The Bone Garden: A Novel

Eight

WE HAD NO CHANCE to say goodbye.

Rose washed Aurnia's body with a damp cloth, gently wiping away the smudges of dirt and dried sweat and tears from a face that was now strangely smooth of all worry lines. If there was a heaven, she thought, surely Aurnia was already there, and could see the trouble Rose was in. I am afraid, Aurnia. And Meggie and I have nowhere to go.

Aurnia's neatly brushed hair gleamed in the lamplight, like coppery silk draped across the pillow. Though she was now bathed, the stench remained, a fetid odor clinging to the body that had once embraced Rose, once had shared a girlhood bed with her.

You are still beautiful to me. You will always be beautiful.

In a little basket beside the bed, baby Meggie slept soundly, unaware of her mother's passing, of her own precarious future. How clear it is that she is Aurnia's child, thought Rose. The same red hair, the same sweetly curving mouth. For two days, Meggie had been nursed on the ward by three new mothers, who had willingly passed the child among them. They had all witnessed Aurnia's agonies, and they knew that but for the whims of providence any one of them might also be a client for the coffin maker.

Rose glanced up as a nurse approached. It was Miss Cabot, who had assumed authority since Nurse Poole's death.

— I'm sorry, Miss Connolly, but it's time to transfer the deceased. —

— She's only just passed on. —

— It's been two hours now, and we have need of the bed. — The nurse handed a small bundle to Rose. — Your sister's belongings. —

Here were the pitifully few possessions that Aurnia had brought with her to the hospital: her soiled night frock and a hair ribbon and the cheap little ring of tin and colored glass that had been Aurnia's good-luck charm since her girlhood. A charm that had, in the end, failed her.

— Those go to the husband, — Nurse Cabot said. — Now she must be moved. —

Rose heard the squeaking of wheels, and she saw the hospital groundsman pushing in a wheeled cart. — I've not had enough time with her. —

— There can be no further delay. The coffin is ready in the courtyard. Have arrangements been made for burial? —

Rose shook her head. Bitterly, she said, — Her husband has arranged for nothing. —

— If the family is unable to pay, there are options for a respectful interment. —

A pauper's burial was what she meant. Crammed into a common grave with nameless peddlers and beggars and thieves.

— How much time do I have to make arrangements? — asked Rose.

Nurse Cabot impatiently glanced up the row of beds, as though considering all the other work she had to do. — By tomorrow noon, — she said, — the wagon will come to pick up the coffin. —

— So little time? —

— Decay does not wait. — The nurse turned and gestured to the man who had stood quietly waiting, and he pushed the cart to the bedside.

— Not yet. Please. — Rose pulled at the man's sleeve, trying to tug him away from Aurnia. — You can't put her out in the cold! —

— Please don't make this difficult, — said the nurse. — If you wish to arrange a private burial, then you'd best see to the arrangements before tomorrow noon, or the city will take her to the South Burying Ground. — She looked at the groundsman. — Remove the deceased. —

He slid burly arms beneath Aurnia's body and lifted her from the bed. As he placed the corpse into the handcart, a sob escaped Rose's throat and she plucked at her sister's gown, at the skirt, now crusted brown with dried blood. But no cries, no pleading, could alter the course of what would happen next. Aurnia, clothed only in linen and gauze, would be wheeled out into the frigid courtyard, fragile skin bumping against splintery wood as the cart rolled across the cobblestones. Would he be gentle as he placed her into the coffin? Or would he merely roll her in, dropping her like a carcass of meat, letting her head thump against bare pine boards?

— Let me stay with her, — she pleaded, and reached for the man's arm. — Let me watch. —

— Ain't nothin' to see, miss. —

— I want to be sure. I want to know she's treated right. —

He gave a shrug. — I treat 'em all right. But you can watch if you want, I don't care. —

— There's another issue, — said Nurse Cabot. — The child. You can't possibly take adequate care of it, Miss Connolly. —

The woman in the next bed said: — They came by when you were out, Rose. Someone from the infant asylum, wantin' to take her. But we wouldn't allow it. The nerve of those people, tryin' to make off with your niece when you weren't even here! —

— Mr. Tate has signed away his parental rights, — said Nurse Cabot. — He, at least, understands what's best for his baby. —

— He doesn't care about the baby, — said Rose.

