The Impossible Girl

by Lydia Kang

  Cora smiled. “Look for Jacob, my brother. He’ll bring the rest.”

  “Jacob Lee?” the b’hoy asked. Cora nodded. “Ah. I’ve heard of you two.” He seemed impressed, and relieved. The Lees had a reputation for discretion and fair pay.

  Cora turned on her heel and walked back to the gate. Twilight had darkened the whole cemetery. One by one, the gaslights on the street were being lit, sputtering and hissing their welcome to the evening. Behind her, the guard spoke some rude words to her competition, who then trotted to catch up to Cora like a whipped dog.

  She smiled and got into her waiting cab. Before the horse could walk off, the young man grabbed the reins. The driver yelled in protest, and Cora peeked her head out the side.

  “What is it?”

  “What did you say back there?”

  “If you don’t know, you’d better get out of the business.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Only if you let go of these reins.”

  “All right.”

  Cora sighed. “I said you were a liar and a fool, and he’s getting five dollars to look away. My men will be back later, so don’t you dare come back. My brother will be with them, and he’s not nearly as civilized as I am. You had best stay out of our way.”

  “Theodore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name is Theodore Flint. But you can call me Theo. In case you need to insult me again.”

  He let go of the reins, and the horse jumped to a start. Cora sank into the velvet cushions, glad to be away from the stranger. Just as she turned the corner, she heard a yell and a laugh.

  “Cora Lee! I think I’m in love with you!”

  Looking back, she saw Theodore Flint, halfway down the street, bow grandly. Cora had a feeling that staying out of her way was the last thing on his mind.

  CHAPTER 2

  Leah was asleep in the next room when Cora woke just before midnight. Leah’s snores were so sonorous that Cora felt the reverberations in her pillow. On a night like tonight, Cora slept in parcels of three or four hours—tiring but normal.

  She lit an oil lamp, its yellow glow warming the corners of the room. After washing her face in the basin, she stared into the looking glass on the wall. She touched the short hair on her head, smoothing it at the nape of her neck. No need for a trim; it was short enough, and messy enough too. Off came her nightgown, the cool air of the bedroom alighting on her bare skin and making her shiver. Leah had laid out Jacob’s clothes on a chair in the corner. On went some loose drawers that covered her from knees to waist. Cora then wound a long, wide strip of gauze around her breasts until her feminine bust flattened into oblivion under four tidy layers. She wound one end over her left shoulder, then tucked in the ends so tight they would not budge, no matter how much she moved, heaved, and lifted.

  She paused, her hand on her right ribs where that mysterious other center of herself throbbed to the same pulse as in her wrist. All these years, her other heart had sat within her, innocent. Once, only once, had it made her ill. For the briefness of an afternoon, Cora had listed to the side, drool dripping from her mouth as she slurred her dismay. Charlotte had been beside herself, and Alexander, who was over for dinner that day, attempted to bolt for the door and call for a doctor. He was reminded that never, ever, could Cora be seen by a doctor again.

  So, thirteen-year-old Cora had shivered and cried, wondering if her numbed left arm and leg would work again, or her garbled speech would right itself. And they did—only a few hours later. It never happened again, but the incident reminded Cora that her body held dark sway over her existence.

  She lifted her hand and reached for a slim-fitting shirt whose length stopped at her elbows, laced in the front so it was tight as a wet kid glove. Leah had constructed it of double-layered sailcloth, sewn with leather padding over the deltoid and latissimus muscles, to give her a more masculine, triangle-shaped torso. A hand clapped upon her clothed shoulder would feel a solid, sturdy, wiry frame.

  On went a pair of trousers, a brown shirt closed high to the neck, and buttoned-on galluses. She slipped on an old silk vest, and pulled on sturdy boots constructed with an extra-thick layer of leather sewn in the outsoles. An inch and a half of dense felt sewn on the inner sole, sitting above the heel with a deep instep, gave her nearly two inches of added height. Under her long hemmed trousers, no one would know. Finally, on went a long coat with tails and plenty of pockets.

