by Hannah Tinti
“I didn’t touch anything,” said the girl with the harelip. Behind her back she was holding a piece of bacon. The grease was staining her dress, a small circle of widening darkness.
“YOU’RE THE WORST OF THEM ALL,” said Mrs. Sands, and clapped the girl once on the ear. The girl went down, her hands coming out to stop the fall. She landed on the floor and the bacon broke in two and Mrs. Sands snatched the pieces up like a bird. The landlady grimaced, showing her crooked teeth, and cleaned the meat with the skirt of her apron.
The girl touched her head where it had hit the edge of the bench. The corners of her mouth turned around her harelip. She held her fingertips up. “No blood this morning,” the girl said. “You’re slipping, Mrs. Sands.”
Everything stilled for a moment. Then Mrs. Sands began to cough—hengh, hengh, hengh—and the rest of the girls on the bench burst into laughter, as if they had been holding it in for years. The girls banged their heels into the floor and howled as the girl with the harelip rose to her feet. Mrs. Sands turned and laid the bacon carefully on a plate. It wasn’t until she wiped her eyes that Ren realized she was laughing too.
“HUSH!” she said. “YOU’LL WAKE EVERYONE!”
“They should be awake already,” said the Harelip. “Honest people don’t sleep in the morning.”
One of the girls on the bench, with long brown hair and a gap between her front teeth, saw Ren hiding behind the door. “Who’s that?”
“THAT’S OUR NEW DROWNED BOY!” said Mrs. Sands. She walked over and took hold of Ren’s collar and dragged him into the room.
“Why didn’t you tell us about him?” asked the Harelip.
“IT’S NOT MY BUSINESS TO TELL ANYONE ANYTHING!” Mrs. Sands said, and she suddenly picked up Ren as before and held him to her, squeezing hard. Then she dropped him to the floor, twisted his ear between her fingers, and used it to lead him into a chair.
“YOU SLEEP WELL IN THAT OLD BED?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Ren. “But there was something in the chimney.”
Mrs. Sands paused, as if she was giving this information time enough to leave the room. Then she shouted, “YOU HUNGRY, THEN, BOY?” Ren said yes he was, and it was only a moment before Mrs. Sands pushed a plate in front of him, full of eggs and butter and bacon and bread.
Ren forgot all about the dwarf. He tucked a napkin into his collar and ate everything in front of him. He finished the bacon and Mrs. Sands added more. He ate all of the bread and she followed it with muffins. He licked the last piece of yellow from his spoon and she had another soft-boiled egg cracked, the shell peeling off from the pure white jelly with the fresh smell of vinegar and salt.
The girls watched this happen silently from the bench, swinging their boots. The one with the gap in her teeth rolled her eyes, and the Harelip caught Ren looking and stuck out her tongue. It was bright reddish pink, mirroring the turn of skin above it. Ren could not look away, and when he didn’t, she blew him a kiss.
“Is there any water?” Benjamin stood in the doorway, half-dressed. His hair was loose, his eyes shot with red.
Mrs. Sands’s cheeks colored. She quickly drew a basin from underneath the counter and began to fill it from a pail. Benjamin walked over to the table and put his face in the bucket instead. He rested there for a moment, bubbles coming up beside his ears, and then he threw his head back and shook it like a dog. Mrs. Sands began to cough.
The girl with the gap in her teeth elbowed the girl with the harelip, who stared at Benjamin as the water soaked his shirt, running down his chest and shoulders.
“Who do you think you are?” said the Harelip.
Benjamin walked over to the bench and stood before the girls. He buttoned his shirt, then slipped his suspenders on. “I believe,” he said, “I’m your neighbor.”
Mrs. Sands began rolling dough on the counter, sprinkling flour and pressing her weight rhythmically into the wooden pin. Ren leaned his head against the back of the chair and watched her, as if he had done this a hundred mornings. At the other end of the room the girls let out another torrent of giggles while Benjamin introduced himself. Mrs. Sands slapped the dough harder against the counter.
A loud clanging of a bell sounded—followed by another, of higher pitch. The girls tore up from the bench, reaching for their shawls, holding them above their heads like sails before bringing them down and tying the corners around their necks.
“We’ll see you at supper,” the Harelip said, looking back over her shoulder at Benjamin. A moment later they were all gone, the kitchen door banged shut.
