The Bone Garden: A Novel

Again, someone was pounding on his door. What a nightmare I've had, thought Norris as he opened his eyes and saw daylight shining through his window. This is what comes from eating too many oysters, drinking too much brandy. It brings on dreams of monsters.

— Norris? Norris, wake up! — called Wendell.

Rounds with Dr. Crouch. I'm late.

Norris threw off his blanket and sat up. Only then did he see his greatcoat, draped over the chair, the fabric stained with broad smears of blood. He looked down at the shoes, which he'd left next to his bed, and saw mud-encrusted leather. And yet more blood. Even the shirt he was now wearing had splatters of brick red on the cuffs, the sleeves. It had not been a nightmare. He had fallen asleep with Mary Robinson's blood on his clothes.

Wendell pounded on the door. — Norris, we must talk! —

Norris stumbled across the room and opened the door to find Wendell standing in the dim stairway.

— You look awful, — said Wendell.

Norris crossed back to the bed and sat down, groaning. — It was an awful night. —

— So I've heard. —

Wendell stepped inside and shut the door. As he looked around at the wretched little garret, he did not say a thing, nor did he need to; his opinion was plain on his face as he took in the rotting beams and the sagging floor and the straw-filled mattress set atop the bed frame of weathered planks. A mouse darted from the shadows, claws skittering across the floor, and it disappeared beneath the desk where a stained copy of Wistar's Anatomy lay open. It was so cold on this late-November morning that a fan of ice had formed inside the window.

— I imagine you're wondering why I didn't turn up at rounds, — said Norris. He felt painfully exposed, sitting only in his shirt, and when he looked down, he saw his bare thighs stippled with goose bumps.

— We know why you didn't turn up. It's all they're talking about at the hospital. What happened to Mary Robinson. —

— Then you know that I'm the one who found her. —

— That's one of the versions, anyway. —

Norris looked up. — There's another? —

— There are all sorts of rumors flying. Hideous rumors, I'm sorry to say. —

Norris stared down again at his bare knees. — Would you hand me my trousers, please? It's bloody freezing in here. —

Wendell tossed him the pants, then turned and looked out the window. As Norris dressed, he noticed bloodstains on the cuff of his trousers. Everywhere he looked, he saw Mary Robinson's blood on his clothes.

— What are they saying about me? — he asked.

Wendell turned to face him. — What a coincidence it is that you came so soon upon both death scenes. —

— I wasn't the one who found Agnes Poole's body. —

— But you were there. —

— So were you. —

— I'm not accusing you. —

— Then what are you doing here? Come to take a peek at where the Reaper lives? — Norris rose to his feet, pulling on his suspenders. — It makes for good gossip, I imagine. Delicious tidbits to tell your Harvard chums over Madeira. —

— You don't really think that about me, do you? —

— I know what you think of me. —

Wendell crossed toward him. He was far shorter, and he stared up at Norris like an angry little terrier. — You've had a chip on your shoulder since the day you arrived. The poor farmer's boy, always on the outs. No one wants to be your friend because your coat isn't good enough, or you don't have enough spare change in your pocket. You really think that's my opinion of you? That you're not worthy of my friendship? —

— I know my proper place in your circle. —

— Don't presume to read my mind. Charles and I made every attempt to include you, to make you feel welcome. Yet you hold us at arm's length, as though you've already decided any friendship is destined to fail. —

— We're classmates, Wendell. Nothing more. We share a preceptor and we share old Paddy. Perhaps we share a round of drinks now and then. But take a look around this room. You can see we have little else in common. —

— I have more in common with you than I'll ever have with Edward Kingston. —

Norris laughed. — Oh, yes. Just look at our matching satin waistcoats. Name one thing we have in common, other than poor old Paddy on the table. —

Wendell turned to the desk, where Wistar's lay open. — You've been studying, for one thing. —

— You didn't answer my question. —

— That was my answer. You sit here in this freezing attic, burning your candles down to the last puddle of tallow, and you're studying. Why? Just so you'll someday be able to wear a top hat? Somehow, I don't think so. — He turned to Norris. — I think you study for the same reason I do. Because you believe in science. —

— Now you're presuming to read my mind. —

— That day on the ward, with Dr. Crouch. There was a woman who had been laboring for far too long. He advocated bleeding her. Do you remember? —

— What of it? —

— You challenged him. You said you'd experimented on cows. That bleeding them had shown no benefit. —

— And for that I was soundly ridiculed. —

— You must've known you would be. Yet you said it anyway. —

— Because it was true. It's what the cows taught me. —

— And you're not too proud to take your lessons from cows. —

— I'm a farmer. Where else should I take my lessons? —

— And I'm a minister's son. Do you think the lessons I heard from my father's pulpit were nearly as useful? A farmer knows more about birth and death than you'll ever learn while sitting in a church pew. —

With a snort, Norris turned and reached for his topcoat, the one item of clothing that had been spared from Mary Robinson's blood, only because he had left it behind last night. — You have some odd notions about the nobility of farmers. —

— I recognize a man of science when I see one. And I've seen your generosity as well. —

— My generosity? —

— In the anatomy room, when Charles made such a bloody mess of old Paddy. We both know Charlie's just one slip away from being booted out of school. But you stepped forward and covered for him when Edward and I didn't. —

— That was hardly generosity. I just couldn't stand the thought of seeing a grown man cry. —

— Norris, you're not like most of the others in our class. You have the calling. Do you think Charlie Lackaway cares about anatomy, about materia medica? He's here only because his uncle expects it of him. Because his late father was a doctor, and his grandfather, too, and he hasn't the spine to resist his family. And Edward, he doesn't even bother to hide his disinterest. Half the students are here to please their parents, and most of the others just want to learn a trade, something that will earn them a comfortable living. —

— And why are you here? Because you have the calling? —

— I admit, medicine was not my first choice. But one can hardly make a living as a poet. Though I have been published in the Daily Advertiser. —

Norris had to suppress a laugh. Now, there was a useless profession, reserved for lucky men with means, men who could afford to waste precious hours scribbling verse. He said, diplomatically, — I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your work. —

Wendell gave a sigh. — Then you can see why I did not pursue poetry as a career. And I was most unsuited to the study of law as well. —

— So medicine is merely a third choice. That hardly sounds like a calling. —

— But it has become my calling. I know it's what I'm meant to do. —