The Bone Garden: A Novel

Twenty-eight

IT WAS PAST THREE when the farmer stopped his wagon at the side of the Belmont road to let them off. They still had two miles to walk, but the sky was blue and the ice-crusted snow glittered bright as glass in the afternoon sun. As they trudged down the road with Meggie in Rose's arms, Norris pointed out which fields belonged to which neighbor. He would introduce her to them all, and they'd all adore her. The run-down house over there belonged to old Ezra Hutchinson, whose wife had died of typhus two years ago, and the cows in the adjoining field belonged to widow Heppy Comfort, who had her eye on the now eligible Ezra. The neat house across the road belonged to Dr. and Mrs. Hallowell, the childless couple who had been so kind to him over the years, who'd welcomed him into their home as if he were their own son. Dr. Hallowell had opened his library to Norris and last year had written the glowing recommendation letter to the medical college. Rose took in all this information with a look of eager interest, even the trivial tidbits about Heppy's lame calf and Dr. Hallowell's eccentric collection of German hymnals. As they neared the Marshall farm, her questions came more quickly, more urgently, as though she was feverish to know every detail of his life before they arrived. When they crested the rise, and the farm appeared on the horizon, she stopped to stare, her hand shielding her eyes from the setting sun's glare.

— It's not much to look at, — he admitted.

— But it is, Norrie. It's where you grew up. —

— I couldn't wait to escape from it. —

— I wouldn't mind living here at all. — Meggie stirred awake in her arms and gave a contented gurgle. Rose smiled at her niece and said, — I could be happy on a farm. —

He laughed. — That's what I like about you, Rose. I think you could be happy anywhere. —

— It's not the where that counts. —

— Before you say it's the people you live with, you need to meet my father. —

— I'm afraid to. The way you talk about him. —

— He's a bitter man. You just need to know that ahead of time. —

— Because he lost your mother? —

— She abandoned him. She abandoned both of us. He's never forgiven her. —

— Have you? — she asked, and looked at him, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

— It's getting late, — he said.

They walked on, the sun sinking lower, bare trees casting their spindly shadows across the snow. They came to the old stone wall, glistening with ice, and heard the bellowing of cows in the barn. As they neared the farm, it seemed to Norris that the house was smaller and humbler than he remembered. Had the clapboards been so weathered when he'd left only two months ago? Had the porch always sagged, the fence always leaned so crookedly? The closer they got, the heavier the burden of duty seemed to weigh on his shoulders, and the more he dreaded the coming reunion. Now he regretted dragging Rose and the baby into this. Though he'd warned her that his father could be unpleasant, she showed no signs of apprehension, walking quite cheerfully beside him, humming to Meggie. How could any man, even his father, dislike this girl? Surely she and the baby will charm him, he thought. Rose will win him over, the way she's won me over, and we'll all laugh together at supper. Yes, it could be a good visit after all, and Rose will be the charm. My lucky Irish girl. He looked at her and his spirits lifted because she seemed so pleased to be here with him, trudging alongside the crooked fence, toward a farmhouse that seemed ever more grim and dilapidated.

They stepped through the sagging gate into a front yard littered with a broken cart and a pile of logs still to be split into firewood. The Welliver sisters would quail at the sight of this yard, and he imagined them in their dainty shoes trying to pick their way through the hog-churned mud. Rose did not hesitate but simply hiked up her skirt and followed Norris across the yard. The old sow, disturbed by these visitors, gave a snort and trotted away toward the barn.

Before they reached the porch, the door opened and Norris's father stepped out. Isaac Marshall had not seen his son in two months, yet he called out no words of welcome; he merely stood on his porch, watching in silence as his visitors approached. He wore the same homespun coat, the same drab trousers as always, but the clothes seemed to hang looser on his frame, and the eyes that peered out from beneath the battered hat were more deeply sunk in hollowed sockets. He offered only the flicker of a smile as his son climbed the steps.

— Welcome home, — said Isaac, but made no move to embrace his son.

