by Fran Kurstejn
We named you Elisabeth after this street, Elisabeth Street—look where I’m pointing now—on the south side of the city, starting at Fifth National Bank—that’s the square building with the bronze cuckoo on top—and it ends somewhere around the big convention center—the glass circle building where they hold the dance recitals and the spelling bees—where it becomes Convention Center Dr. and no longer Elisabeth St.—though a long while ago, before they built the convention center, Elisabeth St. went much further, as far as Concord St. and First Avenue—and really Elisabeth Street is one of the oldest named streets in the city, or at least the oldest that kept its name, since they changed a lot of the names from the colonial times like Smyrnoff Ln. and Narberth and Thickwycket and other such names but they kept Elisabeth—you’d be right to assume it refers to Queen Elisabeth, and for the longest time I thought so, too, but I heard from the city museum that it’s not true, not even a little bit—
Elisabeth Street in fact refers to a young English woman named Elisabeth Brinkley-Carbonall from London, who came right off the boat with her then-husband—a doctor also by the name of Carbonall though we don’t know his first name—and the story goes that this Dr. Carbonall—who, though honorable, spent most of his time treating charity patients on Drury Street—which was a very poor section of London where the pickpockets and thieves lived—but also where the young Miss Elisabeth Brinkley lived and worked in her mother’s brothel as a concierge and a housekeeper—she was treated poorly there, fed little, beat often, and the story goes that a customer took a liking to her and when she refused his advances he pushed her right down a flight of steep stairs—and she was bloody all over, yes, but the real issue was her leg, which bent in such a way—such an awful way that her thigh and her calf were set almost atop each other—and she was rushed to Dr. Carbonall’s clinic and that was the last anyone ever heard of Elisabeth Brinkley—because after the good doctor fixed her leg up so she was even without a limp, just a large but mostly unobtrusive scar—the two were married that Spring—
and bought a ticket to settle in America, in our city—which at the time mostly housed farmers, carpenters and bakers—workmen types, they didn’t even have a newspaper back then—now we have three big newspapers and a handful of magazines but back then there wasn’t more than two people in the whole city who could read and write—much less administer medicine and keep up with all the modern wisdom—so there was plenty need for smart English doctors like Carbonall—there were poxes and illnesses that the bigger areas already conquered—now our city had them under control thanks to the busy Dr. Carbonall and the few doctors who eventually followed him—and in those days Elisabeth was kept alone at the Carbonall house—the house which stood on the street that is now Elisabeth Street—no the house is gone now, I’m getting to that—so Elisabeth spent most of her time lounging in the house on Elisabeth Street, because Dr. Carbonall insisted on bringing his servants and even a hired a local housekeeper so Elisabeth wouldn’t have to lift a finger—and the doctor wouldn’t come home until very late, if at all—plenty of nights he opted to sleep at the clinic and Elisabeth could never be certain why—so here was this woman who for her entire life had been a servant, toiling away for her mother and her mother’s customers—now she had an army of servants—as she wrote in her diary, an army of “little Brinkleys” to serve their Madame Carbonall—she had such fun with it at the start, she’d boss them all around in a harsh, husky voice and she’d watch them scurry to her will—she’d surprise herself with how cruel she could be, how lazy after a life of work—how she’d demanded pleated clothes and quick alterations and tea any time of day—and otherwise lay in a pure sunlight, a hypnotic and almost holy light, free of London’s famous hazes and smogs—
but soon the novelty wore off and a dry heat—unlike any London ever received—turned soft tans to crackling burns, and Dr. Carbonall’s days at the clinic turned to weeks, and once even a full month—this was when Elisabeth grew anxious, almost feverish in their big house with only the servants to keep her company—and she heard some rumors about her husband, though where and from whom is unclear—perhaps from the servants since they were her only companions and they would know things like Dr. Carbonall’s friendship with a baker’s daughter—and we don’t know her name either but we know she came down with a bad stomach virus—but some also said it was the corker’s daughter, or even the corker’s wife—who both contracted a similar virus—and it’s true that the virus spread like wildfire that year but altogether the men would get well real quick but the women almost always required further treatment—treatment in the clinic, for nights on end—and anyway she heard the horrible rumors about her husband and she stormed all the way over to his clinic to investigate—and she was turned away at the door by his assistant, who told her the place was a real hot-bed, and no healthy person should enter—and her husband came and said that he’s awfully busy and if she’s lonely she could go the social club—the social club is now the history museum, you know, but back then it was a place to smoke and drink and chat, all that sort of thing—and she’d go to the social club and smoke and chat, but she wouldn’t drink, on account of she remembers that all her mother’s customers drank and drank—
