by Lydia Kang
Not very amiable, Cora thought. His two grown children appeared more bored than upset at their patriarch’s passing.
“A man of God—”
Who died bedding his favorite prostitute at Madame Emeraude’s abode on Elm Street.
“And a devoted servant to his family, Randolph Hitchcock left us too soon. He will be remembered for his generosity.”
Generosity, or did he mean greed? At least the priest was correct about one thing: Randolph Hitchcock III had indeed died before his time. Cora hadn’t known when he would die, but she’d known it would be soon. The doctor treating him had told her so, for the price of a quarter eagle. Hitchcock had been ripening an aneurysm within his vast abdomen, his aorta stretched out to the size of a large apple, at the ready for a catastrophic rupture. The doctor could feel it pulsating under his fingertips, enlarging as the months went by.
According to his favorite girl at Madame Emeraude’s (also paid in coins), Hitchcock had laughed off the doctor’s warning to quiet his life. Stop drinking, stop his daily trips down to Wall Street, and forgo visits to Madame Emeraude’s. And for goodness’ sake, stop gobbling down those enormous plates of roasted oysters at the saloons. But it was at Madame Emeraude’s where he’d collapsed, insensate—on the upper floor, atop Belle. Apparently, Belle had screamed and thrashed for ten minutes before someone freed her from under his three hundred pounds. Belle always yelled when she was with clients—it was hard to tell when there was a valid crisis.
Hitchcock might not have been a prize when alive. But he certainly was a prize dead. A ruptured aneurysm within a corpulent body would fetch a pretty penny for dissection. Bodies like Hitchcock’s were Cora’s specialty—a corpse containing a curiosity. The anatomy professors and anatomical museums were willing to pay for the extraordinary. The more that could be learned of the body’s errant ways, the better for society. And the more it lined Cora’s pockets.
She eyed the burial site. Most resurrectionists did not have the patience to deal with rifle-wielding guards at the private cemeteries, or the marble vaults, or the rare iron mortsafes. Potter’s Field was easier to scavenge, but its contents were also rather boring. Consumption. Stillbirth. Apoplexy. Scarlet fever. The poor died in such dreadfully ordinary ways. But even those bodies fetched five or eight dollars apiece, the same sum earned by a week’s work of unloading steam boilers at the docks.
Marble Cemetery was unlike a normal cemetery—no headstones, and only a few obelisks and carved marble plaques on the wall indicating the locations of the family crypts. The marble slab on the Hitchcock crypt was a deterrent for unprepared, inexperienced body snatchers. The cemetery’s fence was pointed and painful to scale, more so with a three-hundred-pound body. Not that it mattered. Cora had paid a goodly amount last year for a key to the gate’s lock.
Cemeteries were where Cora did her best work. She knew them as she knew her own reflection—the ways in, the rotations and vices of the guards, the layouts of the crypts and vaults. She knew which coffins featured an iron knob at the end where the head would be, which suggested the corpse wore a neck ring to prevent it from being pulled out. She noted whether bodies were being kept in a mort house instead of interred, so that they might rot well before they ever went beneath the ground. Cora detested mort houses—they ruined fresh bodies and ruined her profits.
The priest had finished speaking, and a prayer had begun. Cora bowed her head, and the rain lessened, no longer pattering her ruffled umbrella. The mourners began to disperse, and she focused on one of the sons. Warren, the younger son, was the only mourner with reddened eyes. (Although, she noted, even his eyes were not quite sad enough to shed tears.) He was speaking with the priest, and the spaces between him and his family began to widen. Excellent.
As he turned to follow the mourners, Cora collapsed her umbrella and hurried forward. Just as she strode past him, she pretended to trip, and let out a gasp.
“Oh. Oh dear,” she said, fumbling as if she’d twisted an ankle on the grass.
The younger Hitchcock reached for her elbow. “Are you quite all right?”
“Ah, no. Not so well.” She leaned on his arm and looked to him, lashes sparkling with tears. He was brown haired, mustachioed, and smelled of expensive cigars. His eyes went to hers, then to her bosom above the black lace trim of her bodice.
