The Impossible Girl

by Lydia Kang

  “Oh, Leah! That’s how they rope in every new gambler.” Cora slouched in the chair, defeated. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have squared your bill and been done with it.”

  “Well, I would have, but then I won again, this time a half eagle! So, I kept going and . . . I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop! The devil took me. I wrote to the Cutter family, thinking it wouldn’t ever reach your ears. I felt like they owed us. And when Miss Cutter came here, I showed her how poorly we lived—”

  “Oh good God, Leah! You let her in the house? Here? Did you let her into my room?”

  “Well, only for a moment—”

  “Leah!” Cora pounded the table so hard, the cutlery fell clattering to the floor. “She could have seen Jacob’s clothes. She could have seen my ledger, with all the people I’ve been tracking. If she spoke to the police, I could be arrested!”

  “I’m sorry! It was only a little while ago, and it won’t happen again. I thought it would help get more money. But it only angered her more. Irving Place was too nice, and she thought it a rich place for us. I promise I won’t let her back here again.”

  “Oh, Leah. What a mess we’re in now. The whole city knows there’s a girl with two hearts running about, and Frederick Duncan is eager to have my chest flayed open on a silver platter in his museum!”

  “No, no, it won’t come to that! I’ve paid off my debt!”

  “But now I shall have to pay the debt to the Cutters,” Cora said. “This is what I’ll do. After our next job, I shall send the Cutter family five dollars—not much, but enough to show that I keep my word.”

  “And I’ll help,” Leah said. “I could sell rags or do some extra piecework with the tailor upstairs.”

  “For seventy-five cents a week? It won’t be worth it. I need more work, is all.”

  “Then this should help,” Leah said, pointing to the letter she’d handed to Cora before.

  It was from Dr. Goossens. One of his patients had died overnight—Ida Difford, the lady with the large tumor in her neck who was coughing up bits of hair. The tumor had opened a little, and the doctor had seen what seemed like teeth and even nerves growing in a chaotic array. The note read that the mass had grown to the point where it was time to operate. She had died in surgery.

  Unexpected, wrote Goossens in his note. She was a robust, healthy woman before this, but her heart must have been weak. After a small dose of chloroform, her body grew rigid, almost like a tetanus case. She stopped breathing.

  Cora put a hand over her mouth, frowning deeply. The poor woman. It could not have been easy, having her body rebelling in terrible, nonsensical ways—oozing tumors and coughing up hair. And hoping for a cure, while encountering the opposite. Cora had cared far less when receiving the news of a death in the past—she had been so focused on her connections, on the money. But lately, she could imagine with far more clarity what their lives were like. The shame, the discomfort, the search for a treatment. The despair.

  And her death was . . . odd. Tetanus didn’t happen so quickly, and she had not heard of patients getting it from a surgery with such immediacy. Especially with Dr. Goossens, whose assistant had a habit of cleaning his instruments between each surgery.

  Cora noted the time and place of the upcoming funeral. She sat down at the writing desk in her room and wrote a note to her graveyard boys to gather around at six o’clock, just barely after sunset. This time, they would be the first at the grave. This time, they would not have their profit taken from their very hands. Ida would end up in the hands of a capable anatomist. Her death would help someone, someday. Wouldn’t it?

  Cora now had the day to address yet another item that begged her attention. She knocked on a door down the street, a shabbier but still nice building on Irving. It was filled to the brim with a family of nine children. The father was yet another tailor whose family members each did piecework for the shirts and wool clothing sold in Pearson’s Store on Broadway. But one of the children, George, a ten-year-old with snapping black eyes, ran Jacob and Cora’s letters when she needed a swift delivery.

  One of the raven-haired daughters answered, clad in a large apron, with pins and needles stabbing a pincushion tied to her wrist. She smiled brightly.

  “Oh. Hello, Jacob. You look nice, and it isn’t even Sunday! How is Cora?”

  “Very well,” Cora answered in Jacob’s deep voice. Stella was always trying to flirt with him. “Is George here? I need a message delivered quickly.”

