“That was the last nail,” he said, his voice tight. “We’re going to take you outside now. Try not to move.”
The coffin rocked slightly, then was lifted in the air in one swift upward movement. For a second, Clara couldn’t feel her body weight. Her head started spinning and she pressed her hands against the wooden sides, tiny splinters digging into her skin. Bruno and Lawrence carried her into the tunnel, up the steps, and onto a waiting wagon, her body shifting inside the coffin like a rolled rug, no matter how hard she tried to stay still. It was all she could do not to scream.
Near the back of the cemetery, Bruno and Lawrence unloaded the coffin from the wagon and carried it into the cedar grove, hiding it within a dense stand of trees. Bruno used a crow bar to pry open the lid, careful not to break the wood so they could reuse the coffin for Annie Blumberg. Waiting to be free, Clara took slow, shaky breaths, fighting the urge to push her way out. Then, finally, Bruno pulled the cover off. Clara bolted upright and scrambled out of the coffin, taking deep gulps of fresh air, like a woman rescued from drowning. Bruno stood and crushed her to his chest, his face buried in her neck, his warm, jagged breath on her skin. She pressed herself into him, soaking in his warmth, trying to stop shivering. It felt like an eternity since she’d felt his arms around her. She didn’t want him to let go. Bruno took her face in his hands and kissed her with a hungry, open mouth. Then he drew back and looked at her, his eyes glassy.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said.
“I’ve missed you too,” she said, teeth chattering. “I don’t know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shhh . . .” he said. “Everything’s all right now. We’re going to get out of here and find our daughter.” He kissed her again, once on the lips. “But right now, you need to run. Hide under Lawrence’s bed until I come for you.”
She nodded and threw her arms around him one more time, pressing her head to his chest. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” he said. “Now go!”
Clara turned and ran, her breath pluming out in the cold air. She glanced over her shoulder and slowed, pausing to watch Bruno and Lawrence pull layers of evergreen boughs off Annie Blumberg’s sheet-wrapped body. They lifted her up and laid her in the coffin, then replaced the lid. Clara said a silent prayer of thanks to the woman for giving her a chance to escape, then ducked beneath the trees and ran without looking back.
When she reached Lawrence’s shack, she hurried across the crooked front porch and yanked open the sagging door, her heart racing in her chest. Inside, she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, overcome by the rank smell of feces and decomposing rodents. The stench burned her eyes and she could hardly breathe without gagging. She was afraid she’d have to hide outside, lying on the roof or crouched inside a concealed nook behind the house. But no, she couldn’t risk being seen. She had to follow the plan. Looking around, she tried to get her bearings.
The disintegrating structure consisted of two small rooms—a kitchen/living area and a bedroom. The living area floor was made of shale, and a crumbling brick fireplace dominated one timbered wall. A painted cupboard sat beneath a filthy window with a ripped paisley valance, its wooden countertop outfitted with a water pump and a rusted sink. In the center of the room, a cane back chair sat on three legs, the fourth leg replaced by a stack of broken bricks. A dining table had been fashioned out of an old door, its entire surface covered with empty cans and old newspapers. A pot-bellied stove crouched in one corner, licks of orange fire crackling behind its iron grate.
Fighting the urge to sit by the woodstove and get warm, Clara hurried across the living room into the dirt-floored bedroom, where a wooden bed with a horsehair mattress was pushed up against one wall, and a lopsided chest of drawers squatted like a deformed dwarf beneath a partially boarded-up window. The upper windowpanes allowed the waning daylight to filter across a threadbare rug in front of the dresser. It was a Persian throw rug, the geometric design reminding Clara of the carpet outside her father’s study.
Pushing the image of her father from her mind, Clara scrambled beneath the bed, her knees and elbows scraping the earth floor. She pushed herself under as far as she could, until her back was against the timbered wall, then peered out from beneath the low bed rails, trying to take shallow breaths. The stench of feces was nearly unbearable. A metal bucket sat in the corner near the dresser, grainy splashes and brown trails caked to its sides. She pulled one corner of a wool blanket down from the bed, blocking her view of Lawrence’s makeshift toilet. Dusty cobwebs clung to her wrist. She brushed them away and waited, trying to ignore the cold radiating from the dirt floor.
