The Seer and the Scholar

By Rosanne Higgins

A chance discovery takes anthropologist-turned-novelist Maude Travers through a centuries-old missing person's investigation. Each piece of evidence triggers vivid dreams of the Sloane sisters as they help Buffalo's poorest residents during the cholera epidemic of 1849. Maude is compelled to keep digging as she suspects that her dreams of Martha Sloane and the decisions she struggles with as the first female medical student might, in fact, be true. A trip to the Modern Spiritualist community of Lily Dale, New York, brings the realization that, once again, the dead still have much to tell. A psychic medium and the spirit of a nineteenth century school teacher enable Maude to reconcile the past with the present and to glimpse what the future might hold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosanne Higgins
• Release date: Nov 8, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310945281

Rosanne Higgins

Rosanne Higgins was born in Enfield Connecticut, however spent her youth in Buffalo, New York. Her experiences traveling in both the United States and in Europe as a child resulted in a love of history from an early age. She knew from the time she was in fourth grade that she wanted to be an Anthropologist and went on after earning her BA to graduate school at the University at Buffalo. Combining her two interests she studied the Asylum Movement in the nineteenth century and its impact on disease specific mortality. This research focused on the Erie, Niagara, and Monroe County Poorhouses in Western New York and earned her a Ph.D. in Anthropology in 1998 and several scholarly publications.After six years as an assistant professor, Rosanne focused on her family, husband Bob Higgins, and sons, Max and Charlie. She also opened a successful business, tapping into her love for animals with a doggy daycare. This led to charitable efforts in animal rescue. During this time, she also turned her attentions to a more personal fundraising effort following the tragic death of her older son, Max, from a rare pediatric cancer at age 11. This event inspired in her the ability to imagine the previously untold stories of personal and private sufferings.In the Spring of 2012, she was invited to join the Erie County Poorhouse Cemetery Project, undertaken by the Department of Anthropology at the University at Buffalo. While writing her dissertation in the mid 90's, Rosanne had gotten to know many of the inmates of the institutions mentioned above as she pieced together what little could be told of their lives while researching their deaths. For over 20 years, she had a desire to tell the other side of the story in a way that would be accessible to more than just the scholarly community. Rosanne's need to tell their tale has resulted in her first novel, Orphans and Inmates, which is the first in a series chronicling fictional accounts of Poorhouse residents inspired by the historical data.

Book preview

Part One

Chapter One

November, 2014

Maude Travers sat back and stared at the empty screen of her laptop hoping that words would appear by sheer force of her will to put the story to paper (so to speak). She had been trying for months to write a novel based on the diary of Ciara Nolan, the first Keeper of the Buffalo Orphan Asylum and former inmate of the Erie County Poorhouse. Even seated at her Kittinger desk, surrounded by the Victorian wall sconces and parlor lamps of her antique lamp shop, Maude just couldn’t bring nineteenth century Buffalo to life. She was an anthropologist by training, not a novelist. She had published many scholarly articles and book chapters focusing on her poorhouse research, so why was it so hard to write a fictional account using the same data for inspiration?

Because data demanded to be analyzed, that’s why. The poorhouse records she had examined for the past two decades offered plenty of quantifiable variables, categories of information such as age, sex, and country of birth that could be scrutinized and organized to create a report of what life was like for poorhouse inmates. The real story of the poorhouse inmates was told by those data, facts that were there for anyone to verify. For example, the vast majority of individuals who sought relief at the Erie County Poorhouse were foreign born, mostly from Ireland and Germany. Thousands of people had traveled to America in search of a better life, only to have their dreams thwarted along the way by some tragedy which left them destitute upon arrival. Most individuals, called inmates, stayed only a few days or a few weeks, just long enough to get back on their feet, or find another source of help. Those who did stay for months, or years, were likely very old, very sick, or both.

In addition to the ledgers that had provided so much detail about the poorhouse experience, Maude had read the journal of Ciara Nolan. That was qualitative data: detailed accounts of daily life at the Buffalo Orphan Asylum that could not be categorized, counted or massaged by statistics, but were important nonetheless. These were the real life experiences of the Keeper in her daily struggle to keep the orphanage viable. Maude had read about how children had learned to knit their own socks, a strategy employed to keep idle young minds occupied. The pride with which the Keeper recorded yet another healthy year in which no children were lost to the diseases that ravaged other parts of the city was tangible in her report. There was a story to be told, Maude was certain of it, but it would take some getting used to, this concept of fiction.

