The Bone Garden: A Novel

Three

— HOW LONG CAN this blasted rain keep up? — said Edward Kingston, staring at the steady downpour.

Wendell Holmes blew out a wreath of cigar smoke that drifted from beneath the hospital's covered veranda and fractured into swirls in the rain. — Why the impatience? One would think you have a pressing appointment. —

— I do. With a glass of exceptional claret. —

— Are we going to the Hurricane? — said Charles Lackaway.

— If my carriage ever shows up. — Edward glared at the road, where horses clip-clopped and carriages rolled past, wheels throwing up clots of mud.

Though Norris Marshall also stood on the hospital veranda, the gulf between him and his classmates would have been apparent to anyone who cast even a casual glance at the four young men. Norris was new to Boston, a farm boy from Belmont who had taught himself physics with borrowed textbooks, who'd bartered eggs and milk for lessons with a Latin tutor. He had never been to the Hurricane tavern; he did not even know where it was. His classmates, all graduates from Harvard College, gossiped about people he did not know, and shared inside jokes he did not understand, and although they made no overt efforts to exclude him, they did not need to. It was simply understood that he was not part of their social circle.

Edward sighed, huffing out a cloud of smoke. — Can you believe what that girl said to Dr. Crouch? The gall of her! If any of the Bridgets in our household ever spoke that way, my mother would slap her right out into the street. —

— Your mother, — said Charles, with a tone of awe, — quite terrifies me. —

— Mother says it's important that the Irish know their place. That's the only way to maintain order, with all these new people moving into town, causing trouble. —

New people. Norris was one of them.

— The Bridgets are the worst. You can't turn your back on 'em or they'll snatch the shirts right out of your closet. You notice something's missing, and they'll claim it was lost in the wash or that the dog ate it. — Edward snorted. — Girl like that one needs to learn her place. —

— Her sister may well be dying, — said Norris.

The three Harvard men turned, obviously surprised that their usually reticent classmate had spoken up.

— Dying? That's quite a dramatic pronouncement, — said Edward.

— Five days in labor, and already she looks like a corpse. Dr. Crouch can bleed her all he wants, but her prospects do not look good. The sister knows it. She speaks from grief. —

— Nevertheless, she should remember where charity comes from. —

— And be grateful for every crumb? —

— Dr. Crouch is not bound to treat the woman at all. Yet that sister acts as though it's their right. — Edward stubbed out his cigar on the newly painted railing. — A little gratitude wouldn't kill them. —

Norris felt his face flush. He was about to offer a sharp retort in defense of the girl when Wendell smoothly redirected the conversation.

— I do think there's a poem in this, don't you? ‘The Fierce Irish Girl.' —

Edward sighed. — Please don't. Not another one of your awful verses. —

— Or how about this title? — said Charles. — ‘Ode to a Faithful Sister'? —

— I quite like that! — said Wendell. — Let me try. — He paused. — Here stands the fiercest warrior, this true and winsome maid… —

— Her sister's life the battlefield, — added Charles.

— She— she— — Wendell pondered the next verse in the poem.

— Stands guard, unafraid! — Charles finished.

Wendell laughed. — Poetry triumphs again! —

— While the rest of us suffer, — Edward muttered.

All this Norris listened to with the acute discomfort of an outsider. How easily his classmates laughed together. How little it took, just a few improvised lines of verse, to remind him that these three shared a history he was not part of.

Wendell suddenly straightened and peered through the rain. — That's your carriage, isn't it, Edward? —

— About time it showed up. — Edward lifted his collar against the wind. — Gentlemen, shall we? —

Norris's three classmates headed down the porch steps. Edward and Charles splashed through the rain and clambered into the carriage. But Wendell paused, glanced over his shoulder at Norris, and came back up the steps.

— Aren't you joining us? — said Wendell.

Startled by the invitation, Norris didn't immediately answer. Though he stood almost a full head taller than Wendell Holmes, there was much about this diminutive man that intimidated him. It was more than Wendell's dapper suits, his famously clever tongue; it was his air of utter self-assurance. That the man should be inviting him to join them had caught Norris off guard.

