The Undertaker's Assistant

by Amanda Skenandore

  “Your word’s no good in this house,” Colonel Randolph said. “But I have the assurance of your brother. His word I’ll take. Find me in my study when you finish. If I see any other markings when I inspect his body, by God, I’ll . . .” But he didn’t finish, only stamped from the room.

  As soon as Colonel Randolph’s footfalls faded down the hallway, Mr. Whitmark passed the injection pump to Effie. He flexed and splayed his fingers several times like he was working out a cramp and then slumped into a nearby armchair.

  Effie readjusted the catheter so later, as the pressure increased, the fluid would not leak out around the sides. For several minutes, only the rhythmic wheezing of the rubber bulb sounded in the room.

  What if she squeezed a little faster? A little harder. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Until the tiny blood vessels in the young man’s face burst and the skin beneath his eyes, around his nose, across his cheekbones became even more ravaged and discolored than before. A common side effect of the injection, she’d tell Colonel Randolph. Unavoidable really. Serve him right for the way he’d manhandled her.

  But Mr. Whitmark would know. She glanced over at him—elbows resting on his knees, face buried in his hands, a sudden twitch of the pinkie—and kept her rhythm slow and smooth. “Who is this Mr. Randolph?”

  Mr. Whitmark didn’t answer. Didn’t even move. Then he groaned, raked his fingers through his hair, and sat up. “He’s a cotton merchant. A lauded officer from the War.”

  Effie pursed her lips and gave a quiet hmm.

  “The irony is inescapable, ay? You’d hardly know we won the War.” He looked at her and grimaced. “Sorry. I don’t mean to say . . . I suppose for you the outcome is more . . . pronounced.”

  Yes, though perhaps less than he thought. Especially today.

  “At least we preserved the Union,” he said, with little gusto.

  “You called Mr. Randolph William. Were you friends?”

  He stood and came over to the body. “I was at this boy’s christening.”

  “And that other man—he’s the brother you spoke of?”

  “James, yes. He and William fought together under General Hood.” Mr. Whitmark reached toward the dead man’s face, as if to brush a stray eyelash from his cheek or smooth an errant lock of hair, but stopped midway and instead clasped his hands behind his back. “You can fix his nose, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the bruising?”

  “Some of it will fade on its own. The rest I’ll hide with complexion powder.”

  “Not too much. Mustn’t have him looking like a Mary.”

  Effie scowled. If he were going to badger her like this, she wished he’d just leave too. By now, hadn’t she proved her skill? She laid aside the hand pump and refilled the fluid reservoir, careful not to spill any of the liquid or splash it upon her skin. The bloom of chemical scent into the air made her eyes water. Still, she preferred it to the rancid perfume smell of before.

  “How much fluid have we injected?” Mr. Whitmark asked.

  “A pint and three quarters.”

  “Good, good. Not much more now. Don’t overdo it.”

  Effie clamped her teeth down on the sides of her tongue. She’d already estimated the amount of fluid they would need based on the size and condition of the body. She knew, down to the half-teaspoon, how much each bottle of fluid held, how much it took to fill the rubber tubing, how much each compression of the bulb forced into the body. But these calculations were just a guide. Ultimately, Effie went by feel. She knew the exact force her final squeezes would require, the exact strength each finger must exert.

  Mr. Whitmark returned to the armchair but did not sit down. His idle fingers picked at the lace tidy thrown over the top of the chair. Was it that he had known the young man that made him so restless and overbearing? He hardly seemed on amicable terms with the family. She thought back to what Colm had said about Mr. Whitmark having enough to do in defending his name. “This Mr. Randolph is important, isn’t he?”

  “All our clients are important.”

  Effie fixed him with a hard stare.

  “A good word at the Pickwick Club could go a long way.” He sighed and sank back into the chair. “Let’s just get the boy fixed up and worry about the rest later.”

