December 27th, 1939
Will Drachman patted the dash encouragingly as his car spluttered up the winding dirt road. He'd never visited Eureka Springs, but he'd heard The Depression had taken its toll on the little town. He speculated that Norman Baker's alleged Cancer-Curing Hospital might usher in some tourism, but the houses suggested otherwise. The once sturdy homes grown up from the ground had fallen into disrepair, posts brittle, paint peeling, and only dim kerosene lamps in the gritty windows. But that was a half an hour ago. Will hadn't seen a single house since, and the road had degraded to pot-holed indifference as he found himself in the increasingly remote wooded ridges of the mountain.
He was ready to pull over and reassess his map when his car gripped the road as gravel replaced dirt. He relaxed a little. If the road was maintained, he must be close.
Rounding the last bend, the hospital emerged. Baker is eccentric, he thought. The hospital was an imposingly cheerful lavender: the chimneys, the posts, the brick. It was vacant of vehicles, saving one polished, orchid Imperial Chrysler. Butterflies fluttered in Will's stomach as he shifted his clunkier Model-T into park.
He straightened his bowtie, punch pink, slightly improving the aesthetics of the vomit-green sweater his mother had knitted him for Hannukah. He draped his camera around his neck and stepped out of the car. There was the tiniest tug in his gut as he pushed through the wide front doors.
They slammed shut behind him and the sound ricocheted through the hospital. The walls were subjected to purples and golds, strewn with encouraging banners: HEALING BEGINS FROM THE INSIDE, and KICKING CANCER OUT THE DOOR and another, YOU CAN DO IT SO YOU WILL. Mateless sofas ranging from beaten to brand new grew up from the floor like colorful fungi. It was only fractionally less cold than outside, ratified by a barren fireplace stretching to the ceiling like staunch snakeskin. Will had expected the place to be teeming with patients, but there was no one. He wrinkled his nose at the combination of wet carpet and cleaner in the air.
The hospital was laid out like a cross. Lofty windows and double oak doors lined the opposite side of the hospital, and to Will's left and right paths tapered into carpeted hallways. The main stairwell to Will's right climbed squarely into the guts of the hospital. Will pulled The Brick out of its supple leather pouch and began snapping pictures.
"Excuse me," interrupted a curt voice. "No pictures."
Will spasmed and his camera nearly catapulted out his hands. To his left a brittle receptionist in square-framed glasses stared down haughtily from behind a desk. Will composed himself with a crooked smile.
"Hello! Sorry," he cried a little breathlessly. He cleared his throat. "My name is Will Drachman. I'm a journalist for the Cellardoor Journal. I was wondering if Mr. Baker is available. I'd like to interview him about the hospital's progressive treatment."
The woman pursed her lips, and the lines across her forehead deepened in annoyance. Will couldn't gage whether she was an old woman who looked young for her age or a young woman who looked old for her age.
"I'm sorry," she said unapologetically, "but Dr. Baker is currently unavailable. If you'd like to call and schedule an appointment, that'd be another thing, but you simply can't walk in and demand an interview."
"I see." Will glanced around. He didn't see any other appointees on the desolate couches awaiting Dr. Baker's visit. "Ma'am, I've driven quite a way to speak with him. This establishment is astounding. I only hope to elaborate on the behind-the-scenes action. Are you certain he's busy?"
"Of course, I'm sure. Dr. Baker is currently running personal errands."
"Is that your car out there?"
"Sorry?"
"The purple Chrysler. Is it yours?"
"No, it's -" she stopped short and frowned down her glasses at Will.
Gotcha, he thought.
"I'm afraid I can't help you Mr. Drakeman."
"Drachman."
"Gone or not, Dr. Baker is an important man and has no time for tabloid hacks such as yourself. I'll see you to the door." She heel-toed from around the desk with a decisive shake of keys.
The receptionist was not only charmless, but uncharmable. Will's bowtie practically wilted as the chance of a monumental story slipped through his fingers, when the doors burst open a second time, startling both Will and the receptionist. A spike of wind went straight through Will's sweater as a wild-eyed man in a disheveled trench coat rapidly approached the desk.
"I need to see my wife," he growled, shoving past Will. "Last name, Flores, first name Camila."
"I'm sorry, sir, but you have to make an appointment like everyone else."
"I don't need a goddamn appointment. What room is she in?" He pulled off his hat and gloves and shoved them into his pockets decisively. His face was prematurely crinkled with age, but Will guessed he was no more than thirty. "What room?"
"Mr. Flores, the treatment is a very delicate process, and any stress presented to the patient can aggravate the cancer and worsen their condition. I suggest you come back when you've scheduled an appointment, and trust that your wife is in caring hands," she articulated slowly, as though she was speaking to a dim-witted child.
"I tried to schedule an appointment several times, but every time it was postponed. I'm through calling. What room is my wife in?"
"Mr. Flores –"
He bolted for the stairs, and the receptionist scrambled after him. With neither Mr. Flores or the receptionist paying him any mind, Will followed up after them.
"Mr. Flores, this is incredibly inappropriate," she said crossly, jogging to keep up with his long strides.
