The Bone Garden: A Novel

Twelve

1830

A HAZE OF CIGAR SMOKE hung like a filmy curtain over the dissection room, the welcome odor of tobacco masking the stench of the cadavers. On the table where Norris worked, a corpse lay with its chest split open, and the resected heart and lungs rested in a foul-smelling mound in the bucket. Even the frigid room could not slow the inevitable process of decomposition, which had already been well under way by the time the corpses had arrived from the state of New York. Two days ago, Norris had watched the delivery of the fourteen barrels, sloshing with brine.

— New York is where we have to get them now, I've heard, — Wendell commented as their four-student team hacked their way into the abdomen, bare hands diving into the ice-cold mass of intestines.

— There aren't enough paupers dying here in Boston, — said Edward. — We coddle them and they stay too damn healthy. Then when they do die, you can't get at them. In New York, they just scoop the bodies out of potter's field, no questions asked. —

— That can't be true, — said Charles.

— They keep two different burial pits. Pit two is for the discards, the corpses no one's likely to claim. — Edward looked down at their cadaver, whose grizzled face bore the seams and scars of many hard years. The left arm, once broken, had healed crooked. — I'd say this one was definitely from pit two. Some old Paddy, don't you think? —

Their instructor, Dr. Sewall, paced through the dissecting room, past tables of cadavers where young men worked four to a corpse. — I want you to complete the removal of all the internal organs today, — he instructed. — They spoil quickly. Leave them too long, and even those of you who believe you possess strong stomachs will soon find the stench unbearable. Smoke all the cigars you wish, drown yourselves in whiskey, but I guarantee that a whiff of intestine left to decompose for a week will bring low even the hardiest among you. —

And the weakest among us is already in trouble, thought Norris as he glanced across the table at Charles, whose pale face was wreathed in smoke while he frantically puffed on his cigar.

— You have seen the organs in situ, and witnessed for yourself some of the hidden gears of this miraculous machinery, — said Sewall. — In this room, gentlemen, we illuminate the mystery of life. As you take apart God's masterpiece, examine the workmanship, observe the parts in their proper places. Witness how each is vital to the whole. — Sewall paused at Norris's table and examined the organs lying in the bucket, lifting them out with bare hands. — Which one of you resected the heart and lungs? — he asked.

— I did, sir, — Norris said.

— Fine job. Finest I've seen in the room. — Sewall looked at him. — You've done this before, I take it. —

— On the farm, sir. —

— Sheep? —

— And pigs. —

— I can tell you've wielded a knife. — Sewall looked at Charles. — Your hands are still clean, Mr. Lackaway. —

— I— I thought I'd give the others a chance to start. —

— Start? They are already finished with the thorax and are into the abdomen. — He looked down at the corpse and grimaced. — By the smell of this one, it's going bad fast. It'll rot before you even pick up your knife, Mr. Lackaway. What are you waiting for? Get your hands dirty. —

— Yes, sir. —

As Dr. Sewall walked out of the room, Charles reluctantly reached for the knife. Staring down at their prematurely rotting Paddy, he hesitated, his blade poised over the bowel. As he gathered his nerve, a chunk of lung suddenly flew across the table and smacked him in the chest. He gave a yelp and jumped back, frantically brushing away the bloody mass.

Edward laughed. — You heard Dr. Sewall. Get those hands dirty! —

— For pity's sake, Edward! —

— You should see your face, Charlie. You'd think I'd thrown a scorpion at you. —

Now that Dr. Sewall was out of the room, the students turned boisterous. A flask of whiskey began making its rounds. The team at the next table propped up their corpse and shoved a lit cigar in its mouth. Smoke curled past sightless eyes.

— This is disgusting, — said Charles. — I can't do this. — He set down the blade. — I never wanted to be a doctor! —

— When do you plan to tell your uncle? — said Edward.

Fresh laughter exploded at the other end of the room, where a student's hat had found its way onto a dead woman's head. But Charles's gaze remained on Paddy, whose deformed left arm and crooked spine were mute testimony to a life of pain.

