The Bone Garden: A Novel

Sixteen

The present

— RESURRECTIONIST, — said Henry, — is an old word, no longer used. Most people today have no idea that it refers to a grave robber or a body snatcher. —

— And Norris Marshall was one of them, — said Julia.

— Only by necessity. It was clearly not his trade. —

They sat at the dining table, the pages of the newly discovered letter from Oliver Wendell Holmes spread out beside their coffee cups and breakfast muffins. Although it was well past midmorning, the fog still hung thick outside the sea windows, and Henry had turned on all the lamps to brighten the murky room.

— Fresh corpses were valuable commodities in those days. So valuable, in fact, that there was a booming trade in them. All to supply the new medical schools that were popping up around the country. — Henry shuffled over to one of his bookcases. From the yellowing volumes on the shelves, he pulled down a book and brought it back to the dining table where he and Julia had been reading over breakfast. — You must understand what it was like to be an American medical student in 1830. There were no real standards, no official certification for medical schools. Some were decent, others little more than moneymaking schemes to suck up tuition fees. —

— And the college that Dr. Holmes and Norris Marshall attended? —

— Boston Medical College was one of the better ones. But even their students had to scramble for cadavers. A wealthy student could pay a resurrectionist to obtain a corpse for study. But if you were poor, like Mr. Marshall, you had to go out and dig up a body yourself. It appears this was also the way he paid for his tuition. —

Julia shuddered. — Now, there's a work-study program I wouldn't want any part of. —

— But it was a way for a poor man to become a doctor. Not an easy way, by any means. To get into medical school you didn't need a college degree, but you did need to be familiar with Latin and physics. Norris Marshall must have taught himself those subjects— no mean feat for a farmer's son without ready access to a library. —

— He had to be incredibly bright. —

— And determined. But the rewards were obvious. Becoming a doctor was one of the few ways to advance in society. Physicians were respected. Although while in training, medical students were viewed with disgust, even fear. —

— Why? —

— Because they were thought of as vultures, preying on the bodies of the dead. Digging them up, cutting them open. To be sure, the students often brought condemnation on themselves by their antics, by all the practical jokes they played with body parts. Waving severed arms out the window, for example. —

— They did that? —

— Remember, these are young men, only in their early twenties. And men that age aren't known for their superior judgment. — He pushed the book toward her. — It's all in here. —

— You've already read up on it? —

— Oh, I know a great deal about the subject. My father and grandfather were doctors, and I've heard these stories since I was a child. Almost every generation, in fact, has produced a doctor in our family. The medical gene skipped me, I'm afraid, but the tradition continues with my grandnephew. When I was growing up, my grandfather told me a story about a student who smuggled a woman's corpse out of anatomy lab. He put it in his roommate's bed, as a practical joke. They thought it was quite hilarious. —

— That's sick. —

— Most of the public would've agreed with you. Which explains why there were anatomy riots, when outraged mobs attacked schools. It happened in Philadelphia and Baltimore and New York. Any medical school, in any city, could find itself burned to the ground. Public horror and suspicion ran so deep that all it took was a single incident to touch off a riot. —

— It seems to me their suspicions were well founded. —

— But where would we be today if doctors couldn't dissect corpses? If you believe in medical science, then you must also accept the necessity of anatomical study. —

In the distance, the ferry's horn bellowed. Julia looked at her watch and stood. — I need to get going, Henry. If I'm to catch the next boat. —

— When you come back, you can help me bring up the boxes from the cellar. —

— Is that an invitation? —

He thumped his cane on the floor in exasperation. — I thought it was understood! —

She looked at the stack of unopened boxes and thought of the treasures inside them, still unexplored, the letters still to be read. She had no idea if the identity of the skeleton in her garden might lie inside those boxes. What she did know was that the story of Norris Marshall and the West End Reaper had already lured her into its spell, and she was hungry to know more.

— You are coming back, aren't you? — said Henry.

— Let me check my calendar. —

It was close to dinnertime when she finally arrived home in Weston. Here at least, the sun was shining, and she looked forward to lighting up the barbecue and sipping a glass of wine in the back garden. But when she pulled into her driveway and saw the silver BMW that was already parked there, her stomach clenched so tightly that just the thought of wine made her nauseated. What was Richard doing here?

She got out of her car and glanced around, but didn't see him. Only when she stepped out the kitchen door into the backyard did she spot him standing halfway down the slope, surveying the property.

— Richard? —

Her ex-husband turned as she walked into the yard to join him. It had been five months since she'd last seen him, and he looked fit and trim and more deeply tanned. It hurt to see just how good divorce had been to him. Or maybe it was all the country-clubbing he'd been doing lately with Tiffani-with-an-i.