Wondering how long it would be before Bruno came to get her, she tried remembering how much time it took Lawrence to bury someone when she watched from the Rookie Pest House. But she had been consumed by grief and laudanum then, and couldn’t remember. Hopefully, he and Bruno would hurry and, between the two of them, the job would take only half as long. It was already getting dark outside, the light in the shack growing gray and thin.
After what seemed like an eternity, the front door opened. Clara started out from beneath the bed, hardly able to see in the darkening room. Then she shrank back, suddenly realizing it might not be Bruno and Lawrence. Even if it was, they might not be alone. She froze and listened, trying not to breathe. Out in the living area, someone struck a match. Something hissed and ignited. A pair of mud-covered boots came through the doorway, a yellowish glow lighting up the bedroom. The rubber boots scuffed across the dirt and stopped near the opposite wall. A rusty oil lantern was set on the floor. The owner of the boots slipped them off, exposing filthy bare feet. A jacket fell in a heap on the dirt. It looked like Lawrence’s.
Why would Lawrence be here without Bruno? she wondered. Did he turn Bruno in? Was he waiting for the orderlies to come get her? What if Bruno was sent back to the ward because a patient was missing? Had Lawrence forgotten she was hiding under his bed? Then again, maybe the man in the shack wasn’t Lawrence.
The filthy feet padded over to the bucket. Suspenders stretched and snapped, and trousers fell around the man’s ankles. A stream of urine hit the walls of the bucket. The man groaned and waited a moment before pulling up his pants, then turned and headed in her direction. At the edge of the bed, he got down on his hands and knees, gnarled white fingers digging into the dirt. Clara held her breath and pushed her back against the wall, her heart about to burst. Then Lawrence’s wrinkled face appeared, pink-lidded eyes squinting. She exhaled.
“They are searching for you,” Lawrence said.
“I know,” she said, trying to rein in her galloping heart. “Where’s Bruno?”
“He is burying Miss Annie Blumberg,” he said. “He said to say I am sick when they come to my house.”
Clara swallowed. “When is he coming to get me?”
“When it is safe,” he said. “When it is safe you and Bruno will be able to go find your little baby. But I must hide you in a better place.”
Clara felt blood drain from her cheeks. “Where?” she said.
Lawrence grinned, his crooked teeth like kernels of corn between his chapped lips. He motioned for her to come out, then scrambled to his feet. She dragged herself across the earth floor, clambered out from beneath the bed and stood, brushing dirt and cobwebs from her elbows and knees. Lawrence hurried toward the dresser, bent over, and drew aside the throw rug, revealing a small trapdoor. He grabbed the iron ring and pulled the door open. A set of rickety steps disappeared into what looked like a bottomless pit. Lawrence gestured for her to climb down.
“Do you have a candle or another lantern?” Clara said, trying to breathe normally. “So it won’t be dark down there? If I hear someone coming, I’ll put it out.”
Lawrence twisted his mouth and looked down at his feet, scratching behind his ear. Then he hurried into the kitchen. She followed and stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on the front window in case
someone came across the porch. Outside, the sky was nearly dark, the shadowy silhouettes of trees growing murky. Lawrence went over to the makeshift table and picked up tin can after tin can, looking into each one before dropping it to the rock floor with a clatter. Bugs and maggots moved in the bottoms of the tipped-over cans, squirming in a blackish-gray mass. Clara clamped a hand over her mouth. Finally, Lawrence found what he was looking for. He headed to the woodpile next to the cast-iron stove, broke up several pieces of kindling, shoved the snapped sticks inside the tin, then retrieved a box of matches from the windowsill above the sink.