  “Yes, one moment.” She turned and called inside. The boy came to the door, wiping jam stains from his mouth.

  “Send this to Friar Tom. You know where.” She deposited a few coppers into the boy’s sticky hand. “And I’ve another job for you, if you’re able.”

  “I can do it,” George said. “If Ma says I may.”

  “Can you tell me when Leah comes and leaves? And can you follow her, just long enough to see what direction she’s going?”

  “Yes. I can go all the way, if I have money for the omnibus or the horse car.”

  “Excellent. Keep yourself hidden.” She deposited a half dime into his hand. “Off you go.”

  They shook hands, and Stella waved an enthusiastic farewell while George put on his cap and ran out the door, heading for Tom’s house on Suffolk. Cora kept her face shadowed under her hat and walked down to the new University of the City of New York building on Fourteenth Street. It was a plain but respectable building—three stories tall, with a bright new railing running up the steps and a side yard enclosed by a fence. Dr. Grier’s records must be here.

  She opened the door and found a gentleman sitting at a desk. Inside, several workmen were still painting some of the trim, but it looked like most of the rooms were nearly done.

  “Good day,” Cora said, removing her hat and carefully using her uppertens gentleman’s voice. “I am an assistant to Dr. Goossens, and he has sent me here on a commission. He is researching a curious case of his, and believes that one of his deceased colleagues, Dr. Grier, had cared for a similar patient. We were told Dr. Grier’s diaries were entrusted to the archives here.”

  “That I do not know. Only half the archives have moved at this point. Upstairs, second floor to the left. Mr. Bell is putting the books away, I believe, and can help you.”

  Cora thanked him. Upstairs, she passed open doors to an empty amphitheater that was still having wax rubbed dutifully into its banisters. Farther down, she found lecture rooms and the library. A frail older gentleman was checking off books on a list and shelving them one by one.

  “Hello,” Cora interrupted. She once again explained her purpose, and the older man frowned.

  “Ah. I shelved those books some time ago. I’m on the Ts now. The diaries are not allowed to leave the premises, and you must sign our register.”

  Cora nodded. She looked at the register and signed a name—Jack Ketch—a position—Asst. to Dr. Scribble—and the date. Jack Ketch was flash for hangman. As she finished signing, she looked up the names and dates of previous visitors. Lo and behold, there was Suzette Cutter, from ten days ago, as she had said. Most of the other names were physicians or students. But flipping to the current page, she ran her finger quickly down the list.

  Theodore Flint, Yr 1, September 14, 1850

  Well. It looked like Flint had been doing some studying as well. Only yesterday, in fact.

  And then, a few lines before, on the tenth—

  Frederick Duncan, curator, GAM.

  Cora stared at the names. Another one, even more recent, caught her eye, from this very morning—

  Davey Swell.

  Cora tried not to laugh. The name was flash for gentleman witness, like in a court proceeding. There was nothing written next to it where it asked for position, or institution. Likely a jokester student—though, based on her time with Theo, medical students never seemed to know flash all that well.

  “Excuse me, sir? Do you keep a record of what documents your visitors read?” Cora asked.

 
“Ah, that we do not. Only if they are removed, but while we’ve been transferring our collection, we haven’t allowed that.”

  Cora went to look around in the G section. On the lowest shelf, there they were. Four books. She pulled out the first one. It was leather bound, the pages within not too yellowed, but clearly well thumbed. It was small enough to steal, by stuffing down the back waistband of her trousers. And then any evidence of the two-hearted girl would be gone forever.

  Cora took out the first book. On the first page inside, it read, “The Journals of Thomas Grier, MD ~ Vol I, 1807–1817.” The second was 1818–1830. So, Cora’s birth should be documented in the third. She pulled it out and opened it. The pages felt loose from the binding, and she flipped to the first page.

  It was blank.

  The next page was blank as well.

  Cora lifted the entire interior of the book, and it came clean away from the binding. She replaced it on the shelf, and took out the last volume, which might still have some musings about Cora and her hearts. This one, too, had been replaced with an entire book filled with blank pages.