From her office in the back of the shop she owned with her husband Don, Maude heard the phone ring. For once she was happy that the old building had but one phone jack in the front of the shop as she gave the blank screen a final defiant look meant to convince herself that she wasn’t giving up, but she did have to walk away to answer the phone.

Good morning. This is the Antique Lamp Company. How may I help you?

Hi, Maude. It’s Christine. Got a minute?

Sure. What’s up?

I just wanted to thank you and Don again for coming last night and to let you know that you won something in the silent auction.

Oh, we are always happy to support pediatric cancer research, Maude assured her friend. What did I win?

Your family tree.

My what? Maude was trying to recall all of the silent bids she submitted at the fundraiser the previous evening. Oh, right, the genealogical research certificate. How does that work?

Well, the researcher is a member of the Western New York Genealogical Society. Her contact info is on the gift certificate. I’m sure she will give you all of the details. Let me know how it goes. I would love to do something like that for my mom.

Are you going to be in today? I could run next door and grab the gift certificate before I leave for the day. Christine was a graduate student in history and worked at the antique shop next to Maude’s. Both women shared an interest in local history and often popped in on each other for a quick cup of coffee and a chat when business was slow.

I’m not working today, but I’m in the neighborhood now, so I can drop it by if you like.

Maude looked at the clock, noting she had only fifteen minutes until she was officially open for business, and then thought about the blank screen waiting in her office. Sure, come on over.

The morning was busy, which was not unusual for that time of year when people were out shopping for the holidays. The windows of their shop on Chippewa Street stopped pedestrian traffic on a regular day, with the sparkling crystals and hand-painted glass of nineteenth century lamps and chandeliers. During the winter holidays the shop looked nothing short of spectacular to passersby. Frosted windows were bedazzled with white twinkle lights, drawing shoppers into Christmas past. Featured among the luminary treasures stood a real scotch pine, decked out in Victorian splendor. Maude and Don had learned years ago that by adding other unique items like vintage jewelry, accessories and antique housewares to the already breathtaking collection of period lamps and lighting fixtures, they could increase traffic through their store. Now they were a must stop for many downtown shoppers. It was after lunch by the time Maude was able to take a look at the gift certificate she had won the night before.

Abigail Stevens, she read out loud from the business card that had been clipped to the envelope. Let’s give you a ring and find out exactly what I have won. After a quick look at the certificate inside, she pulled out her cell phone and gently tapped the numbers on the screen.

Hello, said the voice on the other end.

Hello. My name is Maude Travers. I am looking for Abigail Stevens.

This is Abby. How can I help you?

I am the proud winner of a certificate for genealogical research. I won it at a silent auction last night.

Oh, right, the children’s cancer event. That was last night? I had actually intended to go too, but I must have got my dates mixed up. I thought it was next week. How did they do?

Well, I think. So how exactly does this work? Maude asked.

The gift certificate entitles you to eight hours of genealogical research. Are you interested in building your family tree, or do you have a particular ancestor you would like to know more about?

Hmm, that’s a good question. I know mom’s family came from Ireland. I’m not sure about my dad’s side.

Well, let’s start with some names. Why don’t you send me an e-mail with the names of your parents, and grandparents on each side? Include any details you know, like their place or date of birth, and we’ll see what we come up with from that. I will let you know what I find and if you want to continue beyond the value of the gift certificate, we can discuss my pricing.

That sounds good. Would you mind texting your e-mail address to my phone? If I write it down on a piece of paper, I will likely lose it!

No problem. I look forward to hearing from you.

