by Ed McBain
“I thought the baby had got buried alive.” The doctor shook his head, and Grandison said, “But people do get buried alive sometimes, don’t they?”
Newton hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It has happened,” he said at last. “I have never seen it, mind you. But one of my medical professors in Paris told the tale of a learned man in medieval times who was being considered for sainthood. When the church fathers dug him up, to see if his body was in that uncorrupted state that denotes sanctity, they found the poor soul lying in the coffin on his back, splinters under his fingernails and a grimace of agony frozen on his withered features.” He sighed. “To add insult to injury, they denied the fellow sainthood on the grounds that he seemed to be in no hurry to meet his Maker.”
They looked at each other and smiled. It was a grim story, but not so terrible as the sight of a dead child wrapped in its mother’s winding sheet. Besides, first light had just begun to gray the trees and the lawn outside. That night was over.
Cheney Youngblood had been early on, though. And he was sorry for her, because she was young and kindly, and he had thought her child had lived, however briefly. A year or so after that—it was hard to remember after so long a time, with no records kept—a steaming summer brought yellow fever into Augusta, and many died, burning in their delirium and crying for water. Day after day wagons stacked with coffins trundled down Telfair Street, bound for the two cemeteries, black and white. The old people and the babies died first, and here and there someone already sick or weakened by other ailments succumbed as well. New graves sprouted like skunk cabbage across the green expanse of the burying field.
Now he could dig and hoist with barely a thought to spare for the humans remains that passed through his hands. By now there had been too many dark nights, and too many still forms to move him to fear or pity. His shovel bit into the earth, and his shoulders heaved as he tossed aside the covering soil, but his mind these days ranged elsewhere.
“I want to go home,” he told George Newton one night, after he had asked for the supplies he needed.
The doctor looked up, surprised and then thoughtful. “Home, Grandison?”
His answer was roundabout. “I do good work, do I not, doctor? Bring you good subjects for the classes, without causing you any trouble. Don’t get drunk. Don’t get caught.”
“Yes. I grant you all that, but where is home, Grandison?”
“I have a wife back in Charleston.”
Dr. Newton considered it. “You are lonely? I know that sometimes when people are separated by circumstance, they find other mates. I wonder if you have given any thought to that—or perhaps she—”
“We were married legal,” he said. “I do good work here. Y’all trust me.”
“Yes. Yes, we do. And you want to go back to Charleston to see your wife?”
He nodded. No use in arguing about it until the doctor thought it out.
At last Newton said, “Well, I suppose it might be managed. We could buy you a train ticket. Twelve dollars is not such a great sum, divided by the seven of us who are faculty members.” He tapped his fingers together as he worked it out. “Yes, considered that way, the cost seems little enough, to ensure the diligence of a skilled and steady worker. I think I can get the other doctors to go along. You would have to carry a pass, stating that you have permission to make the journey alone, but that is easily managed.”
“Yes. I’d like to go soon, please.” He was good at his job for just this reason, so that it would be easier to keep him happy than to replace him.
Not everyone could do his job. The free man who was his predecessor had subsided into a rum-soaked heap; even now he could be seen shambling along Bay Street, trying to beg or gamble up enough money to drown the nightmares.
Grandison Harris had no dreams.
“Excuse me, Dr. Newton, but it’s time for my train trip again, and Dr. Eve said it was your turn to pay.”
“Hmm . . . what? Already?”
“Been four weeks.” He paused for a moment, taking in the rumpled figure elbow-deep in papers at his desk. “I know you’ve had other things on your mind, sir. I’m sorry to hear about your uncle’s passing.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, Grandison.” George Newton ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “Well, it wasn’t a shock, you know. He was a dear old fellow, but getting up in years, you know. No, it isn’t so much that. It’s the chaos he’s left me.”
“Chaos?”
