The Bone Garden: A Novel

thought, and I never even saw the sea.

There was a sharp rap on her door, and she turned, startled.

— Julia! — Henry called. — Are you awake yet? —

— I'm just getting up. —

— You must come downstairs at once. —

The urgency in his voice made her immediately cross the room and open the door.

He was standing in the hall, his face alight with excitement. — I've found another letter. —

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