“Who are they?” Ren asked.
“MOUSETRAPPERS,” said Mrs. Sands, and threw another mound of dough on top of the first. She motioned with her head to the corner of the room. On the floor was a small wooden container. When Ren crouched down he could smell the freshly cut wood. In the side there was a circular opening, covered with a piece of tin. It was hinged one way, like the door in the gate at Saint Anthony’s. Ren reached out with his finger and pushed it open. The box shuddered, suddenly coming to life, and the boy drew his finger back quickly. He could hear the mouse scratching on the other side of the door.
“THEY WORK FOR MCGINTY,” said Mrs. Sands. “HE BOUGHT UP THE LAND AFTER THE MINE CLOSED AND BUILT THE MOUSETRAP FACTORY.”
Benjamin took a toothpick from the table, slipped the wooden point in his mouth, and bit down. “I’ve heard about him.”
“THEN YOU KNOW WHAT HE’S DONE TO THE PLACE.” Mrs. Sands rubbed the flour from her hands. “WE WERE GLAD AT FIRST. WE NEEDED THE WORK AND THE MONEY. BUT HE BROUGHT THOSE GIRLS WITH HIM. UGLY GIRLS WITH NO HUSBANDS AND NO HOMES. HE PAYS THEM CHEAP AND KEEPS THEM WORKING AT THE FACTORY ALL DAY AND ALL NIGHT. MOST EVERYONE DECENT IN THIS TOWN HAS LEFT. BUT I WAS BORN HERE, AND MY HUSBAND’S BURIED HERE, AND I’VE NOWHERE ELSE TO GO.”
Mrs. Sands coughed into her apron. Then she set her mouth and returned to her pies, lifting a sheet of dough and stretching it gently across a plate. The air smelled like flour and water and salt. Ren watched as the landlady used her hands to press the dough into place, a knife to cut it to size, and a fork to poke holes across the bottom. She filled the shell with some kind of meat and covered it all with another sheet of dough and sealed the two crusts together, tucking around the edge with a twist, making a pattern. There was no hesitation in her fingers.
Ren left his chair and walked over to the table where she was working. He reached out and touched her flour-covered hand. “Thank you for fixing these clothes for me,” he said.
Mrs. Sands looked at the place where Ren’s hand covered hers. She pressed her lips together and raised her head. Her face seemed on the verge of breaking, and then, just as suddenly, it cleared. “I WAS GLAD TO DO IT FOR YOU.” She reached over and straightened the jacket on his shoulders, admiring her work, then sighed and took a rag to wipe away the flour left behind.
“I SUPPOSE SOME PEOPLE ARE MEANT TO BE DROWNED.”
“Maybe the boy deserved it,” Ren offered.
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?”
“That God was punishing him.”
“GOD’S TOO BUSY TO GO AROUND PUNISHING LITTLE BOYS.” She tapped Ren on the shoulder as if he should have known this already, and with that she went back to her pie-making.
All this time Benjamin sat at the kitchen table and watched them, rolling the toothpick back and forth with his tongue. He bit down on the sliver of wood and said, “This McGinty, does he have any family?”
Mrs. Sands lifted more dough and slapped it down on the counter. “NONE THAT I KNOW OF. HE USED TO HAVE A SISTER.”
Ren saw Benjamin’s interest rise. This always happened, before they started a job, and Ren wondered if McGinty’s sister would be their next target. He got the feeling that Benjamin knew more than he was showing. “What happened to her?”
“HE SENT HER AWAY SOMEWHERE. THEY SAID SHE’D LOST HER MIND. I WOULD TOO, WITH A BROTHER LIKE THAT.”
Benjamin ran his fingers through his hair and stared thoughtfu
lly into his mug of coffee. Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Tom appeared, his shirt undone. Mrs. Sands took one look in his direction and pointed at the bucket on the table. Tom splashed his face and ended up spilling most of the water on the floor. Mrs. Sands took a mop from a closet nearby and handed it to him.
“I’M A LANDLADY, NOT A MAID.”
When she turned her back Tom let out a string of curses but remained in place, wiping the floor until the food was served. Mrs. Sands put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of each of the men. She toasted some bread on the stove and piled it into a basket. Once Benjamin and Tom were taken care of, Mrs. Sands took her pies over to the oven and slid them onto a rack. Ren could see the white pastry shining for a moment as she shut the door.
