midmorning on Friday, March 31, 1888, I heard the loud, rumbling clops of horse’s hoofs and the crackling of wagon wheels reverberating over the cobblestone road from my second floor office.

         The driver yelled, “Whoa there, whoa…” followed by indecipherable, muffled talking laden with intonations of despair.

         I pulled back the window curtains and looked through the pane. In an instant, I recognized the carriage, driver and the overweight servant woman, Clarabelle, a former slave who moved north after the Civil War.  She jumped down from the carriage, ran up walk and leapt up and over the steps. Her large frame landed atop the stoop and her unbalanced momentum pushed her into the heavy oak door creating a loud, startling thud followed by quick, repeating fist poundings.

         “Please Doct’r Myerburg, come quick…!” she repeatedly yelled in desperation.

         I scurried from behind my desk and out of the office. On the way out, I grabbed my examination coat from the coat rack and buttoned it up. In haste, I climbed down the staircase to the front door. I came upon the landing and in one large stride; I stepped to and stopped at the foot of the door, twisted the doorknob and flung open the door. Before I could greet or invite her inside, she pushed me aside whiling rushing through the door. She babbled between quick, incoherent breaths and cry-stuttered speech while waving her hands about the air. With each syllable chattered between her quivering lips and clopping teeth I tried piecing together her words. But her sniveling nose blown into a handkerchief distorted them more than her crying.

         I held her handing trying to console her, “Calm down now, calm down…I cannot help you unless you relax and tell me what brought you to me this morning.”

         She continued her frenzied babbling and I escorted the frantic woman to my study. There I handed her a glass of water and instructed her to breath slow and deep between sips. Shortly thereafter her hysterics subsided enough to comprehend nearly every other word but her southern drawl and broken English still made it difficult to understand, “Karen…gravely ill… Mr. Chapman ordered…me…fetch you…”

         “Karen…what is wrong with her, tell me of her symptoms,” I ordered while gathering my medical bag from the adjoined examination room.

         Clarabelle spook frantically and quick but had calmed enough for me to understand, “I knocked on Miss Chapman’s bedroom this mornin’ because I heard her coughin’. It were an awful coughin’ fit, all filled wit’ mucus that makin’ her throat all clogged up an all. I called through the door an asked if she okay. She answered me with a moan so I enter. I fell back through the doorframe when I saw her pale face and the blood around her mouth! Oh Lord, save the child, she done no one no harm!”

         In vain, I tried to garner more information regarding the true nature of Karen’s infliction but Clarabelle nearly dislocated my arm while begging me to follow her back the estate. Like I mentioned, she was a large woman and the strength behind her weight was tremendous.

         Annoyed, I jerked my arm from her tight grasp. I grabbed her by the arm, threw her onto a chair, and yelled, “I cannot help you unless you allow me to do my job correctly, is that understood?”

         She cowered in the chair pulling her legs and arms up in a fetal position shaking her head yes. I feared I induced flashbacks potentially of her past slave owner beating her for doing a job not up to his standards.

         I offered my hand to hers and pulled her to her feet, “I’m sorry, that was no manner for a doctor to act in, especially to a lady!”

         She smiled and accepted my apology.

         “Come now, let’s make Karen’s feel better!” I said while giving Clarabelle a slight hug.

         I pick up my medical bag, put on my overcoat and headed to the exit with a still winded and shaken Clarabelle lagging far behind. I stood at the bottom of the steps waiting for her to exit the house. I gave her time, her overweight body could not handle the stressful excitement and I did not want her to collapse and possibly die. She started down the steps and nearly lost balance. I raised my hand to hers, helped her down the steps and helped her board the carriage.

         Before I shut the carriage door the driver yelled, “Giddy up,” followed by the crackling of the reins upon the horses’ back. The carriage lurched forward and I fell back into the seat with Clarabelle stumbling and falling on top of me. Her obese body knocked the wind out of me. She stood frowning, apologized, and straightened out my coat’s collar.

         The carriage sped away with the driver continuously whipping the horses making them gallop faster down the street. The crack of the whip was deafening, as was his yelling for patrons crossing the street to make way. Numerous times the horses nearly missed galloping over men, women and children. The carriage wheels dipped into potholes and bounced over loosened cobblestones making the hurried ride bumpy and dangerous.

         During the hair-raising ride back to the estate, I drilled Clarabelle with questions pertaining to Karen’s illness. I could not gather new information from her; she became oddly quite compared to her dramatics back at my office. She turned her face from me and stared out the window at the moment I asked if anyone else in the house was ill or died from what has inflicted Karen. Clarabelle’s lips clasped together tight and the rest of the ride was quiet. I suspected there was something she was not supposed to tell me. In due time however, I knew that piece of information would be revealed.

