Speakers of the Dead

by J. Aaron Sanders

  “Your poems are innocuous enough.” A few months earlier, Mr. Ropes had encouraged him to print his poem “Time to Come” in the Aurora.

  “Hmm,” Walt says. “Is it not a reporter’s job to uncover the truth?”

  “One more article with that kind of truth will put Mr. Herrick and me out of business.”

  Whitman has not yet met Mr. Herrick, but if he’s anything like Mr. Ropes, then—

  “The problem with journalists,” Ropes says, “is they live in a world where their words mean more than even they think they do. What I’m suggesting to you, Mr. Whitman, is that journalists, as difficult as it is to believe, undervalue their own work. The written word is powerful, and reporters often don’t care about anyone but themselves. They think about what their words might do, not what they will do.”

  “What are you saying, then?”

  “What I’m saying, Mr. Whitman, is that you’re fired.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Ropes nods. “Mr. Saunders will also be dismissed when I next see him.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Mr. Nichols will begin tomorrow.”

  “The former editor?”

  Mr. Ropes says, “It’s a temporary appointment until I can find a permanent replacement.”

  “What about today’s issue?”

  Mr. Ropes steps into the composition room. “It’s simple, really. There won’t be one.”

  Outside, dirt, slush, and puddles cover the streets and walkways, and the wind has stopped. People scamper about in droves trying to finish their errands during the abbreviated daylight of winter. Walt Whitman and Azariah Smith cross the street from the Aurora and sit on the park bench, where they watch children frolic in the sun. One little girl chases a dog with a red ball in his mouth. Freckles cover her cheeks, and her lips are bright red from the wind.

  What can they do now? That article was their best chance at finding Henry.

  The girl waves at them as they stand and cross the street. Azariah waves back.

  Walt tries to empty his mind as he does when he writes stories. Next to him, Azariah walks quietly, sensing Walt’s trouble. His eyes are bright and anxious, his taut body ready to be called into action.

  They walk northeast until they reach Chatham Square where auctioneers are mounted upon tables, or barrels, crying the goods and the prices. Customers pore over hills of furniture of every description and quality, mulling potential purchases. Walt stands awhile and looks vacantly upon the market scene, thoughts of Henry churning in his mind.

  “Any ideas?” Azariah says, unable to stay quiet any longer.

  Whitman shakes his head, and the boy gets the hint. They walk on.

  All around them is the deafening noise of people engaged in their thousand employments. Walt gazes curiously at the shops, which exhibit their merchandise in large, handsome windows, a few of their best articles hanging out front to entice the passerby. In the air ring the voices of newsboys announcing the day’s headlines: Boy killed in carriage accident. Alderman Sickles arrested for embezzlement. Madame Restell to fight charges of malpractice.

  And then the idea comes: Mr. Ropes does not know how to run a press. He will not have done anything at all with the ready-to-print MISSING article, and so the tray likely remains ready on the composition table. As long as Mr. Ropes has left the office, then Walt and Azariah can simply find a way back inside the Aurora and run the edition anyway. What more can Mr. Ropes do to him now that he’s already been fired?

  When Walt explains the idea, Azariah smiles.

  Chapter 23

  Walt Whitman and Azariah Smith are on their way to the women’s college. They have been all over the city in only a few hours, distributing thousands of copies of the Aurora, its front page featuring the MISSING article, and much to Whitman’s delight, they began to witness its impact immediately. The newsboys proclaimed the headline to the New Yorkers on the street as they whisked and brambled their way through the melting snow, and several hundred of the city’s more than three hundred thousand residents have responded by paying the two cents for their own copy of the Aurora. Walt watched it happen several times as they read his article, their curiosity turning into disbelief, then contorting into rage, and he’d turned to Azariah, who watched it all along with him, and say: “We have something here.”

  But now that they’re approaching the women’s college, Azariah’s demeanor changes. It’s true they’re both tired. Walt’s legs are sore, he’s hungry, and his clothing is wet. He prods his young friend; “Come on in, then,” he says. “They’ll have some dinner for us. You can dry off next to the stove.”

