The Impossible Girl

by Lydia Kang

Suzette

  It was unexpectedly friendly. Nay, almost . . . lonesome.

  She opened the second letter, but it was somewhat mangled by the post. Part of the bottom was ripped.

  Miss Lee,

  Another one for you. Some type of fit, perhaps. Slated for a burial at Calvary Cemetery tonight. Conall Culligan, the extremely tall fellow. There are nearly twenty burials there today alone, so I wish you luck on locating the correct one.

  Yours,

  Here, the paper was torn. But still, it must be from Dr. Blake—he had been the one seeing Mr. Culligan for symptoms of dropsy and regular bleedings.

  But for a long moment, Cora’s breath wouldn’t come, and she covered her mouth to stifle a sob. She still had in her hand the letter of warning to Conall—all but too late. She cursed herself. She should have found him in person! But would it have mattered?

  Garroted? Killed? Another unnatural death. Alive a few days ago, and not alive today. A wink of time in history. Her mind went to dark places, thinking of Conall, whether he was at peace, or savagely furious at his circumstance. Whether he was furious at Cora. She wished she could speak to him. He was the last name on her ledger; she was sure of it. What if Cora was the next on the list now?

  Cora breathed again, before she became dizzy. But she was alive now, and work would keep her alive a little longer, long enough to exit this city. She would have to take the Twenty-Third Street ferry over the river, to find the right burial area. Twenty burials today! At least it wasn’t fifty. But she knew this fellow. She’d seen him once—nearly six and a half feet, with spidery fingers and a long face. He was Irish, like so many buried at Calvary, a Catholic cemetery. Culligan’s family had built a small empire in running goods up the Erie.

  Surely, he’d have family of similar stature. She bid goodbye to Leah, who was still frowning hard enough to make vinegar cry, and went outside, where Theo was waiting.

  “Well! There you are. And here I am.”

  “And here we must part,” Cora said hurriedly. She showed Theo the letter. “We have more work. It’s a stellar find, and we must know whether Duncan is willing to pay more, or your Dr. Wood, for his anatomical cabinet.”

  “Wood may be willing, though so many in a week may overtax even his funds. I’ll go and meet with him. Be careful around Duncan.”

  “I always am.” She accepted a kiss on the cheek. “I will see you tonight, in any case. We can meet at the ferry at five o’clock.”

  “Do you regret last night?” Theo asked.

  “Not yet, I don’t,” Cora said, with a tiny smile.

  “Well, I guess I’ll have to make sure that you don’t.” He grinned.

  They parted, and Cora headed for the avenue to take the omnibus down to the Grand Anatomical Museum. She heard, from very far away, a man, shouting at the top of his voice.

  “I kissed a lady!”

  A few hoots and hollers sounded afterward. A woman crowed at him to quiet down. Cora covered a smile with her gloved hand. She was rather sure the voice had been Theodore Flint’s.

  At the museum, she spoke to the man at the ticket booth.

  “I have a business meeting with Frederick Duncan.”

  The man, mustachioed and red eyed, looked down a sheet of paper. “I don’t see an appointment here, but your name is on a list to be let in, without question. There you go, ma’am.” He waved to the other man gathering tickets from the crowd lined up to see the New Exhibition of the Wondrous Tailed Lady. Before she left, she asked, “Is Alexander Trice back in his studio yet? I am his niece.”

  “Oh. Yes, been there all day today.”

  “Oh! Good, he must have come back early.” Cora pushed back from the booth. “Thank you.”

  Alexander was likely getting to know Philadelphia well, with his visits to Jefferson Medical College and spying on the anatomical collection belonging to Dr. Mütter, the one Duncan worried might open a museum that would outclass his own. Perhaps that would be where she made her home. She wondered if Theo could imagine a life in Philadelphia too.

  Inside, she was directed to Frederick Duncan’s office on the second floor, overlooking Broadway. Cora knocked briefly, and a gruff voice commanded, “Come in.”

  She entered. The first thing that surprised her was the enormous snarling lion’s head mounted upon the wall, fierce and frozen and dead. The second thing was that Duncan was not alone.

