by Oak, B. B.
Infused with rage, I rushed at Solomon. He threw down the boy, knocking the wind out of him, to deal with me. He looked eager to do me great harm, but I was just as eager to do the same to him and landed another blow that caught him on the side of his neck. That slowed him down only a little. He is far bigger and no doubt stronger than I, and if I’d had any tool or weapon at hand I would have used it against him gladly. But all I had were my bare hands. And my head. When he caught me in his powerful arms to crush me, I butted my crown sharply up against his jaw, causing his own head to snap back. I pulled away as he staggered backwards into a tall marble monument.
He shook his head and then launched himself at me with a roar. Noah, prone on the ground, grabbed at Solomon’s ankle and caused him to stumble, which gave me the opportunity to land another punch into Solomon’s face. He swerved and fell, ramming his head against the monument so hard that he was knocked senseless. So Providence had indeed provided me with weapons to defeat the ferocious Behemoth—a small boy’s hand and a marble stone. I was most appreciative.
Rushed to Julia, who was sitting on the ground looking dazed. Helped her to her feet, and she assured me she was uninjured. Noah had managed to upright himself and wobbled to us, head dizzy but limbs unbroken. Julia and I each took one of his hands, and off we all hurried toward the cemetery gate. Once we reached the public road, I told them to head home without me and that I would join them there shortly. I felt an obligation as a doctor to go back inside the cemetery to see if Solomon was in need of aid.
Found him sitting up, rubbing his head. It appeared that he would fully recover with no lasting injuries. He looked back at me with such a hateful expression that I turned away, wanting nothing more to do with him. And as I turned I caught a flash of movement behind a white oak in the distance. I marched to it and found Mrs. Swann, all aflutter and breathless, peeking round the tree trunk at me.
“Oh, Dr. Walker, ’tis you, thank God!” she said. “As you came toward me I feared you to be the Plumford Night Stalker.”
“What are you doing here, Mrs. Swann?”
“I was just asking myself that very question. What sane woman would end up in a cemetery just as night is descending? But the thing of it is, I lost my way on my ramble, being unfamiliar with these parts, and hoped cutting through here would lead me back to the post road.”
“I shall lead you back to the road,” I told her and gallantly offered my arm. In truth, if she had not been a friend of Julia’s, I would have readily left her to manage on her own. Not only is Mrs. Swann unattractive, vulgar, and useless, she has now proven herself to be obtuse.
Julia had not gone home as I had directed her to but was waiting with Noah at the gate for me. She greeted Mrs. Swann rather coolly, I thought, so perhaps the warmth of their friendship is subsiding. Mrs. Swann was aghast when we told her what had just occurred in the cemetery.
“I must have missed the battle between David and Goliath by mere minutes,” she exclaimed.
“It was more like the Archangel Michael defeating Satan!” Julia said.
I laughed at that for in truth I am no hero and even less an angel. I am not inclined to rush out and fight against evil, but when it comes upon me as it did today, in the form of Solomon Wiley, I have no choice but to grapple with it. The man smells of the grave.
JULIA’S NOTEBOOK
Friday, 17 December
Noah and I spent the morning sketching together. He seemed calm and content, as if he had forgotten all about his violent encounter with Solomon Wiley. The poor dear has most likely become inured to the harsh treatment of bullies over the years, but does he appreciate that his very life was in danger yesterday? By the way he now gazes with awe at his rescuer Adam, I think he does.
Henry called this afternoon. When I opened the door to him he presented me with a blue box that contained three dozen Thoreau drawing pencils! I thanked him heartily and offered to do a pencil sketch of him gratis.
“Surely you have better things to draw than my plain countenance,” he said.
“Indeed I do not,” I assured him, for his dynamic features are most striking. His large nose alone is worthy of study at various angles. The last time I studied one so aquiline ’twas on a bust of Caesar. His prominent eyes, too, might be drawn again and again, for they are ever-changing, the color shifting from gray to blue, the focus sometimes contemplatively vague, sometimes keen and sharp as an eagle’s. His mobile mouth would be hard to capture, being down-turned one moment and then suddenly transforming into a radiant smile. Oh, yes, I could sketch Henry over and over again, and each time he would look truly himself and yet different.