  Azariah shakes his head.

  “Don’t be stubborn, Mr. Smith.”

  “Do they know?”

  “Do they know what?”

  “That I lied to them,” Azariah says. “Miss Blackwell and the other women.”

  Whitman shakes his head. “All they know is that you saved the college from the mob.”

  Azariah thinks for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

  “Why would I?”

  “I am sorry.”

  “We’ve been over this,” Walt says. “Now let’s go inside.”

  Azariah nods.

  The students are in the dissection room again, Elizabeth in the lead. She does not see Walt and Azariah come in. A cadaver is laid out on the table.

  “Before we begin,” Miss Blackwell says, “let me say how grateful I am that you decided to remain at the college despite all we have been through in recent days. It is my prayer that this dissection demonstrates my commitment to this college, to your educations, to Abraham and Lena Stowe’s legacy, and to medicine.”

  She takes the scalpel and makes an incision at the dead woman’s sternum. As the blade slowly, steadily draws downward, the students’ faces reveal fascination and revulsion. Miss Blackwell pauses at the chest cavity. She looks from one student to the next, lingering, forcing them to look away from the cadaver and make eye contact with her.

  “Before we remove this woman’s chest cavity, I want you to know who she was: Her name was Loretta Carver, the wife of a fishmonger.” She continues to cut and, as she peels the skin back, says: “Recall how we created a buttonhole in Lena’s skin the other day,” she says. “I’m doing the same thing here, as you soon will. Once we get the muscle off, we’ll remove the chest cavity as we discussed.”

  “With the bone cutter?” Miss Zacky says.

  Elizabeth nods. “Ribs one through six all around.” She traces the circular path around the chest cavity with her index finger. “The clavicle is next, and then you remove the rib cage in one piece.” This is when she notices Whitman and the boy in the back. “Excuse me, ladies. Miss Zacky will take the lead. Once you have the rib cage off, let’s stop for today.” She washes her hands in the basin behind the dissection table and wipes them on the apron, which she tosses in the corner bin.

  Miss Blackwell smiles as she comes toward them. “Mr. Smith, how nice to see you again. We’ve missed you.”

  “Ma’am.” Azariah bows, shakes her hand.

  “Mr. Whitman, any news on Mr. Saunders’s whereabouts?”

  Walt sent a message through a courier earlier that morning to let Elizabeth know what had happened. “Mr. Smith and I just ran an article we think will agitate the situation, didn’t we?” He wants to sound hopeful.

  Azariah nods.

  “The two of you look ragged. We’ll be eating soon. Please join us. Both of you.”

  Whitman looks at the boy.

  Azariah hesitates only a moment. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Good,” Elizabeth says. “While we eat, we can discuss our next move with regard to finding Mr. Saunders. Now, you said his family lives nearby. Have you sent word to them?”

  Walt shakes his head.

  She comes closer. “I kn
ow how upset you must be, but don’t give up hope. We will do everything we can to find your friend.”

  Walt is overwhelmed by her compassion. Behind Elizabeth, her students have just removed much of the rib cage in one piece, and Miss Emsbury holds it up for her instructor to see. Miss Blackwell praises her students on a job well done. They are all doing their best in difficult circumstances.

  And then it occurs to Walt. “May I inquire as to where you found the corpse?”

  “Mrs. Carver came to us from Kenneth Barclay.”

  “Oh?”

  “He sent it along with his apologies and best wishes.” Elizabeth shrugs. “Why he really did it, I’m not sure, but we’ve been grateful to have it. It is incredibly meaningful to the students.”

  Whitman considers this new development. Miss Blackwell is not naïve. She knows Barclay has his own motives, so instead of probing further, he smiles. “This is good news, Elizabeth. I’m glad you didn’t have to dig one up yourself.”

  Miss Zacky interrupts. “We’ve finished for the day,” she says. “Shall I help Miss Perschon with dinner?” She makes eye contact with Walt. “I’m so sorry to hear about your friend.”