at the social club she met a bricklayer named Pete and his wife named Lois—and they became good friends, peas-in-a-pod those three, they’d spend the whole night at the social club playing billiards or just lazing around and smoking and talking—and once she felt comfortable with Pete and Lois she started drinking, just a little—and it became a real scandal all over, that the Dr. Carbonall’s wife was drinking with a lousy bricklayer in the social club—and one afternoon he came home from the clinic, one of the first times he did so all year, in the dead winter while the flu raged on—he came in looking gray and blue and unshaved, that’s how she described him anyway, like a walking corpse—and he told her, in a stern voice, that she should never drink again, and cause a scandal, and if she did—he’d slap her like she was but one of his cadavers—and not only that, but he’d divorce her, too, very swift—and then he left the house for the clinic again while she cried the whole night through—and she wouldn’t even leave the house, not for anything, she’d take all her meals in her room and she’d stay up there and scream in fits and spasms—and at this point her leg, the one that broke on her way down the stairs—it started to hurt again, most likely on account of her not using it—it hurt so bad she had to limp like it was a wooden leg and not made of human flesh—and Pete and Lois probably got worried about her, on account she wouldn’t show up at the social club anymore, and they went over to the Carbonall house to go check on Elisabeth—and when they came and saw the sorry state she was in they’d say— “Oh, Lizzy,” “come on, Lizz,” —and they got her up and even though she was afraid of going back to the social club she went back with them anyway—because, like she says in her diary, her loneliness in that old house was worse than any loneliness she ever felt—and even the hypothetical loneliness of divorce couldn’t compare to the loneliness she felt in that house—and she went over to the social club and smoked cigars with Pete and Lois—they were sweet and somehow made the swelling in her leg a little less—and Pete offered her a drink but she told him what Dr. Carbonall and he said “okay, no drinks then,” and they just kept on smoking cigar after cigar—right until the day was caught in a veil of afternoon clouds and with it an evening snowfall—and at the first flakes’ fall she grew dejected and sullen and her leg started to ache, too, a big ache, so big she started to moan and groan—Pete & Lois asked her what’s wrong and she told them about her leg—it hurt like the day it snapped sideways, just that bad—
and she’d dropped her cigar and told Pete & Lois she was awfully sorry but she had to do something about the bite in her leg—she really was afraid the whole thing was going to come undone again, that Dr. Carbonall’s cure simply set her straight for sometime but now the leg was going back crook’d—that’s the word she kept using, crook’d, and Pete & Lois told her it wouldn’t, that what she needed was an ointment or maybe a drink, that old wounds flare up whenever the snow sprinkles the ground—but at the mention of drink she was gone, looney with anxiety, and she told them she had to see her husband, so the leg wouldn’t go on being crook’d—and despite the two trying hard to pull her back she opened up the wide doors of the social club and a chill flooded the room like a rusty trumpet’s horning, and out she limped through a white wind sweeping around her—
her eyelashes froze and so she could only see so far ahead—just up to the next streetlamp—and her blouse shut up in wet crinkles that made little lashes across her skin—she was an odd sight in the midst of the snow, crumpled like an accordion and moving in jilted hops—her arms held tight to her kneecap like it’d start winding upwards any moment, and all the while telling herself that the leg shouldn’t go crook’d, that that’d be just the worst thing to happen, certainly—after the doctor spent so much time moving it back to where a good knee should land—right down the middle, toward the ground, keeping her level and balanced—and where the scar lay a great strike of pain nearly tipped her over—nearly, but her hand caught on a brick wall, and a wind—so strong, without end, a loud and tinny end to a big band concert—nearly tipped her the other way, right on her bum glued to her icy dress—and she thanked God for the first time she didn’t tip over and then again for the second time, that she was kept upright twice against the cold wind—and she reached her husband’s clinic and called his name once, but no answer came—and she knocked on the door gently, and ice spells fell from the base of her wrist, but still no answer, so she knocked harder and harder—she told the door that her leg had been aching, and she was afraid it’d go crook’d again, and it’d all go crook’d like back on Drury St.—and it was a few hours later, when the wind cleared and the town was caked in white snow, white as sunlight, like the sun had fallen from the dead night—and they traced Elizabeth’s step all the way to the clinic, and there she was, frozen at the eyes, the ears, the neck and the chest—even her feet had turned black like coal, and the door hadn’t opened, her hand wrapped around the knob—and Elizabeth had died that night on what would be Elisabeth Street—her leg frozen straight as an arrow—not a bit crook’d—