  Cora went to her vanity and searched out a glass jar. She dipped her fingers in a gray mixture of charcoal and lard, and smeared a fine film over her cheeks, chin, and upper lip. Her eyebrows were darkened and mussed. More was rubbed into her knuckles and fingertips and beneath her nails, to disguise her lady’s hands. Another swipe went under her eyes—Jacob didn’t sleep as well as Cora. She dipped a boar-bristled brush into another jar, this one containing ink with the texture of tar. She stippled it lightly over her upper lip, chin, and near her cheekbones. In the dark of night or under the few gaslights around, it would look like she needed a good shave. One sticky black piece of sealing wax conformed to her right canine. She grimaced in the looking glass. Her smile was not welcoming.

  A short knife was strapped to her right calf, and another hidden within her vest. The money for the guard and her boys was secured in her coat pocket, with more for some gambling after the job, if she felt the urge. Finally, on went a soot-colored stovepipe hat.

  Jacob Lee was ready to work.

  Leah continued to snore in the next room. She would not awaken; real or no, Jacob gave far less to worry about than Cora, clever as she was. Jacob knew exactly what kind of trouble would kill him, and it was the kind he could see from a mile away. Cora looked out for the kind of trouble that would kill her in a more insidious fashion, through the gossip of anatomists and doctors on the island.

  She thumped down the stairs and out the front door. A few curtains draped shut when she glanced up. The neighbors didn’t like Cora’s brother much; he tended to grunt and looked too rough for that part of town, but as long as Cora’s gentle smile shone during the daylight and her purse kept the rent paid, the landlord didn’t complain.

  The street was quiet, but for the lamp on the corner that hissed. A covered wagon sat just outside of the front door. Only two of Cora’s boys—Friar Tom and Otto the Cat—were sitting in the seat. Just before abandoning him for California, Friar Tom’s wife had poured a pot of boiling soup on his head, scorching his hair so that all that was left was a fringe orbiting his skull. Otto was leaner than a broom handle and wore a dead cat’s tail tied to the back of his pants, for reasons unknown. He made a killing in the dog fights at Kit Burn’s Rat Pit every weekend; grave robbing was his “regular” job.

  Cora spat on the ground and pulled her voice low. “Where are the others?”

  “They’re already waiting at the cemetery,” Tom said. He yawned and pulled out a meat pie from his pocket, not offering to share. Breakfast time.

  “Where’s the dimber-mort? Miss Lee coming tonight?” Otto said. He exchanged a lascivious glance with Tom. Cora was all too used to hearing how beautiful she was.

  “No,” Cora answered. She pulled out the knife from her vest and used it to pick her teeth. “She’s family, boys. You keep your eyes to yourself, or I’ll pluck them out and have ’em boiled in my morning tea.”

  Tom and Otto quieted. They were smart enough not to be impertinent, for fear of Jacob’s wrath. A salacious comment about Cora had earned one of their prior colleagues a scar that went from forehead to cheek. His eye whitened with blindness after the infection settled. Last they heard, he’d left on a ship to work on the Erie Canal with “more civilized folk.”

  Cora sheathed her knife and jumped into the back of the wagon. She peeked at the pile under a coarse cloth. There were wooden spades (quieter than iron), an ax, several folded cloths, iron rods for breaking chains, and a good saw. A small lamp, lit low, swung merrily from a hook at the wagon’s corner.

  Tom jerked the reins, a
nd they were off. As the horse’s hooves clomped down First Avenue, they chatted about the dog fights happening this weekend, which pugilist was going to lose to the great Irish brute who’d been winning nonstop for the last month, and whose oyster saloon they’d visit after the job was finished. When the wagon slowed by the cemetery gate, Cora hopped out.

  Three other men stood smoking and waiting. Cora recognized two of them. One was Puck, a large card player with enormous ears—he’d been a pugilist when he was younger, and his ears expanded with every fight until they looked like chunks of rotted cheese. He could barely hear out of those ears now.

  The Duke had come too. No one knew what the black gent’s real name was, but the Duke was a man of his word and held himself like royalty, so no one asked. There were rumors that he’d fled from a slave owner in Georgia somewhere. He was a good man and earned his coin. Behind the Duke, a third man was squashing his spent cigar underfoot. Cora could already tell his clothes were too fine to belong to one of the regular boys, but Puck had a habit of bringing an extra friend desperate to earn a few coins. She’d tell him that needed to stop. After the hint of competition earlier that evening, she wanted to keep her team tight.