  Whitman nods. “Thank you.”

  Miss Blackwell says, “Yes, splendid. Miss Perschon can use the help and maybe Mr. Smith can assist as well?” She turns to Azariah as she says this.

  “Helping pretty young women such as these,” Azariah says, “is both an opportunity and a blessing.”

  Miss Zacky takes him by the hand, and they leave the room.

  Elizabeth waits until they’re out of hearing range. “How are you holding up?” She takes Walt’s hand.

  He shakes his head. Tears are threatening to spill over, but if he cries now, he’ll never stop.

  She can see. “It will be okay, Mr. Whitman. God is watching over us.”

  Walt says, “I hope you’re right.”

  “I want you to pray with me.”

  “Pray? Me?” Walt looks at Elizabeth’s face, earnest and brimming with faith.

  She puts her other hand on his arm. “‘Is not prayer also a study of truth—a sally of the soul into the unfound infinite?’”

  Walt smiles. “How can I disagree with you and Mr. Emerson?”

  She smiles.

  And now Walt is crying.

  Elizabeth holds both his hands. “With all that’s happened these past weeks, I thought God was singling us out, and then I realized how backward my thinking was. God has taken Abraham and Lena back into his presence. They are well, and it is ours to carry on. I don’t know why it has happened this way. I’m not supposed to know.” She pauses. “What I do know is that he is watching over us,” she says, “and Henry too.”

  Whitman wants to say he agrees with her, but he cannot. At this moment, God feels irrelevant. Would that God reach down from heaven and arrange events in their favor, but what evidence do they have of this? For it is by their own works that they have made any progress at all, and it is the actions of others that have left them in such a precarious spot. Where is God in that?

  The best he can do while she prays is search for a safe image from his past—the soothing rustle of the waves, and the saline smell, the clam digging, barefoot, and with trousers rolled up; hauling down the creek; the perfume and the sedge meadows; the hay boat, and the chowder and fishing excursions—

  Elizabeth finishes her prayer with an Amen, and she looks up at Walt. “Better?”

  He nods. “Thank you.”

  Uncharacteristically, she takes him into her arms, and he lays his head against her as he used to do with his mother, softly sobbing, and they stand like this for a very long time until broken up by a knock at the door.

  Frankie Clement stands on the top step. Her dress is soaked, and her hair is disheveled. She’s out of breath. She’s trembling. She clambers to the stoop, stumbles inside, on the verge of hysterics. “We have to talk, now. We have to talk.”

  Walt and Elizabeth step aside to let her pass, and she’s muttering all the while. “What did you do to him? What did you do to Samuel?”

  “What did we do to him?” Whitman says. “What has he done to us?”

  “I’ve never seen him like this,” Frankie says. “He’s out of his head. What have you done?” She drops into one of the students’ desks, forming a triangle with Walt and Elizabeth.

  Yesterday she was so smooth, so in control, Whitman thinks, looking to Elizabeth for guidance.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Miss Blackwell says.

  Frankie ignores her, grabbing on to Whitman instead. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything.” He rips his arm away from her. “Your brother abducted my friend. He’s a murderer and a criminal.”

  Frankie is shaking her head now. “No, no, no, no. That’s not possible. Not my Samuel. After our father died, he took care of mum and me. He worked all hours of the day to make sure we had food to eat, to keep us in that room.”

  “And where are you now?” Walt says.

  Elizabeth looks sharply at Walt. Not now, she is saying with her eyes.

  “Samuel does have your friend,” Frankie says. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Whitman rushes toward her, and if Miss Blackwell hadn’t blocked his way, he would have taken hold and shaken her.

  “Mr. Whitman, no,” Elizabeth says. “Let us hear what she has to say.”

  “Mr. Saunders is safe for now,” Frankie says.

  Walt says, “Have you seen him?”

  Frankie shakes her head. “I don’t know where he is. Samuel doesn’t trust me with that information, but he did send me here.”

  “Tell me,” Walt says.