— You're far too young to raise it yourself. Be sensible, girl! Give it to someone who can. —

In answer, Rose snatched up Meggie from her basket and held her tightly against her breast. — Give her to a stranger? I'd have to be on my deathbed first. —

Nurse Cabot, faced with Rose's clearly insurmountable resistance, at last gave a sigh of exasperation. — Suit yourself. It'll be on your conscience when the child comes to grief. I have no time for this, not tonight, with poor Agnes… — She swallowed hard, then looked at the groundsman, who still waited with Aurnia's body on his cart. — Remove her. —

Still holding tightly to Meggie, Rose followed the man out of the ward, into the courtyard. There, by the yellow glow of his lamp, she stood vigil as Aurnia was laid into the pine box. She watched him pound in the nails, hammer echoing like pistol shots, and with every blow she felt a nail being driven into her own heart. The coffin now sealed, he picked up a lump of charcoal and scrawled on the lid: A. TATE.

— Just so there's no mix-up, — he said, and straightened to look at her. — She'll be here till noon. Make your arrangements by then. —

Rose laid her hand on the lid. I'll find a way, darling. I'll see you properly buried. She wrapped her shawl around both herself and Meggie, then walked out of the hospital courtyard.

She did not know where to go. Certainly not back to the lodging house room that she'd shared with her sister and Eben. Eben was probably there now, sleeping off the rum, and she had no wish to confront him. She'd deal with him in the morning, when he was sober. Her brother-in-law might be heartless, but he was also coldly sensible. He had a business to maintain, and a reputation to uphold. If even a hint of malicious gossip got out, the bell over his tailor shop might fall silent. In the morning, she thought, Eben and I will come to a truce, and he'll take us both in. She is his daughter, after all.

But tonight they had no bed to sleep in.

Her footsteps slowed, stopped. She stood exhausted on the corner. Force of habit had sent her in a familiar direction, and now she gazed up the same street that she had walked earlier that evening. A Dearborn carriage clattered past, pulled by a swaybacked horse with a drooping head. Even so poor a carriage, with its rickety wheels and patched canopy, was an unattainable luxury. She imagined sitting with her weary feet propped up on a little stool, protected from the wind and rain while that carriage bore her like royalty. As it rolled past, she suddenly saw the familiar figure that had been standing right across the street from her.

— Did y'hear the news, Miss Rose? — said Dim Billy. — Nurse Poole's been killed, over at the hospital! —

— Yes, Billy. I know. —

— They said she was slit right up her belly, like this. — He slashed a finger up his abdomen. — Cut off her head with a sword. And her hands, too. Three people saw him do it, and he flew away like a great black bird. —

— Who told you that? —

— Mrs. Durkin did, over at the stable. She heard it from Crab. —

— There's a fool of a boy, Crab is. You're repeating nonsense, and you should stop it. —

He fell silent, and she realized she had hurt his feelings. His feet were dragging like giant anchors across the cobblestones. Beneath his shoved-down cap, enormous ears protruded like drooping saucers. Poor Billy so seldom took offense, it was easy to forget that even he could be wounded.

— I'm sorry, — she said.

— For what, Miss Rose? —

— You were only telling me what you heard. But not everything you hear is the God's truth. Some people lie. Some are the devil's own. You can't trust them all, Billy. —

— How do you know it's a lie? What Crab said? —

She'd never heard such a note of petulance in his voice before, and she was tempted to tell him the truth: that she had been the one who'd found Nurse Poole. No, better to stay silent. Whisper a word in Billy's ear, and by tomorrow who knew how the tale would have changed, and what far-fetched role she would have in it?

Let there be no whisper of my name.

She began to walk again, heading for familiar territory, the baby still sleeping soundly in her arms. Better to bed down in the gutter you know. Perhaps Mrs. Combs down the street would grant her and Meggie a corner in her kitchen, just for tonight. I could repair that old cloak of hers, she thought, the one with the badly mended rip. Surely that was worth a small spot in the kitchen.

— I told the Night Watch everything I saw, — said Billy, practically dancing up the street beside her. — I been out, y'know, lookin' for Spot. I been up and down this street ten times, and that's why the Watch says I'm a good one to talk to. —

— That you are. —

— I'm sorry she's dead, 'cause she won't be sendin' me out on errands anymore. Gave me a penny every time, but last time she didn't. That's not fair, is it? I didn't tell that to the Night Watch, 'cause they'll think I killed her for it. —

— No one would think such a thing of you, Billy. —

— You should always pay a man for his work, but she didn't that time. —

They walked together, past darkened windows, past silent houses. It's so late, she thought; everyone is asleep except for us. The boy stayed with her until she came, at last, to a stop.