  “Miss Lee! I am entranced! Come in, come in. Why, I am inundated with ladies this morning. Two of you in my midst, doling out the fates of the living and dead! If my wife were to see me, she would think I was running a scandalous establishment!” The lady stood up from the chair in front of Duncan’s enormous carved desk. She turned and bowed coldly.

  It was Elizabeth Blackwell, seething with fury.

  CONALL CULLIGAN

  I have had the most unfortunate luck in stature.

  My mother was only five feet and found the opposite of herself in my six-and-a-half-foot father. One from Cork, one from Dublin, they met on the boat to New York harbor amidst whispers of despair that Ireland was not worth staying for.

  They dodged the Nativists unscathed and built their shipping business when the Erie Canal opened up. Then I was born, a thin, long baby that my mother called “a string of a child like his father.”

  And like my father, I grew and grew, fingers like harvestmen among the wooden blocks I played with. Ma fed me watered-down milk in the hope that I would not grow as much as Da, but it was all for naught. I outgrew my father by two inches, or so they said, because Da died the day my wee sister was born. They said that she caused such pain for my mother to bring into the world that it tore my father’s heart in two, for that is what he complained of before he died at her side—a renting of his insides.

  I am now a year shy of his age when he died, and every day I would walk about with my hand inside my vest, asking my heart if today it might tear apart, or if a young, pretty girl like Anne O’Brien might ruin it instead. I’d feel the strangeness of my rib cage that wasn’t like the other lads’ who swam in the river in the hot summers. Mine peaked like a low roof in the middle, curiously pointed instead of flat.

  Alas, Anne didn’t have a chance to ruin my life; someone else did. I went to the shipping yards to make note of the boxes of saltpeter being sent off to Virginia. I was bending over when I felt a ligature about my throat.

  Not hands, nor fingers, but something fine and hard. It was so thin, this wire, that I could not grasp it or pull it away. I struggled, and with my height I was able to twist, but when I tried to holler for aid, my assailant pulled mercilessly, and the wire sliced through my windpipe with a whoosh of air. I fell to the dock.

  Father had his short bit of time. His body was a clock wound only halfway. But I—I had even less. That stranger took something from me. There is no peace in this otherworldly sleep I possess now.

  I will wrestle the discontent within my grave. Woe be it to anyone who hears my anguish in their dreams.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Dr. Blackwell,” Cora said, attempting to keep the surprise from her voice.

  “Ah, you know each other? Even better!” Duncan clapped his hands together, and toured around the women like they were marble statues. “Do you know that Miss Blackwell—”

  “Dr. Blackwell,” Dr. Blackwell interrupted. Her English accent became so very pronounced when she was ruffled.

  “Is soliciting our venue for a set of educational lectures on health? For ladies?” He clapped again and laughed. “It’s brilliant! And a terrible waste of our space! You’d be better off discussing the mating rituals of Asiatic beetles!”

  Dr. Blackwell’s murderous expression seemed fitting. She wasn’t furious at Cora; she was furious at Duncan. He was hardly even treating her like a proper lady.

  “And you! Did you know, Miss Blackwell, that this lovely creature before you, Miss Lee, is a treasure who finds me treasure? I’d like her in my cabinet, I would. A doll of my own, so very unusual! So, Miss
Lee, have you a new specimen to discuss?”

  “Specimen?” Dr. Blackwell asked, eyebrows raised.

  “Indeed, I do,” Cora said. “But perhaps we can discuss it after your visit with Dr. Blackwell.”

  Just then, the door opened, and one of the museum attendants appeared. “There’s a problem with the shipping books. We need you to take a look, sir.”

  “Now? I’m busy.”

  “The teamster wants a word. Says we underpaid, and he won’t go away until you look at the numbers with him.”

  Duncan pouted beneath his well-curled and well-waxed mustache. “Very well. One moment, ladies.”

  After he’d left, Dr. Blackwell examined Cora with her good eye. “It is good to see you again, Miss Lee. I don’t believe I realized that you had a profession that brought you within this museum’s footprint.”

  “Indeed, I do.” Cora was normally shy about discussing her trade with anyone, but Dr. Blackwell seemed determined to make a career in the city as a physician. She might become a source of new specimens. “I have been helping the museums and medical schools procure cadavers for study.”