  Effie turned back to the body. A long way toward what? She’d heard that name before, the Pickwick Club, something Tom had said to Samson in relation to the White League. Had she not been so transfixed with the way Samson was flipping one of the wooden nickels tossed out by the paraders over and under his knuckles she might have remembered just what he’d said. But Samson had lovely hands, his long, straight fingers as agile as they were strong. She thought again how he’d tucked her cold hand in the crook of his arm and for a moment she was transported from this dark, smelly room back onto the street, where the sun shone and music played and Samson walked beside her.

  The reprieve was short-lived. Pressure built with each squeeze of the bulb, and she readied herself for the final pumps. She had yet to inject the abdomen and cranial cavity, yet to suture the wound, yet to rebuild the nose. Clearly this man had been out yesterday with the crowds. Had he been one of the men who accosted her with flour? Or one of those revelers with soot on his face acting the part of the foolish Negro?

  Mr. Whitmark’s hand on her shoulder made her start.

  “Is it done?”

  She gave a final, measured squeeze. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry if . . . did he hurt you?”

  He was referring to Colonel Randolph, right? Not the man with the knapsack of flour, not Captain Kinyon, not the master whose face she couldn’t recall? Anyway, it didn’t matter. Like her dry eyes in the face of pain, the lie was ready on her tongue. “No.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Are you sure this boot is going to work?” Adeline said from behind the dressing screen. A country vista of graceful trees and wooly hills decorated the panels. But the paint was cracked, peeling at the corners, and the fluffy white clouds yellow with age.

  “It will work,” Effie said, though strictly speaking that was more hypothesis than fact. The boot was far too small to test herself.

  After a splash of water and clink of porcelain, Adeline came around the screen in her chemise and corset. She sat on the chaise at the foot of her bed and pulled on her stockings. Then she turned sideways and said over her shoulder to Effie, “Tighten my laces, won’t you, chère?”

  Effie grimaced. She’d come expecting to hand over the boots at the front door and be gone. The Adeline she’d seen at Charity Hospital—so tender and selfless—did not drive from her mind the other Adeline she knew—vain and condescending—and Effie had no intention of wasting an afternoon with such a woman. But Adeline had insisted Effie stay while she try on the boots. Why that required a complete change of her toilette bewildered Effie.

  Now, Adeline gave a soft but pointed ahem. Effie sighed. After standing idle in this cavernous room of tired, mismatched furniture for near half an hour, what was a minute or two more? She sat beside her on the chaise, horsehair poking her through the frayed upholstery. She set down the boots and untied the knot at the bottom of Adeline’s corset.

  After Mrs. Kinyon had showed her how to pull tight her own laces and reach all the buttons at the back of a dress, Effie couldn’t remember ever having dressed or undressed in front of another person. Adeline, however, was entirely nonchalant. Likely she’d never been without her maid or mother close at hand to tie her off or fluff her bustle. Not until of late. And judging from the crooked laces and haphazard knot, she wasn’t very good at dressing alone.

  Effie rethreaded the bottom eyelets and synched the laces. “How’s that?”

  “Tighter.”

  “You ought to have greater consideration for the health of your organs. When your diaphragm can’t fully contract—”

  “Don’t be a ninny. Tighter!”

  She tugged until Adeline let out a little gasp, then tied a double bow.
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br />   Adeline smoothed her hands down her nipped waist and took a few shallow breaths. “Parfait. Now let’s try these boots.”

  “You should feel a small protuberance beneath your left heel. That operates the lever,” Effie said, as Adeline slipped them on. “When you press down, the level triggers the hammer inside the heel to strike.”

  She waited.

  No sound.

  “Are you pressing down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harder.”

  Still silence.

  Effie slid off the chaise and knelt beside her. “Rock your foot back so all your weight’s on the heel.”

  “People will see my leg move.”

  “Not unless you mean to wear your skirts about your waist.”

  Adeline huffed but did as bidden. A loud knocking sound rang through the room. “Mon Dieu! It’s brilliant.” She clapped and stood. “Positively—” The boot heel sounded again as she took a step and her gleeful expression deflated. “Merde. How am I supposed to walk?”

  Effie frowned too. She’d worried that might happen. “You’ll have to keep as much weight off your heel as possible.”