         Upon arrival at the Chapman Estate, I looked up at the house in awe. I had never visited the Chapman’s estate nor have I seen it. I never ventured out this far south from town, even on a house call until now. My longest trips were for hunting and fishing north to Canada. I have heard rumors from patients and stories about the size and appearance of the house. Those rumors however were far from the truth. The house was bigger and more extravagant than the rumors led me to believe. I knew the Chapman’s were wealthy but not to this extent.

         The house was erected upon the eastern hilltop within a fifty-acre gated estate and was architecturally styled in American Queen Anne. This style was most popular among those worthy enough to afford its high construction price, which the Chapman family most certainly could. Those jealous of their wealth and property called them spendthrifts and rightly so, the house was magnificent and the amenities extravagant.

         Its design was typical for the wealthy during the era. The façade was asymmetrical, accented with two gables, whose apexes complimented a bell shaped tower between, which was the dominant feature of the front elevation. A pediment porch that cornered around the left side of the house surrounded a large oriel window, which was sectioned into thirds. The siding resembled fish scales and were painted light tan, accented by trim painted in a dark brown, as were the dentils. The shingles were slate with a natural grey tint.

         Another tower, constructed in the background, eclipsed the size of the bell tower, and soared approximately twenty feet higher in an octagonal shape. This open aired balcony resembled a gazebo, allowing those who stood within to get a clear view of the grounds surrounding the house.

         On a day when the sun’s rays are not constricted by clouds, I could assume one could look down over Saratoga Lake as well as the mountainous regions beyond it. Those on the ground have a clear view of the balcony and its occupants. Its openness created a voyeuristic appeal.

         As I gazed in wonderment, Clarabelle jumped from the carriage before the horse came to a complete stop. Her pear shaped body was off balance causing her to land on her side and tumble onto the grass. Before I could ask if she was injured, she stood and ran up the stoop skipping every other step between strides. She then flung open the front door and yelled inside, telling her employer of my arrival.

         I collected my bag and before I excited the carriage, an old, hunched over and plump man with a salt and pepper tinted, carroty mustache waddled down the steps. He was dressed in a morning suit, indicating that he was the Chapman’s butler.

         “Welcome to the Chapman Family home. My name is George. If there is anything I can assist you with during your examination do not hesitate to ask,” the butler said, in a scratchy, winded voice.

         “Please, call me Doctor Myerburg.”

         He extended his arm to help me down from the carriage, “My apologies, Doctor Myerburg, and thank you sir for arriving after such a short notice.”

         I handed him my medical bag and smiled, “Much obliged, but there is no need to assist me down from the carriage, I can manage.”

         The seasoned butler smiled. He most likely never experienced respect from a visitor or perhaps even from his employer. Harold Chapman had an unfavorable disposition throughout the city of Saratoga Springs that most likely carried over to his employees.

         I followed George into the house. The interior was more impressive than the exterior. While hurrying through the house I admired exotic paintings and statues decorating the walls to the parlor where a visibly frantic Harold greeted me. His lips turned downward in a grief stricken frown. His eyes were watery, his arms shook and his voice cracked from nervousness.

         “Thank you for coming, Doc,” he said, while shaking my hand as he motioned with his other to his daughter Karen, who lay on a couch blankly staring at the ceiling.

         I quickly approached her and laid my eyes upon the illness affecting her body. Trailing from the corners of her mouth, bloody spittle encrusted over her chin and neck. Her skin turned a ghostly hue, giving her face a waxen complexion. Her eyes sunk into their optic canals, lips flushed in a crimson tone and her body turned frail, taking the appearance of a walking corpse.

         “How long has see been in this condition?” I asked Harold, while checking his daughter’s pulse.

         “Clarabelle heard Karen coughing this morning and checked on her,” Harold answered over a slight sob in his voice.

         The condition of his daughter filled him with worrisome thoughts that were readable upon his face. He tried keeping them bottled up, but it was clear he was grieving as if she already passed to the other side.

         I tried to relax Harold the best I could. I smiled at him and said, “At first glance I can tell she has tuberculosis, but just to make sure I’ll do a full examination. I can heal your daughter if the illness isn’t too advanced, which it doesn’t seem to be.” I lied, her illness was in its late stages. I didn’t need Harold turning frantic on me or threatening. The parents of children I have examined in the past often turned violent upon hearing their child has no possibility of recovery.

         Harold’s voice broke through its sobbing tone and turned defensive and irate, “No, you are wrong, Doc. She does not have tuberculosis, she is dying from…”

         He stopped talking and placed his hand near his mouth trying to conceal any body language that would signal to me he was lying or keeping a secret. In response, I raised my eyebrows at him in suspicion signaling I knew he was keeping something from me just as Clarabelle had in the carriage.