Will stopped short at the second floor, admiring the geometric spiral of the staircase below him. The polished wooden stairs were covered with ornate carpet runners, the railings dangerously low. He continued up the stairs.
Mr. Flores was opening red and green doors, peering inside, and slamming them. Will heard the startled gasps of patients but he wasn't quick enough to catch a glance. He followed close behind them, breathing in every detail.
Mr. Flores stared down the end of a long hallway, his gaze settling on a lavender door with brass plaque with "Dr. Baker" embossed on it.
He shoved though.
Lavender walls, carpet, and draperies were lit by a warm, crackling fire, giving it the unsettling effect of being in the middle of a fresh bruise. A smokey and salty aroma permeated the air. Two muscular Dobermans curled at the foot of the fireplace raised their heads suspiciously. Dr. Baker sat at an immaculate wooden desk, a plate of steaming crab cakes resting at his left, and a lulling radio to the right. He hummed over his paperwork, seemingly unaware of the commotion, smoldering cigar dangling from two lithe, white fingers.
"Baker," Mr. Flores boomed.
Dr. Baker took a long drag of cigar and calmly looked up from his paperwork. Will took an involuntary step back. Dr. Baker's eyes were washed-out diamonds, and his face was long and narrow. His hair and skin were white, as was his suit, and the only color that stood out on him was a lavender tie. Will remained silent in the safety of the doorway.
"Hello, friend. How can I help you?" Dr. Baker said to Mr. Flores, turning the radio down but not off. He had a technically pleasant voice, as sweet as stolen honeycombs. Will imagined his voice dripping from the radio's speakers.
"I need to see my wife, Camila Flores. Tell me where she is," Mr. Flores said, chest heaving.
"Dr. Baker, I tried to get him out, but he barged right in," the receptionist explained servilely.
"It's quite alright, Theodora," Baker said. A creeping blush stained her white cheeks. He turned to Mr. Flores. "What is your name, sir?"
"Francisco Flores. I'm here to see my wife, Camila Flores. What room?"
"Relax, Mr. Flores. Take a seat, please," Dr. Baker said, gesturing to one of the sinking armchairs across his desk. He put out his cigar and set in an ashtray, but the hang of smoke persisted.
Mr. Flores stood.
"Mr. Flores, please. There's no reason we can't be civil. Crab cake?" Dr. Baker offered.
Mr. Flores stared stonily.
"Theodora?" he gestured, and she obediently took a crab cake. "Now, Mr. Flores. You would like to know about your wife, correct?"
"As I said."
"Yes, you did. Give me a moment to look through my files."
Dr. Baker scanned through the paperwork, one envelope, then two, and flipped through papers until he stopped and examined one in particular. Mr. Flores clenched his fists, transfixed on Dr. Baker.
"Well?" he demanded. A low growl came from the larger of the Dobermans.
"Easy, Bastille," Dr. Baker said to the dog. He regarded Mr. Flores. "Mr. Flores, I'm going to need you to sit down."
Reluctantly, Mr. Flores sat.
"I just want to see my wife." His voice strangled.
"I understand, Mr. Flores, but I'm going to need you to listen to me very carefully right now, and you're going to want to stay seated," Dr. Baker said softly. "Your wife, Camila Flores, has passed away."
Mr. Flores paled and clenched the arms of his chair. Will's heart dropped in his chest.
"No..."
"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Flores. We did everything in our power to slow the cancer, and Mrs. Flores' passed over painlessly and quickly."
Mr. Flores pulled his head to his knees, his body racking with sobs. His weeping turned Will's stomach to mush. He wanted to place a hand on the man's shoulder, but something held him back.
Minutes passed and Mr. Flores' sobs were no louder than the soft radio and Theodora's uncouth smacking. He looked up through bloodshot eyes.
"I'd like to take her body home, now," he shuddered.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that until a funeral director accompanies you. It's been too long after her death to let her go."
"When...when did she die?"
"Two months ago. Again, we did everything we could possibly do," Dr. Baker said delicately.
"Two months!" Mr. Flores roared, pushing back the chair and standing, nearly knocking Theodora over. He slammed his hands on the sides of Dr. Baker's desk. Will and Theodora flinched, and the Dobermans snarled. "I've been trying to make an appointment to see her for weeks! And why was there no call, no letter?"
"A letter was sent, it is possible it was lost in the mail," Dr. Baker reasoned, as though he and Mr. Flores were discussing the weather over tea.
"I never should have brought her here. She didn't like this place the minute she arrived."
"Regrettably, there are some even I cannot save."
Mr. Flores looked at Dr. Baker in utter disbelief. "You're a fraud."
"Mr. Flores, I'll excuse your behavior with the assumption that you need time to grieve," Dr. Baker said. He glanced over at the Dobermans. "Bastille, Burdock, wouldn't you agree Mr. Flores needs time to grieve?"
The Dobermans pointed ears twitched and they stared hungrily at Mr. Flores.
Mr. Flores looked at the dogs and back at Dr. Baker with something deeper than abhorrence.
"Coward," he hissed. He turned for the door. "I'll be back." He shoved past Will again.