  Adeline paced the length of the room—gait lurching and toes turned inward—until she managed to keep the boot quiet. “Voilà!”

  Effie pressed a hand to her lips, but couldn’t contain her laughter.

  “What?”

  “You’re shambling about like a maimed pigeon.”

  “You think you could do better?” Adeline bent and started to unlace the boots as if to give Effie a try.

  “No, I can’t,” Effie said, still laughing. “They don’t fit.”

  Adeline raised her chin. “Well, I’d rather shamble like a bird than clomp about with big feet like . . . like un éléphant.”

  Though Effie had been teased about her big feet countless times as a girl, Adeline’s words didn’t sting. Instead, they only made her laugh harder. Soon Adeline was laughing too. They laughed until Effie’s eyes watered and her stomach muscles cramped.

  “Just walk on the balls of your feet—both feet—and you should be fine,” Effie said when she’d recovered herself.

  A few more turns about the room, and Adeline’s gait evened out.

  “If you’re satisfied, I’ll be going—”

  Adeline cut her off with a flap of her hand. “I want to try it in full costume to be sure you can still hear it beneath my skirts.”

  “I’m sure it will be plenty loud.” But the bout of laughter had weakened Effie’s resolve, and she watched from the chaise as Adeline retrieved her petticoat and crinolette from the wide oak wardrobe and laid them out on the bed. Next she pulled out the same dress of purple silk taffeta and black velvet she’d worn the night Effie first met her.

  “Why don’t you find real employment instead of this spirit medium ruse?”

  Adeline threw the skirt on overhead, swimming through the folds of fabric until it fell into place atop her underskirts. “Bon Dieu! I’m not that desperate.”

  One glance about the room and Effie knew that was a lie. The furniture had the look of money—the large half-canopy bed of richly carved walnut, the lacquered writing desk with gold-painted trim, the marble-topped dressing table and oval-shaped mirror—but none of it matched or seemed entirely suited to the space, as if it had been scavenged from other rooms and carelessly flung together. The Oriental rug at Effie’s feet was so worn the threads appeared translucent. The floral-print wallpaper had faded to a ubiquitous dull beige. Even the mosquito netting tied back beside the bed bore the scars of numerous stitchings.

  “It’s just a lark, these sittings, anyway,” Adeline said, buttoning her bodice. “A way to pass the time.”

  Effie watched her struggle with the last two buttons before brushing her hand away and fastening them herself. “I’m not one of your simpering friends. You needn’t lie to me.”

  Adeline turned around. Her gaze, hitherto flighty, fixed on Effie with intensity. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Then why not take up work elsewhere? As a seamstress perhaps or—”

  “Ma chère, women of my set do not work. One could never overcome the stigma.” She walked to her dressing table, the boot knocking with the first step—a sound that made them both jump and then chuckle—but quiet thereafter.

  “What do you mean to do, then? Play the medium forever?”

  “Of course not. I mean to marry. Speaking of which, have you seen your Mr. Grier lately?”

  “Mr. Greene, Samson.” Effie concentrated on keeping her voice even, despite her fluttering insides. “I saw him Tuesday.”

  Adeline sank onto the velvet tuffet beside her dressing table and waved Effie over to the nearby chair. “Do tell.”

  Really she ought to go. It was clear from Adeline’s misstep that the knocking device could be well heard despite the shroud of her skirts. But then, what harm was there in staying a minute or two more?

  She sat and pondered where to begin. Her encounter with Samson had seemed so momentous, yet so little had actually transpired between them.

  “I bought a new dress like you advised.”

  “Ça alors! Why aren’t you wearing it? What color is it?”

  “Lavender.”

  “And the style?”

  “I don’t know. The style that was in the shop window.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  Effie sighed, regretting she’d brought up the dress at all, but did her best to explain it.

  “Hmm . . . ça va,” Adeline said when she’d finished. “But really, you must take me with you next time. I know all the best shops.”

