Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain by Kirsten Menger-Anderson Page A

I’ve started to steal what’s left of the wood to burn at home because we don’t have much but clothes left for our fires. I have my extra wool breeches and a few pairs of stockings; Mother, her summer clothes and Father’s old broadcloth coat, which she wears around the house at night. It makes her cry, that faded blue coat, but she won’t burn it. I tried to take it from her once so she’d feel better, and she hit me hard across my cheek, and then cried some more and begged God for forgiveness because I knew not what I did.
    I wanted to go with Father the day he went to see the cocks fight, and I still thank God for his almighty kindness,because Father refused and I didn’t die when men started drinking and fighting. Instead I met Doctor Theodorus Steenwycks, who came by our house in Church Farm along with the men carrying Father’s body. The doctor brought a half tankard of ale, which Mother drank right there. Her face turned red, and she fell asleep just when the neighbors arrived to see what all the wailing was about. Miss Willett wrapped her arms around me, and I thought she might cry, too, but instead she started saying, “Poor dear. Poor dear. Whatever will he do now?”
    I had to push her away because I was having unclean thoughts. Miss Willett has lived next door since I was a baby, and I remember her like a first snow, white and smothering. She used to give me hard candies and apples and sing me songs about the moon and King George of England. She always smiled when she saw me and hugged me close when I ran over to tell her about my day — I’d seen a fish in Fresh Water Pond; I’d watched the sailors arrive from faraway places with dark-skinned men and boxes that smelled as divine as baby Jesus himself.
    Miss Willett released me when I pushed her back, and I saw that she did have tears in her eyes. I had to go outside then, because her sister tried to hold me as well, and that’s when Doctor Steenwycks asked me if I knew my name. He was standing by the road, which was thick as porridge since the snow melted, his hands in his pockets, a small cockedhat on his head. He had red gums, fish-innards red, and I couldn’t look at him for fear I might make an impolite expression or stare like Mother always forbids me to do. So I just nodded, big nods so he’d be sure to see.
    â€œThat’s a good man,” he said. “You’re the man of the family now.”
    I nodded again and folded my hands behind my back like I’d seen the minister do.
    â€œCan you speak?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œYou understand me?”
    He stepped closer, and I feared his opening mouth, but I knew Mother would want me to answer, so I turned my face away and nodded. He leaned closer and whispered, “I’ve cured men like you — even men so mad they can’t dress themselves.” Doctor Steenwycks was the son of a famous doctor. A doctor who cured the dead, Mother told me later, when I asked her about him.
    â€œI dress myself,” I said.
    â€œWould you like to be cured? Would you like that?” Doctor Steenwycks smiled, red lips and gums. “You could care for your mother. Perhaps even find a wife. A good woman like — like a solid pair of bronze-buckled shoes.”
    I thought of Miss Willett with her long gray-brown braid. She had a brother who brought her paper-wrappedslabs of smoked bacon and dried beef, which she sometimes shared with Mother. She smelled like fresh leaves.
    â€œHow —” But I couldn’t think of the words I needed to say because Miss Willett was there in my head, twirling like she might on Pope’s Day, skirt flowing around her ankles, chest pressing against the tight fabric of her one good brown dress.
    â€œThere, there.” Doctor Steenwycks placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “It’s not proper to be jumping up and down on the day of your poor father’s death. But I’m