Chapter 37

The double rows of beds of the Women’s Medical College of the New York Infirmary are filled with women sleeping, and three or four children, flushed and fevered. Karina Emsbury and Patricia Onderdonk change sheets and compresses while Elizabeth Blackwell walks briskly between the rows, giving orders to the young women, and to Miss Zacky, who is trailing behind. “It’s stifling in here,” she says. “Miss Onderdonk?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Patricia hurries to the windows, opens them. “I told Miss Zacky you wanted them open, but she—”

Elizabeth waves her off. “Miss Zakrzewska is a formidable woman, and not to be trifled with, Patricia. It’s quite all right.”

“How amusing,” Miss Zacky says.

Miss Blackwell stops and feels the forehead of an elderly woman who’s asleep. She takes the woman’s chart from the hook over the bed, flips the pages.

“One hundred and two this morning.”

“I suspect yellow fever,” Miss Zacky says. “Should we quarantine?”

Elizabeth pulls the woman’s eyelids down, shakes her head.

“Her pupils are distended,” Miss Zacky says, “her skin is turning blue.”

“Cholera! Miss Onderdonk, help me turn Mrs. Skory!”

As Patricia hurries over, Elizabeth gently shakes the old woman awake. “Mrs. Skory? We’re going to change your bedding now, all right?”

Elizabeth nods to Miss Zacky; she and Miss Onderdonk roll the tiny woman to her side, then Miss Emsbury pulls the sheets and gathers them into a ball. As she turns around with the sheets, Elizabeth takes them from her.

“I’ll take them down, Miss Emsbury.”

Miss Zacky says, “You shouldn’t be handling those, Lizzy.”

“I need to remind the laundry maids to double the chlorine in the washtubs anyway.”

“But if anything were to happen to you—”

“Then the infirmary will be in your capable hands. Now, mind you both scrub yours, then get a pint of salt water and sugar into Mrs. Skory.”

A scream sounds from across the room.

Seated by an open window, Azariah Smith squirms as Miss Perschon holds an eyedropper over his upturned face. “Hold still, Mr. Smith! This will only take a moment.”

She manages to get several drops in his eye before he shrieks again.

“Quit being a baby!” Miss Perschon puts a compress on the boy’s eyes, pats his shoulder, then walks over to Elizabeth. “He is in better health for sure, but he is no better at being a patient, I’m afraid.”

“No, indeed.” Elizabeth smiles. “Mr. Whitman will arrive at any moment to retrieve him.” She surveys the room, allowing herself to take it all in. The hustle and bustle of a hospital morning. Medical students chatting with their patients. She feels the losses of recent events deeply, but for now she will cling to gratitude for the present and hope for the future.

Someone approaches from the front.

“There he is now.”

Mr. Walt Whitman strides into the room dressed just like Mr. Henry Saunders. He twirls a walking stick and wears his floppy-brimmed hat tilted to the side, a shirt with its collar open, and a jacket with a boutonniere adorning his lapel. Elizabeth Blackwell cannot help but smile at the beauty of the gesture. Mr. Saunders will live on through him.

“Good morning, Mr. Whitman.”

“Elizabeth.” He takes her by the hand, kisses her cheek. “Congratulations! This is a magnificent place to continue your work. Abraham and Lena would be proud.”

“Mr. Smith has been making life challenging for Miss Perschon here, but he’s as healthy as he’s been in quite some time.”

At the sound of Walt’s voice, Azariah Smith removes the compress. “Am I glad to see you. I’ve had a hell of a morning with these doctors.”

“Come now,” Whitman says. “The Runkels will be expecting us.”

Azariah gets out of bed and joins him. “I don’t know about this, Mr. Whitman.”

Walt puts his hand on Azariah’s shoulder. “The Runkels are wonderful people, and they can’t wait to meet you.”

Azariah frowns. “What about you?”

“I’ll visit often. I promise.”

Azariah takes a deep breath. “Okay, then, I’m ready.”

“Are you not forgetting?” Walt asks him.

The boy approaches Elizabeth. “Ma’am, I wish to thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says. “Don’t forget to visit. Both of you.” She watches as Walt and Azariah disappear down the stairs, and she takes a moment to whisper a short prayer: Thank you, God, for helping us keep the college going. Thank you for returning the students. May thy servants, Abraham, Lena, and Henry, find peace in your kingdom. She opens her eyes to find the other students staring at her. “What is the matter, ladies?” Elizabeth Blackwell says. “Back to work!”

Twelve inches of new snow have blanketed the city, and the frozen top layer cracks under Walt Whitman’s feet. The air is thick and gray.