  “You are to meet Samuel tonight at eight in St. Peter’s Church.”

  “Meet him? But why?”

  “He says you have it all wrong,” Miss Clement says. “What happened between my brother and Jack Harris isn’t exactly what it seems.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “How should I know?” Frankie says. “He said he wants to clear it up.”

  “By kidnapping Henry?”

  “I told Samuel this was a waste of time.” She stands. “I told him he ought to just get rid of your friend.”

  “Get rid of him?” Walt’s standing over her now. “We’re not finished here. Now please take your chair, miss.” The two stare at each other until she sits again. She’s trying to appear tough, he knows, but she’s weak. She’s also afraid of her brother.

  Elizabeth cuts in. “Can I get you something warm to drink? You look cold.”

  Frankie twists her head. “I look cold? Who are you to tell me I look cold?”

  “I only meant—”

  “You only meant? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  “Maybe not, but I see the sore on your face,” Miss Blackwell says.

  Whitman hasn’t noticed it until now, but there is a red penny-size sore on Frankie’s left cheek. The edges crumble and crust; its center shines red like a bad scrape.

  “It’s a spider bite,” Miss Clement says.

  “I also know that you’re going through withdrawals,” Elizabeth continues. “The shaking and sweating. Your bad color. Laudanum probably. It’s unpleasant, yes, but it’s also dangerous. You need medical attention. You’re very ill.”

  Frankie is taken aback by this. Her eyes turn dark, and she fidgets in her seat. “This is none of your goddamn business.”

  “Lucky for you, you came to the right place,” Miss Blackwell says. “We’ll help you.”

  Frankie closes her eyes, drops her head.

  “We can help you off the laudanum while we treat the infection. You’re welcome here.”

  Much to Walt’s surprise, Frankie appears open to Elizabeth’s offer. She glances around the room, then at W
hitman and Miss Blackwell again. She stares out the window. “We never had a chance, you know? We grew up in Five Points, right in the center of it all. We were always poor. That’s just the way it was. My pap worked hard, harder than most, but it didn’t add up. Everything is stacked against folks like us.” She stops, lost in her thoughts.

  “We’ll help you,” Elizabeth says again. “There is hope.”

  From the other room, they hear voices. Sounds to Walt like Miss Zacky and Azariah in the kitchen.

  “Who is that?” Miss Clement says.

  “Those are my students,” Elizabeth says. “They live and work here.”

  “Women doctors?” Frankie says.

  “They’re not doctors yet.” Miss Blackwell smiles. “But they are studying to become doctors. It will happen.”

  “Hmm.” Frankie is mulling something over.

  Elizabeth picks up on it. “Are you interested in medicine, Miss Clement?”

  Frankie shrugs.

  “Because once you’re well, you can study here too.”

  “Me? Really?”

  Elizabeth says, “Why not you?”

  “My occupation, for one,” Frankie says. “Add to that the fact that I have no money, and my current employer might come for me if I quit.”

  Elizabeth has set up the perfect scenario for getting more information about Henry. Frankie is really considering Miss Blackwell’s offer, and her face has transformed from a dreary mess to an expression of promise. She’s sitting up straight, alert, glancing about as if picturing herself among the students. Walt waits and hopes. He believes Elizabeth wants to help Frankie.

  Does Frankie believe it too?

  Miss Zacky appears first, a broom in hand, and Azariah Smith follows with the dustpan. They’re singing a song Walt doesn’t recognize, and they’re laughing—until they catch sight of Frankie Clement.

  Azariah’s smile disappears.

  Frankie stands. “You?”

  “It’s not what you think,” Azariah says.

  But she’s already out the door.

  Outside, Walt catches up to Frankie just as she enters a waiting cab that speeds away. He follows the cab on foot as long as he can, keeping an eye out for a cab of his own, but there simply aren’t any around in this neighborhood at this hour, and so in the end, all he can do is watch as the white cab becomes smaller and smaller, and along with it too his hope of Frankie leading them to where Clement is keeping Henry.