The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [63]
I was stunned by the question. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “Do you think of my family as sinful?”
“Do you?”
Did I? The immediate answer was yes, that I despised them all … my father for being a drunk and coward, my mother for allowing him to abuse her without protest, my brothers for being uneducated louts, and all of them for wanting nothing from me but pieces of silver. But was it true? Or was I merely ashamed?
“No,” I said. “Not sinful.”
“Perhaps it is Dr. Osler then. Do you feel a need to justify his trust as well?”
“Of course. It is only natural.”
“Yes,” said Reverend Powers. “Only natural. But do you feel that he has an equal need to justify your trust in him?”
“Dr. Osler owes me nothing,” I said with finality.
“Of course.” Reverend Powers replaced his glass and rose from his chair. “I hope I was of help, Dr. Carroll,” he said, but with a note of distinct warmth.
“You gave me no answers,” I said.
“That is not my role, Dr. Carroll,” he replied. “I was hoping simply to allow you to see the questions.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You must trust me when I tell you that you know all you need to know. The voice of Christ lives in all of us. Some simply listen better than others. You are one of those who listen quite carefully. I have no doubt that you will take the correct course.”
I was flattered at his words, but nonetheless departed feeling less than satisfied. I had arrived with questions and was evidently supposed to leave with more questions. Still, I had too much faith in Reverend Powers to simply dismiss his remarks. Perhaps I was asking the wrong questions. And if that was true, what should I be asking?
When I returned home, I discovered that the boy I had hired earlier in the day to retrieve Turk’s books had been efficient in the task, and two boxes awaited me in my rooms. One of the boxes contained the Greeks and the other the Bancrofts. They were, as I had instructed, packed carefully, and I found myself comforted as I removed one volume after another of Plato, Aristotle, and Thucydides, and placed them in my own bookshelves. I decided to read one of them before bed, and chose a volume of the Dialogues. After all, Socrates had imparted wisdom by means of the interrogative. Perhaps I might glean the Reverend’s meaning from the pages of Turk’s books.
I remained in my sitting room long into the night, the light from the gas lamp casting a warming glow, reading the wisdom of the ancients until at last I felt that I could rest.
CHAPTER 13
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING surprisingly refreshed after so little sleep. Finally, I understood what Reverend Powers had meant, and I understood myself. I was not seeking truth because of Abigail Benedict, nor to protect my career, so inexorably tied to the Professor’s, nor to attain justice for Turk, nor even because my conscience told me that it was the moral and Christian thing to do. I was seeking truth so that I might at last live in peace.
My own father had been no father at all; Reverend Audette, for all his generosity, had underestimated my abilities and recommended me to second-tier medicine; Jorgie, while caring, was a fumbler. It was only in Dr. Osler that I had found a man in whom I could place my trust and affection.
But the glimmer of suspicion I now realized I had felt from the moment he had slammed closed the cover on the ice chest in the Dead House had ripened into full-fledged doubt. Pretending to deny doubt hadn’t made it disappear, but merely left it to fester like an untreated wound. Soon, I would leave Philadelphia for Baltimore to work with Dr. Osler in a manner more intimate than ever before. I surely did not want to lose another father, but nor did I relish the prospect that every time I looked at Dr. Osler I would wonder if I had once again been betrayed. I had no choice but to pursue this matter wherever it led.
That evening, I remained at the hospital until about seven, and then returned home for a light dinner. At half past nine, I engaged a carriage and headed