The Runkels’ new apartment is in a two-story tenement building that floats up in the distance, its red brick shiny in the haze, a long piece of black cloth draped over the doorframe. The Runkels used some of Walt’s reward money to move into these larger and safer living quarters. In only a few days, Whitman has helped Ned Runkel find employment at city hall as a bookkeeper, and Harriet Runkel will soon begin seamstress work at home.

Last night, when Whitman returned from a long day at the Evening Tattler, his new employer, Azariah Smith waited at his door with a small bag of his belongings and a deed of trust, signed by both Rynders and his solicitor, transferring the boy’s indenture from Isaiah Rynders to Walter Whitman.

Now, after his checkup at the infirmary, they are on their way to the Runkels for Maggie’s re-interment service. The communal response to Maggie Runkel’s return has been wide and supportive. All of New York City is shaken by the past month’s events and Maggie has become a symbol of the city returning to normal, if such a thing is possible, as documented by Walt in his front-page article in the Tattler.

When Walt and Azariah step into the entryway of the new building, the first thing they hear is singing. Children and elderly folks, and everyone in between, raise their voices together in tribute to Maggie Runkel. And as the two make their way to the stairway, these same people recognize Whitman as that reporter. They all want to say hello, and they jostle and crowd him.

Walt has never experienced anything like this before, and part of him loves it and wants to soak up the attention as much as he can, but today is not the time. Instead, he thanks them, shakes their hands, and continues to press toward the stairs.

On the second floor, Whitman straightens his boutonniere before he raps on the door with Henry’s cane.

Harriet Runkel, dressed all in black, answers the door. “Mr. Whitman! And you must be Azariah. My, you are as handsome as Mr. Whitman reported.”

“Ma’am,” Azariah says. “Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t you ma’am me,” she says. “It’s Mrs. Runkel or Mum.” And she takes him unto herself, hugs him tight. The gesture makes it clear that Azariah is her son now, and this is just as it should be. Some things do work out.

Mrs. Runkel releases Azariah. She wipes her eyes. “Come in where it’s warm. I’ll take your coats.” Inside, the room is a mixture of smells—cakes, roasted meat, flowers, and perfumes. “Here are your black armbands.” She helps Azariah slide on the symbol of mourning first, and then Walt.

She kisses Whitman’s cheek. “Ned and I are so grateful. Thank you for everything.” She breaks down, crying now. “You’ll have to forgive me. This is the second time we’ve mourned her, and . . .”

“I can’t imagine how difficult that must be.”

Walt turns, and that’s when he sees Maggie’s body for the first time since the night of the grave robbery. The pine casket lies at an angle in the corner, propped up to make her visible from anywhere in the room, framed on either side by candles, which make her glow. Her tiny body appears even smaller in the casket. A mortician from the other side of the city volunteered his services. With the combination of makeup on her face and the beautiful burial dress, Maggie looks like a life-size porcelain doll, and the perfumes help cover the smell, which would otherwise be overbearing. They will bury her after a short graveside service later this afternoon.

Mrs. Runkel gathers herself. “We are so thankful to have her back.”

Walt nods. It occurs to him that Henry’s body has arrived at the Saunders’ farm in northern Manhattan. He’ll be traveling there next to say good-bye.

Ned Runkel appears, shuffles toward them. “Mr. Smith?” He dabs his eyes with a handkerchief.

“Mr. Runkel,” the boy says, and they shake hands. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, son. Welcome to our home.”

Azariah’s smile returns.

And then she appears, tentative at first, mindful of Azariah. Abby runs across the room and leaps into Walt’s arms. “You did it, Mr. Whitman. You found my sister.”

From his pocket, he pulls the small bag of horehound candy he picked up for her earlier that day, places it in her tiny hand.

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “Maggie and I both love horehound.” Before she does anything else, she slides down from Walt’s arms and walks over to her sister’s body. She removes a piece of candy and places it in Maggie’s hand. Then she takes one for herself and pops it into her mouth. “It’s delicious.” Whitman admires the young girl’s frankness about death. She is young, yes, but she has had to face what death is, unadorned with the rhetorical flourishes of age.

Now she turns to Azariah for the first time. She’s nervous, Walt can tell, but she gathers herself, curtsies. “My name is Abby,” she says, “welcome to our family.”

Azariah smiles, of course, and reaches out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Abby.”

Abby, suddenly overcome with the enormity of what’s happening, wraps her arms around her new brother. “I’m so happy you’re here.” She releases him, then takes his hand. “Come. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

Whitman sits on the bed next to Maggie’s casket and studies her. In one way, she looks normal—all the parts are in the right place and they have covered up the damage done to her chest by the medical students. At the same time, however, Maggie doesn’t look like a person at all. More than anything, it is the stillness that makes Maggie not Maggie. No breathing, no blood, no life. Walt has had enough death for now. He touches her cheek with his index finger. The skin is taut and warm from the wood-burning stove.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Mrs. Runkel stands behind him now.