  Someone had beaten Cora to the job and stolen away the proof that she and her hearts existed. Whoever took them—they knew what they were doing. In fact, the false books were exactly the same size and breadth as the original journals, as if they’d been made exactly for that purpose.

  The original journals had been here ten days ago when Suzette visited. And now they were gone. It would have been easy for Frederick Duncan to measure the journals, and return under a fake name and steal the interiors.

  Davey Swell, indeed.

  What was more—it could have been Theo. He and Duncan had visited within days of each other. In fact, Theo had visited the very morning before they’d spoken to Suzette at her home. But he’d said nothing about it that night. Nothing at all.

  As much as she loathed the idea, she had to invite Theo to tonight’s resurrection. She would have to endure his rude stares and comments about her inglorious birth. And what was more—Cora’s team would hear about it, and what would they think? It could break up their group, if things went the wrong way.

  But she could ask Theo about Grier’s journals as well.

  Tonight was going to be a disaster. Cora had no choice but to embrace the disaster and prepare for her world to explode.

  She left the building and walked back home, hoping for some rest and a comfortable lunch. Lost in thought, she turned the corner on Third Avenue, when a large man bumped her shoulder.

  “Pardon.”

  “It’s nothing,” Cora said, and walked past. He grabbed her arm, rather suddenly, gripping her so hard, it hurt.

  “I think you’re lost, Jacob Lee,” he said.

  She jerked her arm away and stared at him, hard. She had never worked with him, nor did she remember his face from evenings near the Five Points. The man was far taller than she was, even with Jacob’s shoe lifts on. The man’s neck was the width of his head. Wide-set eyes of pale blue peered at her. She noticed a yellow jacket with tails, and a pair of garish blue-and-black striped pants. A cheap stovepipe hat. Another greasy Bowery b’hoy.

  Cora looked about. No one else walked nearby. A pile of large crates concealed them from busy Fourteenth Street.

  “And who are you?” she said, after spitting on the ground between them.

  “That won’t matter, will it?” He took a step forward. He was backing her into a wall of crates.

  Cora pivoted to run, but the man shot out a large, meaty hand—a hand so big, it covered her nose and mouth. With brute strength, he bent her neck back as his other arm swept around her waist, carrying her off her feet. Strong as she was, she was slight in stature, and she loathed the disadvantage right now. He pulled her kicking and punching into an alleyway. He was quick and quiet, and she’d not even been able to holler a cry.

  Within seconds, Cora had been pulled halfway between the avenues; between the buildings were heaps of rotting cabbage leaves, broken bottles, and empty crates and barrels. Cora kicked hard, and her boot contacted a brick wall, which threw off the balance of her assailant.

  “Stop that, now, old boy. Stop it. Can’t have you make a ruckus.”

  Cora suddenly went limp. To her attacker, it felt like giving in. For her, it was a feint. Cora didn’t have time for attacks, or robbery, or common everyday murder. She needed to eliminate this problem now.

  Or rather, Jacob must.

  There was a blade in her boot. Now that she had stopped struggling, her assailant reached for his own waistband, probably for his own knife. Cora pointed to her vest pocket, pointed with agitation, as if she had something there to offer.

  “What’s this?” He reached for the vest and felt coins there, and in patting her other pockets (idiot—a better murderer would search after she was dead), she had the moment she needed.

  Cora quickly bent her knee, grasped her dagger, and sliced it across the face of her assailant. He yelped and released her, and Cora spun around, holding the knife between them. The b’hoy cried and blubbered, his hands covering a gash across his nose and cheek. Blood dribbled down his face and off his chin, staining his hands with scarlet ribbons. It was a good, deep cut. She stepped closer and touched the knife to his chin, and he held his hands up, crying.

  “D-don’t!” he blubbered.

  “That’s better,” she said. “Good Lord, you stink like curdled swill milk.” He moved his hand ever closer to the sheathed knife at his waist, and she tsked. “Don’t do that now. If I cut here”—she slid the blade to the front of his neck, pressing—“you’ll never speak again.” His small eyes grew white around the edges as she pressed the blade into his tender flesh. “So, while you can speak, tell me. What’s your business? What’s your game?”

