“Thank you.” Whitman picks up the glass and drinks. The warmth comes quickly, easing the pain in his head.
“So there was another man?” The deputy takes his chair again.
“Yes,” Walt says, “the one who pulled the trigger.”
“Did you get the name?”
“As I said, it’s Samuel Clement.”
“Clement, eh?” The deputy takes up his pencil and records the name, then puts down the pencil and rubs his forehead. “And you saw him pull the trigger?”
Walt nods.
The deputy takes up his pencil and writes a bit more. “Now tell me: Why were you two at the graveyard?”
The two men look at each other.
“It will come out sooner or later,” Saunders says, looking at Whitman. “I’m the editor of the Aurora newspaper, and we are doing a story on the resurrection men.”
Petty says, “So you decided to stake out the graveyard and see how these people operate?”
Walt nods. “We believe there’s a connection between Abraham Stowe’s death and the resurrection men.”
“Harris told me about you,” Petty says, “and I thought we were past all this nonsense. What happened was surely tragic, but—” He sets his pencil down again and looks first at Saunders, then at Whitman. “Now, I’m only going to say this once. You two are putting your noses where they don’t belong.”
“But, sir—” Walt says.
“No, let me finish. The Stowe investigation was conducted by our best people. They found the same arsenic on Mrs. Stowe as they did in her husband’s body.” He pauses. “And we found a clear motive.”
Whitman puts his elbow on the desk. “You mean Abraham’s affair with the cigar girl?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business.” Petty takes a drink. “Then you go after these body snatchers, and I don’t think I have to tell you what went wrong there. Dangerous bunch with nothing to lose.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re very lucky to be alive, mister.”
“I just hand-delivered one of the men involved in the sheriff’s murder,” Walt says. “You could show some gratitude.”
“Keep your nose out of our business and mind what you write. Folks here get mighty irritated when reporters publish wild accusations to promote their own careers.”
Whitman says, “That sounds like a threat.”
Deputy Petty sits back, leans his elbows on the desk, and puts his hands under his chin. “If what you say is true, then we lost one of our own tonight. A good man, Jack Harris, and I’ll have to tell his wife he’s dead. Imagine that.” He shakes his head and wipes his eyes. “Forgive me.” He reads over the report, makes a few notes, and slides it across the desk. “Read this over and if you have no changes, sign it.”
Walt reads the report, and he worries that Snuffy was right after all. If they can’t get Clement, they may just let Snuffy take the fall for all of them, and he says so to the deputy.
The deputy looks as if he’s going to jump across the desk at Walt.
Henry intervenes. “Thank you, Deputy.”
“Look,” Deputy Petty says, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful. What happened tonight is a tragedy, and your testimony will help us arrest the man responsible. For that we thank you, but you’ll understand if I don’t get too excited about a couple of reporters who think we botched a murder investigation.”
Walt can’t help himself. “What if Mrs. Stowe didn’t kill her husband?”
Petty folds his hands and leans over the table. “What if she did?”
The two men stare at each other until Henry taps Walt on the shoulder.
“Sign this so we can leave.”
Walt feels Petty’s eyes on him while he reads the report, which is accurate. Still, he thinks, the deputy is withholding something.
Henry squeezes his shoulder. “Just sign it.”
Walt does and passes the sheet across the desk.
“Thank you,” Petty says. “We’ll be in touch.”
Walt stands. “So will we.”
Chapter 10
On the way back to the women’s college, Walt’s head swirls, and more than once, Henry has to pull him back from the gates, or lampposts, or whatever he bumps into as they walk. The whiskey has worn off, and the pain has spread from his jaw to his entire head. Henry speaks to him along the way, but Walt feels as if he is outside his body. Words like fortunate and cautious he understands—the words in between sound more a low-pitched growl than nouns and verbs.
They arrive at the college, and Henry helps him inside.
The classroom is silent and cold. From upstairs come the muffled sounds of intermittent footsteps, but most of the students are likely in bed. With Walt’s arm over Henry’s shoulder, they shuffle into the bedroom.
Henry lights the candle on the table, and Walt’s face appears in the mirror. His cheek is puffy and dried blood cakes his beard.
“Okay?” Henry stands behind him.
“My head still hurts.”
Henry wipes Walt’s forehead with his sleeve. “You need a doctor.”
“I’m in the right place for that,” Walt says. “But I’d rather have a drink. There’s a bottle in the armoire.”
Henry finds the bottle and a glass, and pours.
Walt drinks down the whole glass, and Henry pours him another.
“Better?” Henry says.
“A little.”
“Here”—Henry takes his arm and moves him toward the bed—“you should lie down.” Henry eases Walt onto the bed, props him against the headboard. “Good?”
Walt smiles. “Much better, thank you.” And it’s true. He feels better. Relieved. Safe. Waves of exhaustion wash over him, and he knows that if he closes his eyes, he will quickly drift off to sleep. He also knows that if he does sleep, Henry will leave, so he fights it.