— Come on, Charlie, — encouraged Wendell, and he held out a knife to him. — It's not so bad once you get started. Let's not allow this poor Paddy to go to waste. He has so much to teach us. —

— You would say that, Wendell. You love this sort of thing. —

— We've already peeled away the omentum. You can resect the small bowel. —

As Charles stared at the offered knife, someone jeered from across the room: — Charlie! Don't faint on us again! —

Flushing a bright red, Charles took the knife. Grim-faced, he began to cut. But this was no skillful resection; these were savage slashes, his blade mangling the bowel, releasing a stench so awful that Norris lurched backward, lifting his arm to his face to stifle the smell.

— Stop, — said Wendell. He grabbed Charles's arm, but his friend kept hacking away. — You're making a mess of it! —

— You told me to cut! You told me to get my hands bloody! That's what my uncle keeps telling me, that a doctor is worthless unless he's willing to gets his hands bloody! —

— We're not your uncle, — said Wendell. — We're your friends. Now stop. —

Charles threw down the knife. Its thud was lost in the high-spirited bedlam of young men let loose upon a task so gruesome, the only sane response was perverse frivolity.

Norris picked up the knife and asked, quietly: — Are you all right, Charles? —

— I'm fine. — Charles released a deep breath. — I'm perfectly fine. —

A student stationed at the door suddenly hissed out a warning: — Sewall's coming back! —

Instantly the room fell quiet. Hats came off corpses. Cadavers resumed their positions of dignified repose. When Dr. Sewall walked back into the room, he saw only diligent students and serious faces. He crossed straight to Norris's table and came to a halt, staring at the slashed intestines.

— What the devil is this mess? — Appalled, he looked at the four students. — Who is responsible for this butchery? —

Charles appeared to be on the verge of tears. For Charles, every day seemed to bring some fresh humiliation, some new chance to reveal his incompetence. Under Sewall's gaze, he now seemed dangerously close to shattering.

Edward said, too eagerly: — Mr. Lackaway was trying to resect the small bowel, sir, and— —

— It's my fault, — Norris cut in.

Sewall looked at him in disbelief. — Mr. Marshall? —

— It was— it was a bit of horseplay. Charles and I— well, it got out of hand, and we sincerely apologize. Don't we, Charles? —

Sewall regarded Norris for a moment. — In light of your obvious skill as a dissector, this poor conduct is doubly disappointing. Do not let it happen again. —

— It won't, sir. —

— I'm told that Dr. Grenville wishes to see you, Mr. Marshall. He waits in his office. —

— Now? On what matter? —

— I suggest you find out. Well, go. — Sewall turned to the class. — As for the rest of you, there will be no more tomfoolery. Proceed, gentlemen! —

Norris wiped his hands on his apron and said to his companions, — I'll have to leave you three to finish old Paddy. —

— What's this about you and Dr. Grenville? — asked Wendell.

— I have no idea, — said Norris.

— Professor Grenville? —

The dean of the medical college looked up from his desk. Backlit by the gloomy daylight through the window behind him, his silhouette resembled a lion's head, with its mane of wiry gray hair. As Norris paused on the threshold, he felt Aldous Grenville studying him, and he wondered what blunder on his part could have precipitated this summons. During his long walk down the hallway, he had searched his memory for some incident that might have called his name to Dr. Grenville's attention. Surely there'd been something, since Norris could think of no reason why the man would even notice, among the several dozen new students, a mere farmer's son from Belmont.

— Do come in, Mr. Marshall. And please close the door. —

Uneasy, Norris took a seat. Grenville lit a lamp and the flame caught, casting its warm glow across the gleaming desk, the cherry bookshelves. The silhouette transformed to an arresting face with bushy side-whiskers. Though his hair was as thick as a young man's, it had gone silver, lending distinguished authority to his already striking features. He sank back into his chair, and his dark eyes were two strange orbs, reflecting the lamplight.

— You were there, at the hospital, — said Grenville. — The night Agnes Poole died. —

Norris was taken aback by the abrupt introduction of this grim subject, and he could only nod. The murder had been six days ago, and since then there had been wild gossip in town about who— or what— could have killed her. The Daily Advertiser had described a winged demon. Whispers about papists had been inevitable, no doubt launched from the lips of Watchman Pratt. But there had been other rumors as well. A preacher in Salem had spoken of evil afoot, of foul creatures and devil-worshiping foreigners who could only be combated by the righteous hand of God. Last night, the outrageous tales had inspired a drunken mob to chase a hapless Italian man down Hanover Street, forcing him to seek refuge in a tavern.

