by Hannah Tinti
“For what?” Dolly asked.
“For everything.”
“That would take years,” Dolly said. “And that’s with me not remembering half of what I’ve done.”
“If you don’t, you won’t be saved.” Ren glanced over to see if this made an impression. To his surprise, he saw that it did not.
The boy did his best to explain the seven sins, the Second Coming, and the end of the world. He told Dolly about how the dead were going to rise and stand among the living, and how it would be a day of judgment, and Christ would decide who went to heaven and who was cast down to hell forever.
“I’ve already been there,” Dolly said. “And I’ve already come back.”
“But it’s a sin,” Ren said. “And it’s against the law. You’ll go to jail. They’ll hang you.” He could not understand Dolly’s indifference. A cold breeze blew up, and Ren’s nose began to run.
A cloud passed away from the moon, and Dolly’s face came out of the darkness. He patted Ren on the shoulder. “I told you before. I was made for killing.”
In the back of the wagon the men were silent, as if agreeing with this. Ren was suddenly anxious that they were still alive. He pulled the horse to a stop, then lifted the edge of one of the blankets. The brim of the porkpie hat was pulled rakishly to the side, the back of the man’s skull split open. The other man’s face oozed with blood; they’d left his top hat in the road. Ren waited for a sign, feeling nauseated all the while. Doctor Milton was wrong. Nothing inside their bodies was beautiful.
Ren looked down the road that stretched before them in the dark. Up ahead was a clearing, and through the leaves he could see the turret of the hospital, standing in the distance, like a giant waiting to be fed. The boy took a deep breath, then covered the hat boys again, released the brake, and set the horse moving. Father John had always told him that the Day of Judgment would come in their lifetime. But when Ren glanced behind, no one was following them, and no judgment seemed at hand.
TWENTY
Sister Agnes was waiting at the gate as if she expected them, her arms full of bedpans. She was knocking the containers one by one against the wall of the building and kicking dirt over the waste with her foot. She looked tired, as though she’d never stopped working.
The wagon drew close and Ren realized that Sister Agnes stood between them and the basement. He began to waver, then decided to do what Benjamin would have done. He smiled, and waved, then handed the reins over to Dolly. He pulled the brake. “Our landlady is sick.”
Sister Agnes put the bedpans down and opened the gates. “If it’s contagious you’ll have to leave.” She dried her hands on her gray pinafore, walked to the back of the cart before Ren could stop her, and parted the blankets.
Ren expected her to scream. Or burst into tears. But after a cursory glance at the dead men, Sister Agnes simply pushed them aside and began taking Mrs. Sands’s temperature.
“Fever,” said Sister Agnes. She lifted Mrs. Sands’s eyelids. “Dilation.” She felt her neck. “Swelling.” She opened Mrs. Sands’s mouth, peering through the lips. “Infection.” All this time Mrs. Sands tried to swat her away, but Sister Agnes dodged her easily. Then she took Mrs. Sands by the wrists, put her ear to the landlady’s chest, and held it there for a moment.
“Is she going to be all right?”
“Quiet!”
“MURDERERS!” Mrs. Sands shouted.
Ren felt the color drain from his face. But the nun ignored Mrs. Sands completely. She continued listening for another minute, then stood and began readjusting the blanket. “Your landlady has influenza.”
“Is that bad?”
“It can be. It’s brought on by damp weather. And it’s contagious. She’ll spread the disease to the other patients in the ward. We can’t take her here.” She tucked the blanket around the body of Mrs. Sands with a practiced efficiency. “Unless you have the funds for a private room.”
Ren dug into his pockets and turned out the money from the bedpost. Sister Agnes gathered the bills from his hand, and Ren began to worry whether it would be enough. The nun counted silently, then turned her black eyes on Dolly, still sitting on the driver’s seat. He was staring ahead, his shoulders hunched. He had not acknowledged her, or Ren, or anything for the last three miles on the road.
“Brother.”
Dolly looked down at Sister Agnes.
“Are you from Saint Anthony’s?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Ren, “he is.”