When his eyes rose again, his breath caught. This was how men often reacted to her. Unable to stop staring at their first meeting. Wondering how her beauty could be labeled and organized within their minds. Was she foreign born? Was she Spanish? How did such a woman, with such eyes and hair, come to be? But this was where she lived, on the edges that defied classification.
“Thank you,” Cora said. “I need only a moment.”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “Do I know you? Did you know Father?”
“Yes. I believe we met last year at the Schermerhorns’ December ball.” They hadn’t, but he’d be too polite to admit he didn’t remember her. “Mother would have come herself, but she was ill.”
“Of course,” he said again.
She let him put his hand on her waist to steady her, and they stepped toward the gate. “Mother wished to know—she’s so very worried—if you were planning to make sure your father would rest safe here. Because of . . . Oh, I hate to say it!” Cora put her handkerchief to her nose.
“What? Do you mean grave robbers? Oh yes. We have a guard arriving before sundown, for the next two weeks. Father shall be in a marble vault, in any case.”
“That is a relief. I’m so very grateful for your assistance.” Cora stepped away from him. “I’m quite well now. And there is my hack, and I must be going. My condolences, sir,” she said primly, before walking away.
“Of course, Miss . . . Miss . . .”
But Cora was already gone. The driver took her gloved hand as she stepped into the two-wheeled cab. “Back to Irving Place,” she ordered. At the crack of the reins, the horse started, and the hack jiggled its way back up Second Avenue, passing block after block of marble and ubiquitous brown sandstone homes.
Cora sighed with satisfaction. With her perfectly beribboned clothes worthy of the finest ladies in town, she knew how to slide into the finest establishments, stealing a quick word with her favorite high-society physicians, or observing the crowd for signs of strange ailments. And then, she could slip away before anyone asked if she truly belonged. No small feat, considering she’d lived the first fourteen years of her life disguised as a boy.
She closed her eyes as they wound through the wet streets, loud with newsies on the corners hawking their stories and the clocking of hooves on cobblestones. The smell of fresh rain made everything feel new, though it didn’t fool Cora. This evening, she’d be surrounded by the freshly dug, ancient soil of the island, and old Mr. Hitchcock would be her prize.
Her fingers went to her right rib cage. There was nothing, really, to touch, but she knew what lurked beneath the layers of fabric and whalebone. A slight thrilling beneath her fingertips. A pulse, where one ought not to be.
Of course, none of the doctors she paid off, or the doctors she sold the bodies to, knew the truth—that Cora herself was a prize so precious, she’d become legend. The girl with two hearts, too impossible to have truly been born.
The clock on the mantel chimed. Five o’clock. Time to make money. Finally, after a dry spell of weeks without any work.
Knuckles rapped lightly on her chamber door, and Leah entered. Smaller than Cora but with thick and sturdy shoulders and hips, she carried an armful of clean linens. Her yellow hair was in a tight twist on the top of her head, and her apron was crisp and clean. Cora smiled fondly. Leah had been in Cora’s life since time out of mind, and in the three years since Aunt Charlotte had died, she’d become as good as a mother.
“Well, Miss Cora. And will you be goin’ out tonight, or will Jacob? No sitting about on your arse anymore, eh?” Leah asked. This was a compliment; Leah disliked people who were idle, but the lack of work was
not Cora’s fault. She was no reaper herself, after all.
“Jacob need not make his appearance until later. My brother can rest for now,” Cora said. “And anyway, this job needs a delicate hand.”
“That you have. Two, I might add.” Leah’s pale-blue eyes crinkled. “Did you fill your belly good and full?” Her accent had grown fainter over the years, but her brashness had bloomed.
“Yes, Leah.” Leah was always looking to keep her appetite well appeased.
“Be careful, lass. There’s only one of you, and your auntie would come back from the grave and give me a lashing if anything happened. If I’d bollocks, she’d chop ’em off.”
“Don’t be so crude, Leah. Anyway, Alexander would be happy to lecture me in her stead, I’m sure.”