and it’s true the Dr. Carbonall didn’t hear Elisabeth’s desperate knocks at the clinic door—not because he was with a patient, no, not at all, because he was with a perfectly well woman—a woman we don’t know the name of, just like we don’t know the name of the good Dr. Carbonall—and, at least this is what old Pete the Bricklayer had written, when the Dr. came out with the nameless woman who didn’t have a touch of illness—a strong gust, like a shriek or maybe a bear’s great roar erupted through the clear morning like the evening’s storm had not yet passed—and even the Dr. jumped and looked to the sky as if a real bear had suddenly revealed itself after hours of quiet stalking—and that’s when Pete and Lois, too, began to curse the Dr.’s name—called him a cheat, a bastard, a whore, any name they could think for such a man who’d kill a sweet girl like Elisabeth—and that’s another name they used, murderer, which really got the whole street in an uproar—so everyone’s windows were kept wide open, heads stuck out even in the killer cold—and even though he’d known Elisabeth’s death couldn’t be ruled a murder—no just court would convict him, that was true—the title shook him up so bad that he’d decided, in that moment, to flee town, and there’s no record of a Dr. Carbonall after that—in any history book, in any town, just like he was whisked right off the earth for that gruesome crime without conviction—the killing of Elisabeth Brinkley-Carbonall—
and the tragedy of Elisabeth had so shocked the whole town—even the mayor, who at that time was a Mr. Zedd Jackson, and the minister, a Mr. Bernard Holcomb—the whole town had known her from the social club as a good woman, a kind woman, and her fate a rotten and unbecoming one—that the town petitioned to have the street named after her, in honor and mourning—and not one voice dissented—so the street was named Elisabeth Street, just like it is today, which is where you get your name—
but we didn’t name you after Elisabeth Brinkley-Carbonall, but after Elisabeth Street, which is named after her, and because it’s a street with a funny story and a funny character—because as the street grew over the years into a real street, with shops and government buildings and even new homes—and this was the real problem, the homes—because as people started living on Elisabeth Street they also started dying on Elisabeth Street—anyone, rich or poor, big or small, mean or nice, young and old—they’d get sick and die on Elisabeth Street—without cause or reason, they’d drop like flies in the new apartment complexes and in the Carbonalls’ old house and even some folk who stayed too long in the social club or overnight in the old clinic—they’d all drop dead for one reason or another—and it became known, even if it was never said outright, that Elisabeth’s ghost haunted the whole street like a windchill, and ruled it like a tyrant—and it was known that nothing could live long on Elisabeth Street—maybe in vengeance or in sorrow—though nobody had ever seen or claimed to see Elisabeth’s ghost, or heard her voice, or anything at all—and when you’d walk down Elisabeth Street you didn’t feel a strange chill or anything unusual, it was just a regular street like any other street in the new town—but nothing could live on it—
any prior illness would worsen beyond treatment, woodwork in the new buildings would be infested by termites, causing all sorts of accidents—fires, falls, explosions, murders—they all occurred with regularity on Elisabeth Street—there’s one story in particular that’s lived in infamy a long time—when the gangster ‘Ronnie the Rhino’ made the old Carbonall house into his hideout—and he was called Ronnie the Rhino because he’d survived shootouts, stabbings and pummelings without so much of a scratch on him—but when he moved into the Carbonall house he didn’t survive more than a week—somehow, the state police found where he was and they came up to Elisabeth Street and raided the Carbonall house—they broke the door down and swept both floors—and found Ronnie the Rhino in the Dr.’s old bed—and he wasn’t breathing, he hadn’t been, he’d died of a common cold—that man who could survive a hundred bullet wounds, smited by a stodgy old house with poor insulation, it really was unthinkable but there’s no getting around it—
and it was after the death of Ronnie the Rhino that folks really got frightened—so frightened that the city decided to tear down the old Carbonall house for good—and almost everything that used to stand when Elisabeth Brinkley-Carbonall lived was torn down, either out of fear or to make room for the new town center—only old Dr. Carbonall’s clinic still stood, but that was since turned into a full hospital and surgical center—and the old Carbonall house turned into a department store and supermarket chain, just like it is now—and for a while, no one really lived on Elisabeth Street and so no one died there, either—except at the hospital, which became known less as a hospital and more as a hospice—a final resting place, where a bad disease would get worse—and no one could really say why because most had already forgotten the old story of Elisabeth Brinkley-Carbonall—everyone thought the street was really named after Queen Elisabeth, just like I did, that is until I got your mother pregnant—-