— Father, may I introduce you to my friend Rose. And her niece, Meggie. —

Rose stepped forward, smiling, and the baby gave a coo, as though in greeting. — 'Tis good to meet you, Mr. Marshall, — Rose said.

Isaac kept his arms stubbornly at his side, and his lips tightened. Norris saw Rose flush, and at that moment, he had never disliked his own father more.

— Rose is a very good friend, — said Norris. — I wanted you to meet her. —

— She'll be staying the night? —

— I was hoping she could stay longer. She and the baby are in need of lodgings for a while. She can use the room upstairs. —

— Then the bed'll have to be made up. —

— I can do it, Mr. Marshall, — said Rose. — I'll not be a bother. And I work hard! There's nothing I can't do. —

Isaac gave the baby a long look. Then, with a grudging nod, he turned to go into the house. — I'd best see that we have enough for supper. —

— I'm sorry, Rose. I'm so sorry. —

They sat together in the hayloft with Meggie sound asleep beside them and gazed down in the soft lantern light at the cows feeding below. The pigs, too, had wandered into the barn and were grunting as they competed for prime bedding space among the piles of straw. Tonight, Norris found more comfort here, amid the din of the animals, than in the company of that silent man in that silent house. Isaac had said little during their holiday supper of ham and boiled potatoes and turnips, had asked only a few questions about Norris's studies, and then had seemed indifferent to the answers. The farm alone interested him, and when he did speak, it was about the fence that needed mending, the poor quality of hay this autumn, the laziness of the latest hired hand. Rose had sat right across from Isaac, but she might as well have been invisible, for he'd scarcely looked at her except to pass the food.

And she had been wise enough to keep her silence.

— It's the way he's always been, — said Norris, staring down at the pigs rooting through straw. — I shouldn't have expected anything different. I shouldn't have put you through that. —

— I'm glad I came. —

— It must have been an ordeal for you tonight. —

— You're the one I feel sorry for. — Her face caught the glow of the lantern, and in the gloom of the barn Norris did not see her patched dress or her worn shawl; he saw only that face, gazing so intently at him. — 'Tis a sad house you grew up in, — she said. — Not any sort of home for a child. —

— It wasn't always this way. I don't want you to think I had such a grim boyhood. There were good days. —

— When did it change? Was it after your mother left? —

— Nothing was the same after that. —

— How could it be? It's a terrible thing, to be abandoned. Bad enough when the one you love passes on. But when they choose to leave you… — She stopped. Taking in a deep breath, she looked down at the pen below. — I've always liked the smell of a barn. All of it, the animals, the hay, the stink. It's a good, honest smell, that it is. —

He stared at the shadows, where the pigs had finally ceased rooting and were now huddled together for the night, softly grunting. — Who left you, Rose? — he asked.

— No one. —

— You talked about people leaving you. —

— I'm the one who did it, — she said, and swallowed. — I did the leaving. What a fool I was! After Aurnia left for America, I followed her. Because I couldn't wait to grow up. I couldn't wait to see the world. — She gave a regretful sigh and said, with tears in her voice: — I think I broke my mother's heart. —

He didn't need to ask; he knew, just by the mournful droop of her head, that her mother was no longer alive.

She sat up straight and said firmly, — I'll never abandon anyone again. Ever. —

He reached out to take her hand, so familiar to him now. It felt as if they had always held hands, had always shared secrets in the gloom of this barn.

— I understand why your father is bitter, — she said. — He has a right to be. —

Long after Rose and Meggie had gone to bed, Norris and Isaac sat together at the kitchen table, a lamp burning between them. Though Norris had drunk only sparingly from the jug of apple brandy, his father had been drinking it all evening, more than Norris had ever seen him drink before. Isaac poured himself yet another glass, and his hand was unsteady as he recorked the jug.

— So what is she to you? — said Isaac, gazing bleary-eyed over the rim of his glass.

— I told you, she's a friend. —

— A girl? What are you, a Nancy-boy? You can't find a regular friend, like other men? —

— What do you have against her? The fact she's a girl? The fact she's Irish? —

— Is she knocked up? —

Norris stared at his father in disbelief. It's the brandy talking. He can't mean it.