“Oh, Alexander.” Leah waved her hand. “Of course. We’ll wait for a Sunday lecture, won’t we?” Leah was actually fond of Charlotte’s previous on-and-off lover. A sculptor by trade, he paid his bills by creating anatomic wax figures for the museums downtown and was in high demand. He’d brought a basket of pastries every Sunday since Cora was an infant. Leah liked Alexander best on Sundays, as she had a sweet tooth.
“Please call for a cab, Leah. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Leah left the room, and Cora sat at her vanity, adding only a hint of rouge to her cheeks. When she stood, her hand went to her right rib cage. It was a bad habit of hers.
Never let anyone know. Ever. This secret will steal you out of your grave someday. And it will take you to your grave, if the wrong person knows.
Her aunt had said these words, time and time again. Even on her deathbed, yellow from the infection, she still rasped these final words of caution. What frightened Charlotte, more than the thought of oblivion, was that someone might find out that Cora was worth more dead than alive.
Cora descended the stairs, hearing the family on the other side of the wall arguing over the price of flour. Cora wasn’t wealthy enough to own or rent an entire building, but she wasn’t poor enough to crowd into a place with two or three or twenty others. Like the soap boilers and shoemakers whose businesses thrived so they might become the shopkeeping aristocracy, she, too, lived in that twilight in which many of the working class found themselves. Too rich to reside in the Five Points; too poor to be accepted in the best boxes at the Park Theater. But she had Leah, and she had her secrets. That was good enough.
Leah held the door for her, while the hackney cab waited outside. “Be careful, lass. You’ve been goin’ out as Cora too often. It’s only been two years since Dr. Grier died, and only three since Charlotte left us.”
“I know. I’ll be careful.” She grinned. “Just a regular night’s work. That’s all.”
Leah kissed her cheek, and the scent of newly baked bread embraced her until she climbed into the cab. Hopefully Leah wouldn’t get drunk again. She’d had a habit lately of disappearing and reappearing with an empty bottle of spirits, snoring on the bed.
Cora had already sent word to her boys to meet at the cemetery later tonight. Before then, she had work to do. Often, she wasn’t needed at this point on a job—Jacob could handle it. But sometimes, a woman’s touch was best. She ordered the cab to drive past Stuyvesant Square and its grand twin fountains, past Saint Mark’s Church and down Second Avenue. Above the gate of Marble Cemetery, the sun was bobbing low, its gold beams filtering through the tree boughs that sheltered the iron fencing.
Cora stepped down from the cab. She ignored the driver’s remark about her odd choice of drop-off point and reminded him to wait for fifteen minutes. She stood before the gate. It was closed but still unlocked. Through it she spied a large, brutish gent, a Bowery b’hoy—a species of single men well known for their riotous behavior and tendency to dress in too-bright clothing. This specimen sported a yellow plaid vest over his broad chest, an ill-trimmed mustache, and hair slicked behind his ears with soap. (Cora loathed soap-locked hair; it made her think of insects caught in dirty sap. Jacob wore his hair plainly.) The b’hoy leaned against the stone wall beneath an oak tree, ten feet from the newly turned soil above the Hitchcocks’ crypt. He held a rifle. Physically, a bullet would only wound one of her gang before they overwhelmed him, but one shot would attract unwanted attention.
She sidestepped away from the gate for a moment, gently squeezed the purse of money hidden in a pocket of her dress skirt, pinched her cheeks, and took a breath. She was ready.
Without looking, she pivoted toward the gate and slammed face-first into a wall.
Or what she thought was a wall. It was a man. Her nose smarting from the blow, she drew her hands to her face from the pain. Though startled, she didn’t cry out. She’d learned ages ago to muffle her surprise at anything—it attracted too much attention.
The gentleman shot out an arm to steady her. “Oh! I’m so sorry! My apologies—I didn’t see you there at all.”
Cora gathered herself. Her eyes cast downward, she saw a good set of leather shoes, gray wool trousers that were worn but clean, and clean hands. Young hands that had yet to meet any labor. She peeked up over the hand still covering her nose.
He was quite tall, with a slightly ginger tint to hair that had both chestnut and brass highlights, and hazel eyes, the kind that were neither bright green nor brown, but a muddy, middling color. His mouth was straight with concern, but his eyes seemed to be laughing at her.