— Wendell! — Edward called from the carriage. — Let's go! —

— We're going to the Hurricane, — said Holmes. — Seems to be where we end up every night. — He paused. — Or have you other plans? —

— It's very kind of you. — Norris glanced at the two men waiting in the carriage. — But I don't think Mr. Kingston was expecting a fourth. —

— Mr. Kingston, — said Wendell with a laugh, — could use more of the unexpected in his life. Anyway, he's not the one inviting you. I am. Join us for a round of rum flips? —

Norris looked at the rain, falling in sheets, and longed for the warm fire that would almost certainly be burning in the Hurricane. More than that, he longed for the opening that had just been offered him, the chance to slip in among his classmates, to share their circle, if only for this evening. He could feel Wendell watching him. Those eyes, which usually held the glint of laughter, the promise of a quip, had turned uncomfortably penetrating.

— Wendell! — Now it was Charles calling from the carriage, his voice raised in an exasperated whine. — We're freezing here! —

— I'm sorry, — said Norris. — I'm afraid I have another engagement this evening. —

— Oh? — Wendell's eyebrow lifted in a mischievous tilt. — I trust she's a charming alternative. —

— It's not a lady, I'm afraid. But it's simply something I can't break. —

— I see, — said Wendell, though clearly he didn't, for his smile had cooled and already he was turning to leave.

— It's not that I don't want— —

— Quite all right. Another time, perhaps. —

There won't be another time, thought Norris as he watched Wendell dash into the street and climb in with his two companions. The driver flicked his whip and the carriage rolled away, wheels splashing through puddles. He imagined the conversation that would soon take place in that carriage among the three friends. Disbelief that a mere farm boy from Belmont had dared to decline the invitation. Speculation as to what other engagement, if not with a member of the fair sex, could possibly take precedence. He stood on the porch, gripping the rail in frustration at what he could not change, and what could never be.

Edward Kingston's carriage disappeared around the corner, bearing the three men to a fire and a convivial evening of gossip and spirits. While they sit warm in the Hurricane, thought Norris, I shall be engaged in quite a different activity. One I would avoid, if only I could.

He braced himself for the cold, then stepped into the downpour and splashed resolutely toward his lodgings, there to change into old clothes before heading out, yet again, into the rain.

The establishment he sought was a tavern on Broad Street, near the docks. Here one would not find dapper Harvard graduates sipping rum flips. Should such a gentleman wander accidentally into the Black Spar, he would know, with just a glance around the room, that he'd be wise to watch his pockets. Norris had little of value in his own pockets that night— indeed, on any night— and his shabby coat and mud-spattered trousers offered little enticement to any would-be thieves. He already knew many of these patrons, and they knew his impoverished circumstances; they merely glanced up as he stepped in the door. One look to identify the newcomer, and then their disinterested gazes dropped back to their cups.

Norris moved to the bar, where moonfaced Fanny Burke was filling glasses with ale. She looked up at him with small, mean eyes. — You're late, and he's in a foul mood. —

— Fanny! — one of the patrons yelled. — We gettin' those drinks this week or what? —

The woman carried the ale to their table and slammed down the glasses. Pocketing their money, she stalked back behind the bar. — He's around back, with the wagon, — she said to Norris. — Waiting for you. —

He had not had time for supper, and he glanced hungrily at the loaf of bread she kept behind the counter but didn't bother to beg a slice. Fanny Burke gave nothing away for free, not even a smile. With stomach rumbling, he pushed through a door, walked down a dark hall crammed with crates and trash, and stepped outside.

The rear yard smelled of wet straw and horse dung, and the interminable rain had churned the ground into a sea of mud. Beneath the stable overhang, a horse gave a nicker, and Norris saw that it was already harnessed to the dray.

— Not going to wait for you next time, boy! — Fanny's husband, Jack, emerged from the shadows of the stable. He carried two shovels, which he threw in the back of the wagon. — Want to be paid, get here at the appointed hour. — With a grunt, he hoisted himself onto the buckboard and took the reins. — You comin'? —

By the glow of the stable lantern, Norris could see Jack staring down at him, and felt the same confusion he always did, about which eye he should focus on. Left and right skewed in different directions. Wall-eyed Jack was what everyone called the man, but never to his face. No one dared.