— You were the first to find the witness. The Irish girl, — said Grenville.

— Yes. —

— Have you seen her since that night? —

— No, sir. —

— You are aware that the Night Watch is looking for her? —

— Mr. Pratt told me. I know nothing about Miss Connolly. —

— Mr. Pratt led me to believe otherwise. —

So this was why he'd been called here. The Night Watch wanted Grenville to press him for information.

— The girl hasn't been seen at her lodging house since that night, — said Grenville.

— Surely she has family in Boston. —

— Only her sister's husband, a tailor named Mr. Tate. He told the Night Watch that she was unstable, and prone to outrageous claims. She'd even accused him of base acts against her. —

Norris remembered how Rose Connolly had dared to question the opinion of the eminent Dr. Crouch, an astonishingly bold act by a girl who should have known her place. But unstable? No, what Norris had seen on the ward that afternoon was a girl who'd merely stood her ground, a girl protecting her dying sister.

— I saw nothing unsound about her, — he said.

— She made some rather startling claims. About that creature in the cape. —

— She called it a figure, sir. She never said that it was in any way supernatural. It was the Daily Advertiser that called it the West End Reaper. She may have been frightened, but she was not hysterical. —

— You can't tell Mr. Pratt where she might be? —

— Why does he think I can? —

— He suggested that you might be better acquainted with her…people. —

— I see. — Norris felt his face tighten. So they think that a farm boy in a suit is still just a farm boy. — May I ask why it's suddenly so urgent that he find her? —

— She's a witness, and she's only seventeen years old. There's her safety to consider. And the safety of her sister's child. —

— I hardly imagine that Mr. Pratt cares one whit about their welfare. Is there another reason he seeks her? —

Grenville paused. After a moment, he admitted, — There is a matter, which Mr. Pratt would prefer not to see in the press. —

— Which matter? —

— Concerning an item of jewelry. A locket that was briefly in the possession of Miss Connolly, before it found its way to a pawnshop. —

— What's the significance of this locket? —

— It did not belong to her. By all rights, it should have gone to her sister's husband. —

— You are saying that Miss Connolly is a thief? —

— I'm not saying it. Mr. Pratt is. —

Norris thought about the girl and her fierce loyalty toward her sister. — I cannot imagine her to be such a criminal. —

— How did she strike you? —

— A clever girl. And forthright. But not a thief. —

Grenville nodded. — I'll pass along that opinion to Mr. Pratt. —

Norris, believing the interview to be over, started to rise, but Grenville said, — A moment more, Mr. Marshall. Unless you have another engagement? —

— No, sir. — Norris settled back into the chair. Sat, uncomfortably, as the other man quietly regarded him.

— You are satisfied thus far with your course of study? — asked Grenville.

— Yes, sir. Quite. —

— And with Dr. Crouch? —

— He's an excellent preceptor. I'm grateful he took me on. I've learned a great deal about midwifery at his side. —

— Although I understand you have strong opinions of your own on the subject. —

Suddenly Norris was uneasy. Had Dr. Crouch complained about him? Was he now to face the consequences? — I did not mean to question his methods, — he said. — I only wished to contribute— —

— Shouldn't methods be questioned if they do not work? —

— I should not have challenged him. I certainly don't have Dr. Crouch's experience. —

— No. You have a farmer's experience. — Norris flushed, and Grenville added, — You think I have just insulted you. —

— I don't presume to know your intentions. —

— I meant no insult. I've known many a clever farm boy. And more than a few idiot gentlemen. What I meant by my comment regarding farmers is that you've had practical experience. You've observed the process of gestation and birth. —

— But as Dr. Crouch quite plainly pointed out to me, a cow cannot be compared to a human being. —

— Of course not. Cows are far more companionable. Your father must agree, or he would not hide himself away on that farm. —

Norris paused, startled. — You are acquainted with my father? —

— No, but I know of him. He must be proud of you, pursuing such a demanding course of study. —