“The mess. In his will my uncle left instructions that his house be converted to use as an orphanage, which is very commendable, I’m sure, but he had a houseful of family retainers, you know. And with the dismantling of his household on Walker Street, they have all moved in with me on Greene Street. I can’t walk for people. Eleven of them! Women. Children. Noise. Someone tugging at my sleeve every time I turn around. And the Tuttle family heirlooms, besides. It’s bedlam. And Henry, my valet, is at his wit’s end. He’s getting on in years, you know, and accustomed to having only me to look after. I would not dream of turning them out, of course, but . . .”
Grandison nodded. Poor white folks often thought that servants solved all the problems rich people could ever have, but he could see how they could be problems as well. They had to be fed, clothed, looked after when they got sick. It would be one thing if Dr. George had a wife and a busy household already going—then maybe a few extra folks wouldn’t make much difference, but for a bachelor of forty-five used to nobody’s company but his own, this sudden crowd of dependents might prove a maddening distraction. It would never occur to George Newton to sell his uncle’s slaves, either. That was to his credit. Grandison thought that things ought to be made easier for them so he wouldn’t be tempted to sell those folks to get some peace. He considered the situation, trying to think of a way to lighten the load. He said, “Have you thought about asking Miz Alethea if she can help you sort it out, Doctor?”
“Alethea Taylor? Well, I am her guardian now, I know.” Newton smiled. “Is she also to be mine?”
“You know she does have seven young’uns. She’s used to a house full. Maybe she could set things in order for you.”
George Newton turned the idea over in his mind. Women were better at managing a household and seeing to people’s needs. He had more pressing matters to contend with here at the medical school. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of greenbacks. “Well, we must get you to Charleston,” he said. “Twelve dollars for train fare, isn’t it? And, thanks. I believe I will take your advice and ask Alethea to help me.”
George Newton’s problems went out of his head as soon as the door shut behind him. He went off to the depot to wait for the train, and he wanted no thought of Augusta to dampen his visit to Rachel.
Three days later he walked into Alethea Taylor’s parlor near suppertime, and found that one of the family was missing. “Where’s Miss Mary Frances?” he asked as they settled around the big table.
Young Joseph waved a drumstick and said, “Oh, Mama sent her over to Dr. George’s house. You know how he’s been since Mr. Tuttle passed. People just running all over him, asking for things right and left. And Mr. George he can’t say no to anybody, and he has about as much common sense as a day-old chick. He asked Mama to come help him, but she’s too busy with her sewing work. So we sent Fanny instead.”
Jane, who was ten, said, “Mama figured Fanny would put a stop to that nonsense. She’ll sort them all out, that’s certain. Ever since she got back from that school in South Carolina she’s been bossing all of us something fierce, so I’m glad she’s gone over there. It’ll give us a rest.”
“But she’s what—seventeen?”
Joseph laughed. “Sixteen going-on-thirty,” he said. “Those folks at Newton’s will think a hurricane hit ’em. Fanny’s got enough sand to take on the lot of them, and what’s more she won’t need a pass to go there, either.”
Harris nodded. No, she wouldn’t need a pass. Fanny Taylor was a gray-eyed beauty, whiter than s
ome of the French Creole belles he’d seen in Charleston. With her light skin, her education and her poise, she could go anywhere unchallenged, and she had the same fire and steel as Miss Alethea, so he didn’t think she’d be getting any back talk from the Newton household.
“She’s living over there now?”
Jim laughed. “No-oo, sir! Mama wouldn’t sit still for that.” He glanced at his mother to see if it was safe to say more, but her expression was not encouraging.
“She’ll be home directly,” said Anna. “She goes first thing in the morning and she comes home after dinner time.”
Miss Alethea spoke up then. “Children, where are your manners? Pass Mr. Harris those fresh biscuits and some gravy, and let him talk for once. Hand round the chicken, Jim. Mr. Harris, how was your journey?”
“The day was fine for a train ride,” he said, careful to swallow the last bit of chicken before he spoke. The Taylors were sticklers for table manners. “Though we did have to stop once for some cows had got out and would not leave the track.”