Dolly made the sign of the cross, and Sister Agnes observed him carefully.
“Where did these men come from?”
It was phrased as an accusation, and Dolly’s face dimmed. Ren could tell that he was sizing her up, calculating the risk. The boy rushed forward.
“We found them in the road.”
Ren could see Sister Agnes’s doubts rising as she got a closer look at Dolly’s costume. Then her mouth closed tight as if she had confirmed her suspicions. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and nodded at the back of the wagon.
“You can put the others through the depository. The doctor is on his morning rounds, but I’m certain you’ll receive the proper compensation.”
She stood by as Dolly and Ren wrapped the bodies in blankets and carried them over to the basement door. There was a swinging section in the lower half, just like the gate at Saint Anthony’s. Ren lifted the handle and peered inside. A long metal chute was attached to receive the deliveries. One by one Dolly pushed the bodies through, and Ren could hear them sliding down into the darkness.
The morning was just beginning to leak its color across the sky as Sister Agnes showed them upstairs to the private ward. Dolly took each step carefully, carrying Mrs. Sands in his arms. Ren followed behind. He could hear the people from the public wards, turning in their beds, their whispers echoing throughout the hall.
On the second floor Sister Agnes took a key from the ring on her waist. She unlocked a passageway that led to a long corridor lined with rooms. Stationed outside of every other doorway was a Sister of Charity. Most of the nuns were doing needlework, but Ren could see that one or two were dozing instead. Sister Agnes prodded these women as she passed, and they slipped further into their chairs before snapping awake.
“Each sister is assigned two patients to care for. They are available day and night, and are responsible for bringing meals and cleaning linens. If your landlady needs anything, she may ring the bell and Sister Josephine will answer.” An old, freckled nun leaned against the wall outside the empty room, her habit tilted precariously to one side, her mouth open.
“New patient,” Sister Agnes said.
The nun’s eyes popped open. She was nearly seventy, with gray strands of hair peeking out of her habit; a solid woman, despite her age.
“Get the tub and some water,” said Sister Agnes. “She’ll have to be deloused.”
Sister Josephine shuffled off down the hallway, rolling up the sleeves on her sizable arms. Dolly set the landlady on the bed while Ren looked around the room. It was a pleasant space, with a clean floor and flowered wallpaper and eyelet curtains trimmed with lace.
“I’M NOT A LOUSE.”
“Quiet!” Sister Agnes said. “She’ll wake the other patients.”
“She can’t help it,” Ren tried to explain.
“BOY!”
“Shhhh.” He took Mrs. Sands’s hand and squeezed it.
“YOU MUST MAKE HIS DINNER. YOU MUST BRING HIM HIS SOCKS.”
Ren tried to cover her mouth, but Mrs. Sands took hold of his fingers.
“LEAVE THEM BY THE FIREPLACE.”
And then the boy understood. It was the chimney dwarf. Mrs. Sands knew that Ren had seen him. She knew that Ren had taken the wooden horse.
Sister Agnes pulled a small brown bottle from her sleeve. She held it underneath Mrs. Sands’s nose, and the landlady immediately began to sneeze. “You’ve upset her.”
The door swung open, and Sister Josephine carried in a basin full of
water. “Out of the way!” she said to Dolly, who backed against the wall, holding the place on his stomach where the nun had just elbowed him.
“She needs to sleep,” said Sister Agnes. “You should go. She’ll get good care here. God be praised.”
Ren leaned over the bed. Mrs. Sands’s eyes were unfocused. Her hands limp. Ren could see inside the landlady’s mouth. There was a molar on the right side, plugged with gold. Sister Josephine began to pull at the pins in Mrs. Sands’s hair.
“How long will it take for her to get better?”
“There’s no way to tell,” said Sister Agnes.
“I’ll come back soon,” Ren said to Mrs. Sands. The landlady slapped at the nuns as they tried to undress her, and Sister Agnes pushed Ren and Dolly out of the room.
“I hate this place,” Dolly said as they went through the hallway doors.