Back in the bedroom, Lawrence held Clara’s hand as she climbed into the old root cellar, then handed the tin can and matches down to her. She knelt, set the can on the earth floor, and lit the kindling. The flame caught and burned, flickering along the rock walls, illuminating layers of dried dragonflies and praying mantises tied to strings and hanging from nails stuck between crevasses like a giant bug collection. At first, Clara recoiled, then she realized what she thought were bugs were actually tiny crosses made of wood and twine. There were thousands of them, covering every square inch of the cellar walls.
She looked up at Lawrence. “What is all this?” she said.
“It is wrong,” Lawrence said.
Clara shook her head, confused. “What’s wrong?”
Lawrence grimaced, struggling to keep his emotions in check. “The people,” he said. “It is wrong to mark their graves with only a number.”
Clara held the light closer to the stone walls, peering at the tiny crosses. Three initials and a number had been carved into every one, the writing so small she could barely read it. Her eyes misted over. How did someone as kind and thoughtful as Lawrence get locked away in Willard for the rest of his life? It wasn’t fair. She put a hand over her heart and gazed up at him.
“You are a good man, Lawrence,” she said.
Lawrence smiled, his eyes glassy, and gave her a quick nod, blood rising in his wrinkled cheeks. “I should close the door now,” he said.
“Yes,” Clara said. “Thank you, Lawrence.”
Trying to ignore the returning grip of claustrophobia, Clara sat on the cold dirt floor, her legs folded beneath the skirt of her dress. Lawrence closed the trapdoor and again she was engulfed in darkness. The flame inside the tin can cast trembling shadows over the crosses, giving the illusion that the sticks had suddenly sprouted wings, shuddering as they tried to break free.
Above her, the rug slid over the trapdoor and the wooden bed frame creaked. Within minutes, Lawrence was snoring. Clara bit down on her lip and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to cry. It will be getting dark soon, she thought. Then Bruno will come and get me. I just have to hold on a little bit longer. Then she had another thought, one that made her blood run cold. How was Bruno going to get to the shack after dark?
Normally, the patients were back in the wards by nightfall. Granted, Bruno held an unusual position, but wouldn’t someone wonder where he was? And who was responsible for bringing him back on time? Or was he, like Lawrence, given more freedoms than most? Her heart started racing, hot fingers of panic lighting up her chest. Then the front door to the shack opened. She blew out the flame in the can and held her breath.
“Lawrence!” a man yelled. Clara stiffened.
It wasn’t Bruno.
“Lawrence!” the man shouted again.
Heavy footsteps crossed the stone floor and plodded across the dirt bedroom. The bed started creaking, as if someone was shaking the frame.
“Wake up!” a second man shouted. “Get the hell out of bed!”
Lawrence snorted and the bed creaked again, as if he were rolling over or sitting up.
“What are you doing?” the first voice said. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“I am sick,” Lawrence said. “Bruno buried Miss Annie Blumberg.”
“You don’t look sick,” the second man said. “You look lazy.”
“I am sick. Bruno buried Miss Annie Blumberg.”
Clara cringed, worried the men would suspect something if Lawrence kept repeating himself.
“How long have you been sleeping?” the second man said.
“I don’t know,” Lawrence said.
“Come on,” the first man said. “We’re wasting our time here. We’re not going to get anywhere with this retard.”
“Have you seen anyone roaming around, Lawrence?” the second man said. “Did a female patient come here? Has anyone knocked on your door or looked in your windows?”
“I am sick,” Lawrence said. “I have been sleeping while Bruno buried Miss Annie Blumberg.”
“Let’s go,” the second man said.
“Wait,” the first man said. “What’s that?”
“What the hell?” the second man said.
“There’s smoke coming from beneath that rug!”
Clara’s stomach dropped. She clamped a hand over the can, biting down on her lip as the hot tin burned her palm. It was too late. Above her, the rug swished across the trapdoor. She crawled into a corner, her heart pounding so fast she could barely breathe. Someone fumbled with the iron ring and started lifting the trapdoor. A slice of light pierced the dark cellar. Then the door fell shut. Something heavy slammed into it. It sounded like a body.