— I tried calling, but you never pick up, — he said. — I thought maybe you were avoiding my calls. —

— I went up to Maine for the weekend. —

He didn't bother to ask why; as usual, nothing she did really interested him. Instead, he gestured at her overgrown yard. — Nice piece of land. You could do a lot with this. There's even room for a pool. —

— I can't afford a swimming pool. —

— A deck, then. Clear out all that scrubby stuff down by the stream. —

— Richard, why are you here? —

— I was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by to take a look at your new place. —

— Well, this is it. —

— The house looks like it needs a lot of work. —

— I'm fixing it up little by little. —

— Who's helping you? —

— No one. — Her chin tilted up on a note of pride. — I tiled the bathroom floor myself. —

Again, he didn't even seem to register what she'd said. It was their usual one-way conversation. They both spoke, but she was the only one who really listened. Only now was she aware of it.

— Look, I've had a long drive and I'm tired, — she said, turning toward the house. — I'm not really in the mood for company. —

— Why have you been talking about me behind my back? — he asked.

She halted and looked at him. — What? —

— Frankly, I'm surprised, Julia. You never struck me as the bitter type. But I guess divorce brings out a person's real character. —

For the first time, she heard the ugly note of anger in his voice. How had she missed it earlier? Even his posture should have been a clue, with his legs planted apart and his fists balled in his pockets.

— I don't have any idea what you're talking about, — she said.

— Telling people that I was emotionally abusive to you? That I screwed around all during our marriage? —

— I never said that to anyone! Even if it might be true. —

— What kind of shit are you talking about? —

— You were running around, weren't you? Did she know you were married when you started sleeping with her? —

— You so much as whisper that to anyone— —

— You mean, the truth? Our divorce wasn't even final yet, and you two were already picking out your new china. Everyone knows it. — She paused as it suddenly occurred to her what this was all about. Maybe not everyone does know.

— Our marriage was over long before the divorce. —

— Is that the version you're telling everyone? Because it's certainly news to me. —

— You want the brutal truth about what went wrong? All the ways you held me back from what I could have been? —

She sighed. — No, Richard, I don't want to hear it all. I really don't care anymore. —

— Then why the hell are you trying to screw up my wedding? Why are you spreading rumors about me? —

— Who's hearing these rumors? Your girlfriend? Or is it her daddy? Are you afraid he'll find out the truth about his new son-in-law? —

— Just promise me you'll stop it. —

— I never said a word to anyone. I didn't even know about your wedding until Vicky told me. —

He stared at her. Said, suddenly: — Vicky. That bitch. —

— Go home, — she said, and walked away.

— You get Vicky on the phone right now. You tell her to shut up. —

— It's her mouth. I can't control it. —

— Get your fucking sister on the phone! — he shouted.

A dog's noisy barks made her suddenly stop. Turning, she saw Tom standing at the edge of her garden, holding on to the leash as his dog, McCoy, leaped and strained to get free.

— Is everything okay, Julia? — Tom called out.

— Everything's fine, — she said.

Tom moved closer, practically dragged up the slope by the insistent McCoy. He came within a few paces of them. — Are you sure? — he said.

— Look, — snapped Richard, — we're having a private discussion. —

Tom's gaze remained on Julia. — It wasn't so private. —

— It's okay, Tom, — said Julia. — Richard was just leaving. —

Tom paused a moment longer, as though to confirm that the situation was under control. Then he turned and headed back toward the streamside path, pulling the dog behind him.

— Who the hell is that? — said Richard.

— He lives down the road. —

An ugly smile crossed Richard's lips. — Is he the reason you bought this place? —

— Get out of my garden, — she said, and walked toward the house.

As she stepped inside, she heard her phone ringing, but she didn't run to answer it. Her attention was still focused on Richard. She watched through the window as he finally walked out of her backyard.

The answering machine kicked in. — Julia, I've just found something. When you get home, call me and I'll— —

She picked up the phone. — Henry? —

— Oh. You're there. —

— I just got home. —

A pause. — What's wrong? —

For a man who lacked even basic social skills, Henry had an uncanny ability to sniff out her moods. She heard a car engine start and carried the phone to the living room window, where she saw Richard's BMW pull away. — Nothing's wrong, — she said. Not now.

— It was in box number six, — he said.

— What was? —

— The last will and testament of Dr. Margaret Tate Page. It's dated 1890, when she would have been sixty. In it, she leaves her possessions to various grandchildren. One of them is a granddaughter named Aurnia. —

— Aurnia? —

— An unusual name, no? I think this confirms without a doubt that Margaret Tate Page is our baby Meggie, grown up. —

— Then the aunt whom Holmes mentioned in his first letter… —

— Is Rose Connolly. —

Julia went back into her kitchen and looked out at the garden, at the same plot of land that another woman, long dead, had once gazed upon. Who was buried in my garden all those years?

Was it Rose?