Miss Alethea was not interested in cows. “And your wife, Mr. Harris? I hope you found her well?”
“She’s well enough.” He hesitated. “She is with child.”
Miss Alethea glanced at her own brood, and managed to smile. “Why, don’t say that news with such a heavy heart, Mr. Harris. This will be your first born, won’t it! You should be joyful!”
He knew it was his child. The old miss would never permit any goings-on in her house. Not that he thought Rachel would have countenanced it anyhow. But a child was one more millstone of Charleston to burden him. He couldn’t be with his child, couldn’t protect it. And the old missus professed to be delighted at this new addition to the household, but he was afraid that a baby on the premises would be more annoying to her than she anticipated. He thought of Dr. George’s fractious household. Might the old missus part with Rachel and the infant to restore her house to its former peacefulness? Was it any wonder that he was worried?
Miss Alethea gave her children a look, and one by one they left the table, as if a command had been spoken aloud. When the two of them were alone, she said, “It’s not right to separate a husband from his wife. I don’t know what Dr. George was thinking when he brought you here to begin with.”
“No, I asked him to. It seemed for the best. And my Rachel wasn’t to be sold, so there wasn’t any question of bringing her, too.”
“Be that as it may, you have been here now, what? Three years? It is high time that Medical College did something about your situation. And a baby on the way as well. Yes, they must see about that.”
“I suppose the doctors thought—”
“I know what they thought. They thought what all you men think—that you’d replace your wife and be glad of the chance. Folks said that about Mr. Butts, too, but they were wrong. Seven children we had, and he stayed with me until the day he died. Those doctors must see by now that you have not deserted your wife. You going so faithful on the train to see her every chance you get. Well, it’s early days still. The baby not born yet, and many a slip, as they say. Let us wait and see if all goes well, and if it does, one day we will speak to Dr. George about it.”
The anatomy classes did not often want babies. He was glad of that. He thought he might take to drink as old Clegg had done if he’d had to lift shrouded infants out of the ground during the months that he waited for his own child to be born in Charleston.
Women died in childbirth. No one knew better than he. The men he pulled from their shrouds in Cedar Grove were either old husks of humanity, worn out by work and weariness at a great age, or else young fools who lost a fight, or died of carelessness, their own or someone else’s. But the women . . . It was indeed the curse of Eve. Sometimes the women died old, too, of course. Miss Alethea herself had borne seven babies, and would live to make old bones. She came of sturdy stock. But he saw many a young woman put into the clay before her time, with her killer wrapped in swaddling cloths and placed in her arms.
And the doctors did want those young mothers. Their musculature was better for study than the stringy sinews of old folks, Dr. Newton had told him. “A pregnant woman will make a good subject,” he said, examining the body Grandison had brought in just before dawn. “Midwives see to all the normal births, of course, but when something goes wrong, they’ll call in a doctor. When we attend a birth, it’s always a bad sign. We need to know all we can.”
“But why does birthing kill them?” Grandison had asked. It was when he’d first learned about Rachel, and he wondered if the doctors here had some new sliver of knowledge that might save her, if it came to that. Surely this long procession of corpses had amounted to something.
George Newton thought the matter over carefully while he examined the swollen form of the young woman on the table before them. In the emptiness of death she looked too young to have borne a child. Well, she did not bear it. It remained inside her, a last secret to take away with her. Grandison stared at her, trying to remember her as a living being. He must have seen her among the crowds at the city market, perhaps, or laughing among the women on the lawn outside the church. But he could not place her. Whoever she had been was gone, and he was glad that he could summon no memory to call her back. It was easier to think of the bodies as so much cordwood to be gathered for the medical school. Had it not been for her swollen belly, he would not have given her a thought.
