“Sorry to hear it,” she says. “Come in, and I’ll get Ned.”
The front door opens to the kitchen, a tiny room no larger than five feet by five feet with a wood-burning stove that nearly fills the space. Opposite the stove, potato peels are piled on the floor, which slants toward the back wall, and a dog lounges against the wall, his tongue flapping out of his mouth.
A small girl tugs on Whitman’s jacket.
“Who did that?” He laughs to let her know he’s not serious.
Her long brown hair is parted on the left side and hangs down over her eyes. Her cheeks are rounded in baby fat. The dress she wears is at least two sizes too big, her tiny frame almost invisible inside it.
“Call me Abby.”
Harriet Runkel returns with her husband, Ned, who walks with his right hand under her arm. Half of Mr. Runkel’s body is crippled—his left hand curls up in a ball and when he walks, he drags his left leg.
“In here.” They lead Whitman through the doorway to the other room, which is only three times as big as the kitchen. Two beds line the walls, a clothesline droops down the middle as a barrier between the beds, and a shabby brown dresser has been installed under the window even though it doesn’t fit the space. On one wall hangs a small cabinet displaying the family’s china even though there is no table to set it on. Next to the cabinet is a tattered wardrobe, the doors of which won’t shut, exposing the two coats and three dresses hanging inside.
Ned and Harriet sit on one bed while Walt and Abby sit on the other.
Abby takes his hand and rubs it as she speaks. “I prayed to God, and he told me he’d send someone to help us. That must be you.” Her fingers feel brittle in his hand.
“You remind me of my sister Mary,” Whitman says. “The way you speak, so much like a grown-up.”
And then Abby cries. “The minister said if we don’t find Maggie, she won’t get resurrected.”
“Abby.” Mr. Runkel sits up straight when he speaks.
“Well, that’s what he said.”
Walt places his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think God would allow that, now, do you?”
Harriet touches Abby’s other shoulder. “Why don’t you finish peeling those potatoes for dinner?”
Abby wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “You said that when the priest speaks, it’s like the Lord himself.”
“Abigail Helen Runkel.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Before Abby leaves the room, she curtsies.
“She doesn’t understand death,” Ned says. “She pretends that Maggie will come home, that finding her body will somehow resurrect her. Poor thing. Difficult being an only child now.”
“Maggie took Abby everywhere,” Mrs. Runkel says. “They shared a bed, and they shared clothes. Abby didn’t mind that they didn’t always fit her.”
Ned continues. “Now she wants to be a doctor too.”
“Maggie was unique,” Harriet says. “She understood people. She had a gift with them. Could get along with anyone in any situation. If she were here now, she would already know everything about you.”
Ned turns to Harriet. “Get the sketches, love, will you?”
She steps over to a small stack of books and notebooks in the corner past the wardrobe, picks one, and hands it to Walt. Inside, Maggie has drawn page after page of human anatomy, and like the drawings in the college, they are precise. The leg size matches the arm size and the head matches the torso.
“Impressive,” Walt says. “How did she learn?”
Harriet reaches down and produces a book entitled The Anatomy of Human Bodies by William Cowper. “Neighbor gave it to Maggie for her eighth birthday. She’s been doing these sketches ever since.”
Walt turns the pages, and as he progresses through the notebook, the sketches become more and more about what is inside the body than what is on the outside.
“I need to ask the obvious question,” Whitman says. “Why not leave her? It seems like the perfect place for her body, given her interests.” He’s thinking about Lena’s donation to the women’s college, Quigley’s museum of specimens, the dissected baby.
Harriet asks, “Would you leave your sister?”
The image of Mary or Hannah on a dissection table turns his stomach.
“Of course not,” Harriet answers for him.
Walt says, “I only meant that Maggie seems to have understood the importance of her own material body. Dissection allows us to learn more about the human body than ever before.” He pauses. “I know doctors who believe they are close to a cure for cholera. Can you imagine how the world would change if that comes to pass?”
Ned says, “Do you believe in the resurrection, Mr. Whitman?”
He’s not sure, but he says he does.
“What do you suppose happens to the soul that tries to return to the dissected body?”
The same thing that happens to a nondissected body, Whitman thinks, but remains silent.
“Nothing,” Ned says. “Nothing happens.”
“This is about more than Maggie’s body,” Mrs. Runkel says. “This is about her salvation.”
Harriet helps Ned stand. “Come, Mr. Whitman. We want to introduce you around.” They go out the front door and knock on the door to room number seven. An older woman answers the door and smiles. She has no teeth. “Oh, good,” the older woman says. “You’re here.”
“Good afternoon,” Ned says. “Mrs. Swinburne, this is Mr. Walt Whitman, the man who is writing the article about Maggie.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Swinburne says. “How do you do?”
Walt takes her hand.
“Mrs. Swinburne, did they ever find your husband’s body?” Mr. Runkel asks.
She shakes her head. “Sadly, no. And I can’t bear to think about poor Mikey, wherever it is that he ended up. Those horrible medical folks think they can play God. Well, I hope one day they realize what they’ve done—” At this, she stops and wipes her eyes on her sleeve.
