way over. In exchange for permission to eliminate the city streets within the Institute’s grounds, the Rockefeller family had donated much of Fort Tryon Park to the city. The family funded the Institute in full, with the stipulation that neither the Institute nor the scientists and physicians working here profited from their discoveries. Pro Bono Humani Generis , For the Good of Humankind—that was the motto.
If you were rich enough, Claire reflected, you could do a lot for humankind, enough that your fellow citizens might forget how you’d become so wealthy. In the case of the Rockefellers, their riches were the product of collusion and bribery, of the ruthless, often violent suppression of competition and of unions. This was common knowledge, taught to Claire in school. The muckraking journalist Ida Tarbell had reported…Claire stopped herself. Cynicism wasn’t part of today’s story. She’d save the cynicism for another story. Today’s story would show respect for what the family had accomplished here at the Institute, which was only one of the family’s many philanthropic endeavors.
The Rockefeller grandson was three when he died. Emily was—Claire felt drained. Weak. She found a bench and sat down. Her shoulders ached from the equipment bags; normally she didn’t notice. She remembered Emily running with joy across the playground. Remembered her sliding down the slide six, twelve, two dozen times on one visit. She remembered—
Enough. Claire stood, determined to move on, to get her work done, to resist the incessant tug of her memories. Okay, the Institute was on a bluff overlooking the East River, but so far she’d glimpsed the river only from a hospital window. She needed to do more with this story, do better. Challenge herself. Finding her way among the laboratory buildings, she reached the corner of Founder’s Hall and walked around it.
Abruptly she was at the edge of the cliff. The river spread before her. A narrow dirt path followed the bluff. The wind was fierce, whipping around her, stabbing her face with bits of ice. Gulls soared. The wind carried the scent of the sea and a hint of its ferocity. She licked her lips and tasted salt. The view opened for miles up and down the river.
All at once she had a sense of Manhattan hundreds of years before, when it was a forested wilderness. She visualized the original Indiansettlers on hunting expeditions, walking this path single file, using the bluff as a lookout and concealing themselves in the thick, ancient forest. During the Revolutionary War, scouts would have peered through the trees, searching for enemy ships. Just to the south, the Queensboro Bridge loomed with monstrous glory.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Claire looked down. The height was dizzying. The new East River Drive, completed only in sections, was virtually empty of cars. Construction had begun about six or seven years ago. The new highway had put an end to much of the East Side river trade and to the docks and swimming holes that had once lined the waterfront. A few hardy souls walked along the river on the pedestrian footpath on the far side of the highway. At the base of the cliff, drifts of leaves mingled with garbage and newspapers.
Claire realized that if she went to the bottom of the cliff and photographed the Institute rising above her, she could capture a powerful image that would evoke the drama of the research being done here.
But how to get there? She spotted an entrance to the highway a few blocks to the south; that would have to do. Hurrying back the way she’d come, past the fountains and bowers and imposing buildings, she finally reached the Institute’s York Avenue gate. With a wave to the guard, she reentered the bustle of the city streets. After the silence of the Institute grounds, she felt buffeted by the common city sounds that usually she didn’t even hear: the honking of car horns, the shouts of kids on their way home from school, the rumbling of
If you were rich enough, Claire reflected, you could do a lot for humankind, enough that your fellow citizens might forget how you’d become so wealthy. In the case of the Rockefellers, their riches were the product of collusion and bribery, of the ruthless, often violent suppression of competition and of unions. This was common knowledge, taught to Claire in school. The muckraking journalist Ida Tarbell had reported…Claire stopped herself. Cynicism wasn’t part of today’s story. She’d save the cynicism for another story. Today’s story would show respect for what the family had accomplished here at the Institute, which was only one of the family’s many philanthropic endeavors.
The Rockefeller grandson was three when he died. Emily was—Claire felt drained. Weak. She found a bench and sat down. Her shoulders ached from the equipment bags; normally she didn’t notice. She remembered Emily running with joy across the playground. Remembered her sliding down the slide six, twelve, two dozen times on one visit. She remembered—
Enough. Claire stood, determined to move on, to get her work done, to resist the incessant tug of her memories. Okay, the Institute was on a bluff overlooking the East River, but so far she’d glimpsed the river only from a hospital window. She needed to do more with this story, do better. Challenge herself. Finding her way among the laboratory buildings, she reached the corner of Founder’s Hall and walked around it.
Abruptly she was at the edge of the cliff. The river spread before her. A narrow dirt path followed the bluff. The wind was fierce, whipping around her, stabbing her face with bits of ice. Gulls soared. The wind carried the scent of the sea and a hint of its ferocity. She licked her lips and tasted salt. The view opened for miles up and down the river.
All at once she had a sense of Manhattan hundreds of years before, when it was a forested wilderness. She visualized the original Indiansettlers on hunting expeditions, walking this path single file, using the bluff as a lookout and concealing themselves in the thick, ancient forest. During the Revolutionary War, scouts would have peered through the trees, searching for enemy ships. Just to the south, the Queensboro Bridge loomed with monstrous glory.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, Claire looked down. The height was dizzying. The new East River Drive, completed only in sections, was virtually empty of cars. Construction had begun about six or seven years ago. The new highway had put an end to much of the East Side river trade and to the docks and swimming holes that had once lined the waterfront. A few hardy souls walked along the river on the pedestrian footpath on the far side of the highway. At the base of the cliff, drifts of leaves mingled with garbage and newspapers.
Claire realized that if she went to the bottom of the cliff and photographed the Institute rising above her, she could capture a powerful image that would evoke the drama of the research being done here.
But how to get there? She spotted an entrance to the highway a few blocks to the south; that would have to do. Hurrying back the way she’d come, past the fountains and bowers and imposing buildings, she finally reached the Institute’s York Avenue gate. With a wave to the guard, she reentered the bustle of the city streets. After the silence of the Institute grounds, she felt buffeted by the common city sounds that usually she didn’t even hear: the honking of car horns, the shouts of kids on their way home from school, the rumbling of
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