— Ha. You don't even know, — said Isaac.

— You have no right to say such things about her. You don't even know her. —

— How well do you know her? —

— I haven't touched her, if that's what you're asking. —

— Doesn't mean she isn't knocked up already. And she comes with a baby, too! Take her on, and you take on another man's responsibility. —

— I hoped she'd be welcomed here. I hoped you'd learn to accept her, or maybe even love her. She's a hardworking girl, with the most generous heart I know. She certainly deserves better than the reception you gave her. —

— I'm only thinking of your welfare, boy. Your happiness. You want to raise a child that isn't even your own? —

Abruptly Norris stood. — Good night, Father. — He turned to leave the room.

— I'm trying to spare you the pain I knew. They'll lie to you, Norris. They're full of deceit, and you won't find out till it's too late. —

Norris stopped, and with sudden comprehension, he turned to look at him. — You're talking about Mother. —

— I tried to make her happy. — Isaac gulped down the brandy and set the glass down hard on the table. — I tried my best. —

— Well, I never saw it. —

— Children don't see anything, don't know anything. There's a lot you'll never know about your mother. —

— Why did she leave you? —

— She left you, too. —

Norris could think of no retort for that painful truth. Yes, she did leave me. And I'll never understand it. Suddenly exhausted, he returned to the table and sat down. Watched as his father refilled his glass with brandy.

— What don't I know about Mother? — asked Norris.

— Things I should've known myself. Things I should've wondered. Why a girl like her would ever marry a man like me. Oh, I'm not a fool. I've lived on a farm long enough to know how long it takes for a sow to— — He stopped and lowered his head. — I don't think she ever loved me. —

— Did you love her? —

Isaac lifted his damp gaze to Norris's. — What difference did it make? It wasn't enough to keep her here. You weren't enough to keep her here. —

Those words, both cruel and true, hung in the air between them like spent gunpowder. They sat silent, facing each other across the table.

— The day she left, — said Isaac, — you were sick. You remember? —

— Yes. —

— It was a summer fever. You were so hot, we were afraid we'd lose you. Dr. Hallowell went to Portsmouth that week, so we couldn't call on him. All night, your mother stayed up with you. And all the next day. And still your fever wouldn't break, and we both thought for certain we'd lose you. And what does she do? Do you remember her leaving? —

— She said she loved me. She said she'd be back. —

— That's what she told me. That her son deserved the best, and she was going to see that you got it. She put on her best dress and walked out of the house. And she never came back. Not that night, or the night after. I was here all alone, with a sick boy, and I had no way of knowing where she'd gone. Mrs. Comfort came to watch you while I searched. Every place I could think of, every neighbor she might have visited. Ezra thought he saw her riding south, on the Brighton road. Someone else saw her on the road to Boston. I couldn't think of why she'd go to either of those places. — He paused. — Then a boy turned up at the door one day, with Sophia's horse. And the letter. —

— Why have you never shown me that letter? —

— You were too young. Only eleven. —

— I was old enough to understand. —

— It's long gone now. I burned it. But I can tell you what it said. I'm not good at reading, you know that. So I asked Mrs. Comfort to look at it, too, just to be sure I understood. — Isaac swallowed and looked straight at the lamp. — She said she couldn't be married to me any longer. She'd met a man, and they were leaving for Paris. Go on with your life. —

— There must have been more. —

— There was nothing more. Mrs. Comfort can tell you. —

— She explained nothing? She gave no details, not even his name? —

— I tell you, that's all she wrote. —

— Was there nothing about me? She must have said something! —

Isaac said, quietly: — That's why I never showed it to you, boy. I didn't want you to know. —

That his own mother hadn't even mentioned his name. Norris could not meet his father's gaze. Instead, he stared down at the scarred table, the table where he and Isaac had shared so many silent meals, listening only to the howl of the wind, the scrape of their forks against the plates. — Why now? — he asked. — Why did you wait all these years to tell me? —