He realized then that Mrs. Sands already knew about the dwarf in the chimney. She had put out the meal for him. She had mended his socks. The toy horse must have been left for her. Ren slid his hand into his coat and touched the horse with the tip of his finger. The wood was polished and smooth.
The only toy he’d ever owned was a broken tin soldier, swiped from one of the charitable grandmothers when he was not much older than five or six. He’d shared the toy with Brom and Ichy for nearly a year. Its face had been chewed away and it was missing a leg and its rifle, but the boys had spent countless hours recreating its battles and fashioning substitute appendages. Then Ichy lost it down the well. The boys had mourned the soldier for months, even marking his years into the base of the well as a record of their time with him.
Ren felt guilty for stealing from Mrs. Sands, but he did not want to part with the horse.
“Are you ready?” Benjamin was putting on his coat.
Ren was not sure what he was supposed to be ready for, but he nodded and stood up from his chair as Tom snatched an extra piece of bread from the table.
“YOU OWE ME SIX DOLLARS.”
“And we’re certainly going to pay you,” Benjamin said. He put a hand on her shoulder, then slid it down to her waist.
She stepped back. “IT HAS TO BE TODAY.” Mrs. Sands held on to the basin Benjamin hadn’t used, as if she were about to knock him senseless with it. Tom moved over to the door, one hand holding the bread, the other on the gun stuffed into his belt.
Benjamin took the bowl away from her. He set it on the counter. “Today.”
“SHOULD I SEE YOU FOR SUPPER?”
“Yes,” said Benjamin. “You’ll see all of us.” He took hold of Ren by his sleeve, and before she could say anything else, they were gone.
FOURTEEN
North Umbrage looked different in the daylight. The empty buildings they’d passed the night before had been transformed into shops. Blacksmiths and potters, fruit stands and handkerchief stalls. All of them were run by women. There was a woman baker with loaves of bread on the shelves, the scent of rising dough spilling out the window. There was a woman blacksmith, a horse’s foot between her knees, children working the bellows behind her. There was a woman butcher, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows and her apron covered with blood. There was even a woman garbage collector, her donkey cart full of rotting vegetables and torn rags and broken crockery, followed by a small herd of pigs.
Benjamin took the wagon past the mousetrap factory. Now that it was morning, Ren could see the intricate red brickwork, the smoke churning black against the sky. The place made Ren feel strange, and a little queasy, and he was glad when Benjamin turned the horse toward the bridge leading out of town.
The overpass was well-used, lined with sand and stone and marked with two gulleys from a century of crossings over. Gathered on either side were a few groups of old men. Some with rods, on their way to fish. Some smoking. Others leaning back and appraising the horse’s worth.
It was another mile before they entered the woods, the grass and bushes slowly building up on either side. In the distance Ren could make out the corner of the hospital. It looked just as the dentist had described it, with thick stone walls and one lonely turret, like a castle out on its own. The men were in high spirits as they drew closer. Benjamin hummed a tune as the cart bumped along, and Tom chewed a bit of tobacco. Ren tried to join in the good feeling, but he grew nervous as they approached the gate. “What am I supposed to do when we get there?”
“Just ask for Doctor Milton,” said Benjamin. “You’re supposed to be his patient.”
“Why do I have to go?”
“He thinks you’ll make it safe. He’s had trouble before.” Benjamin took hold of the boy’s shoulder. “This could be our ticket. Don’t disappoint me.”
Ren forced himself to climb down from the cart. He wanted to please Benjamin, but he had never done a job by himself before. He stayed by the front wheel, holding on to the spokes, hoping one of the men would change his mind and trade places with him.
“We’ll wait for you down the road,” said Tom, and the wheels began to turn, pulling the spoke from Ren’s hand. He watched the wagon make its way under the trees and disappear. Then he turned to face the hospital.
The foundation of the building was made of granite. There were three sets of gates—entry to the yard, entry to the inner yard, and entry to the hospital itself. The boy was not sure where to begin. He touched the wall of the building. It was cold. He circled twice before finding the bell. When he rang, it was heavy and reverberating, as if the noise was not meant to announce visitors but to frighten the ringer off. Soon after a nun appeared. Ren could see her beyond the first two gates, weaving her way through the ironwork with a bedpan, going about her task with a grim look.