He refused my offer, however, with his usual brusqueness, claiming that if I had nothing better to draw, he certainly had better things to do than pose for a portrait. I persuaded him to come into my studio anyway, with the promise I would not so much as touch a pencil, and after he’d settled himself by the fire I recounted to him our terrifying confrontation with Solomon Wiley in the cemetery.
Henry, of course, was outraged. “Have the wretch arrested!”
“By whom? The doughty Plumford constable?” I said with disdain. “Beers has neither the backbone nor the muscle to take on Wiley. Nor the inclination, either. Beers near worships Wiley as the heroic slayer of vampyres. And more to the point, they are drinking companions.”
“Where is Noah now?” Henry said, looking concerned.
“Safe with Adam in his office.”
“He is a most fortunate boy to have Adam and you looking after him.”
“God knows he needs protectors!” I said. “No one else in Plumford cares a whit about him. Perhaps, if Noah had been born here, folks might have gotten used to his deformity and accepted him. But the Robinsons came here as strangers only a short time ago and apparently kept very much to themselves. Why, you heard what the Shroves said, Henry. Noah’s parents did not even send him to school. Hence, he is nigh a stranger hereabouts, and a very strange-looking stranger at that. How the poor dear is made to suffer for his disfigurement!”
“Why is there such intolerance for those who look or act different?” Thoreau said. “I know of a man named Joseph Palmer who is persecuted unmercifully for wearing a beard simply because it is not the fashion. He has been jeered at and even physically attacked. But he is a hale and hearty fellow and can stand up to his tormentors. Indeed, he could even shave off his beard if he so chose. Noah, unfortunately, is too small to fight off full-grown aggressors, nor can he change his outward appearance.”
“I have high hopes Adam can do so with an operation,” I said. “But in the meantime, I am greatly concerned about Noah’s safety. Townspeople are so frightened by Kitty Lyttle’s brutal murder that they are apt to believe anything, even that Noah is the Night Stalker’s apprentice.”
“Apt to do anything too.” Henry nodded. “Nothing is so much to be feared as fear, for it instills anger and irrational behavior.”
“I wish Noah had relatives elsewhere who could take him in until sanity returns to Plumford.”
“For aught we know he does,” Henry said.
“Alas, Noah has told me more than once that he has no living kin.”
“Could he not be mistaken? Perhaps he has kin his parents never mentioned to him.”
“But where to look for them?”
“Well, we were told by the Shroves that Noah’s father once worked at the Howard Theater,” Henry said. “And I happen to be acquainted with a most agreeable lady who is employed at that very theater.”
Henry never fails to surprise me. “Pray write to this agreeable lady forthwith and inquire if she was acquainted with Mr. Robinson.”
“Better yet, I shall ask her in person. I plan to go to the Howard first thing next week to inquire about Kitty Lyttle.”
“Allow me to accompany you, Henry! Kitty was a friend of mine, and I might be of help in your inquiry.”
“You might at that. But will Adam allow you to get involved in a murder case?”
“Allow me?” My hackles rose. “Adam Walker is not my keeper!”
Henry smiled at my indignation. “As far as I am concerned, you are welcome to come along. I shall be at the Concord station at ten o’clock Monday morning.”
“And so shall I, Henry.”
That settled, he departed. And the rest of the day has passed without incident but for a rather annoying conversation I had with Mrs. Swann. She knocked on my chamber door just a while ago and said we must have a talk “for my own good.” Since childhood, I have never appreciated talks that began with such a preamble, and I did not appreciate this one, either.
“It has come to my attention,” she commenced quite starchily, “that Dr. Walker has spent two nights in a row sleeping in his office. Will he continue to do so?”
“I don’t really know. But why should it matter to you, Mrs. Swann?”