— No, sir. He's unhappy with my choice. —

— How can that be? —

— He had thought to raise a farmer. He considers books a waste of time. I would not even be here, at the medical college, were it not for the generosity of Dr. Hallowell. —

— Dr. Hallowell in Belmont? The gentleman who wrote your letter of recommendation? —

— Yes, sir. Truly, there's no kinder man. He and his wife always made me feel welcome in their home. He personally tutored me in physics and encouraged me to borrow books from his own library. Every month, it seemed, there'd be new ones, and he gave me complete access. Novels. Greek and Roman history. Volumes by Dryden and Pope and Spenser. It's an extraordinary collection. —

Grenville smiled. — And you made good use of it. —

— Books were my salvation, — said Norris, and was suddenly embarrassed that he'd used a word so revealing. But salvation was precisely what books had meant to him during the bleak nights on the farm, nights when he and his father had little to say to each other. When they did speak, it was about whether the hay was still too wet, or how close the cows were to calving. They did not speak of what tormented them both.

And they never would.

— It's a pity that your father did not encourage you, — said Grenville. — Yet you've come so far with such little advantage. —

— I've found…employment here, in the city. — Disgusting though his work with Jack Burke might be. — It's enough to pay for tuition. —

— Your father contributes nothing? —

— He has little to send. —

— I hope he was more generous with Sophia. She deserved better. —

Norris was startled by the mention of that name. — You know my mother. —

— While my wife Abigail was still alive, she and Sophia were the dearest of friends. But that was years ago, before you were born. — He paused. — It was a surprise to us both when Sophia suddenly married. —

And the biggest surprise of all, thought Norris, must have been her choice of a husband, a farmer with little education. Though Isaac Marshall was a handsome man, he had no interest in the music and books that Sophia so treasured, no interest in anything but his crops and his livestock. Norris said, hesitantly, — You do know that my mother is no longer living in Belmont? —

— I'd heard she was in Paris. Is she still there? —

— As far as I know. —

— You don't know? —

— She hasn't corresponded. Life on the farm was not easy for her, I think. And she… — Norris stopped, and the memory of his mother's departure was like a fist suddenly closing around his chest. She'd left on a Saturday, a day he scarcely remembered, because he'd been so ill. And weeks later, he was still weak and wobbly on his feet when he'd come down to the kitchen to find his father, Isaac, standing at the window, staring out at the mist of summer. His father had turned to face him, his expression as distant as a stranger's.

— Your mother just wrote. She won't be coming back, — was all Isaac had said before walking out of the house and heading straight to the barn to do the milking. Why would any woman choose to stay with a husband whose only passions were the ache of hard work and the sight of a well-plowed field? It was Isaac she had fled, Isaac who had driven Sophia away.

But as time went by without other letters, Norris had come to accept a truth that no eleven-year-old boy should have to face: that his mother had also fled from him, abandoning her son to a father who lavished more affection on his cows than on his own flesh and blood.

Norris took a breath, and as he exhaled, he imagined his pain being released as well. But it was still there, the old ache for just one glimpse of the woman who had given him life. And then broken his heart. So anxious was he to end this conversation that he said, abruptly: — I should return to the dissection room. Is that all you wished to see me about, sir? —

— There is one more thing. It's about my nephew. —

— Charles? —

— He speaks highly of you. Even looks up to you. He was quite young when his father died of a fever, and I'm afraid that Charles inherited his father's delicate constitution. My sister thoroughly coddled him when he was a boy, so he's grown up on the sensitive side. It makes anatomical study all the more upsetting for him. —

Norris thought of what he'd just witnessed in the anatomy lab: Charles, white-faced and trembling, as he took up the knife, as he slashed away in blind frustration.

— He is finding the studies difficult, and he receives little encouragement from his friend Mr. Kingston. Only ridicule. —

— Wendell Holmes is a good and supportive friend. —

— Yes, but you are perhaps the most skilled dissector in your class. That's what Dr. Sewall tells me. So I'd appreciate it, should you see that Charles needs any extra guidance… —

— I'd be happy to look out for him, sir. —

— And you won't let Charles know we spoke of this? —

— You can trust me. —

Both men stood. For a moment, Grenville studied him, silently taking his measure. — And so I shall. —