  Dr. Blackwell took a step closer. “For study? Or for entertainment?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I am grateful to the cadaver that I studied at medical school. He helped me help others, by educating me. But there is a fine line between the education of the public as a means to better society as a whole, and base amusement. We ought not to laugh at the hand dealt to another human being, something they have little control over.”

  “I sell to the universities, and to museums, for educating the public,” Cora said.

  “Are you so careful?” Dr. Blackwell asked.

  “I try to be. But there is a demand. As such, I supply that need.”

  “I see. It is interesting how, on occasion, supply and demand have a way of flourishing beyond our control.”

  Cora frowned. Surely, her work did not increase the demand. She had not noticed more requests for her work. But the names in her ledger flashed in her mind. Randolph. Ruby. William. Ida. Conall. It didn’t make sense. Perhaps it was all just bad luck. People had all manner of private dramas that ended in tragedy, did they not? But her reasoning did not settle well with her. Dr. Blackwell kept speaking.

  “And where do you find these subjects?” Dr. Blackwell asked. “Do you visit the potter’s fields in all your finery?”

  “Goodness, no. My brother works in that vein. But we do not scour the potter’s fields. I choose not to subject the poor, or pilfer the burial grounds of black people. They have been served their share of disadvantages since birth, and made their wishes clear with the Doctor’s Riot more than fifty years ago. They needn’t worry about me.”

  “Ah!” She narrowed her eyes. “So, you are a fell Robin Hood, then, are you not?”

  Cora said nothing. She was not enjoying this conversation, and her own discomfort was worse than anything.

  Dr. Blackwell finally softened her severe expression. “I apologize. Your reasons for what you do are you own, of course. Far be it from me to tell a woman what she can and cannot do. As for the future physicians who need cadavers for study, there is no question of that necessity. I don’t approve of grave robbing, and yet it is possible I have benefited from it. I do hope that someday the medical establishment will find a better way. Dr. Draper at the university proposes a law to take bodies from the poorhouse. I disagree. The poor should be given as much respect as anybody.”

  Dr. Blackwell walked to the cabinet behind Duncan’s desk. It was crowded with stuffed exotic birds of brilliant scarlet and emerald, chunks of pyrite, and skulls of various animal creatures, including human. A waxen head, splayed open to show the intricacies of the muscle, sat nestled at the end of a shelf.

  “Look at this,” Dr. Blackwell said. She gingerly picked up the waxen head. “Orbicularis oculi,” she said quietly, pointing to the circular muscles about the mouth. “Zygomaticus major, and minor,” she murmured, now pointing to the chin.

  “No, that is the depressor labii,” Cora said, gesturing to her own chin before circling her left eye with her forefinger. “This is the orbicularis oculi.”

  Dr. Blackwell shot her a sharp glance. “Very good, Miss Lee. Very good. I was hoping you’d correct me. It is a shame that your anatomic skills aren’t helping the living.”

  Frederick Duncan opened the door and mopped some sweat from his forehead. Dr. Blackwell smiled and held out her hand.

  “Mr. Duncan. I shall be on my way.”

  Duncan kissed her hand, and as Dr. Blackwell left, she surreptitiously wiped her hand on her skirt. She smiled kindly at Cora.

  “Goodbye, Miss Lee. If you ever need a consultation, you may see me in my offices off Union Square.”

  Cora curtsied, and Duncan bowed. After she left, Cora was alone with Duncan, who mopped his face with his handkerchief. “Can you believe her? Wanting to do a series of medical lectures. For ladies! For both unmarried and married ladies. It’s absurd. No one will have her. We certainly shan’t. There is nothing more disobliging than discussion of bills, Miss Lee. I apologize that they took me away from you.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “With your face, you ought never to have to worry about money. Never.”

  The compliment gave Cora the urge to wash her ears out. With lye.