Norris scrambled up into the dray beside Jack, who didn't even wait for him to settle onto the bench before giving the horse an impatient flick of his whip. They rolled across the muck of the yard and out the rear gate.

The rain beat down on their hats and ran in rivulets down their coats, but Wall-eyed Jack seemed scarcely to notice. He sat hunched like a gargoyle beside Norris, every so often snapping the reins when the pace of the horse flagged.

— How far we going this time? — asked Norris.

— Out of town. —

— Where? —

— Does it matter? — Jack hacked up a gob of phlegm and spat into the street.

No, it didn't matter. As far as Norris was concerned, this was a night he simply had to endure, however miserable it might prove to be. He wasn't afraid of hard work on the farm, and he even enjoyed the ache of muscles well used, but this sort of work could give a man nightmares. A normal man, anyway. He glanced at his companion and wondered what, if anything, gave Jack Burke nightmares.

The dray rocked over the cobblestones, and in the back of the cart the two shovels rattled, a continuous reminder of the unpleasant task that lay ahead. He thought of his classmates, no doubt sitting that moment in the warmth of the Hurricane, enjoying a last round before heading off to their respective lodgings to study Wistar's Anatomy. He'd prefer to be studying, too, but this was the bargain he'd struck with the college, a bargain he'd gratefully agreed to. This is all for a higher purpose, he thought, as they rolled out of Boston, moving west, as the shovels rattled and the dray creaked in rhythm to the words running through his head: A higher purpose. A higher purpose.

— Came by this way two days ago, — said Jack, and spat again. — Stopped at that tavern there. — He pointed, and through the veil of falling rain, Norris saw the glow of firelight in a window. — Had me a nice chat, I did, with the proprietor. —

Norris waited, saying nothing. There was a reason Jack had brought this up. The man did not make pointless conversation.

— Said there's a whole family in town, two young ladies and a brother, ailing from the consumption. All of 'em doing quite poorly. — He made a sound that might have been a laugh. — Have to check in again tomorrow, see if they're getting ready to pass on. Any luck, we'll have three at once. — Jack looked at Norris. — I'll be needing you for that one. —

Norris gave a stiff nod, his dislike of this man suddenly so strong he could scarcely abide being seated next to him.

— Oh, you think you're too damn good for this, — said Jack. — Don't you? —

Norris didn't answer.

— Too good to be around the likes of me. —

— I do this for a greater good. —

Jack laughed. — Some high-and-mighty words for a farmer. Think you're going to make a fine living, eh? Live in a grand house. —

— That's not the point. —

— Then the more fool, you. What's the point if there ain't money in it? —

Norris sighed. — Yes, Mr. Burke, of course you're right. Money is the only thing worth laboring for. —

— You think this will make you one of those gentlemen? You think they'll invite you to their fancy oyster parties, let you court their daughters? —

— This is a new age. Today, any man can rise above his station. —

— Do you s'pose they know that? Those Harvard gentlemen? Do you s'pose they'll welcome you? —

Norris went silent, wondering if perhaps Jack had a point. He thought once again of Wendell Holmes and Kingston and Lackaway, sitting in the Hurricane, sleeve to well-tailored sleeve with others of their kind. A world away from the filthy Black Spar, where Fanny Burke reigned over her foul kingdom of the hopeless. I, too, could have been at the Hurricane tonight, he thought. Wendell had asked, but was it out of courtesy or pity?

Jack snapped the reins, and the dray jolted ahead through mud and ruts. — Still a ways to go, — he said and gave a snorting laugh. — I hope the gentleman here enjoys the ride. —

By the time Jack finally pulled the rig to a stop, Norris's clothes were soaked through. Stiff and shaking from the cold, he could barely make his muscles obey as he climbed out of the cart. His shoes splashed ankle-deep in mud.