“Haven’t you ever been sick?” Ren asked.
Dolly sat down on the stairs and lifted his robe. He showed Ren a sealed hole, the size of a quarter, in his thigh.
“Where’d you get that?”
“Someone shot me,” said Dolly. He traced the hole with his finger.
“Why?”
“Because I was strangling him.” Dolly’s tongue pushed out the side of his cheek, and Ren saw that he was boasting again. He showed Ren where the bullet had come out, on the other side of his leg.
“Just missed the bone,” said Doctor Milton. He was on the landing below, watching them through the spokes of the railing, his suit spotlessly tailored, his beard trimmed, his fingernails picked clean. “This is an unexpected visit.”
“It’s our landlady,” said Ren. “She’s sick.”
“Is it a fever?” Doctor Milton asked. “We’ve had several interesting cases. Someone died of it last night.” He climbed the stairs, leaned over, and touched Dolly’s bullet hole. “This must have been exceedingly painful.”
Dolly looked away, as if he was embarrassed.
Doctor Milton studied Dolly’s giant hands, his chest, his square bald head. He took his finger off the bullet hole. “You must lead a fascinating life.”
Dolly stared back.
“Yes,” said Ren. “He does.”
The boy could sense the hospital slowly coming to life, the doctors and students and patients starting their day. A Sister of Mercy walked by with a tray of dressings. Two young students passed on the stairs and nodded at Doctor Milton. They seemed taken aback by Dolly, his bloodied robe pulled about his knees.
“I’d like to speak with you,” said Doctor Milton. “In the observatory, please.” He led Ren and Dolly down the hall, past the rows of paintings and his own hungry-looking portrait. The operating room was empty, the stage scrubbed clean and covered with fresh sawdust. The morning sun shone through the skylights and brightened the rows of benches. Doctor Milton closed the door.
“I received your delivery. I’m afraid there’s a problem.”
“What’s the matter?” Ren asked.
“They were murdered.” The doctor pointed to the corner of his eye. “Here,” he said. “And here.” He touched the back of his skull. “The blood’s barely dry. They’ve only been dead for a few hours. When a body comes in like this, I’m supposed to report it.”
Ren coughed. “It was an accident.”
“That makes no difference to me.”
The room went still. Ren looked at Dolly, who stood near the door, his hands opening and closing, his brow creased. If only Benjamin were with them, Ren thought. They needed a story to get out of this. The boy searched for a way to explain. But instead Dolly walked up to the doctor and tapped him on the shoulder.
“I killed them,” said Dolly.
“Excuse me?” said Doctor Milton.
“I killed them and I’m not sorry,” Dolly said, and then he turned to Ren, as though he’d just done something wonderful.
“Well,” said Doctor Milton, sucking in his breath. “That’s very interesting.”
The speech Ren had given on the road had brought the truth out. Dolly had confessed, but he confessed to the wrong man. Ren groaned. That’s it, he thought. We’re finished. He was surprised to find that he was more relieved than afraid. He sat down on the stairs, dropped his head, and waited for Doctor Milton to send for the police. But the doctor did not raise the alarm. He took a small notebook out of his pocket and began eagerly scribbling across the paper.
“I’d like to examine you,” the doctor said to Dolly. “If you would permit me?” He gestured to the operating table in the center of the stage. Dolly glanced at Ren, and when the boy shrugged his shoulders, he followed the doctor down the stairs. Doctor Milton brushed a bit of sawdust off the table, and Dolly settled on top, stretching out as if he were preparing to take a nap.
The doctor wrote a few more notes, then leaned over Dolly’s face. “I’m going to touch your head.”
“What for?”
“To take some measurements.” Doctor Milton rested his fingertips on either side of Dolly’s forehead. Then he slowly moved them across the scalp, pausing over each bump, running his thumb along the center, as if the seam there bound the man together. The morning sun shone through the skylight, and the doctor’s whole face was illuminated.