At last Dr. Newton said, “Why do they die? Now that’s a question for the good Reverend Wilson over at the Presbyterian church across the street. He would tell you that their dying was the will of God, and the fulfillment of the curse on Eve for eating the apple, or some such nonsense as that. But I think . . .” He paused for a moment, staring at the flame of his match as if he’d forgotten the question.
“Yes, doctor? Why do you think they die?”
“Well, Grandison, I spent my boyhood watching the barn cats give birth and the hounds drop litters of ten at a time, and the hogs farrow a slew of piglets. And you know, those mothers never seemed to feel any pain in those birthings. But women are different. It kills some and half kills the rest. And I asked myself why, same as you have, and I wondered if we could find something other than God to blame for it.”
“Did you? Find something to blame besides God?”
Dr. Newton smiled. “Ourselves, I guess. The problem in childbirth is the baby’s head. The rest of that little body slides through pretty well, but it’s the head that gets caught and causes the problems. I suppose we need those big heads because our brains are bigger than a dog’s or a pig’s, but perhaps over the eons our heads have outgrown our bodies.”
He thought it over. “But there’s nothing I can do about that,” he said, “I can’t help Rachel.”
The doctor nodded. “I know,” he said. “Perhaps in this case Reverend Wilson would be more help to you than we doctors are. He would prescribe prayer, and I have nothing better to offer.”
Newton turned to go, but another thought occurred to him. “Grandison, why don’t you come in to class today?” He nodded toward the girl’s swollen body. “She will be our subject today. Perhaps you’ll feel better if you understood the process.”
Grandison almost smiled. It would never occur to the studious bachelor that a man with a pregnant wife might be appalled by such a sight. Dr. George considered learning a cure in itself. Grandison did not think that was the case, but since learning was often useful for its own sake, he would not refuse the offer. And he would take care not to show disgust or fear, because that might prevent other offers to learn from coming his way. Doctoring would be a good skill to know. He had seen enough of death to want to fight back.
He had watched while the doctors cut open the blank-faced woman, and now he knew that the womb looked like a jellyfish from the Charleston docks, and that the birth canal made him think of a snake swallowing a baby rabbit, but the knowledge did nothing to allay his fears about Rachel’s confinement. It was all right, though, in the en
d. Whether the prayers accomplished their object or whether his wife’s sturdy body and rude good health had been her salvation, the child was safely delivered, and mother and baby thrived. He called that first son “George,” in honor of Dr. Newton, hoping the gesture would make the old bachelor feel benevolent toward Rachel and the boy.
After that he got into the habit of sitting in on the medical classes when he could spare the time from his other duties. Apart from the big words the doctors used, the learning didn’t seem too difficult. Once you learned what the organs looked like and how to find them in the body, the rest followed logically. They were surprised to learn that he could read—his lessons with the Taylor children had served him well. After a while, no one took any notice of him at all in the anatomy classes, and presently the doctors grew accustomed to calling on him to assist them in the demonstrations. He was quiet and competent, and they noticed his helpfulness, rather than the fact that he, too, was learning medicine.
He had been in Augusta four years. By now he was as accustomed to the rhythm of the academic year as he had once been attuned to the seasonal cadence of the farm. He had taken Alethea Taylor’s advice and made himself quietly indispensable, so that at work the doctors scarcely had to give him a thought, except to hand over money for whatever supplies he needed for the task at hand or for his personal use. No one ever questioned his demands for money these days. They simply handed over whatever he asked for, and went back to what they had been doing before he had interrupted.
Sixteen bodies per term for the anatomy class. He could read well now, thanks to the Taylor daughters, although they would be shocked if they knew that he found this skill most useful in reading the death notices in the Chronicle. When there were not enough bodies available in the county to meet this need, Grandison was authorized to purchase what he needed. A ten-dollar gold piece for each subject. Two hundred gallons of whiskey purchases each year for the preservation of whole corpses or of whatever organs of interest the doctors wished to keep for further study, and if he bought a bit more spirits than that amount, no one seemed to notice. It never went to waste.