Jack thrust the shovels into his hands. — Make quick work of it. — He grabbed trowels and a tarp from the cart, then led the way across sodden grass. He did not light the lantern yet, as he did not want to be seen. He seemed to know the way by instinct, weaving among the headstones until he stopped at bare earth. There was no marker, only a mound of dirt turned muddy in the rain.

— Buried just today, — said Jack, taking a shovel.

— How did you know about this one? —

— I ask around. I listen. — Eyeing the grave, he muttered, — Head should be at this end, — and scooped up a shovelful of mud. — Came through here a fortnight ago, — he said, flinging the mud aside. — Heard this one was near to giving up the ghost. —

Norris set to work as well. Though it was a fresh burial and the dirt had not settled, the soil was soaked and heavy. After shoveling only a few minutes, he no longer felt the cold.

— Someone dies, people talk about it, — panted Jack. — Keep your ear to the ground and you'll know who's about to go in. They order coffins, buy flowers. — Jack flung aside another scoop and paused, wheezing. — Trick is not to let 'em know you're interested. They get suspicious, you got yourself complications. — He resumed digging, but at a slower pace. Norris did the lion's share, his shovel splashing deeper and deeper. Rain continued to fall, puddling in the hole, and Norris's trousers were caked with mud all the way up to his knees. Soon Jack stopped shoveling entirely and climbed out of the hole to squat at the edge, his wheezing now so loud that Norris glanced up, just to be certain the man was not on the verge of collapse. This was the only reason the old miser was willing to share even a penny of his profits, the only reason he ever brought along an assistant: He could no longer do it alone. He knew where the prizes were buried, but he needed a young man's back, a young man's muscles, to dig them up. And so Jack squatted and watched his assistant work, watched the hole deepen.

Norris's shovel hit wood.

— About time, — grunted Jack. Beneath the cover of the tarp, he lit the lantern, then grabbed his shovel and slid back into the hole. The men scraped away mud from the coffin, working so close together in the cramped space that Norris gagged on the odor of Jack's breath, foul with the stench of tobacco and rotten teeth. Even this corpse, he thought, could not smell so putrid. Bit by bit, they cleared away the mud, revealing the head end of the coffin.

Jack slipped two iron hooks under the lid and handed one of the ropes to Norris. They climbed out of the hole and together pulled against the lid, both of them grunting and straining as nails squealed and wood groaned. The lid suddenly splintered and the rope went slack, sending Norris sprawling backward.

— That's it! That's good enough! — said Jack. He lowered the lantern into the hole and looked down upon the coffin's occupant.

Through the shattered coffin lid, they could see that the corpse was a woman, her skin pale as tallow. Golden ringlets of hair framed her heart-shaped face, and resting upon her bodice was a nosegay of dried flowers, the petals disintegrating under the falling rain. So beautiful, thought Norris. An angel, too soon called to heaven.

— Fresh as can be, — said Jack with a happy cackle. He reached through the broken lid and slipped his hands under the girl's arms. She was light enough that he could drag her, unassisted, out of the coffin. But he was wheezing as he lifted her from the hole and laid her on the tarp. — Let's get her clothes off. —

Norris, suddenly feeling nauseated, didn't move.

— What? Don't want to touch a pretty girl? —

Norris shook his head. — She deserves better. —

— You didn't have no problem with the last one we dug up. —

— That was an old man. —

— And this is a girl. What's the difference? —

— You know there's a difference! —

— All I know is that she'll fetch the same price. And she'll be a lot pleasanter to strip. — He gave a soft cackle of anticipation and pulled out a knife. He had neither the time nor the patience to undo the buttons and hooks, so he simply slipped the blade under the neckline of the corpse's dress and rent apart the fabric, tearing the gown open down the front to reveal a gossamer-thin chemise beneath it. He went at his task with gusto, methodically ripping open the skirt, pulling off the tiny satin slippers. Norris could only watch, appalled by the violation of this young woman's modesty. And to be violated by a man such as Jack Burke! Yet he knew it must be done, for the law was unforgiving. To be caught with a stolen corpse was serious enough; to be caught in possession of a corpse's stolen property, even a fragment of her dress, was to risk far worse penalties. They must take nothing but the body itself. So Jack ruthlessly stripped away the clothes, removed the rings from her fingers, the satin ribbons from her hair. He tossed them all into the coffin, then glanced at Norris.