Walt thinks about the cemetery again. He’s bending over the sheriff, trying to stop the bleeding, pleading with Clement to save Harris, and then knowing in the moments before, just as Harris himself did, that they were both dead men. It’s a miracle Walt survived.
The deputy had better get Clement, or he’ll come after Walt again.
Next to the bed, Henry keeps an eye on Walt from Lena’s old wooden chair. When Walt makes eye contact, Henry smiles.
It’s rather unbelievable, Walt thinks. The new editor I didn’t want, the new editor I can’t do without. He smiles at the sentiment.
“What is it?” Saunders says.
“I was only thinking how glad I am that you are here.”
Henry says, “That makes two of us.”
“I was also thinking how strange it is that I almost died tonight,” Walt says. “Clement tried to kill me. In fact, I’m not sure how I got away. It was an easy shot.” He pauses. “In any case, he missed me.”
“For which we are grateful,” Henry says.
“And why Clement sent Snuffy after me, I’ll never understand.”
“Snuffy?”
“Warren goes by Snuffy.”
“That’s confusing,” Henry says. “And stupid.”
Walt shrugs. “I’m fortunate it was he and not Clement who found me in Almack’s.”
Saunders thinks for a moment. “You really took his gun? I can’t imagine how.” He stops. “So how did you?”
“I’ve read one too many adventure novels, I suppose. I used misdirection. Distract him and take the gun. Very basic. And he didn’t expect it.” Whitman drops the bravado. “To be honest, I was lucky. And desperate.”
Henry pours Walt another whiskey.
Walt sips it this time, and several minutes pass before he says, “You know what he said to me?”
“Who?”
“Snuffy.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that they’ll blame him for Harris�
��s death.”
Henry says, “But you saw Clement do it.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Are you worried?”
“There’s no call for that,” Walt says even though he doesn’t believe it. “I wish I knew more about Silas Petty.”
Henry says, “I thought I was going to have to bail you out again.”
Walt smiles. “Petty knows more than he let on.”
“And that surprises you?” Henry says. “Why would he tell a couple of reporters everything he knows?”
Walt takes Henry’s point. “But why was Harris alone tonight? You’re going to arrest someone for the most well-known murder case in recent years, and you go alone?”
“You didn’t tell me,” Henry says. “Harris was there to arrest Clement for murder? Whose murder?”
“Mary Rogers.”
Henry reaches for Walt’s glass. “May I?”
Walt passes the drink.
Henry takes a sip. “As far as the law is concerned, Abraham Stowe killed Mary Rogers. Harris must have uncovered new evidence?” He takes another drink, returns the glass. “What I do know is you’ve got a hell of a story for tomorrow’s edition.”
Walt nods. “Yes, we do.”
Henry takes Walt’s hand. “I think we are going to work well together.”
Walt stares at their entwined hands, Henry’s skin warm against his own. He shivers. He does not want to frighten Henry away.
They sit like this until a noise sounds upstairs. The moment is broken, and they let go.
Walt’s head is throbbing again. He runs his fingers along his swollen face, traces the swelling from beneath his left eye, down his face, and across his mouth.
“You should get some rest,” Henry says.
Walt doesn’t want Henry to leave, but he is tired. “I need strength to write that article.”
The two men fidget in silence. Walt can see himself in the mirror, his swollen face and prematurely graying hair, and that’s when he catches Henry looking at him.
“Stay awhile, if you like,” Walt says.
“Oh?”
“Only if you want to.”
“Sure,” Henry says. “Then I can keep an eye on you.”
Henry drops a cloth in the water basin, wrings it out, and then Walt feels the water on his skin. He shivers. In the mirror, he watches as Henry gently cleans his neck, forehead, and face. Henry helps Walt remove his coat and shirt. Henry soaks the rag, wrings it out again, and returns, wiping Walt’s back, then his chest. Walt’s head throbs, but the pain dissipates.
“Do you miss home?” Henry says.
Walt nods. Thoughts of home cause him to feel bereft. He corresponds with George, Hannah, Jeff, and his mother, but they live day-to-day without him. He is an outsider. That is the price he had to pay to get away from his father.
“What about you?” Walt says. “Do you miss your family?”
“I’m the only living child,” Henry says. “My younger brother, Phillip, died in the last cholera outbreak, and my mother has not been able to conceive again.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Walt says.
“I miss my parents very much,” Henry says. “But they need me to contribute to the farm or they’ll lose it, and the best way is to send them money from afar.”
Henry looks at the floor, then at Walt again. “When I was a boy, Phillip and I loved watching our mother write letters to her mother in Ireland. We would sit next to her and pretend to write ourselves, and when we would ask her what we’d said in our letters, she would hold them up to the light and make up beautiful things.”
“She sounds like a generous person.”
“She is, and my father too,” Henry says. “Terrible farmer, but a decent man.”
“Your father a bad farmer?” Walt smiles. “Somehow that sounds familiar.”
They lean in closer, their faces so close Walt can feel Henry’s breath on his cheek.
“It’s difficult being so far from family,” Henry says.
“We all need people we can trust,” Walt says.