  “I have come to discuss a new case,” she said. “The University of the City of New York is settling on a price as we speak. A gentleman, six and a half feet tall, age thirty, with abnormally long limbs and fingers.” An intrusive image appeared in her mind—a note she’d written on the side of her ledger: Walks in the gardens by the Crystal Palace. Enjoys flowers. No, Cora, she thought. Do your job. “I believe we shall find multiple anomalies within—apparently it is an inherited trait, and his father dropped stone dead at the same young age.”

  “Ah!” Duncan’s eyes lit up. “Ah, yes! Wonderful!” He looked like a child receiving a gift he’d already been expecting. “And this could be something preserved, or used as an open auditorium-style dissection?”

  “Absolutely. He would be a perfect inclusion in the university’s anatomical cabinet, however.” But behind Cora’s bright smile was a leechlike attachment to her insides that spoke quietly. I don’t want to do this anymore.

  “I see.” Duncan came closer to Cora, but just as she began to lean backward to avoid him—she had a terrible fear that he might actually try to kiss her—the door opened again.

  Duncan growled. “Oh good God, can a man not have a private moment in his office?”

  This time, it wasn’t a museum assistant but two children who pushed their way in, in a flurry of red cheeks and sticky fingers and bouncing curls. A girl and boy—twins by the look of their similar heights and amber hair color—dressed smartly in fine brown wool with velvet trim. Conall Culligan had two children too. The twins’ minder, a tired-looking older woman, stood at the doorway.

  “Father! We got pink candy and yellow and green candy!” said the little girl.

  The boy chimed in, “Can we bring Mortimer to the museum tomorrow?”

  Duncan stooped down. “No, little Frederick, we cannot bring the pug to the museum. He’ll try to eat my stuffed tigers!” Duncan curled his fingers and growled.

  Cora smiled.

  “Miss Lee, my children. Frederick the third, and little Pearl, my jewel. Pearl will no doubt marry a scamp, and Frederick will waste away all his inheritance, but what is a father to do?” He smiled. But Cora was repulsed that he could be fatherly one moment, salacious the next.

  “Indeed. They have stolen more than your heart, I believe.”

  “Yes. Children, out. Bertha, take them away. Out, out.”

  The lady ushered the children away, and Duncan stood.

  “I’ll tell you what, Miss Lee. I shall give ten dollars over and above whatever the university bids on this case.”

  “I see,” Cora said. She turned to the door, happy to be leaving. “I’ll think on you
r offer. If we deliver the body, we’ll have a deal.”

  “Very well.” As he opened the door, he put his hand on her waist. “Everything I do, Miss Lee, I do for my children. And my wife. But I do believe that you and I could be a great pairing, in this profession.”

  “Pairing,” Cora said tonelessly. As she said it, his hand crept up her waist, over the stiff basque of her dress. His fingertips were only inches away from the underside of her breasts. She opened the door but saw that his children were still quite nearby. Cora did not want to startle them with a harsh word or movement.

  “Yes,” Duncan said. “You see, I believe a man has many hearts. A heart for his children, a heart for his wife. A heart for God, and, if he be as generous as I, a heart for other beautiful specimens.” He squeezed her bodice ever so slightly, and it was so near to her second heart that she had to step away quickly. Her face went scarlet. “And a heart for work, as you see.” He smiled at her.

  Cora was silent. Why all the allusions to several hearts? Was he trying to tell her he knew? She should tell him that the rumors of the two-hearted girl were untrue; the journals of Dr. Grier gone. But what if he had seen them? What if he was the one who had taken them and he was even now trying to trap her in a confession?

  “Consider my offer,” Duncan said. “We can discuss it further at our next meeting, I am sure.”

  “I am sure we will,” Cora said, loudly enough that his children and their caretaker could hear. “But know, Mr. Duncan, that I do not possess an occupation simply because I am unmarried, or begging for matrimony. I possess the occupation for myself, and myself alone.” She leaned closer to whisper. “So, you see, you may keep your hearts to yourself.” She glanced at little Ruby and Frederick, and smiled charmingly. “You have more than enough loves to keep them occupied. Good day, and ready your men tonight for the delivery.”

  She left, but instead of worrying what Duncan knew, she found herself turning over Dr. Blackwell’s words.

  It is a shame your anatomic skills aren’t helping the living.

  The dig was a terrible one.