  Effie doubted she could afford the shops Adeline frequented, and the idea of having her fuss over the type of lace, length of the train, or number of flounces seemed pure torture. “After I dressed, I met up with some of the club members on Canal Street to watch the parade.”

  “And Mr. . . . Greene was there?”

  “Not straightaway.” The memory of those men with their flour and lime bullied to the forefront of her thoughts. She shuddered and pushed it back. “But he arrived soon after and we watched the procession together.”

  “And?”

  She debated whether to skip the part about them entering the parade with the banner. Her conversation with Colm had made her wary, and Adeline had showed no interest in politics. Yet once Effie began describing the event—taking hold of the corner of the banner, being swept up with the others into the current of the parade—she found herself compelled to continue. Samson’s shoulder brushing against hers. His radiant smile. The noise from the crowd. The shock when that first piece of rind struck her cheek. Her surge of fear at the sight of the police and their billy clubs. The awe Samson’s indignation stirred inside her. The stab of sorrow she endured at their parting.

  Adeline listened with greater intent than Effie expected. But in the end, she frowned and turned back to her dressing table. “You didn’t do what I instructed.”

  “What?”

  “Our conversation. About l’opéra.”

  “I don’t think it really applies to the club—”

  “It applies everywhere.” She untied the ribbon securing her braid and unplaited her hair. “Who’s the prima donna?”

  “Mrs. Carrière, I suppose.”

  “And the mezzo?” Adeline ran her fingers through her glossy hair, then divided it into sections and followed with a wide-toothed comb, starting at the tips and working her way up.

  Once or twice during the War, Mr. Kinyon had tried to comb her hair but quickly gave up and cropped it down to her skull the way it had been when she’d arrived at the camp. Mrs. Kinyon was not as merciful. She tried a boar’s-hair brush, but that only made Effie’s hair frizz like the head of a thistle. Next came the comb, a narrow-toothed silver affair that she raked through Effie’s curls until Effie thought her scalp might peel off with each pass. “Do you always take such pains with your hair?”

  “Bien sûr, don’t you?”

  Effie
gave a quick shake of her head, skirting the reflection of Adeline’s gaze in the dressing table mirror.

  “Mon Dieu. No wonder your hair’s such a fright. Here, turn around. I’ll show—”

  “No need.” Effie leaned away, but Adeline paid her no heed. She rose from her vanity, comb in hand, and circled around Effie’s chair. A quick tug at the bow fastened beneath her chin, and her bonnet was off, flung aside like a soiled rag.

  “Really, I must go. I’ve a—”

  “Hush. I know good and well you haven’t anyplace to be.” She plucked the pins from Effie’s bun, tilted her head back, and gave a long hmm.

  Effie flinched at the feel of the comb’s metal teeth on her scalp. But Adeline’s touch was surprisingly gentle. Not at all how Mrs. Kinyon had attacked her hair.

  “You ought to soften it up with oil and let it grow out some,” Adeline said. “In any case, it’s not so altogether bad you need hide it under that bonnet like you do.” She worked the comb through to the ends. “Quite a rich color, really. If you only . . .”

  Adeline prattled on about the latest updos, and Effie closed her eyes. The soft tug of the comb lulled her unease. The sounds of the house fell away—the ticktock of the grandfather clock down the hall, the whine of rusty shutters beyond the open window. Even Adeline’s voice became soft and muffled.

  Effie had wondered when she first arrived North with Captain Kinyon what it would have been like had his daughter been alive. She’d imagined them playing together in the yard, whispering late into the night, plaiting each other’s hair . . . But no. That was a child’s delusion. A fantasy borne of the loneliness she’d not yet learned to shoulder. Even had Annabelle lived, they’d not have been as sisters.

  A shiver worked down her spine. Effie opened her eyes.

  “Hold still, I’m almost done.” Adeline twisted and pinned the final section of her hair. “Voilà!”

  Effie fingered the intricate chignon at the back of her head. She swiveled toward the mirror and eyed her reflection. How billowy and elegant her hair lay. Utterly impractical for an undertaker’s assistant, and yet she couldn’t look away.