— Aren't you going in? — said Billy.

She gazed up at Mrs. O'Keefe's lodging house. Her tired feet had automatically brought her to this door, through which she had walked so many times before. Up the stairs would be her narrow bed, tucked into the curtained alcove in the room she'd shared with Aurnia and Eben. The thin curtain had not been barrier enough to muffle the sounds from the other bed. Eben's grunts of lovemaking, his snores, his hacking cough in the morning. She remembered his hands groping at her thighs tonight, and with a shudder she turned and walked away.

— Where are you going? — Billy said.

— I don't know. —

— Aren't you going home? —

— No. —

He caught up to her. — You're going to stay awake? All night? —

— I need to find someplace to sleep. Someplace warm, where Meggie won't get cold. —

— Isn't Mrs. O'Keefe's house warm? —

— I can't go there tonight, Billy. Mr. Tate is angry with me. Very, very angry. And I'm afraid he might… — She halted and stared at the mist, which coiled at her feet like grasping hands. — Oh, God, Billy, — she whispered. — I'm so tired. What am I going to do with her? —

— I know a place you could take her, — he said. — A secret place. But you can't tell anyone about it. —

Dawn had not yet lifted the darkness when Wall-eyed Jack harnessed his horse and climbed up onto the buckboard. He guided the dray out of the stable yard and onto icy cobblestones that gleamed like glass under the lamplight. At this hour, his was the only wagon on the street, and the clip-clop of the horse's hooves, the rattle of the wheels, were unnervingly noisy in the otherwise silent street. Those stirring awake in their beds, hearing the rattle of his wagon rolling past, would assume it was just a tradesman passing by. A butcher hauling carcasses to market, perhaps, or the mason with his stones, or the farmer delivering bales of hay to the stableman. It would not occur to those drowsy people in their warm beds what sort of cargo would soon be loaded onto the wagon that now rolled past their windows. The living had no wish to dwell on the dead, and so the dead were invisible, nailed into pine boxes, sewn into shrouds, moved furtively on rattling carts under cover of night. What no one else has the stomach for, here I am, thought Jack with a grim smile. Oh, there was money to be made in the snatching trade. The clop of the horse's hooves pounded out the poetry of those words again and again as his dray rolled northwest, toward the Charles River.

There's money to be made. There's money to be made.

And that's where you'd find Jack Burke.

In the fog ahead, a crouching figure suddenly materialized right in front of the horse. Jack pulled up sharply on the reins and the horse halted with a snort. A teenage boy scampered into view, zigzagging back and forth in the street, long arms waving like octopus tentacles.

— Bad pup! Bad pup, you come to me now! —

The dog gave a yelp as the boy pounced and grabbed him around the neck. Straightening, the struggling dog now firmly in his grip, the boy stared wide-eyed as he suddenly saw Jack glaring at him through the mist.

— You damn half-wit, Billy! — snapped Jack. Oh, he knew this boy well enough, and what a nuisance he was, always underfoot, always searching for a free meal, a place to bed down. More than once, Jack had had to chase Dim Billy out of his own stable yard. — Get outta the road! I could've run right over you. —

The boy just gaped at him. He had a mouthful of crooked teeth and a head too small for his gangly teenage body. He grinned stupidly, the mutt struggling in his arms. — He doesn't always come when I call. He needs to behave. —

— Can't even look after yourself, and you got a damn dog? —

— He's my friend. His name's Spot. —

Jack eyed the black mutt, who as far as he could see had no spots anywhere. — Now, there's a right clever name I've never heard before. —

— We're out lookin' for a bit o' milk. Babies need milk, y'know, and she drank up all I got for her last night. She'll be hungry this morning, and when they get hungry, they cry. —

What was the fool boy babbling about? — Get outta my way, — said Jack. — I got business to attend to. —

— All right, Mr. Burke! — The boy moved aside to let the horse pass. — I'm gonna get myself some business, too. —

Sure ya will, Billy. Sure ya will. Jack snapped the reins, and the wagon lurched forward. The horse took only a few paces before Jack abruptly pulled him to a stop. He turned to look back at Billy's spindly figure, half hidden in the mist. Though the boy had to be sixteen or seventeen, he was only bones and sinew, about as sturdy as some clackety wooden puppet. Still, he'd be an extra pair of hands.