Maude pushed the end button on her cell phone and made a mental note to call her mother to see if she could learn any details about the family that might be helpful to Abby. She felt the phone vibrate as it dropped back into her purse. Remembering she had turned the ringer off to minimize distractions while working on her novel earlier that morning, Maude turned it back on in case Don or the kids needed to contact her. She ignored the phone and prepared for the late afternoon shoppers, assuming the ringtone she heard as it was slipped back into her purse signaled the genealogist passing along her e-mail address. Heading back out toward the front of the shop, the familiar sound of the first few chords of the Rolling Stones song ‘Time is on My Side’ was coming from the office once again indicating another text had been received. That particular song was the ringtone for incoming texts from persons unknown or persons not special enough to have their own ringtone. Since the text was not from Don or the boys, she ignored it again, deciding whoever it was could wait until she was ready to leave for the day.

Before Maude reached the display in the front window, the land line was ringing. With a sigh of exasperation, Maude turned from the window and reached for the cordless hand set she had left on the front counter. This is the Antique Lamp Company. How may I help you?

Maudie, it’s me.

Maude looked at the caller ID and recognized her husband’s cell phone number. Don, why are you calling this phone?

I assumed that since you haven’t called me already that your phone must be in your purse.

What are you talking about?

Take a look at your cell phone and tell me if you got a text recently. I just received one from our landlord and I am guessing you did, too.

Hang on. Maude put down the receiver and returned to her office to retrieve the cell phone. As she walked back to the land line she scrolled past the first text, which was indeed from Abby Stevens, to the message she received just before her husband called. Picking the receiver back up she read aloud.

‘Hi Maude and Don, it’s me, Phil. What time do you guys close? I’d like to stop by and have a word some night this week before you leave for the day.’

Phil never comes by the shop, Don remarked. I wonder what he wants.

Our lease is up at the end of the year, Maude reminded him. He probably wants to re-negotiate. I hope he is not planning on raising the rent too much.

I thought we had another full year left. How much did it go up last time?

It went up by $150 the last time we renewed. If he jacks it up another $150 per month this time, we should still be okay.

I suppose. Can you shoot him a text and tell him we will both be in the shop Thursday afternoon if he wants to stop by? Don asked.

Sure thing. Maude hung up the shop phone. She hastily typed her reply and then saved Phil’s number into her contacts. With a smirk, she assigned him Darth Vader’s theme song for a ringtone and was surprised when she heard the thundering brass notes not a moment later as Phil responded to her text.

‘Thursday afternoon sounds great. That will give me a few days to sort out some details.’

What on earth does that mean? Maude asked out loud. She decided against texting back that very question. Whatever he meant, she didn’t want to be discussing it via text. Their meeting was just two days away. They would find out soon enough.

* * *

On the way to work Thursday morning, Maude felt the familiar anxiety she always experienced when she was waiting for important information. Her mentor and colleague from the Anthropology department, Jean McMahon, was meeting with the university administration regarding the fate of the Erie County Poorhouse Cemetery Collection. It had been an unusual situation to say the least, excavating a portion of the poorhouse cemetery on the university’s south campus last year. The property had once been the location of the poorhouse, insane asylum and hospital, and was sold shortly after the turn of the twentieth century. Anthropologists had been given a year to learn what they could from the skeletons that had been carefully excavated before the individuals had to be respectfully reinterred.

Maude had no voice in the issues that would be discussed and the decisions that would be made and that was just fine with her. It was a complicated decision best left to the administrators who had more knowledge of the university’s needs and long term plans than she. That did not mean that Maude didn’t have an opinion on where burials should be laid, finally, to rest. The research team had not been able to provide individual identities to any of the skeletons they studied, but they got to know them nonetheless. Through meticulous measurements and cataloging of various traumatic or infectious lesions, they were able to begin piecing together some of the life experience of those people who had the misfortune to die while at the poorhouse, hospital or insane asylum. These people were an important part of Buffalo’s past and deserved a final resting place where they would not be disturbed again.

The historic records for the institutions provided Maude with some of the names of the people and circumstances under which they went to the poorhouse for help. Sadly, there was no way of knowing for sure if any of those names belonged to individuals they had excavated. There was only one person who was buried with a bible that was inscribed with a name. Other researchers on the team would argue that while the bible belonged originally to Frederika Kaiser, that did not prove that the skeleton found at burial location number 116 was actually her, but Maude knew better.