— Because of her. — Isaac looked toward the upstairs bedroom, where Rose was sleeping. — She has her eye on you, boy, and you have your eye on her. You make a mistake now, and you'll live with it for the rest of your life. —

— Why do you assume she's a mistake? —

— Some men can't see it, even when it's staring them in the face. —

— Mother was your mistake? —

— And I was hers. I watched her grow up. For years, I'd see her in church, sitting there in her pretty hats, always friendly enough to me, but always beyond me, too. And then one day, it's as if she suddenly sees me. And decides I'm worth a second glance. — He reached for the jug and refilled his glass. — Eleven years later, she's trapped on this stinking farm with a sick boy. Of course it's easier to run away. Leave this behind and take up a fancy life with a new man. — He set down the jug, and his gaze lifted toward the bedroom where Rose was sleeping. — You can't take 'em at their word, that's all I'm telling you. The girl comes with a sweet enough face. But what does it hide? —

— You misjudge her. —

— I misjudged your mother. I only want to save you from the same heartache. —

— I love this girl. I plan to marry her. —

Isaac laughed. — I married for love, and see what came of it! — He lifted his glass, but his hand paused in midair. He turned and looked toward the door.

Someone was knocking.

They exchanged startled looks. It was deep into the night, not an hour for a neighborly visit. Frowning, Isaac picked up the lamp and went to open the door. The wind gusted in and the lamp almost went out as Isaac stood in the doorway, staring at whoever now faced him from his porch.

— Mr. Marshall? — a man said. — Is your son here? —

At the sound of that voice, Norris rose at once in alarm.

— What do you want with him? — asked Isaac. He suddenly stumbled backward as two men forced their way past him, into the kitchen.

— There you are, — said Mr. Pratt, spotting Norris.

— What is the meaning of this? — demanded Isaac.

Watchman Pratt nodded to his companion, who stepped behind Norris, as though to cut off his escape. — You're returning with us to Boston. —

— How dare you push your way into my home! — said Isaac. — Who are you? —

— The Night Watch. — Pratt's gaze remained on Norris. — The carriage is waiting, Mr. Marshall. —

— You're arresting my son? —

— For reasons he should already have explained to you. —

— I'm not going until you tell me the charges, — said Norris.

The man behind him shoved Norris so hard that he stumbled against the table. The jug of apple brandy toppled to the floor and shattered.

— Stop it! — cried Isaac. — Why are you doing this? —

— The charges are murder, — said Pratt. — The murders of Agnes Poole, Mary Robinson, Nathaniel Berry. And now, Mr. Eben Tate. —

— Tate? — Norris stared at him. Rose's brother-in-law murdered as well? — I know nothing about his death! I certainly did not kill him! —

— We have all the proof we need. It's now my duty to return you to Boston, where you will face trial. — Pratt nodded to the other Watchman. — Bring him. —

Norris was forced forward, and had just reached the doorway when he heard Rose cry out: — Norris? —

He turned and saw her panicked gaze. — Go to Dr. Grenville! Tell him what's happened! — he managed to shout just before he was shoved out the door and into the night.

His escorts forced him into the carriage, and Pratt signaled the driver with two hard raps on the roof. They rolled away and headed down the Belmont road toward Boston.

— Even your Dr. Grenville can't protect you now, — said Pratt. — Not against this evidence. —

— What evidence? —

— You can't guess? A certain item in your room? —

Norris shook his head, perplexed. — I have no idea what you're talking about. —

— The jar, Mr. Marshall. I'm amazed you'd keep such a thing. —

The other Watchman, sitting across from them, stared at Norris and muttered: — You're a sick bastard. —

— It's not every day one finds a human face sloshing about in a jar of whiskey, — said Pratt. — And in case there's any doubt left at all, we found your mask, as well. Still splattered with blood. Played it close to the edge with us, didn't you? Describing the same mask that you yourself wore? —

The mask of the West End Reaper, planted in my room?

— I'd say it's the gallows for you, — said Pratt.