And he'd be cheap.

— Hey, Billy! — Jack called. — You want to earn a ninepence? —

The boy hurried up to him, arms still in a stranglehold around his unfortunate pet. — What for, Mr. Burke? —

— Leave the dog and climb in. —

— But we need to find milk. —

— You want your ninepence or what? You can buy milk with it. —

Billy dropped the dog, who immediately trotted away. — You go home now! — Billy ordered it. — That's right, Spot! —

— Get in, boy. —

Billy scrabbled aboard the dray and settled his bony arse on the buckboard. — Where are we going? —

Jack snapped the reins. — You'll see. —

They rolled through drifting fingers of mist, past buildings where candlelight was starting to appear in windows. Except for the distant barking of dogs, the only noise was the horse's hooves and the sound of their wheels, rumbling down the narrow street.

Billy glanced back at the wagon. — What's under the tarp, Mr. Burke? —

— Nothing. —

— But there's somethin' there. I can see it. —

— You want your ninepence, then shut up. —

— All right. — The boy was silent for about five seconds. — When do I get it? —

— After you help me move something. —

— Like furniture? —

— Yeah. — Jack spat onto the street. — Just like furniture. —

They were almost to the Charles River now, rattling up North Allen Street. Daylight was gaining on them, but the fog still hung thick. As he neared his destination, it seemed to swirl ever closer, drifting in off the river to wrap them in its protective cloak. When at last they pulled to a stop, Jack could not see more than a few yards ahead of him, but he knew exactly where he was.

So did Billy. — Why are we at the hospital? —

— Wait here, — Jack ordered the boy. He jumped off the dray, his boots landing hard on the stones.

— When do we move the furniture? —

— Gotta see if it's here first. — Jack swung open the gate and walked into the hospital's rear courtyard. He needed to go only a few paces before he spotted what he'd been hoping to find: a coffin, with the lid newly nailed on. The name A. TATE had been scrawled on it. He lifted one end to test the weight, and confirmed that, yes, it was occupied and would soon be on its way. To potter's field, no doubt, judging by the rough pine.

He got to work prying up the lid. It did not take long, for there were only a few nails. No one cared if a pauper was properly secured in his coffin. He pulled off the lid, revealing the shrouded body within. Not so large, from the looks of it; even without Dim Billy, he could have dealt with this one.

He returned to the dray, where the boy was still waiting.

— Is it a chair? A table? — asked Billy.

— What're you babbling about? —

— The furniture. —

Jack went around to the wagon and whisked off the tarp. — Help me move this. —

Billy slithered off the buckboard and came around to the rear. — It's a log. —

— You are so clever. — Jack grabbed one end and dragged it from the wagon.

— Is it firewood? — asked Billy, grabbing the other end. — Don't it need to be split? —

— Just move it, eh? — They carried the log to the coffin and set it down. — Now help me lift this out, — Jack ordered.

Billy took one look into the coffin and froze. — There's somebody in there. —

— Come on, pick up that end. —

— But it— it's someone dead. —

— You want your ninepence or not? —

Billy looked up at him, eyes enormous in the wan and skinny face. — I'm afraid o' dead people. —

— They can't hurt you, idiot. —

The boy backed away. — They come after you. The ghosts do. —

— Ain't never seen a ghost. —

The boy was still retreating, moving toward the gate.

— Billy. You get your arse back here. —

Instead, the boy turned and fled from the courtyard, fading like a jerky marionette into the mist.

— Useless, — grunted Jack. He took a breath, hauled up the shrouded body, and rolled it out of the coffin. It thudded onto the cobblestones.

Daylight was brightening fast. He had to work quickly, before anyone saw him. He heaved the log into the coffin, positioned the lid, and with a few swings of the hammer nailed it back into place. May you rest in peace, Mr. Log, he thought with a laugh. Then he dragged the corpse, still sewn into its shroud, across the courtyard to his wagon. There he paused, panting, to glance around at the street. He saw no one.

And no one sees me.

Moments later he was back on the dray, guiding his horse down North Allen Street. Glancing over his shoulder, he checked his tarp-covered cargo. He had not laid eyes on the corpse itself, but he didn't need to. Whether young or old, male or female, it was fresh, and that's all that mattered. This time, the fee needn't be shared with anyone, not even Dim Billy.

He'd just saved himself ninepence. That was worth a bit of extra effort.