She would never tell anyone else but her husband of the unusual visions she got when cleaning burial number 116, revealing that the poor woman had been beaten brutally by her husband. At first Maude thought she was losing her mind. Every time her bare hand touched an injury on the skeleton she was instantly transported back in time and somehow, through the eyes of Mrs. Kaiser herself, Maude was able to see how the poor woman had been hurt. It became evident that all of the fractures she had identified in those poor old bones had occurred at the hands of the woman’s abusive husband.

It was only by chance that Maude had learned that Frederika Kaiser was a widow who had been brought from the poorhouse to help take care of the children at the orphan asylum when Christine had given her the diary of Ciara Nolan. The diary, which was found among the boxes obtained from a clean-out on Delavan Avenue, chronicled one year in Mrs. Nolan’s life while she was Keeper of the orphan asylum. It was a rare treasure, forgotten until the sale of the old house in which it sat prompted a call by the new owners to the local antique shop. They sold the contents of the attic to Christine’s boss for a flat fee, assuming the boxes of leather bound ledgers and journals held nothing of substantial value. From the pages of that journal Maude had uncovered a scheme of the poorhouse Keeper to sell and profit from the bodies of the unclaimed dead to a medical school to be used for dissection. Mrs. Kaiser narrowly escaped that fate upon her passing only through the efforts of Dr. Michael Nolan and his brother-in-law, Rolland Thomas, who buried her in a secret location in the dark of night. Between the journal and the visions Maude got while cleaning the skeleton, it was revealed to her that burial number 116 was Frederika Kaiser.

It was important to Maude that Frederika and the other individuals who had been excavated remain close by for reasons that she really could not explain. One of the options up for discussion was that the skeletons be reinterred in a mausoleum on campus close to the original location of the poorhouse complex, not so they could be used for further research, rather so they could be part of a memorial honoring an important part of the city’s history that had been largely forgotten. That was the outcome for which Maude, Jean, and Brian Jameson, the project archaeologist, all hoped.

At the red light just before her shop, Maude heard the familiar theme song to the ‘80’s sitcom Murphy Brown coming from her purse. She pulled into the alley behind her shop and immediately reached for the cell phone. Grabbing the keys, she hit redial and reached to unlock the back door. Jean picked up after one ring.

Did I catch you on the road? her mentor asked. I thought you might be on your way into work.

Yes, but I’m here now. So, what’s the verdict?

I’m pleased to tell you the committee agreed that a mausoleum and a small memorial museum was a great idea, Jean said, obviously pleased as well with the decision.

Wow, a museum! That is more than I dared hope for. When will all this get underway? Maude asked.

Sooner than you think, was Jean’s reply. There are a few outbuildings on campus that would be more than suitable with a bit of sprucing up. I think they just need to decide on which one and get to work. I’ll know more after our next meeting. Jean hesitated before continuing. Maude, they want our department to be very involved in developing the museum.

That’s great. We have an impressive start with all the research we did for the symposium last spring.

I’m glad you said ‘we’, because I would like you to be involved in this.

Maude paused before she asked, How involved?

Very involved. The few artifacts found during the excavation will be reinterred with the individuals they were found with, and rightfully so. However, that doesn’t leave much in the way of display material, even for a one room museum.

So, what are we talking about, an adjunct position? Maude knew that with an adjunct appointment she would be given a university ID card, which would give her access to the libraries, and a parking pass, but no salary. That would be preferable to a paid position. Maude liked being a volunteer because she could enjoy doing the research on her own time. Between running a business and raising two teenage boys, there was little time left for faculty meetings and office hours, the necessary evils of a tenure track position.

That’s what I was thinking. Dust off your CV when you get a chance and I’ll take care of the rest.

Well, hold on here. You know I would love to help, but I need to know the timeline on this and what is expected before I can really commit to anything. This was a busy time of year for the Antique Lamp Company and Maude would have little time for anything not work related until after the holidays. It would also mean she would have less time to devote to writing her novel.

There’s another meeting the second week in January, before classes resume. Any chance you could attend?

I don’t see why not. We slow way down after the holidays. Send me an e-mail with the details and I’ll put it on my calendar.

Sounds good, I’ll talk to you soon.

Thanks, Jean. I’m really glad to hear that the university supports some way of honoring these people and preserving the memory of the poorhouse.

Me, too. Talk to you soon.

