O'Connor

Chapter One; An Old Friend

​O'Connor 

                                                                               

IN the early fall of 1922, I had nearly exhausted my required time of medical residency at Bellevue hospital in New York City, and was ardently searching for occupation as a surgeon, a profession that I studied extensively at Oxford college before the war. As the city began to slowly yellow into the latter months of the year, my fortunes, it seemed, began to take a positive turn. After spending many years in books and bunkers, I was finally getting along with my career. I was unmarried at the time, a prospect that my ever-aging parents made a habit of reminding me of, however, I found that there was no aspect of my existence that felt as though it was lacking. All felt fulfilled.

Once, during the war, a comrade of mine shared some wisdom that has resonated with me ever since. He told me that craziness isn't entirely an evil condition. Craziness is love and passion, as well as madness and lunacy. The game lies, then, in what kind of craziness one decides to descend into. I share this sentiment because of a letter that I received before the completion of my residency, sometime in the fall, perhaps in mid-October. I recall the envelope and paper whereupon the letter had been written was of exceedingly fine quality, and the autumnish tint thereof was characteristic of a stationary that I vaguely recognized. A garish wax seal prominently guarded the contents of the envelope, and impressed into the curvature of the wax seal was a regal, calligraphic O.P. The entirety of the letter appeared to be somewhat weathered, but not so much to have come from across the pond, which was where most of my more formal postage came from.

I couldn't quite recall anyone that I knew by the initials O.P., but somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew exactly where the letter had come from. The letter was from my old friend Opulentus Rothschild, whom I had made the acquaintance of during the war. Rothschild's family dealt largely in land prior to the war, and as a consequence, Rothschild had been exposed to a large inheritance once his father passed away during the war (His father did not fight in the war, but rather died of old age). I hadn't seen or corresponded with Rothschild since the war, and was genuinely surprised to see his name at the top of the paper that was enclosed within the envelop. The letter read as follows.

"My Dearest friend, Jack O'Connor

I know that a great deal of time has passed since our last encounter with one another, however, I recalled your profession when I contracted a strange sickness some time ago. I obtained the hospital of your residency from Oxford, and I have been in correspondence with Doctor Miles, whom you know as the head doctor at Bellevue. Miles has agreed that your work is satisfactory enough to release you from your residency, and begin work immediately. I have arranged for you to live with me at my estate in New York. Transportation, too, has been provided, as you will find a train ticket in the envelope of this letter. I look forward to working alongside you, Jack.

O. Rothschild"

The letter seemed strange to me, however straightforward. I did recall Rothschild from the war, and I knew him as a good man, but the prospect of living away from the city seemed undesirable. I was also astounded at the phenomenal ease with which Rothschild was able to gain private information regarding my life, and even alter my life. The following morning, I went to Doctor Miles at Bellevue, and he confirmed the content of the letter. Miles stated that he knew the Rothschild family somehow, and that he was more than confident in my medical knowledge. The train ticket that I received in the letter from Rothschild was dated for a Sunday that was less than a week away from the date that I received the letter itself.