Ned touches her shoulder. “We’re all in this together. That’s why Mr. Whitman is here. To help us all.”
Mrs. Swinburne nods, but keeps her head down.
“And what about your son’s body, Mrs. Traubel?” Harriet asks.
Mrs. Traubel pokes her head into the room, “Nobody looked, dear. You know that.”
Whitman touches her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“They think we don’t understand,” Mrs. Traubel says, her blue eyes fierce. “They think we don’t know anything.”
“Of course you do,” says Walt.
Ned turns to him. “At least half the people in this building have had a family member snatched from their graves, and none of them are ever found.”
A man hidden in the shadows leans up onto his knees and grabs Whitman’s arm, startling him. “Find our Maggie, won’t you?” His wrinkled face radiates a calm confidence when he speaks. “I’d wring every one of their necks if I could.”
“Was it your wife, sir, who went missing?” Walt says to the man gripping his arm.
“My son.” The man dips his head. “My poor Jacob, God rest his soul.”
Whitman follows Ned and Harriet back into the Runkels’ rooms.
“That was Mr. Lankton,” Harriet says. “His son was hanged for robbery and murder, then dissected as part of his sentence.”
“That’s terrible.”
Ned glances about him. “It’s all terrible here.”
Walt says, “The article will be published in the next few days. But I have to be honest—the chances that they will find your daughter’s body in one piece—”
Ned stops him. “We know, Mr. Whitman. But we want to try.”
“One more thing,” Walt says. “Can I borrow Maggie’s drawings?”
Harriet hands him the notebook. “Remember what Mrs. Traubel said: We’re not stupid, Mr. Whitman. Remember that when
you write your article.”
As he prepares to leave, Abby calls to him from the other side of the room. “Wait.” She runs to him, holding out a single piece of paper. “I don’t draw so good, so I wrote you a poem.” She smiles. “You can read it when you get home.”
“I can’t wait.” Whitman folds up the piece of paper and slips it into his pocket. “We’ll help them find your sister,” he says. “I promise.”
Chapter 20
Walt pushes on until he reaches John McCleester’s three-story drinking and gaming establishment. Built shortly after the Great Fire of 1835 on Elizabeth Street, the red brick is bright in the snow, its white sign MCCLEESTER’S marked in black letters. Inside, business is slow. Card games at two tables, the rest empty. A dozen or so bar girls, in tight dresses and heavy makeup, devote their attention to the players, pretending to hang on their every word.
The bar is tended by McCleester himself, a thick man with his shirtsleeves rolled up over his elbows, known around the city for his 101-round bout with prizefighter Tom Hyer in 1841. He’s speaking to a young woman with black hair. She is beautiful, but there is a hardness to her beauty—maybe it’s the way the edges of her mouth tilt downward or her sunken cheeks or her dark eyes, or the combination of all those things, but she appears fierce.
She sees Walt come in and approaches.
“What is your pleasure, sir?”
“I’m looking for Frankie.”
“And what do you need her for?” Her voice bears the same toughness as her face.
He feels self-conscious playing this role, and he worries she’ll see right through it. He takes a deep breath, delivers his line: “A short meeting,” he says, his voice shaky.
“Well, sir, your night just got better,” she says. “Because that’s me. I only need a moment—you wait here.”
She didn’t hesitate, and he’s relieved. But the performance is only going to get more difficult, he knows. What is he going to do in the room? How far will he have to let this play out? She’s not unattractive. He supposes he can go as far as he needs to get the information.
Over at the bar, she folds her apron and whispers something to McCleester. Then she returns to Walt. “I’m ready.”
He nods.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” She’s holding her hand open.
Of course, the money. He reaches into his pocket for two five-dollar coins, drops them in her hand.
“Thank you.” She turns and tosses one of the coins to McCleester. He catches it easily, nods, and returns to wiping glasses.
Whitman looks self-consciously at the card players, but they are so caught up in what they are doing, they don’t even notice Walt and Frankie leaving together. He’s been to such places before. He’s not inexperienced.
But this was all before Henry.
If they had come to the tavern together, if Henry was not ill, then one of them would still have had to play this role, Whitman knows. But everything is different now. He suddenly yearns to be home with Henry again, like the night before, and he considers backing out.
Keep the college going. Lena’s voice is still fresh in his mind, and so he redoubles his efforts, gives over to the performance.
Frankie leads Whitman by the hand up two flights of stairs to the third floor, past the sounds of music and dancing on the second.
He thinks of Elizabeth and her students. He can do it.
The third floor is a quiet hallway containing three, maybe four doors. Frankie’s hand is warm, and her lilac perfume trails behind her. “This is it.” They stop at the second door on the left, which she opens with a key from around her neck.
“You can set your clothes on the chair,” she says. “I’ll return shortly.” Frankie exits through a door on the other side of the room.
The small room contains a bed, a mirror, a chair, and a washbasin. Nothing else. He sits on the bed, stands up, sits down again. He knows she expects him to undress, but that is, of course, unnecessary.