Suddenly, Walt is overwhelmed with sadness. “A dead body has no hope,” he says.

“Oh, Mr. Whitman,” Mrs. Runkel says, turning emotional. “When I look at her, all I see is hope.”

After his wife disappears around the corner, Mr. Runkel pulls a pipe from his suit pocket. “The others will be here soon. Why don’t you have some dinner? Harriet has baked some delicious breads and cakes, and the meat’s almost done.” He pours the tobacco with his right hand, clutching the pipe in his left.

Walt sets the piece of paper on the mantel. “This is Azariah’s deed of trust. He was indentured to Isaiah Rynders, and now he is legally indentured to me. Keep this, and we will visit a solicitor to have this changed at a later time.”

Ned nods. “Yes, of course.”

“He’s a good boy.”

“We’ll take care of him.” Ned struggles to strike a match on the fireplace. “You’re from Long Island?”

“Born in West Hills,” Walt says, taking the match from Ned. “but my family lives in Brooklyn.” He lights Ned’s pipe for him.

“We heard about your friend Mr. Saunders. Please accept our condolences.”

“Thank you, Mr. Runkel,” Walt says. “Tomorrow, I leave for his funeral in northern Manhattan.”

“We’ve all had our share of grief,” Ned says.

Walt can only nod. He feels exhausted from the inside out, and he can’t fathom a future without feeling this way.

“How is Miss Blackwell recovering?”

“Azariah and I just left her. She’s already moved into another building for the Women’s Medical College, and she has more students and patients than they can handle.”

“And in only a few days,” Ned says. “Good news indeed.”

Abby returns without Azariah. In the kitchen, Mrs. Runkel is already teaching him how to peel potatoes, and Walt knows that this is where Azariah belongs. Whitman had briefly considered keeping the boy himself, but he’s not set up for this yet, and upon hearing about Azariah’s plight, the Runkels offered, without pause, to take him in.

“Your friend is in heaven with Maggie,” Abby says to Walt. “I bet they are having a grand time together. Don’t you think?”

Walt smiles. “I imagine you’re right.”

“Of course I am,” she says. “Where else would they be?”

“You’re always welcome here,” Mr. Runkel says.

The three of them sit together in silence around Maggie’s body, until Mr. Runkel finally speaks. “When you’re ready to eat, come into the next room.”

Then Mr. Runkel leaves him alone with Abby. Walt Whitman leans back against the chair and cries.

Abby climbs into his lap and puts her arms around his neck. She squeezes and holds him for what seems like minutes, and when she lets go, she whispers into his ear, “You and me are the same, Mr. Whitman. We’ve both lost important people in our lives.”

Walt wipes his eyes with his handkerchief. “We are a lot alike, aren’t we?”

“I told you when you first arrived that God sent you to us.”

“I remember.”

“Do you want to know how I knew that?”

“How?”

“At night, when everything is quiet and the only sounds are my parents breathing, sometimes God talks to me. The night before we met, he told me he would send you to us, and then two nights ago, he told me you would be coming back, and you would bring me a new brother.”

“He did?”

“Yes, and he wants me to give you a message.”

“What is it?”

“God wants me to tell you that everything is going to be okay.” After she says this, Abby leans into him so that her head rests under his chin. Her legs dangle on either side of his right leg and her breathing slows down as if she is asleep. To their left lies Maggie in her casket. He again thinks of Henry, wondering what he will say when he meets August and Edie Saunders for the first time.

His thoughts unspool into the future, two months from now when winter has gone, and spring has conquered. A splash of green pasture, red flowers, and yellow sunlight against the blue sky. Robins and sparrows zipping through the warm air. Children scampering about the streets in their shirtsleeves, women meandering through the market without their petticoats, and the men ignoring it all from their desks on the third floor—all while Henry’s body, deep in the dirt, dissolves into itself.

It’s there, in the future, that he’s able to confront the loss of his friend, and so he takes what’s left of his memories and reconstructs Henry: The leg muscles gather together in the air, the skin closes in a series of buckles before they shoot back into the torso. The heart and the liver drop inside the chest from the sky, and the two sides close like stage curtains—

The head turns—

and Henry waits—

but when Walt opens his eyes, Henry vanishes, and Walt perceives the multitudes of his loss, that he will carry images and impressions and memories of Henry, but that his friend is gone forever—

So Walt returns to the present, to Abby on his lap, to the mourners in the other room, to the chorus of voices rising from the street, to the materiality of the real, and he holds on tight.