“Sister!” Ren shouted.
The nun banged her bedpan against the inner wall. “Who’s there?” she asked with impatience, then walked up closer to the fence and stopped. She was about fifty years old, her nose and chin pointed, her eyes so dark and heavy that her iris and pupil seemed one.
Ren pushed back his sleeve and lifted his scar. “Doctor Milton said he could help me.”
The nun stared at Ren’s arm, then at his face, then at his arm again. “God be praised,” she said quietly. Something passed over her features for a moment, then her expression slid back to the same uninviting look. She tucked the bedpan under her arm and unlocked the gate.
“You’re very early,” she said. “He’s still in surgery.”
She showed him inside the building and past a series of large rooms. The beds were pushed in side by side, and in some places there were mattresses right on the ground, spilling into the hallway. Ren tried to hold his breath. The building smelled like stale smoke and boiled meat. In the corners there were bedpans overflowing.
The patients wore nightgowns. Thick heavy woolens not unlike what Mrs. Sands had dressed Ren in after his bath. A few glanced up as he passed, but most were asleep, their arms or legs wrapped in layers of bandages. One man reached for the boy and caught hold of his trousers.
“I need water,” the man said. His head was shaved, and there were scabs on his arms.
“I’ll see that you get some,” said the nun. “Now let him go.”
The man obeyed and sank back into the blankets. The nun took Ren by the shoulder and moved him toward the stairs.
She was a Sister of Mercy. Ren knew from the gray color of her dress. Brother Joseph’s cousin, also a Sister of Mercy, had visited them once at Saint Anthony’s. Her name was Sister Sarah, and she had stayed with them only five days, but within that time she had rid the small boys’ room of its fishy smell. All of the children’s bedding was taken outside and beaten in the sunlight. The floors were scrubbed with carbolic acid. She set the boys sewing each child a new pair of underwear, and provided the linen and needles herself. When she left, many of the children had cried. It took a full week for the oiliness to return, and Ren remembered going to bed those nights before it came and inhaling deeply into his pillow.
“How did you lose your hand?” the nun asked.
“I don’t remember.”
The nun frowned, as if the answer did not satisfy her, and pointe
d to a bench in the corner. Ren took a seat and watched as she hurried behind a door at the end of the hall, the edges of her habit lightly bouncing with each step.
Ren swung his feet back and forth and looked up and down the hallway. The walls were decorated with portraits of aristocrats, men and women posing with their hunting dogs or standing beside windows that looked out on their country estates. Only one portrait was markedly different. It showed a man in a well-made but slightly rumpled jacket, seated at a desk piled with books. Behind him on a shelf were a frog in a glass jar, a stuffed bird of some kind, and the unmistakable shape of a human skull. The man in the portrait was touching his chin, posed in the middle of some illuminating thought.
Ren tried to imagine what this thought could be. He guessed that it was scientific in nature, but the more Ren studied the portrait, the more he realized that the man didn’t look intelligent at all. He looked hungry. He was probably thinking of sausages, and Ren was nearly decided on this when a scream came from down the hall. The boy jumped out of his seat. Another scream came. And then another.
At first the screams were pleading. Ren could make out words. “Stop! Leave it on! Please!” the voice begged. It called someone a murderer, and then it gave up and simply shrieked, over and over, until Ren couldn’t take it anymore—he put his hand over one ear and pressed his stump against the other and hummed and hummed until his lips felt numb. The voice in the other room grew hoarse and then it simply moaned and then it stopped completely.
Ren lowered his arms. He considered trying to find a way out of the building. But before he could make up his mind, the doors opened and a large basket came down the corridor. Four men were carrying it, their jackets off and their sleeves rolled up. Inside was a pale man, the lower half of him covered with bandages, blood soaking through and onto the basket, staining the pattern of the reeds. Ren leaned slightly forward to get a look at the patient’s face. It was caved-in, as if all the screaming had pulled the flesh from his bones.
The nun came behind, holding the man’s leg. It was wrapped in a sheet and she was cradling it in her two arms like a baby. Blood was dripping from the cloth in a steady stream, making thin lines across her apron as she walked past.