Now they say nothing. They rest their heads together, and Walt enjoys the closeness, something he hasn’t felt for some time—
—and then they’re kissing on the bed, pressing their bodies against each other, rolling back and forth, until Henry comes to rest on top of Walt. Henry smiles, turns gentle, and kisses him softly on the lips, then forehead, then cheek. “Well, Mr. Walt Whitman,” Henry says, “what have we here?”
Later, Walt lies with his eyes open, staring at the spiderweb crack in the ceiling again. Did that just happen? he asks himself, and then, if he needs more evidence, all he has to do is look in the bed next to him, where Henry sleeps.
His romantic life up to this point has been intermittent at best. Given that he’s been working since he was twelve, he’s matured in many ways, but he’s also been able to avoid relationships as such. Sure, like many young men his age, he’s frequented the many brothels around the city, but he’s never met anyone like Henry, someone to whom he feels connected in a way that is beyond any trite aphorism—though trite aphorisms are all that come to mind.
His eyes ache, and his muscles are sore. The whiskey has dulled the pain in his head, so he decides to take advantage of the respite. He grabs the green notebook from his coat pocket and forces himself to write the story of what happened that evening. He glances at Henry, who is in deep sleep now; the sound of his breathing comforts Walt as he works.
Once he sketches out the narrative using the notes he made at Almack’s, he focuses on impressions. The sound of shovels. Metal against dirt. The sheer material of the shroud, wrapped around the girl’s body. The resurrection men. The gun pointed at his head. And time passes. He writes until he is no longer conscious of writing, until his hand moves in concert with the phrases that flow into his head. Until all he has to do is keep up.
Chapter 11
When Walt wakes, Henry is gone, and he worries that what happened between them frightened Henry away again. He touches the indent left by Henry on the straw mattress. Still warm. He checks his pocket watch, which lies on the small table next to the bed. Almost four.
At the thought of Henry, he can’t help smiling. And then worrying. Why hadn’t he said good-bye?
Whitman rolls over and tries to sleep, but his face, thick and swollen like a mask, is throbbing again from his altercation with Clement. The next thought that takes hold is that if he doesn’t print the Harris murder story first, his eyewitness account will be drowned out by the larger dailies, a problem not only for the Aurora’s ledger, or his writing career, but one of accuracy: A story such as this can turn sensationalist awfully fast.
He sits up, swings his legs to the floor, and takes a moment to gather himself before standing. He lights the lamp next to his bed, goes to the armoire for a set of clean clothing.
While he’s dressing, he hears footsteps. Is that Henry? He puts on socks and slips quietly into the classroom. The sight of the small form in the darkness tells him straight away that it’s not Henry at all but Azariah Smith, hobbling to the front door of the women’s college.
“And where do you think you’re going?” Walt’s voice carves into the silence.
Azariah turns, and when he sees Walt standing there, he shrugs. “You caught me.”
“Is something the matter?”
Azariah thinks before he speaks. “I appreciate all you done for me, I really do, but I don’t belong here. All these women fawning over me. I need to get back to my people.”
“But you’re not well.”
“I’m well enough,” Azariah says.
Even in the dark, Walt can see the grimace on the boy’s face and, from the way he stands tilted to the left side, that he’s protecting himself from the pain. No, he can’t let the boy leave. Azariah’s best
chance is to be here, and then Walt has an idea. “Mr. Smith?”
The boy smiles at this. “Yes, Mr. Whitman?”
“I could use some more help. Are you up to it?”
Azariah shifts his weight from his left foot to his right. He looks up at the ceiling while he considers the question. Finally, he says, “I think I am.”
“Good,” Whitman says, “I’ll grab my coat.”
And so Walt Whitman and Azariah Smith trudge to the Aurora offices together. Next to Walt, Azariah shuffles more than he walks. The boy should be in bed, recovering, and yet Walt would prefer to supervise him than have him out on the streets alone. The twenty-minute walk passes quickly, and when Walt unlocks the Aurora’s front door, it is only minutes before five.
In the front office stands Henry’s tidy new desk, paper stacked neatly in one corner, a tray of pencils in the other. Walt’s own desk is a mound of paper—old newspapers mixed with ripped sheets full of his own scribbles. Where is Henry?
Walt locks the door behind him and leads Azariah through the office to the composition room. The large table in the center is where they do most of their work, and the printing press sits heavy next to it. Azariah explores the room with wide eyes. He stops in front of the press, runs his hands along the metal. “Will you teach me?”
Whitman looks up.
“I’m not without ambition,” Azariah says. “You should know that by now.”
Walt smiles. “You can help by starting a fire in the stove there, and I’ll light the lamps.”
While Walt lights the three lamps, he keeps an eye on the boy. Azariah has set the kindling up properly, but he’s overloaded his pyramid, suffocating the flame. Whitman remembers his own father teaching him how to light a fire, how he lovingly guided him step by step, and for a fleeting moment Walt again feels connected to his father.
Whitman joins Azariah at the woodstove. “You’re smothering the fire before it has a chance to burn.”
Speakers of the Dead Page 6