  The stranger lifted his chin and nodded hello, eyeing Jacob with a grin.

  It was Theodore Flint.

  The Duke started, “Jacob Lee, this is—”

  “What is he doing here?” Cora yelled, which was unlike her. And it was hard to yell and keep the register of her voice low, like a man’s.

  “He’s new, but he’s willing to work tonight, no pay. Just to get some experience, maybe help out later for another job.”

  “No. This isn’t a damned school.” She peered at Flint, who wisely stayed silent. “Cora said nothing about a new man. But she did mention a Sam trying to steal the job.” Flint raised his eyebrows, unaware Jacob had just called him a stupid fellow.

  Cora had to make sure Flint didn’t recognize her. She needed Jacob as much as ever—for the income, and to protect those two hearts of hers. Although Dr. Grier had died, his insistence on the existence of a two-hearted girl with a Chinese father ensured that the gossip was still out there. And so, careful she must continue to be.

  Cora cleared her throat and gave Jacob’s voice steel. “My sister told me his name was Flint.”

  “Aye, one and the same,” the Duke said, before whistling. “Never mind, then. Be off, you. Or we’ll scragg ya.” He made a hanging motion, conjuring an image of the executed in the Tombs.

  Flint raised his hands. “Wait a moment. Now, that was a mistake. My mistake. I didn’t know your sister worked a good gang here, or this one in particular. I told your man here if I could come, I’d have a buyer tonight. For forty dollars.”

  “Forty?” Cora leaned back on her heels. With these boots, she could almost look Theodore Flint in the eye. Cora could have him on the ground, a knife at his throat, in less than two seconds. Now that she was a man, society said she could hold his gaze all she wanted.

  “I’ve a particular buyer in mind,” Flint said, standing up straighter, as if trying on a new suit of confidence.

  “Who?”

  “Someone who will only buy if I’m there to help sell.”

  Cora crossed her arms. “I know every buyer in town, and they’ve all sold to me or my sister.”

  “Not this one. He’s new. And he’s willing to pay more than the others for particularly unique specimens. Look, I’m not the police. I’m just trying to learn, I promise.”

  Tom, Otto, and the Duke waited for their captain to speak. Puck was lazily picking a scab on his neck. A small gesture, but one that meant he wasn’t vested in the job. Cora took note. She thought for a moment about Flint, and this body. She could still take the body and sell it to Dr. Phillips, or Jenkins uptown, if Flint’s buyer didn’t materialize. They’d been giving nearly thirty dollars lately for an excellent specimen. But still. Forty dollars.

  “What’s your cut?”

  “Like I said, just the pleasure of coming along with you fine folk.”

  At this, the boys all laughed roughly, and Puck clapped Flint on the back so hard, he actually took a few steps forward to regain his balance.

  “Come now, Jacob. A dollar’s a dollar, and forty of them sound mighty good tonight. Better than our usual sum, eh?” the Duke said. His dark, intelligent eyes spoke to Cora, saying something different. Let’s meet his contact, and then we’ll never need Flint again. Cora nodded subtly.

  “And I’ll cut his ears off if he’s a diver,” added Puck. “Been too long since I sliced off a pair.” Puck had a strange thing about collecting ears, since his were mangled. Every second or third job, he sliced one off the body and pocketed the pieces of cartilage. There was a rumor that he and Gallus Meg were lovers. The very Gallus Meg who bit men’s ears off in fights and preserved them in a jar on the bar of her saloon. Cora never bothered to ask whether this was true, because she didn’t really want to know the answer.

  “All right,” Cora said. “We’re watching you, you hear? And it’s getting late. We need to work. Otto, you keep a keen eye on our friend here.”

  Cora picked up the small lamp from the wagon’s corner and went to the gate, using her key to unlock it. They pushed the gate aside (no creaking; the boys had already oiled the hinges). In the deep gloom along the far stone wall, the plaid-covered guard was slumbering against a tree trunk. Her boys carried their tools without so much as a clank and laid them quietly on the grass. Cora had taught them well.

