Chapter Forty #2
When the ship finally docked in New York Harbor in late August, they were carried ashore and placed under the care of the
city’s most respected physicians. After three days of observation and treatment, the verdict was grim. There was no cure,
nothing to be done.
They were lifted into a stagecoach and sent home to Surry County, where Dr. Hollingsworth took charge of Chang’s treatment.
They spent the next two months bedridden at Adelaide’s house. Chang was too weak to make the trip to mine.
By mid-October, Chang’s condition had marginally improved. His right arm and leg remained lifeless, but with a leather strap
secured around his knee, he could hobble with a crutch. Eng was forced to hold the strap as they moved, throwing off their
equilibrium and shifting more of the burden onto Eng’s back.
Chang resented his body’s betrayal. He resented Eng for having to carry him—lifting, steadying, dragging him like dead weight from room to room. But instead of gratitude, he offered only scorn.
The fact of their physical connection now felt unbearable. They were tethered not just by the band of flesh between them,
but by the weight of their shared pain and rage.
One evening, about a year after Chang’s stroke, just after supper, the brothers sat at the dining table playing whist. The
smell of roast chicken and gravy lingered in the air. Chang hunched over his cards, his left hand shaking as he slapped each
one down with unnecessary force. I sat at the other end recording figures in a ledger, my pencil scratching softly, trying
to ignore the tension between them.
They’d been bickering all day, their voices a low, needling hum that vibrated through the floorboards. My shoulders were tight
with the effort of appearing calm.
The argument began, as many did, with something trivial: the question of whether to plant rye or wheat in the far field.
Then, without warning, Chang grabbed a steak knife off the table and lunged toward Eng—clumsily, but with unmistakable intent.
His stroke-stiffened body lacked force, but the fury in his face was clear.
“I’m going to cut your guts out!” he shouted, spittle flying.
I gasped and jumped to my feet, knocking over my chair.
Eng caught his arm before the blade could do harm. The knife clattered to the floor as he wrestled it free. They struggled,
breathing hard, Eng’s hands clamping around his brother’s wrists. The band between them pulled taut, and both grimaced in
pain.
“Stop!” I pleaded.
“Enough,” Eng said abruptly. “I’ve had it. I can’t do this anymore.” He looked Chang in the eye. “I’m going to ask Hollingsworth to cut us apart. Tonight.”
“But he already said—” I started.
“I don’t care. I’m willing to take the risk.”
I’d seen them quarrel countless times. But there was something new in Eng’s voice.
He called for the buggy to be readied. I couldn’t let them go alone. For the first time in all the years I’d known them, I
was afraid they might kill each other. I threw on my shawl and gloves and climbed in beside them.
As twilight settled over the hills, Eng snapped the reins and the horse jolted forward. He stared straight ahead, jaw set.
Chang slumped beside him, his body swaying awkwardly with the motion of the carriage. We didn’t speak. The wheels jolted over
ruts in the road, the horses’ hooves kicking up dust in the gathering dark. I studied Chang’s face—how the stroke had left
one side slack, how the lines around his mouth had deepened. His eyes, when they briefly met mine, held a resignation that
frightened me more than his rage.
The four-mile ride to Mount Airy stretched long and silent.
When we finally pulled up in front of Dr. Hollingsworth’s house, I hurried to the door and knocked.
He answered, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Mrs. Bunker! What a surprise.”
“I’m sorry to call so late, Dr. Hollingsworth. It’s an emergency.”
He looked past me to where Eng was already clambering down from the buggy, dragging his brother after him.
“I can’t live like this anymore,” Eng said before they’d even gotten to the door. “He’s threatening to murder me now.”
Chang gave a harsh laugh. “Not threatening. I tried.” Turning to the doctor, he said, “What difference does it make whether
I kill myself or him? It’s all to the same end.”
Dr. Hollingsworth took them in, concern clouding his features.
“As you can see,” Eng said, “my brother is self-destructive. He drinks too much, he’s careless, he can barely move. He won’t
live long like this, and neither will I.”
The doctor sighed. “Well,” he said, “you know, gentlemen, the entire medical community is awaiting your death to discover
what your ligament contains. I suppose this operation would be in the interest of science.”
“All I ask is that I be given an equal chance to survive.” Eng’s voice was flat. “Cut the band in the middle.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “This way, gentlemen. And Mrs. Bunker, of course.”
We followed him through a narrow hallway, past a parlor and a dining room, out the back door to a small outbuilding. His surgical
office. The room smelled of carbolic acid and iodine. It brought back unwelcome memories—Julia Ann’s sickroom, Kate wasting
away.
The three of us stood in tense silence as the doctor moved about, lighting oil lamps and opening drawers, laying out a small
artillery of knives, saws, scalpels that gleamed beneath the light. With his back to us, he said, “Very well, gentlemen. Get
up on the table.”
Eng climbed the step stool and maneuvered himself onto the slab, pulling Chang up beside him.
The moment I had long feared had arrived. I was certain I was about to watch them die.
Dr. Hollingsworth turned to face them, scalpel in hand. “Now,” he said. “Would you prefer that I sever the flesh that connects
you—or cut off your heads?”
Eng blinked in disbelief.
“Medically speaking,” the doctor said, “one will produce the same result as the other.”
Eng’s jaw clenched. “You refuse to separate us.”
“I took an oath,” Hollingsworth said. “ ‘Primum non nocere.’ First, do no harm.” He hesitated.
“Believe me, I understand your predicament. And I commiserate. But there are too many risks to sever the link between you while you are both still breathing.” Setting down the scalpel, he said, “The most I can offer you is this: I promise to separate you if one dies before the other.”
The brothers exchanged a look. Eng gave a short, sober nod.
“And I must say,” the doctor continued, “I don’t know what has brought you to this point, but I do know that you are decent,
rational men. And that with the help of your wives, you will get through this. Together and separately.” He gave them a measured
stare. “Personally, I hope to see you at our poker game next Wednesday. So let’s not do anything rash between now and then.
All right?”
The tension broke, just slightly.
Chang exhaled, the shadow of a smile on his face.
Eng looked defeated.
Unexpectedly, I thought of my mother. How she must have felt trapped in her own body, unable to escape it.
In a low voice, he said, “Let’s go home, brother, and leave this man to his supper.”
As we stepped out into the night air, a weight of sadness settled on my chest. I was relieved that we’d avoided disaster,
but nothing had changed. I now understood what Eng already knew. There would be no rescue, no relief. Only a long, slow decline,
and the courage it would take to face it.