“I’m right, aren’t I?” she prodded, knowing he must be testing her theory against what he knew of Brian’s behavior. “Your mother even told me he’s clever about taking things apart. That proves there’s nothing wrong with his mind. In fact, he’s probably very bright.”
If she’d thought to comfort him, she failed. “Do you think this is news I want to hear?” he asked her in amazement. “Do you think I want my son to be deaf? He’s already a cripple!”
“But don’t you see, if he’s deaf, he can be educated. He can even learn a trade and-”
“He’s still a cripple,” he reminded her, his face dark with the anger he still felt over this fact.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too, and I know this surgeon who-”
“Do you think I didn’t take him to a doctor when he was born?” He was beyond angry now. She’d wounded his pride. “I took him before he was a week old. I would’ve paid any amount of money to have him made right again, but they said nothing could be done.”
“Who told you that?” she asked, outraged.
“The doctor,” he reminded her impatiently.
“Which one?”
“How should I know? That was three years ago!”
Sarah somehow managed not to sigh in dismay. “Malloy, let me ask you something. Are all the detectives on the New York City police force as good at their jobs as you are?”
Once again, she’d stung his pride. “No!”
“Of course they aren’t. Some of them are just as good as you are and some are not quite as good and some are completely worthless.”
“What does that have to do with-?”
“Doctors are the same way. Some are very good at what they do and some are not quite as good, and some are completely worthless.”
“He was a doctor!” Malloy insisted.
“Malloy, where do you think the expression ‘quack doctor’ came from? Some doctors don’t know any more about medicine than you do! Well, perhaps a bit more, but not much. It’s entirely possible that the doctor who saw Brian didn’t know much about clubfoot, and that this surgeon I know might be able to help Brian walk. I can’t make any promises, but I can at least arrange for you to-”
“Mrs. Brandt, I don’t need for you to arrange anything for me,” he told her, gritting his teeth again. “And I don’t need your help. I can take care of my son myself.”
Sarah caught herself just short of issuing another lecture. Malloy wouldn’t appreciate it, and she might very well alienate him completely. Besides, he was right. He could take care of his son himself. “Of course you can,” she agreed reasonably. “All I’m suggesting is that you go home and test my theory. See if Brian can hear. And if he can’t, well, there are schools for the deaf in the city. I’m sure they would be happy to help you learn how to communicate with him.”
He pushed his plate away. He couldn’t push it very far because the table was so small, but the gesture told her he was finished with her and this conversation. Too bad she wasn’t finished with him.
“Think about it, Malloy,” she tried. “If Brian is only deaf, he won’t need someone to take care of him for the rest of his life. He can earn his own living, and he might even marry and have a family of his own and-”
“No woman would marry a deaf cripple.”
“Don’t be so sure.” She could see she’d given him enough to think about without planning Brian’s future, so she let it drop.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, rising from his chair.
“Of course you do,” she agreed, standing also.
“Thanks for the…” He waved toward his plate, and Sarah nodded in acknowledgment.
He looked ready to bolt, but before he did, she had one last request. He didn’t realize it yet, but she had done him a good turn with Brian, and he would soon feel the need to repay her.
“Malloy, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could you at least find out if there are any suspects in Gerda Reinhard’s death? It would mean a lot to her sister.”
He was still shaking his head in wonder as he disappeared through her garden gate.
SARAH SAT DOWN at the back of the United German Lutheran Church on Sixth Street. The crowd at Gerda Reinhard’s funeral looked pitifully small in the cavernous interior. Gerda’s sister Agnes was still in bed, on Sarah’s orders, and the rest of her family was still in Germany and probably didn’t even yet know of her death. A few of Agnes’s friends and neighbors had come, and a small group of young women who must have known Gerda were sitting on the other side of the church. At the very last moment, just before the minister took his place in the pulpit, a young man Sarah recognized as Lars Otto, Agnes’s husband, came in. He wore an ill-fitting black suit, probably borrowed for the occasion, and his sandy-brown hair had been slicked down with an abundance of hair tonic. He walked stiffly down the aisle, his lanky frame all knees and elbows, carrying his hat clutched tightly in both hands. He seated himself with obvious reluctance at the front of the church, took out a handkerchief, and mopped the sweat from his face. The weather had cooled considerably today, but Mr. Otto was under a lot of strain.
Sarah could sympathize with him. Burying his sister-in-law would be an ordeal under the best of circumstances. Gerda, however, had not simply died an untimely death. She had been murdered under scandalous circumstances. The shame and embarrassment the family must feel would be considerable. Added to their grief, the burden must be great indeed.
Lars hung his head, not even glancing at the closed casket that sat only a few feet away from him. The minister took his place and began reciting the appropriate Scriptures, the ones that offered hope to the bereaved. Sarah wondered how much hope they would offer in this case. Most people believed Gerda had only gotten what she deserved. Could a girl as sinful as Gerda was rumored to be really be expected to walk the streets of gold?
As she mulled over these questions, Sarah glanced at the group of young women who had known Gerda in life, girls who must be much like her. They stared straight ahead, apparently hanging on the minister’s words, their young faces stricken beneath the layers of heavily applied makeup. Their cheap finery looked out of place in the solemn surroundings, like peacocks in a chicken coop. Gaudy and tasteless peacocks, too.
Sarah wished for organ music to drown the oppressive silence, but the Ottos wouldn’t waste money on an organist for this occasion. From Lars Otto’s expression, he would not have wasted money on any of this, except that common decency demanded at least the minimum of ceremony, even for a girl as undeserving as Gerda. A girl so thoughtless as to get herself murdered.
The service was not a moment longer than necessary. The minister seemed aware that he should waste no time in committing this girl to the ground, and before Sarah knew it, he was pronouncing the benediction. She waited a moment, expecting some pallbearers to come forward to carry the casket out, but no one did. Instead, Lars Otto made his way out of the pew and started down the aisle. There was to be no graveside service, which would have required a hearse and more expense. Gerda’s remains would be carried to the cemetery in the gravedigger’s wagon and deposited in lonely solitude with no one to mourn her.
As Lars passed, Sarah hurried to follow him, wishing at least to find out how Agnes was doing.
“Mr. Otto,” she called, stopping him as he started down the front steps outside. He turned to face her.
Lars Otto was a tall man, thin and lanky, with big hands and feet, and a face too sharp and angular to be called handsome. Sarah noticed his knuckles were skinned when he adjusted his hat, testimony to how difficult his job must be. She thought she remembered he was a butcher by trade. He frowned when he saw Sarah, not recognizing her.