  She walked silently up to the guard, whose hat was pulled low on his forehead, and gently nudged his foot.

  “Hello,” she said. “We’re here for our parcel.”

  “Don’t mind me,” the guard murmured. “I’m busy watching this trunker, remember?” And with that, the guard tipped over, pulled his hat off, and started snoring like a very large baby.

  Several feet away, beneath the darkened patch of grassless ground, lay Randolph Hitchcock, ready to be used for something more than selling at the Stock Exchange and eating a half gallon of oysters at the best saloons. Cora felt a strange longing to speak to him, perhaps brought on by the slight flutter of her second heart. I’m just like you, or I may be someday, she thought.

  “Let’s get to work, boys,” Cora said.

  RANDOLPH HITCHCOCK III

  There are two things I regret.

  It’s always too late when one thinks of these things, but I have never been one to plan ahead. My dear Emma keeps all the details of our lives tidy and in place. And now I’ve left her behind, with a shadow of scandal—I ought to have died in her arms, but alas, I was with another.

  I should have told Emma that I loved her. I did love her, but I am not a man of great outward affections. I am a man of appetites, and those have consumed me utterly, it seems. For it wasn’t the great mass of blood thumping in my belly that brought about my end, as my physician had cautioned me. No, a bitterness still lies upon my tongue, cold as it is now. A bitterness I ought to have noted in the pudding brought to me hours before my death.

  It matters not. I was speeding toward this destination, no matter how I found myself here, and thus my second regret is my thoughtless misplacement of time. One always thinks one has forever, and that tomorrow will come to wipe away yesterday’s misfortunes and mistakes so one can start anew. But tomorrow will come no longer. Not for this Hitchcock.

  Instead, these men come for me. And one a woman, by God! She wears a man’s clothing, but nothing is hidden to me now.

  Well. Have at me, you hungry savages! This body does me no good anymore.

  But then the woman touches my shoulder—a fleeting tenderness. She isn’t indifferent to my death.

  There is a door they cannot see, waiting behind them. I shall go to it now. Whether it leads up or down, I don’t know. I do know there is no choice in the matter. My deeds on this plane are done.

  Oh, my dear Emma.

  ’Tis far too late, but I am sorry.

  CHAPTER 3 />
  Cora stooped down and pointed. “This is where the entrance shaft is. Should be one or two feet down.” She picked up a wooden shovel and tossed it hard to Theodore Flint, who caught it awkwardly. “Your education starts now. Dig.”

  Puck, Otto the Cat, the Duke, and Friar Tom smiled at one another. They watched Flint dig, quietly egging him on when he flung dirt too far.

  “Now, be neat about it, boy. Messy makes more work for you later,” the Duke chided. Otto played with his dead cat tail, swinging it temptingly near Flint’s head. And Puck sidled next to Cora.

  “I want more coin,” he whispered. “You pay the others better.”

  “You’re new,” Cora growled.

  “Not anymore.”

  Once more, she cursed the day the Duke had brought Puck on—one of the few times they’d disagreed—and she cursed herself for not turning him away sooner. She didn’t trust him. And now, he’d learned all their tricks. As high-class resurrectionists, they’d had little competition. A disgruntled Puck might try to change that.

  “I’ll think on it,” Cora said at last. Then she listened to Tom having a long, drawn-out discussion (with no one) over why blueberries were far more delicious than blackberries. Tom was always looking to keep his belly round, to match the curve of his bald pate.

  After one and a half feet of excavated soil, Flint was sweating and out of breath, when his wooden shovel clinked faintly against something hard. The other boys got down on their knees and scooped away the last of the soil, exposing a two-by-two-foot marble capstone.

  “Here it is. Door to the dead,” Cora announced. The marble was ghostly white in the darkness despite the thin whisking of dirt on top. Everyone except Flint stooped to ease their fingertips beneath the edge of the marble. Only rich families had underground vaults. This one was shared between two families—one shaft, two vaults. Entering it would take some muscle.

  Cora looked up at Flint. “What, you waiting for someone to serve you a squall now?”