The Bone Garden: A Novel

dissection. —

Edward murmured, — I give him ten seconds before he hits the ground. —

— Hush, — said Wendell.

Charles approached the body. Even from where he sat, Norris could see Charles's hand shaking.

— The abdomen, — said Sewall. — Make your cut. —

Charles pressed the knife to the skin. The whole audience seemed to hold their breath as he hesitated. Grimacing, he made a slice down the belly, but his cut was so shallow the skin did not even part.

— You'll have to be bolder than that, — said Sewall.

— I? I'm afraid I'll damage something important. —

— You haven't even penetrated to the subcutaneous fat. Cut deeper. —

Charles paused, gathering up his nerve. Again he sliced. Again it was too shallow, a stuttering incision that left large gaps of the abdominal wall intact.

— You'll have her shredded by the time you finally get into the cavity, — said Sewall.

— I don't want to cut through the bowel. —

— Look, you've already penetrated here, above the umbilicus. Poke a finger through and control your incision. —

Though the room was not warm, Charles raised his sleeve to his forehead and wiped away sweat. Then, using one hand to stretch the belly wall taut, he sliced a third time. Pink loops slithered out, dripping bloody fluid onto the stage. He kept cutting, and his knife opened an ever-widening gap through which bowel spilled free. The putrid smell that rose from the cavity made him turn away, his face pale with nausea.

— Watch it. You've nicked the bowel! — barked Sewall.

Charles flinched, and his knife fell from his hand and thudded to the stage. — I've cut myself, — he whimpered. — My finger. —

Sewall gave an exasperated sigh. — Oh, go on, then. Sit down. I'll finish the demonstration myself. —

Flushing with humiliation, Charles slunk off the stage and returned to his seat beside Norris.

— You all right, Charlie? — whispered Wendell.

— I was a disaster. —

From behind, a hand clapped him on the shoulder. — Look on the bright side, — said Edward. — At least this time, you didn't faint. —

— Mr. Kingston! — boomed Dr. Sewall from the stage. — Would you care to share your comments with the rest of the class? —

— No, sir. —

— Then kindly pay attention. This young woman nobly offered up her body for the benefit of future generations. The least you can do is pay her the respect of your silence. — Dr. Sewall refocused on the cadaver, whose abdomen now gaped open. — You see, revealed here, the peritoneal membrane, and its appearance is quite abnormal. It is dull. In a healthy young soldier, killed quickly in combat, the membranes are bright and glistening. But in cases of childbed fever, the peritoneum lacks luster and there are pockets of pale and creamy fluid, foul smelling enough to turn the stomachs of even the most seasoned anatomist. I have seen bellies where the organs are drowning in this muck, and the intestines have numerous patches of hemorrhage. We cannot explain the reason for these changes. Indeed, as you've heard from Dr. Crouch, the theories for the cause of childbed fever are legion. Is it related to erysipelas or typhus? Is it an accident or merely providence, as Dr. Meigs in Philadelphia believes? I am no more than an anatomist. I can only show you what I have laid bare with my knife. By offering up her mortal remains for study, this subject has bestowed the gift of knowledge to every one of you. —

Hardly a gift, thought Norris. Dr. Sewall always sang the praises of the unfortunate subjects who crossed his table. He pronounced them noble and generous, as though they had willingly offered themselves to be publicly hacked open and disemboweled. But this woman was no volunteer; she was a charity case, her body unclaimed by either family or friends. Sewall's praise was an unasked-for honor that almost certainly would have horrified her.

Dr. Sewall had split open the chest, and now he lifted out a lung for the audience to inspect. Only days ago, such a mutilation of the torso had shocked this group of medical students. Now these same men sat silent and unperturbed. No one looked away; no one lowered his head. They'd been introduced to the sights of the anatomy lab. They knew its smells, that unique mingling of decay and carbolic acid, and each had held the dissecting knife in his own hands. Glancing at his classmates, Norris saw a range of expressions from boredom to fierce concentration. Only a few weeks of medical study had stiffened their spines and steadied their stomachs so they could watch without disgust as Sewall excavated the heart and remaining lung from the chest. We've surrendered our sense of horror, thought Norris. It was the first step, a necessary step in their training.

There would be worse to come.

Nineteen

EARLY IN THE EVENING, Wall-eyed Jack had already singled him out. The sailor sat alone at a table, talking to no one, his gaze fixed only on the rum that Fanny set before him. Three drinks was all he had money for. He downed the last drink, and as Fanny waited, he rummaged through his pockets for more coins, but came up empty-handed. Jack could see Fanny's lips tighten, her eyes narrow. She had no patience for freeloaders. As far as she was concerned, if a man took up space at a table and enjoyed the feeble warmth of her hearth, he had better be able to afford to keep the rum flowing. Either you paid for another round, or you moved on. Even though the Black Spar was better than half empty tonight, Fanny allowed no exceptions. She didn't distinguish between the long-term patrons and the blowins; if they had no cash, they got no drinks, and out into the cold with them. That was the problem, thought Jack, watching Fanny's face turn ugly. That was why the Black Spar was a failing enterprise. Walk a ways down the street, into that new tavern, the Mermaid, and you'd find a laughing young barmaid and a generous fire that would put to shame the stingy flames in Fanny's hearth.

You'd also find a crowd, many of them Fanny's old regulars who'd fled the Black Spar. And no wonder; given a choice between a cheery barmaid and Fanny's scowl, any man in his right mind would head for the Mermaid. Already, he knew what she'd do next. First, she'd demand that the hapless sailor buy another round. And when he could not, she'd start in with her harangue. You think that table's free? You think I can afford to let you sit here all night, taking a paying customer's place? As if a line of paying customers stood waiting for the table. I have the rent to pay and the tradesmen's bills. They don't work for free, and neither do I. He could see her jaw tighten, her stout arms flexing for battle.

Before she could speak, Jack caught her gaze. He gave her a warning shake of his head. Leave that one alone, Fanny.

She stared at Jack for a moment. Then, with a nod of comprehension, she went behind the bar and poured a glass of rum. She came back to the sailor's table and set the glass before him.

The drink did not last long. A few gulps and it was all down his throat.

Fanny set another drink before him. She did it silently, calling no attention to the man's bottomless glass. This was not a crowd that was likely to notice anyway. In the Spar, a wise man kept to himself and minded his own drink. No one counted the number of times Fanny whisked away an empty glass and replaced it with a full one. No one cared that the man began to slump forward, his head resting on his arms.

One by one, as their pockets emptied, the customers staggered out into the cold, until there was only one man left, the snoring seaman at the corner table.

Fanny crossed to the door, barred it shut, and turned to look at Jack.

— How much did you give him? — he asked.

— Enough to drown a horse. —

The seaman gave a great rattling snore.

— He's still plenty alive, — Jack said.