— You gonna help carry her back to the wagon or not? — he growled.

Norris stared down at the naked corpse, her skin white as alabaster. She was painfully thin, her body consumed by some long and unforgiving illness. She was beyond help now; perhaps some good could still come of her death.

— Who's out there? — a distant voice shouted. — Who trespasses? —

The challenge sent Norris diving onto the ground. At once Jack doused the lantern and whispered: — Get her out of sight! — Norris dragged the corpse back into the open grave, then both he and Jack scrambled into the hole as well. Pressed close to the corpse, Norris felt his heart pounding against her chilled skin. He did not dare move. He listened for the footsteps of the approaching watchman, but all he could hear was the beating rain, and the thump of his own pulse. The woman lay beneath him like a compliant lover. Had any other man known the touch of her skin, felt the curve of her bare breast? Or am I the first?

It was Jack who finally dared to raise his head and peer out of the hole. — I don't see him, — he whispered.

— He could still be watching. —

— No man in his right mind would be out in this weather any longer than he has to. —

— What does that say about us? —

— Tonight the rain's our friend. — Jack gave a grunt as he rose, straightening stiff joints. — Best we move her quick. —

They did not relight the lantern, but worked in the darkness. While Jack lifted the feet, Norris gripped the nude body beneath the arms, and he felt the corpse's damp hair drape across his arms as he lifted her shoulders from the hole. Whatever sweet fragrance had once blessed those blond ringlets was now masked by the faint odor of decay. Already her body had begun its inevitable journey to putrefaction, which soon would erode her beauty as skin disintegrated, as eyes sank to hollows. But for now the girl was still an angel, and he handled her gently as he lowered her onto the tarp.

The rain slowed to a drizzle as they quickly refilled the hole, shoveling mud back onto the now vacant coffin. To leave the grave open would only advertise that resurrectionists had been at work here, that the body of a beloved had been snatched. They took the time to cover their tracks rather than risk setting off an outraged inquiry. When the last of the earth had been replaced, they smoothed over the ground as best they could with their shovels, working only by the dim glow through the clouds. In time, the grass would grow in, a headstone would be planted, and loved ones would continue to lay flowers on a grave where no one slept.

They wrapped the corpse in the tarp, and Norris carried her in his arms like a groom bearing his new bride across the threshold. She was light, so pitifully light, and it took no effort at all to bring her across the wet grass, past the gravestones of those who had passed on before her. Gently he set her on the cart. Jack carelessly tossed the shovels beside her.

She was treated with no greater care than the tools rattling next to her, her corpse jolted like mean cargo as they rode through an icy drizzle back to town. Norris found no reason to exchange words with Jack, so he kept his silence, longing only for the night to be over so he could part ways with this repellent man. As they neared the city, they shared the road with other carts and carriages, other drivers who would wave and occasionally call out greetings of shared misery. Not a night to be out, eh? How'd we get so lucky? It'll be sleet by morning! Jack cheerily returned the greetings, betraying not a hint of anxiety about the forbidden load he was hauling.

By the time they turned onto the cobblestoned street behind the apothecary shop, Jack was whistling. Anticipating, no doubt, the cash that would soon line his pocket. They rumbled to a stop on the paving stones. Jack jumped down from the dray and knocked on the shop's back door. A moment later the door opened, and Norris saw the glow of a lamp shining through the crack.

— We got one, — said Jack.

The door opened wider, revealing the bearded, heavyset man holding the lamp. At this hour, he was already dressed in his nightclothes. — Bring it in, then. And be quiet about it. —

Jack spat on the stones and turned to Norris. — Well, come on, then. Bring her in. —

Norris lifted the tarp-covered body and carried her through the open doorway. The man with the lamp met his gaze with a nod of recognition. — Upstairs, Dr. Sewall? — asked Norris.