we were both very young, everybody said too young, but nevertheless it happened that she got pregnant and 9 months later her water broke—and we’d been living out in the new suburbs, and there wasn’t a hospital built in the suburbs at that time because it was so new so we had to take a taxi into the city—and I remember it was an awfully cold day in November, though it wasn’t snowing and there wasn’t any storm—but the sky looked flat and thin like frozen bread crust—and we’d wanted to have the baby born at the bigger hospital up on Tryon Rd. because that was a good hospital and that’s where the doctor had seen your mother only a month before—but the baby—which would be you—had a different idea—you couldn’t wait and she was screaming in the taxi, really screaming—she kept saying—IT’S COMING—IT’S COMING—and I could tell the cabbie really wanted us out so I saw the glowing red hospital sign on Elisabeth Street where old Dr. Carbonall’s clinic used to be and I told him to stop at this hospital—and the poor guy looked very relieved—three or four nurses were smoking outside the hospital and I yelled and told them my wife was having a baby—they seemed surprised, even dumbfounded, that anyone could come to the hospital for any reason except to die—no less to bring a new life into the world—one old nurse gave me a sad, pleading look and even told me to go up to the Tryon Street Hospital—but your mother kept screaming IT’S COMING—IT’S COMING—so I told her that it had to be here, no matter what it had to be here—and so she sighed and ordered the other three nurses to grab a stretcher—
they set your mother up and wheeled her in—I followed up to the Emergency Ward door before the receptionist told me I’d have to wait outside—and I sat down in the receptionist’s office because they didn’t really have a waiting room—and the receptionist, another old woman but even older than the nurse outside, she’s the one who first told me about Elisabeth Brinkley-Carbonall, mostly to keep me entertained but also to warn me that nothing yet has lived through a night on Elisabeth Street—not a man or even a mouse—and I didn’t believe her at all—but it’s true I began to get nervous and queasy hearing the whole story I just told you—and when three hours passed, the old nurse opened the door to the receptionist’s room—she was still smoking, but this cigarette was fresh and barely touched—she told me, in an agreeable voice, that your mother had died—and then she said that you’d lived but you were very sick, and it was unlikely you’d make it through the night—and not to mention how grieved I was in that moment over your mother I just sat and looked at that old receptionist and knew everything she said was true—that Elisabeth’s ghost had killed her and she was sure to kill you now—and rather than cry and break down over your mother’s death I asked where the old Carbonall house was located—and she told me it’s gone now—now it’s the big department store and the supermarket—and I raced out onto Elisabeth St. where it suddenly got so cold—so cold that a white film covered my eyes and my lips turned blue and pasty—the wind gusted out just like trumpets and flutes with broken reeds—
and I’d made it to the department store—where the Carbonall house used to stand and where Elisabeth spent many days and nights—and it was stuffed with people, kids and parents shopping and escaping the sudden cold, and here I was drenched in cold and tears frozen on my cheeks—I lowered down to my knees—and I looked upward, where a fluorescent light panel flickered on and off—and I cried—and I said—Elisabeth—just her name—and then I repeated it, even louder—Elisabeth—and then I told her—let my kid go—let my kid go—and nothing really happened but everyone in the mall looked at me—but I kept telling her to let you go—and I said I know you’ve been wronged—and I said I know no one’s been kind to you—and I know we’re all bad, we’re all crooked—and I said I know this place is bad and crooked—and I said but my kid won’t be crooked—and I said but my kid will be good—and I said I’d be good to my kid if you let her go—and again, nothing really happened but everyone just looked at me funny—but I did notice the wind had stopped—and I said I’d be good to her and she’d grow up strong and good—and I didn’t know anything but I ran back to the hospital anyway—and when I got back to the hospital the old nurse and the receptionist and all the other nurses crowded around me and asked where I went—
I said I went to talk to Elisabeth—and they all looked at me funny—but then they said there’d been a change in your health—the baby’s alright, they said—she’d live through the night, they said—and I asked if I could see you and they said yes—and I did see you and you looked perfect, if tired—and you were sound asleep like you’d been through the storm and not me—and I took you in my arms and held you to my sopping shoulder—and I said I’d name you Elisabeth—that that’d be your name—because the street that killed everybody who lived there —the street that killed Ronnie the Rhino—it didn’t kill you—Elisabeth Street couldn’t kill you.