That was how she would always remember Theodore, looking back on this first meeting—how he seemed never to be one thing, at any one time. But her first thought was, My, he’s handsome. The second was, He needs to go away. Immediately.
She removed her hand, saw that there was no blood, and nodded. “I’m quite all right.” She sounded congested. “Thank you. Good day.” She began to walk past him and into the cemetery, but he followed.
“I can’t leave until I’m sure you’re well.” His voice was mellow, almost teasing. She began to think that perhaps she actually disliked this man.
“I’m very well, as you can see. Good day to you.”
“It must be a good day, as you’ve said it twice. And here I’ve smashed your pretty face by accident. At least let me apologize formally.”
“It’s not necessary.” He was still so close to her. Close enough to touch her waist. This might take some more direct words. “I’m quite all right. Goodbye, sir.”
“Or rather, hello. I’m where I need to be, so I’m going nowhere for the moment.” He spread out a hand to display the cemetery grounds, empty except for the paid guard, who was watching them suspiciously.
“I see.” But Cora didn’t see. She decided to ignore him, but every step she took, he seemed to match. Maybe he was a member of the Hitchcock family. It was the only explanation, the way he followed her like a shadow. She would just ignore him. Surely he would leave soon.
“Say, don’t we know each other? You look awfully familiar.” He smiled again, and she had the strong urge to run. Cora threaded through all classes of society—with the dockworkers at the oyster saloons as Jacob, and at the ticketed grand openings at the museums as Cora. It was quite possible he’d seen her before, but her work demanded that she maintain her anonymity. Only a few doctors in town knew of what she did; if the uppertens knew, she wouldn’t possess the stealth to search out new medical anomalies.
The Bowery b’hoy in the plaid vest seemed rather entertained by their exchange. Which was doubly irritating, because Cora liked to be professional, coolly in control of negotiations even before negotiations began.
Irritated, Cora turned to the stranger. “Leave me be, or I’ll call for help.”
“I seriously doubt you mean that. No copper stars or watchmen walking around here. Maybe you’re the one who should leave.”
She stared him straight in the eye. He held her gaze but then quickly looked over to the guard.
Oh.
He wasn’t trying to flirt, and he wasn’t there to mourn. He was competition.
How odd. She knew most of the resurrectionists
in town. This one was an unknown, and rather too well dressed for the position. (Cora’s dress, of course, was terrible for digging, but she wasn’t here for the labor.) Besides, new burials below Eighty-Sixth Street were exceedingly rare, so most resurrectionists went north for bodies.
Cora didn’t grace his words with a reply. Business was business. It was time to ignore this upstart. She approached the guard directly.
“Cora Lee, at your service. I—”
“Never mind her. I’ve ten dollars here if you’ll look away for one hour tonight.”
The guard stared at him. Cora stared at him. The price was ridiculously high. An interesting body might fetch twenty dollars; giving away half to the guard didn’t make any sense. He was being paid by the family to watch the grave anyway. The guard seemed suspicious, and rightly so. It sounded like a trap. Clearly this boy didn’t know a thing about Cora’s line of work, nor did he know the language.
The guard shifted his rifle to the other hand so he could point rudely in his face. “Who’s this jack dandy?”
Cora waved her hand, as if to shoo away a fly. “Aye, he’s an archduke and needs to dry up.” She stepped in front of her competition, who suddenly seemed confused. “Listen. I’ve a dawb and a good bean for that quaroon. Got a school comin’ at midnight to get under this earth bath. We’ll be right shady.”
The guard nodded, thinking, but he was taken aback at hearing flash spoken by a lady. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, if at all, especially north of Canal Street.
“What did you say?” the young man asked. “I already offered ten dollars!”
Cora tipped her head toward her companion, whose confidence had melted away. “He’s a napper! You’ll get your two dews in the reign of Queen Dick.” At this, the guard laughed out loud, and Cora smirked. “I’ve got half in my moll-sack, and you’ll get the second half after.”
“What did you call me?”
But the young man was so distanced from the conversation, neither heard his complaint. The guard shook hands with Cora, who gave him a handful of coins out of her reticule. He tipped his hat.