“I met a giant once,” Doctor Milton said, “with this same shape of skull. When I heard he was ill, I tried to make arrangements, but he refused to sell his body to me. He made his friends promise to seal him in a lead coffin and dump it in the ocean. But I paid off the undertaker, and they filled the coffin with stones. He’s made a wonderful addition to my collection.” Doctor Milton ran his fingers over Dolly’s jaw. “I haven’t acquired any murderers yet. Perhaps I could persuade you to take part, to further my study of phrenology?”
Dolly blinked at the doctor, not understanding. And then he did. The dark fog came back into his eyes, and he reached up, and in one movement seized the doctor’s arm and twisted it backward. Doctor Milton cried out and tried to get away, clawing with his free hand. Dolly sat up on the operating table and took the blows as if they were nothing.
The doctor started to scream and Dolly covered his mouth, just as he had done with Mrs. Sands, muffling the cries with his giant fingers. Ren watched Doctor Milton thrashing and was reminded of how terrified he’d been on his first visit, sitting on the edge of that same table. He waited a little while longer and then he said, “That’s enough.”
Dolly let go. Doctor Milton staggered off the stage, cradling his arm and cursing. “I think he’s broken it.”
“You frightened him.”
“I frightened him?”
“He’s sorry. Aren’t you, Dolly?”
“No.”
Doctor Milton slowly bent his arm, wincing in pain. He pushed up his sleeve and felt the bone. “Not broken. But sprained. It will keep me from operating for at least a week. Do you want to explain this to Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her goiter?”
“Not really,” said Ren.
“It helps to understand someone’s history,” said Doctor Milton. “That’s all I was trying to say. If I know a man’s profession or his temperament, I can see how it affected the growth of his body. If his liver is diseased or his heart too small. An anomaly opens the door.” Doctor Milton hovered over his box of medical instruments, as if they offered some kind of protection. With his fingertips he pulled out a bandage and began to wrap it around his injured arm, all the way to the wrist.
“I’m no different from anyone else,” said Dolly.
“Yes, you are,” said Doctor Milton, brandishing a pair of scissors. Ren could tell that he was still afraid. “You’re a murderer.”
The scissors flashed like a signal. “The men we brought were murderers too,” said Ren.
Doctor Milton seemed intrigued, if not completely pacified. “Do they have any family? Anyone who might come looking for them?”
Ren looked the doctor straight in the eye. “No.”
“I’m not going to pay the regular price,” said Doctor Milton.
“And I want that man off the premises first.”
“I’m not leaving Ren,” said Dolly.
The boy put his hand on Dolly’s arm. “It’s only for a few minutes,” he said. “Wait for me outside.”
Dolly cracked his massive knuckles. He gave Doctor Milton a menacing look, then threw his body forward, off the examination table. Ren watched his friend leave, and when he turned around Doctor Milton had already fashioned a sling for his arm. With a bit of fumbling, the man took out his purse and pressed the money into Ren’s hand. It was less than a third of what they’d received before.
“You’re a smart boy,” said Doctor Milton. “I don’t know what you’re doing with a man like that.”
“He’s my friend,” said Ren.
“You should be going to school. You could study science. Or get a job of some kind. Something respectable.”
These possibilities fanned out before Ren like cards on a table, then closed back together, until there was only one option left. He was never going to study science; he was never going to be respectable. And he was tired of trying to be good. The best he could do was follow the path that Benjamin had showed him. He belonged to it now.
“I don’t want him coming back here,” said Doctor Milton. “Unless you bring him as a delivery. I’d pay extra for that.”
Ren imagined Dolly’s bones hanging next to the giant’s. “I don’t think he’d like it.”
“He doesn’t have to,” said the doctor. “He only has to die.”
TWENTY-ONE
Ren and Dolly were fumbling through Mrs. Sands’s drawers, encountering mountains of nightgowns as they searched for the small man’s socks. Ren wondered at the amount of underwear, for he’d only seen the landlady in two dresses: one purple, one brown. In her closet he’d found another, made of light gray silk, covered with paper and tied with string, that he suspected was her wedding dress.