Mr. Flores' footsteps faded into the hallway and left a heavy silence.
"What a shame. Grief truly can undo a person," Dr. Baker said regretfully. His eyes settled on Will. Will gulped.
"And who is our silent guest in the doorway, Theodora?"
"Tabloid hack, Dr. Baker," she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "I was just about to show him the door when Mr. Flores so rudely intruded."
"Now, now, Theodora. I'm sure this young man has good reason to be here. Come, sit, friend."
Will sat, suddenly clammy. Everything he'd read about Dr. Baker was now compacted into a physical person: Born in Muscadine, Iowa. Inventor of the Calliaphone. Happily divorced. And believed he could cure cancer. Will was relying on Dr. Baker's obligation to smooth over the peculiar event to get the interview he came for.
"Crab cake?" Dr. Baker offered.
"No, thank you. I'm not partial to seafood," Will said.
The armchair was surprisingly comfy, and in spite of himself, Will relaxed. Then he remembered Mr. Flores mourning his dead wife in the exact chair only a moment ago, and straightened up guiltily.
"What brings you to the hospital, young man?" Dr. Baker addressed with a probing gaze.
Will found it difficult to negotiate with his mouth turned to cotton. He tried to snap out of it by clearing his throat. "I'm a journalist. Not a tabloid hack. I work at the Cellardoor Journal. We're interested in unique and exciting perspectives for our readers, such as yourself. We're particularly intrigued by your methods, which you've advertised on your brochures as non-surgical." He gulped. "Oh, and I, uh, I read your book."
Dr. Baker smiled, a frank satisfaction crossing his face. "Ah, did you? And you found it...?"
"Both informative and intriguing." What, are you giving him a book report? Will cursed himself.
Dr. Baker seemed to sense the stock answer. "Not enlightening, at all?"
"I suppose in some ways, yes. Very much so, yes."
Dr. Baker smiled again, revealing perfectly straight teeth that Will thought were a bit too long. "Journalism – A noble profession – when executed correctly. I'm pleased to hear you've done your research. Before we conduct this interview, I'd like to get to know you. Afterall, you're here to determine whether or not I'm a quack, correct? I reserve that same right."
"I suppose that's fair," Will laughed uncomfortably. He couldn't help but think he was taking some sort of bait. Dr. Baker took a precise bite of a crab cake.
"Just light conversation," Dr. Baker assured him, setting the cake back on the plate. "A little icebreaker. So, how old are you? Where are you from?" There was the tiniest fleck of crab on the corner of his lip that Will was having trouble not fixating on.
"I'm twenty-two. I've lived in Fayetteville my whole life."
"I see. And what do your parents do?" The fleck of crab fell to the desk and Will's stomach clenched.
"My father owns a grocery store, and my mother manages the finances and paints."
Dr. Baker nodded. "Humble people. And your mother handles the finances? Unusual for a woman, wouldn't you agree?"
Will tried not to scoff. His mother was an intelligent person, period. Dr. Baker cocked his head slightly as if he knew he'd struck a chord. His face split into a raw-boned grin, so wide Will feared his face might tear away and reveal his skull. He laughed in an unexpected high-pitched arpeggio that made Will's toes curl, but he laughed along with Dr. Baker for the sake of politeness. He looked over at Theodora who only stared in adoration of Dr. Baker. Dr. Baker slapped the desk as his laughter faded. "Son, what's your name again?"
"Will Drachman."
Dr. Baker's smile vanished. "Drachman, you said? That a Jewish name?"
Oh, he thought as his heart sank. This wasn't the first time he'd been faced prejudice during an interview. In fact, it happened more than he cared to admit. Even so, it stung every time, especially since Dr. Baker was supposed to be an educated man. In his autobiography, Will hadn't found a discriminative word against the Jews. But perhaps Dr. Baker had simply wanted to appeal to a wider audience. Will should have gone incognito as the Mr. Drakeman Theodora had mistaken him - but no. He was no sellout.
"Yes, sir," Will said baldly. "Is that a problem, Dr. Baker?"
Dr. Baker paused. Then, in a voice like snagged satin answered, "Mr. Drachman, I'm afraid I can't help you. Theodora will see you to the door."
Theodora smirked at Will and lifted her keys with a patronizing nod to the door.
It's just a story, let it go. Will took a sharp breath in. No. "Dr. Baker, I can write this story with or without your help," he said quietly.
A small smirk tugged on Dr. Baker's mouth. "No, I don't think that you will. I have high standards for journalists, and you are subpar and unprofessional. Goodbye, Mr. Drachman."
Will stared back at Dr. Baker until Theodora pulled him out of his chair and to the door. Will allowed her to lead him away. The last thing he saw before the door shut was Dr. Baker's colorless eyes.
Theodora triumphantly yanked Will down the stairs. Something is wrong, he thought. The twinge he'd first felt in his gut was stronger than ever.
Theodora pulled open the front door and waved Will out. He took a long look around the hospital and stepped outside. The door slammed behind him and he waited to hear the final click of the lock.
The truth was cloaked in lavender and Will was determined to uncover it.