The other Watchman gave a chuckle, as though he looked forward to a good hanging, just the sort of entertainment to enliven the dreary winter months. — And then your good doctor friends can have a go at you, — he added. Even in the gloom of the carriage, Norris could see the man run his finger down his chest, a gesture that needed no interpretation. Other dead bodies traveled secret and circuitous routes to the anatomist's table. They were dug from graves under cover of night, by resurrectionists who risked arrest with every nocturnal foray into the cemetery. But the bodies of executed criminals went directly to the autopsy table with the full approval of the law. For their crimes, the condemned paid not only with their lives, but with their mortal remains as well. Every prisoner who stood on the gallows knew that execution was not the final indignity; the anatomist's knife would follow.

Norris thought of old Paddy, the cadaver whose chest he had split open, whose dripping heart he had held in his hands. Who would hold Norris's heart? Whose apron would be spattered with his blood as his organs splashed into the bucket?

Through the carriage window, he saw moonlit fields, the same farms along the Belmont road that he always passed on his journeys into Boston. This would be the last time he saw them, his last view of the countryside he'd spent his boyhood trying to escape. He'd been a fool to believe that he ever could, and this was his punishment.

The road took them east from Belmont, and the farms became villages as they rolled ever closer to Boston. Now he could see the Charles River, glittering beneath moonlight, and he remembered the night he had walked along the embankment and stared across those waters, toward the prison. That night he had counted himself lucky compared with the miserable souls behind bars. Now he came to join them, and his only escape would be the hangman.

The carriage wheels clattered onto the West Boston Bridge, and Norris knew that their journey was almost finished. Once over the bridge, it would be a short ride up Cambridge Street, then north toward the city jail. The West End Reaper, captured at last. Pratt's associate wore a smile of triumph, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness.

— Whoa! Whoa, there, — their driver said, and the carriage came to a sudden stop.

— What's this now? — said Pratt, glancing out the window. They were still on the bridge. He called up to the driver, — Why have we stopped? —

— Got an obstruction here, Mr. Pratt. —

Pratt threw open the door and climbed out. — Blast it all! Can't they get that horse out of the way? —

— They're trying, sir. But that nag's not getting up again. —

— Then they should drag it off to the knacker. The beast is blocking the way for everyone. —

Through the carriage window, Norris could see the bridge railing. Below flowed the Charles River. He thought of cold black water. There are worse graves, he thought.

— If this takes much longer, we should go 'round to the Canal Bridge. —

— Look, there's the wagon now. They'll have the nag off in a minute. —

Now. I will have no other chance.

Pratt was opening the carriage door to climb back in. As it swung open, Norris threw himself against it and tumbled out.

Knocked backward by the door, Pratt sprawled to the ground. He had no time to react; nor did his compatriot, who was now scrambling out of the carriage.

Norris caught a glimpse of his surroundings: the dead horse, lying where it had collapsed in front of its overloaded wagon. The line of carriages, backed up behind it on the bridge. And the Charles River, its moonlit surface hiding the turbid water beneath. He did not hesitate. This is all that's left to me, he thought, as he scrambled over the railing. Either I seize this chance or I give up any hope of life. Here's to you, Rose!

— Catch him! Don't let him jump! —

Norris was already falling. Through darkness, through time, toward a future as unknown to him as the waters toward which he plummeted. He knew only that the real struggle was about to begin, and in the instant before he hit the water, he braced himself like a warrior for battle.

The plunge into the cold river was a cruel slap of welcome to a new life. He sank over his head, into a blackness so thick he could not tell up from down, and he thrashed, disoriented. Then he caught the glimmer of moonlight above and struggled toward it, until his head broke the surface. As he took in a gasp of air, he heard voices shouting above.

— Where is he? Do you see him? —

— Call out the Watch! I want the riverbank searched! —

— Both sides? —

— Yes, you idiot! Both sides! —

Norris dove back into icy darkness and let the current carry him. He knew he could not fight his way upstream, so he yielded to the river and let it abet his escape. It bore him past Lechmere Point, past the West End, bringing him ever eastward, toward the harbor.

Toward the docks.