— You know the way, Mr. Marshall. —

Yes, Norris knew the way, for this was not his first visit to this dark alley, nor was it the first time he had carried a corpse up this narrow stairway. On the last visit, he had struggled with his burden, panting and grunting as he'd dragged the corpulent body up the stairs, fat naked legs bumping against the steps. Tonight, his burden was much lighter, little more than the weight of a child. He reached the second floor and paused in the dark. Dr. Sewall squeezed past him and led the way up the hall, his footsteps creaking heavily across the floorboards, the flame of his lamp casting dancing shadows on the walls. Norris followed Sewall through the last doorway, into a room where a table waited to receive its precious merchandise. He gently set down the corpse. Jack had followed them up the stairs and stationed himself at one end of the table, the sound of his wheezing magnified by the stillness of the room.

Sewall approached the table and pulled back the tarp.

In the flickering lamplight, the girl's face seemed to glow with the rosy warmth of life. Wet tendrils of hair released droplets of rainwater that trickled down her cheek like glistening tears.

— Yes, she's in good condition, — murmured Dr. Sewall as he peeled away the tarp, exposing the naked torso. Norris had to suppress the urge to stay the man's hand and prevent this violation of a maiden's modesty. He saw, with disgust, the lascivious glint in Jack's eyes, the eagerness with which he leaned in for a closer look. Gazing down at the girl's face, Norris thought: I am sorry that you must suffer this indignity.

Sewall straightened and gave a nod. — She'll do, Mr. Burke. —

— And she'll make for some fine entertainment, too, — said Jack with a grin.

— Entertainment is not why we do this, — Sewall retorted. — She serves a higher purpose. Enlightenment. —

— Oh, of course, — Jack said. — So where's my money? I'd like to be paid for all this enlightenment I'm providing you. —

Sewall produced a small cloth bag, which he handed to Jack. — Your fee. There'll be the same when you bring another one. —

— There's only fifteen dollars in here. We agreed on twenty. —

— You required Mr. Marshall's services tonight. Five dollars is credited toward his tuition. That adds up to twenty. —

— I know damn well what it adds up to, — said Jack, ramming the money into his pocket. — And for what I provide, it's not nearly enough. —

— I'm sure I can find another resurrectionist who'd be quite satisfied with what I pay. —

— But no one who'll deliver 'em to you this fresh. All you'll get is rotten meat crawling with worms. —

— Twenty dollars per specimen is what I pay. Whether or not you need an assistant is your decision. But I doubt that Mr. Marshall here will work without adequate compensation. —

Jack shot a resentful look at Norris. — He's my muscle, that's all. I'm the one who knows where to find 'em. —

— Then keep finding them for me. —

— Oh, I'll have one for you, all right. — Jack turned to leave. In the doorway, he paused and reluctantly looked back at Norris. — The Black Spar, Thursday night. Seven o'clock, — he snapped, and walked out. His footsteps thumped heavily down the stairs, and the door slammed shut.

— Is there no one else you can call on? — asked Norris. — He's the worst kind of filth. —

— But those are the people we're forced to work with. All resurrectionists are alike. If our laws were more enlightened, then vermin like him would not be in business at all. Until that day, we're forced to deal with the likes of Mr. Burke. — Sewall moved back to the table and looked down at the girl. — At least he manages to procure usable cadavers. —

— I'd happily choose any employment but this, Dr. Sewall. —

— You wish to be a physician, do you not? —

— Yes, but to work with that man. Is there no other task I could perform? —

— There's no need more pressing to our college than the procurement of specimens. —

Norris gazed down at the girl. And said, softly: — I don't think she ever imagined herself as a specimen. —

— We are all specimens, Mr. Marshall. Take away the soul, and any body is the same as another. Heart, lungs, kidneys. Beneath the skin, even a young lady as lovely as this one is no different. It's always a tragedy, of course, for one so young to die. — Briskly, Dr. Sewall pulled the tarp over the corpse, and it gently billowed down over the girl's slender frame. — But in death, she will serve a nobler purpose. —