“It should matter to you, my dear! Have you no concern for your reputation? You know how people talk. Here you are, a married woman living apart from her husband, with an attractive young man sleeping under your roof.”
I laughed. “Dr. Walker’s office has its own roof. And he is my cousin, Mrs. Swann. I do not think people will talk. Nor do I care if they do.”
“Well, I care,” she said, folding her arms across her ample bosom. “I too have a reputation to consider. It is unseemly to have a single man residing with two husbandless women. Two very alluring women, I might add.”
I could not believe my ears! Was I hearing such prudish drivel from the lips of the very woman who enjoyed reciting passages from The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure? “Are you skylarking with me, Mrs. Swann?”
“I am not!” she denied most indignantly. “Dr. Walker is always around, everywhere I look, all the time, and it is driving me to distraction!”
Could it be that she is falling in love with Adam? Is this why she too finds his presence as disquieting as I do?
“We should both be grateful to have a man around whilst a crazed killer roams Plumford,” I told her. “But if you object to Dr. Walker’s presence so strongly, you are free to remove yourself from my house.”
As soon as I stated this, I realized how relieved I would be if she left. In fact, I was near to the point of insisting upon it. But then she covered her face with her hands and wept most piteously.
“But where would I go? Where would I go?” she lamented.
So the next thing I found myself doing was comforting her. “You need not go anywhere,” I said, patting her heaving shoulder.
“Thank you!” she said and gave me a heartfelt hug. She smelled pleasantly of bergamot, but I also discerned a faint trace of tobacco smoke. She spends so much time jabbering with the cronies at Daggett’s store that her clothes must soak up their cigar and pipe smoke.
I gently but firmly extracted myself from her strong embrace, and we parted without further mention of Adam’s “unseemly” proximity. Of course I would like him closer still, in my very bed, night after night. But it is enough to know he is nearby. When he told me that he had come to protect me, my heart swelled so in my chest I could not breathe, much less speak.
ADAM’S JOURNAL
Saturday, December 18
Arabel Phyfe was buried today, and the funeral procession from the Meetinghouse to the new cemetery was far longer than most have been of late. Even townspeople who had barely known the girl marched behind the crepe-draped coffin carriage to show respect for their First Selectman, Justice Phyfe. That the Consumption could take the daughter of such a wealthy and influential man as he seemed to comfort some I spoke to who had also lost children to the disease. ’Twas not that they were gladdened by Phyfe’s loss, only consoled that Death does not play favorites.
Returned to the office after the burial service, intent on putting to order my long-neglected account ledger, when Mr. Jackson burst through the door and said his son had swallowed rat poison. Grabbed my bag and handed Jackson the box of stomach-pump gear and off we ran to the house.
Hyram was on the floor of his chamber, writhing and wailing and foaming at the mouth. I could smell the garlic scent of arsenic before I even crouched down over him.
“Where’s the container of poison?” I asked his father. He pointed to an empty jar by the bedstead. “Was it full?”
“I used up half last time I put it out for rats.”
“How long ago did Hyram ingest it?” I said.
“Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes ago. He went up to his chamber straight from the Phyfe funeral, and soon after that I heard him thrashing and moaning. Went to see what the commotion was, saw the empty jar of ratsbane, and ran to fetch you.”
The fool boy had downed enough poison to kill off a horse, much less himself, but I had hopes that his body had not yet had time to absorb it. “Let’s pump him out,” I said.
Brought out the five-foot length of flexible, half-inch tube and began to rub fish oil along its length to facilitate passage down the throat.
“We’re going to save you, Hyram,” I said.
He spat foam away from his mouth. “No! Don’t want to be saved.”
“He is going to fight us,” I said to Jackson. I expected as much, as this was no accident, and if someone tries to kill himself, he generally is not of a mind to lend a hand in being saved. I was glad the father had more than enough strength to do what would now be necessary. Asked Jackson to draw a bucket of water and find a block of wood to place in the boy’s mouth to hold it open so he couldn’t sever my fingers or the tube with his teeth.