Over at the washbasin, he splashes water on his face and arms. He rubs his face and neck dry with a towel, and when he turns around, she is there, watching him, in nothing but a red negligee.
“Are you shy?” She smiles. “Let me help you.”
He starts to protest, but the words don’t come.
She unbuttons his shirt, presses her lips against his neck. The familiar sensations return swiftly, and he wonders if it would be okay to see this one through. She removes his shirt, washes his back, and the feeling is so similar to what Henry did to him a few days before that he shrugs away from her.
“That’s enough,” he says.
“You’re so nervous,” Frankie says. “Is this your first time?”
“Can’t we just talk?”
“We can do whatever you want to.” She kisses his neck again. “Relax.”
She drags her fingernails along his shoulder blade, then weaves them across his back. Her hands wrap around his chest, slide down to his stomach and rest where his legs meet his torso. They stay like this for what seems like minutes before she begins to remove his trousers. He stands up so she can slide them down to his knees, and then she turns him around so she can reach him. He closes his eyes, and in his mind, it is Henry and not her at all, but that image troubles him, and the guilt returns. He knows he should tell her to stop, but he can’t—
Henry’s face flashes in his mind and suddenly he can see past the moment—
Abraham.
Lena.
The women’s college.
Walt opens his eyes. “I can’t.”
She looks up at him. “Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Oh, it feels amazing,” he says. “But this is not why I’m here.”
She smiles. “We’ll get there. Be patient.” She resumes her work, and he lets her. But he’s too aware of himself trying to let it happen, and then it doesn’t, and he’s too worried to enjoy it. He stares at the washbasin, trying to recall his time with Henry, the washing, the kissing, and on the bed, but he just can’t.
Walt says, “I can pay you double.”
“Double? For what?”
“If you tell me what you know about Samuel Clement.”
She stands. “I don’t know anybody by that name.”
“So he’s not your brother?”
“Oh, honey, I wish he weren’t.” Her swiftness surprises him. She presses the side of a blade against his neck. “For your sake.” Her hand is shaking, and the blade pinches his skin. “Why did you come here?” she says. “How do you know who I am?”
“Your brother murdered Sheriff Harris.”
He feels her hand relax. “But the newspapers said he had nothing to do with it.”
“I saw him pull the trigger,” Whitman says, taking a deep breath. “And now he’s letting the man who works for him, James Warren, take the fall.”
She lowers the knife, steps back.
“A sister should never have to make this terrible choice,” Walt says, “but an innocent man will hang if we don’t act.”
She reaches down to the floor, looking for something. He assumes she’s gathering her things, but then she bangs her boot against the floor three times.
“Now, why did you have to go and do that?”
“I’m not turning in my brother,” she says.
Footsteps on the stairs.
Walt says, “Where is Samuel?”
“Ask the new sheriff.”
“Petty? What does he know?”
“He—”
“Frankie!” McCleester’s voice behind the other door calls. “What is it?”
And with that, she disappears through the other door and into the hallway, which leaves Walt to deal with the fighter alone. McCleester is suddenly inside, swinging his fists in the air, and Whitman ducks, slips past him, and out into the hallway.
As Walt runs, carrying his jacket, he slides his suspenders into place and tucks his unbuttoned shirt into his pantaloons. Ahead of him, Frankie Clement is going down the back stairway, which probably leads outside.
Whitman beats McCleester to the stairwell, takes two stairs at a time down the two flights, and exits the building in time to see Frankie disappear around the corner at the end of the alleyway and onto the main thoroughfare. Walt glances over his shoulder. The fighter, athletic and agile, is still in pursuit. But Whitman is athletic and agile too. He sprints to the end of the alley, and explodes into the street, where the snow has become a blizzard. Hundreds of pedestrians, taxis, and horses struggle to make way by gas lamp. He won’t be able to find Frankie, but McCleester won’t be able to find him, either.
He runs until he is safely on Canal Street, the straightest route to Mrs. Chipman’s boardinghouse.
Walt turns the corner, and he stops in front of Henry’s building. It is quiet here. Leading up to the entrance, the snow is completely undisturbed but for two sets of footprints leading out from the building. His own feet mark his progress toward the front door, where he stamps the snow from his feet.
He trudges up the stairs, and when he reaches Henry’s floor, he sees that the door is open.
“Henry?”
The flurries swirl about through the open window.
“Henry.”
And then he’s scrambling about inside, searching for any sign of him. Walt lights a candle that he finds lying on the floor, and as it burns brighter, the disarray comes into view: dishes, pots, books, and papers strewn about the room; overturned chairs and broken bureau drawers and an empty bed.
He kicks the chair against the wall. How could I have left Henry to Clement’s men? He kneels down next to the drawer, the edges of which had come apart from the bottom, and reaches for Henry’s banyan—the blue silk slips through his fingers.
No, no, no.
He sits on the bed and closes his eyes. In his mind, he wipes the day clean, puts time in reverse: Dishes return to their shelves, table and chairs flip up into place; he closes the window, lights the lamp, and sets the tea on.
He closes his eyes tighter until he can see him.
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