A man shouted and the bedroom filled with the sounds of fighting—heavy breathing, fists meeting muscle and bone, grunting, wood splintering and cracking, furniture crashing to the floor. Then, muffled voices, and what sounded like something heavy being pulled off the trapdoor. Someone grabbed the iron ring and the door flew open. Clara gasped.
It was Bruno.
She wilted in relief, one hand over her roaring heart.
“Are you okay?” he said.
She nodded, scrambled to her feet, and bolted up the stairs on shaky legs. Lawrence was sitting on the bed, a trembling hand held to his bleeding lip. Two orderlies lay on the floor, one on his stomach, the other on his back, their eyes closed.
“Are they dead?” Clara said, her breath rasping in her chest.
“No,” Bruno said. “Come on! We have to get out of here!”
She went over to Lawrence. “Are you all right?” she said.
He nodded and stood, then retrieved his jacket and held it out for Clara. “It will be very cold on the lake,” he said.
At first, she hesitated, but then she slid her arms into it, turned, and gave Lawrence a hug. “Thank you for helping us,” she said.
Lawrence grinned, still holding his lip. “I hope you will find your baby soon,” he said, his eyes brimming.
“Come on,” Bruno said again, his voice tight. “We’ve got to go!”
The three of them hurried out of the shack and fled into the dark forest, Lawrence leading the way. The rising moon gave the night a bluish glow, providing just enough light so they could see where they were going. Clara held Bruno’s hand as she ran, dodging beneath branches, hurrying around trees and bushes. In the distance, lanterns bobbed around the dark monolith of Chapin Hall and oil lamps flickered along the patient wards, casting long, human-shaped shadows over the brick walls and barred windows. Flashlight beams swung across the lawn, while shadowy figures crept near the boathouse and dock. It had started to snow; thick, slow flakes drifting down from the sky. For some strange reason, the scene made Clara think of caroling with her family, and she nearly laughed out loud with the madness of it. Distracted, she tripped over a stick in her path.
“Careful,” Bruno whispered, catching her.
She stopped to catch her breath. “How are we going to get down to the water without being seen?” she said.
“The rowboat is hidden onshore,” Bruno said. “On the other side of a road at the end of these woods. No one will see us, but we’ve got to hurry.”
She nodded and they started running again.
When they reached the end of the woods, they stopped to check the road. The road was empty. Lawrence scurried to the other side, climbed a rocky embankment, and disappe
ared. Then his head popped up, and he motioned for Bruno and Clara to follow. They looked both ways, darted across the road, then scrambled up the embankment and down to the rocky shoreline below.
Lawrence and Bruno pulled the rowboat out from under a cluster of honeysuckle bushes and dragged it across the shore, the wooden keel scraping across the rocks. Once the boat was in the clear, the men pushed the bow into the water, backs bent over the stern. Clara looked out at the lake, the silver moonlight reflecting off the softly rolling waves, the snow falling silently through the cold night air. The ice had broken up days ago, and now small pieces floated here and there, jostling against each other in the water, thin layers cracking and clinking, like distant glass chimes. She took a lungful of air and held it, certain she could taste the cool, clean breath of freedom.
“Come on!” Bruno said, looking over his shoulder at her. “Get in!”
Waves lapped against the hull, rocking the boat up and down like a cradle. Lawrence held on to the stern while Bruno helped Clara step off a rock and climb in. She took a seat near the bow and waited, her breath shallow and fast. The men walked into the water up to their thighs, their shoulders hunching at the cold. Bruno lifted himself over the back of the boat and started to climb in. Just then, Clara saw lights at the top of the embankment. Dr. Roach and two orderlies appeared, their lanterns held high. One of the orderlies blew a whistle and they both scrambled down to the shoreline. Bruno let himself back in the water and tried to help Lawrence get in the boat, while still hanging on to the stern. Lawrence shook his head, resisting.
“You’ve got to come with us,” Bruno said. “They’ll lock you up!”
“No,” Lawrence said, vigorously shaking his head. “I don’t go in boats.”
“Please,” Clara said. “Get in! We have to go!”
“No,” Lawrence said, turning and trying to lift Bruno into the boat. “I am staying here.”
What She Left Behind Page 30