Jackson was back in a minute with both. Asked him to raise Hyram up into a chair, and he did so, seating him down hard. Hyram thrashed about and shook his head from side to side, until Jackson wrapped his huge arm around his son’s head to hold him still. This was no time to be gentle, and I pressed hard on the sides of the boy’s jaws. When the pain of it made him open his mouth wide, I forced the block of wood between his teeth. He moaned most miserably all the while, eyes wide as saucers, in pain from the arsenic burning away at his belly.
Held his tongue down and began to slide the tube down his throat. Although time was of the essence, took care to go slow and be sure not to direct the tube into the trachea instead of the esophagus. That mistake would fill the lungs with water instead of the stomach, and I’d end up drowning instead of saving him. Knew I’d gotten safely past the trachea when I heard only moans of discomfort and not ragged, blocked breathing. Hyram retched against the tube instinctively, his body convulsing to try and get rid of the obstruction, but to no avail. When the tube end would go no farther, I knew it had reached the pit of his stomach. Inserted a funnel into the other end of the tube and, holding it high, poured water into it. As the water went down the tube to his stomach, Hyram thrashed about like a crazed animal, but I soon got his stomach full. Took the funnel out of the tube, pinched shut the end of it, and lowered the end of the tube into the bucket. Hence, when I released my pinch hold, the tube acted like a siphon and pulled out the contents of Hyram’s stomach in a long, foul gush that lasted a good ten seconds. Poor Hyram choked and groaned most miserably during this procedure, but we ignored his misery and went through the procedure once again for good measure.
After the second stomach flush, I carefully pulled out the tube and poured a good dose of fish oil down the boy’s throat. He coughed some of it up, but enough reached its destination to make him vomit all over again, which I thought best for him. Only then did Jackson pull out the block from between his son’s teeth. The boy by this time was weak and limp, as the entire process is most exhausting and revolting for the patient to endure. Some doctors would have used harsh emetics instead, but they burn the patient’s stomach lining. Besides, emetics cannot clean out the stomach as well or as fast as the tube flushing method.
Jackson pulled off his son’s wet, stained clothes and tucked him into bed as gently as he must have when Hyram was a child. He fell asleep instantly.
“Do you know of any reason why he would do
this?” I asked Mr. Jackson as we hovered over the boy. “I am concerned he might try again with greater efficacy.”
Mr. Jackson slowly shook his head as he gazed at his son. “All I know is that he has been acting strange for months now. And stranger still these last few weeks. But I did not make too much of it, for if the truth be told, my son has always been a bit strange. I reckon losing his mother as a youngster made him so.”
“Well, if that be the cause, I too might be strange,” I said, “for I lost my own mother when I was but seven.”
“You, doctor?” Mr. Jackson regarded me for a moment with eyes that expressed deep sadness. “You are the most regular, rational, reliable man in Plumford. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving my son.” He turned from me quickly, and I knew he did so to hide his tears.
“I will sit with Hyram for a while to make sure he is on the mend,” I said. “Could I trouble you to make me a strong cup of coffee, Mr. Jackson?”
He nodded and quickly left the chamber to do so, and to regain his composure in privacy.
In his sleep Hyram moaned most plangently, but I concluded it was from a bad dream rather than physical pain. I adjusted his pillow to make him more comfortable, and as I smoothed the case I felt a lump beneath it. I extracted a ball of pink silken fabric that, once unfolded, became a woman’s stocking. I stared at it with more surprise than if it had been a turtle. How did such an intimate article of female attire come to be nestled in Hyram’s pillowcase? I replaced it and rearranged the pillow under his head.
Did not mention the stocking to Mr. Jackson when he returned with my coffee. But I did ask if Hyram was courting anyone and so might be disappointed in love. To that Mr. Jackson sighed and said his son was far too shy to even speak to a young woman, much less go a-courting. So the stocking remains a mystery. Perhaps the boy simply stole it off some lady’s clothesline.