  “I’ve no game! Just . . . needed some brass . . .” He suddenly shot out his hand, attempting to slap away Cora’s hand and the knife, but she dodged backward quickly, swooped her hand down and out, and brought the knife across his face in a neat arc. Now an X-shaped gash covered his entire face; the tip of his nose was one slice away from hitting the cobblestones.

  “Speak!” Cora hissed. “Why do you know my name?”

  He held his hands up again as his hat tumbled off into a muddy puddle of filth. “I was . . . dead set on you. I jus’ wanted the prize on Duncan’s list. Five hundred cans! Everyone says you and that sister of yours’ll clink the whole list o’ innocents before a body can try! You’ve a caravan enough!”

  Cora pressed the knife in deeper, causing him to blubber for real. So, he’d targeted Jacob for a kill. And caravan enough? She wanted to laugh at the idea. As if Cora and Jacob were fat and rich from resurrections. So that was what people thought, that Duncan’s list of wanted corpses already as good as belonged to the Lees. Jacob and Cora were competition that needed to be eliminated.

  She twisted her knife in the groove between his jugular vein and carotid artery.

  “I could ketch you now. You’d bleed like a pig at the butcher’s. And I could sell you to the university for only five dollars. That’s all I’d earn.”

  The man closed his eyes, and tears dripped down his face, making clear paths in the bloody smears and dirt.

  “What’s your name?” Cora asked.

  “Ewan. Ewan Gerry,” he blubbered.

  “Ewan Gerry. You tell every jinglebrain out there that Duncan’s list is as bogus as a clay coin. The five hundred for the girl with two hearts won’t happen. There’s no such person, and Duncan’s a fool to offer a dollar on her. And any bene cove who attacks me or Cora Lee will end up sliced and ottomised by yours truly. You’re Catholic, aren’t you? Irish?”

  He nodded.

  “You know the ottomised never get to heaven. You understand?” Personally, she didn’t believe in heaven or hell. An earthly life was hell enough, and heaven appeared in the ephemera of every day, like dust motes sparkling in a quiet sunrise, or a warm handshake on a frigid day. Stolen gifts. But she had no problem using other peop
le’s godly fear when it was handy.

  Cora pressed her knife a little deeper, and a drop of blood clung to her blade edge.

  “Don’t stifle me like the other stiff ’uns!” he cried.

  Cora squinted at him. “Stifle?”

  “Haven’t yeh?” He was crying hard now, sniffling between words. “Hushed ’em for coin?”

  “My sister and I don’t kill people. Who told you that?”

  “I jus’ heard it, here and there.”

  “We get our quaroons the natural way. You tell people. And stay away from us.” She motioned her knife tip left and right just half an inch from Ewan’s face. “Or I’ll make dog-paste of your mug.”

  “Yes sir!”

  She stood back and let her arm fall. When Ewan didn’t move, she raised her eyebrows.

  “Go!” she roared.

  And Ewan fairly fled for his life.

  CHAPTER 16

  Leah was beside herself when Cora arrived home. She helped Cora bathe carefully, and fed her an extra-buttery gruel. She fussed and mussed until Cora smacked her hands away and shut the bedroom door so she could “rest.” She needed to think.

  Cora was in shock herself. It never occurred to her that she and Jacob would be targeted by their competition. Worse, rumors were out that they were killers themselves. She wondered, Had her work created an opportunity for others to hurt people like herself, where they might be targeted before their time? Perhaps she was at fault. But I’m evening the odds, she thought. All those poor, dug up. The rich should suffer too. Shouldn’t they?

  But she also knew she didn’t need a complication like police in her life right now.

  Cora couldn’t give the appearance of being intimidated, and she couldn’t afford to lay off work. She had other things to think about too. When Leah stepped out to buy some liniment for Cora’s bruised skin, she dressed as Jacob and visited little George, who reported that Leah had never left the house.