Maude ended the call and walked toward the front of the store to unlock the door for the day. There were three young women waiting to come in as soon as she opened the door, not the typical Antique Lamp Company shoppers. They had seen the recent post on Facebook and had come together to check out the vintage jewelry and one of a kind handbags referenced in the post. Maude silently congratulated herself for the brilliant use of social media as she tallied the sum of the items each of the ladies had placed on the counter. Thirty minutes later they left the shop, thrilled with their purchases, some of which had been wrapped as gifts and others they were obviously keeping for themselves. Maude hoped they would tweet about their purchases while they were enjoying lunch in the city.

The rest of the afternoon went by with a blur of tassels and fringe as the under-thirty crowd cleaned her out of nearly all of the fashion accessories she had. Fortunately the artisans and craftsmen Maude did business with were local, so it wouldn’t be a problem to re-stock the shelves in the next day or two. She was about to go back into the office to retrieve her phone book when the front door opened and Don came in. Why are you using the front door? she asked.

Phil’s car is behind yours in the alley so I had to park on the street. I thought he was already in here.

No, not yet. Come to think of it, I did hear voices upstairs. Maybe he stopped there first to talk to John. John rented the apartment above the shop. Whatever her landlord was coming to discuss appeared to include the upstairs tenant as well. Maude became concerned. I wonder what this is all about?

Looking up at the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, her husband replied, We are about to find out.

Although Phil had keys to the building and could have let himself in through the back door, he came around to the front and the familiar jingle of the bell above the door announced his entry. Oh good, I’m glad you are both here. I know you are anxious to close up and go home, so I won’t take too much of your time.

It’s no problem, Phil. Do you want a cup of coffee or something? Maude offered.

Thanks, but no. I’m in a bit of a hurry to get home myself. My wife and I have dinner reservations. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I am selling the building. My sister-in-law wants to get into the antique business and she and my brother have offered to buy the place. Barb and I have decided that this is our last winter in Buffalo, so I think this will work out well for us, too.

So you’re retiring. That’s great! Congratulations, Don moved forward to shake his hand.

Maude smiled, but hung back while the men exchanged handshakes and shoulder slaps. She thought for a moment then asked, You say your sister-in-law is interested in the antique business. So does that mean she would be converting the upstairs apartment to retail space?

She knew the answer to that question and was not surprised when Phil suddenly looked abashed. Well, that is why I came here in person. They will likely keep John as a tenant, but they’ll want the retail space on the ground floor. To his credit he made eye contact with both Maude and Don when he gave them the news.

You mean our space? The space we have rented from you for the past twelve years, the space in which we have built our business? Don could not believe what he was hearing.

Look, I know what this looks like. Phil was not able to continue his remarks before Don interrupted.

It looks like your sister-in-law is going to evict us and then start a new business with the clients we’ve built relationships with over the past decade. You know it will be next to impossible for us to find other space in the area.

Maude just stood there dumbfounded as Phil attempted to explain himself. Look, here is my problem. I’m already in enough trouble with my family because I had to fire my brother. If I don’t sell them the building, it will just make things worse.

Forgive me for not seeing that it will be worse for you when you retire and move to Florida if your brother in Buffalo is mad at you! Don snapped.

I know it’s not much consolation to you, but I’m losing a lot of money on this too. I certainly can’t sell the building to my brother at fair market value.

Don was about to fire back another unsympathetic remark when Maude put her hand on his shoulder and gave him a look that meant she had an idea. Wisely, he stayed silent and allowed his wife to speak instead. What if we buy the building?

It seemed evident by the identical looks of shock on their faces that neither of the men had expected her to say that. What if we offered you a fair price for the building? Would you consider selling to us? Maude looked at Don and he gave her a nod that indicated that he was willing to hear her out, so she continued. You want to sell off your assets here and move to Florida, right? If you had a fair market offer that your brother could not match, your family couldn’t reasonably expect you to sell to him.

Phil rubbed his face vigorously with both hands in an attempt to clear his head. He had only intended to come here to deliver the news and then leave. He had expected them not to be happy about it and even anticipated a few strong words from Don, but he had not seen this coming. "Listen, I really do have to get going. Let me

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