         “Is there something you need to tell me that would help me diagnose your daughter differently? If so you must tell me know.”

         Harold look at his servants and when he met eye contact with each, they turned away. Some looked at the floor as others turned their faces to the wall and ceiling. Some folded their arms over their chest, rocked on their heels or hid behind their hands by scratching or rubbing their temples signaling to me they were uncomfortable and trying to ignore the situation.

         “No, there is nothing I or we need to tell you, Doc, please continue,” he said waving his hands at me as if he were shooing me away like a bothersome animal.

         Knowing he was keeping information from me I found it odd he said we. It was immediately clear by his servants’ gestures and his own that they knew something as well and as a group, they were keeping it mum. I took a chance that one of them would speak up and expose the secret. I directed my suspicion to them and asked collectively, “If anyone here knows anything that would help, please tell me now.”

         Not a single voice spouted information and some of the servants’ body language suggested they were eager to tell me something I needed to know. However, they feared backlash if they spoke.

         I became frustrated with them and continued the examination. I checked Karen’s pulse and glanced at the clock timing and counting her heart rhythm. While doing so the parlor turned from a medical examination into a spectator sport. The servants gathered around the couch looking on. Even as a professional, I found this uncomfortable, specially being around a group whom were collectively keeping a life saving secret from me. As a public servant myself, I did not want to degrade Harold’s employees by ordering them out of the parlor. Instead, I insisted on moving Karen to her bedroom to complete the examination much to the dismay of Harold himself.

         “I need to continue my evaluation in private. She must be moved to her bedroom!” I demanded.

         Harold snapped back, “In her condition she needs to stay where she is. It is clearly written upon her face that she is in pain and moving her will only make her feel worse. You don’t even know what her illness is, moving her may kill her!”

         “If she dies from being moved then I will take full responsibility for her death. However, as I stated before, your daughter needs to be comfortable and this couch is not meant for a sick person to recover or be examined on. She needs to be moved.”

         “As I have stated before she is fine where she is!” Harold said, mimicking the tone of my voice with a sarcastic attitude.

         I raised my voice, “I have not been able to perform a throughout examination. I do not know if she has a communicable disease. It is quite possible that even before I diagnose the illness she is spreading it to me, you and every one of your servants. That is if we all haven’t contracted the disease already!”

         Harold shook his head no and pointed at me, “If everyone is already infected then moving your point in moving her is moot. She stays where she is!”

         “If you insist on the examination continuing in this parlor and on this couch, then you will not reject to your daughters breasts being exposed in front of you and your servants as I check her breathing.”

         Harold walked to the door and opened it, “All servants must leave and return to your living quarters.” The servants looked around at each other and at me without budging until Harold yelled, “Now!”

         Before they reached the door, I ran to it and ripped it from Harold’s grip slamming it shut, “If Karen cannot leave the room then nobody can. If everyone here is infected then the rest of the servants not present may contract the disease. They must not be allowed to freely roam the house. If they fear they could die then they could leave the property. No one can do such until I know what her illness is!”

         I returned to Karen’s side and started unbuttoning her nightshirt. I noticed from the corner of my eyes George staring at Karen’s chest. I turned my head and looked at him. He had a slight smirk and his hands rubbed together. The little old man seemed docile but was sexually perverted.

         Harold noticed his butler smiling and licking his lips and halted the examination before I undid the third button.

         “Stop, take her upstairs. She should be examined in private,” Harold demanded.

         I rose and ordered, “Nobody leaves this room until I have concluded the exam, including a diagnosis. Is that understood?”

         The servants muttered in agreement and Harold folded his arms in annoyance. I could tell he was angry with the way I ordered his servants around. More importantly, he was angry with the way I took control over himself.

         I helped Karen to her feet with Harold’s help when he said, “I wish to be present while you examine my daughter.”

         “I cannot allow that. Like I said, I am not sure if you are infected or not.”

         The surly, old butler muttered under his teeth with a brazen look upon his face, “Like the others.”

         I glanced at George unsure if I heard him correctly. If he indeed said like the others, then I needed to know who the others were and if their symptoms were the same as Karen’s.

         Seconds after George mumbled, I looked at Harold. He looked at his butler with a scornful scowl glowing with hatred. This surly expression caused George’s face to go blank and his head to drop and stare at his feet. There was something the old man knew and Harold’s glance caused his butler to shut up. Whatever the old man knew, I had a feeling he was never going to tell me. Perhaps he knew the family’s medical history, after all, he had been the Chapman’s employee before the children were born. My gut feeling told me he was not going to talk to me, even if I got him alone.


to be continued