Church of Marvels: A Novel (22 page)

After a moment Mrs. Bloodworth stood back. “Miss Threadgill, I have something to tell you.”

“Wh—what’s that?”

“I don’t believe you’re pregnant at all.”

Odile tried to look surprised, but she just felt breathless and sick. “No, no, that can’t be—”

Mrs. Bloodworth broke into a smile and touched her shoulder. “Aren’t you relieved? It’s good news, right?”

Odile dropped her head, her ears hot. She pressed the veil to her face and began to cry.

“It’s called a phantom womb,” Mrs. Bloodworth was saying. “It might be your nerves.”

Phantom womb
.

“Have you been under particular stress lately? Perhaps something has shifted in your life? There’s someone you’ve lost?”

The tears fell over on her cheeks, hot and stinging, thin as blood. She sat down on the stool and turned away.

“It’s clearly a great burden you’ve been carrying, a great stress. Might I suggest a tonic for your nerves? We carry some in the shop if you’d like to stop on your way out.”

Odile nodded at the glass wall. She felt the woman’s hand rub her back.

“You are lucky that you came to me, that you didn’t do anything rash.”

The veil clung to Odile’s face. She tasted the sour snot running from her nose; tears ached between her eyes. Mrs. Bloodworth’s hands leafed gently through her hair. And then Odile felt it—the tip of the woman’s finger, tracing the crescent behind her ear.

S
OON ALPHIE NOTICED MEN WERE TRAILING THEM—MEN IN
uniform, on horseback. She looked over her shoulder as discreetly as she could—they were following them down the congested lane, maybe forty yards back. A paddy wagon rounded the bend, and the other carts parted to make way. Orchard looked over at her, worried—by now the asylum would have alerted someone on the shore—and there she was in a blue flannel dress, riding a horse stolen from a saloon near the landing. And Alphie: wearing the soap-boy’s clothes, her tattoo bared for all to see.

Alphie tried to spur her horse faster, turning the corner to lose them, but the swarm of coaches and pushcarts only grew thicker. The horses whinnied and balked. She looked over her shoulder, saw the shimmer of black through the heat. They wouldn’t take her back to the asylum, of course. She’d be sent someplace even worse, the most brutal of men’s workcamps. A tattoo was nothing—she’d heard male prisoners were branded on the face with hot pokers. A fairy there would be killed. And what she’d done—what she’d conspired to do: passing herself off as a married woman, buying a baby from a Jennysweeter’s crib—was far graver than selling her body or
drinking in a dress at the wrong bar. She would be put away forever.

She just had to get to Anthony. They could get on a train and take off, past Peekskill and Poughkeepsie, all the way to Montreal. She glanced back and saw the police horses weaving through the marketplace. The officers were faceless in the shadows of their caps; their nightsticks swung from their belts. She heard one of them whistle, jarring and shrill.

Orchard veered sharply to the right, guiding her horse between the fruit stands. Alphie jumped down from the saddle and started running, cutting through the living sea of the marketplace, squelching through horse shit, knocking past women with their baskets of laundry. She hadn’t run like this in years—trousers flapping around her ankles, hard shoe-heels pulling open the skin on her feet, the bowler threatening to blow back from her head. A tough, she realized—that’s what she looked like. The kind of boys she’d once been frightened of and fascinated by, knowing she didn’t belong.

She’d paid Mrs. Bloodworth the fee weeks ago, in the back room of the apothecary shop. One hundred dollars—sweaty and rumpled, sewn into the lining of her coat. She’d laid the bills across the desk, then watched as the woman licked her thumb and counted them twice. For months Alphie and Anthony had skimped, saved, done what they could. Anthony sold off his good cuff links, the ones his stepfather used to wear to church. He even cut back on his mother’s allowance—he told her that money had been scarce since the consumption swept through. They’d taken the bodies away in those wagons; there hadn’t even been time for funerals. The Signora had been furious, indignant. She made a show of buying hard stale bread even though there was still enough money for olive loaves and onion rolls. Alphie did her best to stay out of her way, to find excuses to rest, unobserved, as her confinement drew nearer.

For a while at night—when Anthony stole down to the dens alone, when the Signora fell asleep with a knife beneath her
pillow, waiting for the wolves—Alphie walked over the bridge to turn a couple of tricks. She felt guilty—she was married now, and this life was supposed to be behind her—but what else could she do? She couldn’t make that kind of money with her paint-kit and lemon drops. She couldn’t disappear for nights on end in the state she was in, waiting down by the waterfront for brawls to begin. This was quick, at least; nameless. It wasn’t a betrayal, she believed; it was only a duty. It was for their life together, a life they’d worked so hard to preserve. She had to make some sacrifices, didn’t she? Didn’t everybody? So she went over the river where no one would know her, to the Brooklyn ports, to the thick-grown hedges by the shore, where men met faceless in the dark. She wore her old dress, too small for her now, and kept her eyes closed as she held it bunched around her waist, waiting for the act to be done.
It’s a good thing
, she told herself as the sweat of a strange man tickled the back of her neck. This would be the last of it, she swore, and then things would be normal. But one night Anthony took the money she’d earned and spent it down in the dens—she felt sick and furious, betrayed.
Do you know what I did for that?
she cried the next morning. He just shrugged, gulped down some milk, and regarded her with cold, glassy eyes:
It’s not like you minded it.
She broke down and cried—
I did it for both of us,
she sobbed,
for the baby. Please believe me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Anthony was supposed to take his mother away that day, on the four o’clock train to Poughkeepsie. They’d planned a visit to some cousins on his stepfather’s side—people the Signora was wary of, but since they had a little money and were generous with family, she agreed to go. He and Alphie had talked about it, gone over it night after night as they readied for bed. He and the Signora would visit the family without her—she was confined, of course, and couldn’t travel—and they’d return early in the week. Alphie expected she’d have a few days at least. She’d given Mrs. Bloodworth the directions, the list of things to be mindful of.
Avoid the main house—too visible
from the street. Come through the back gate, to the carriage house door where he keeps his shop. I will be there alone. If someone should happen to stop you for any reason, just say you’ve been sent to fetch the undertaker. No one will think twice.
The baby would be delivered after ten, while the neighbors were sleeping off their days of hot and lonely work, while the toughs gambled and fought in corner taverns until they were black-eyed and hoarse.

Don’t worry,
Mrs. Bloodworth promised her.
Our girl is discreet—and fast.

But the Signora hadn’t boarded the four o’clock train to Poughkeepsie. She’d been home all along. Now, as Alphie pushed through the sweaty crowds on the street, as she looked over her shoulder at the glimmer of the police wagon—stalled for a moment by an overturned cart—she began to panic. What about Anthony? Had he gone to Poughkeepsie as planned? Had he even made it to the station? Where the devil had her husband been that night? And why hadn’t he told her that the plan had changed—that something was wrong—that the Signora was home?

She tried to remember exactly how they’d said good-bye—she’d been nervous all day, distracted, packing Anthony’s clothes while he played his accordion in the office below. After lunch he’d walked his suitcase through the yard to the main house, then returned to their rooms for a glass of cordial and a cigar. He’d patted her stomach absently as he smoked, the ash rolling down her dress. He told her he’d left money in the razor tin—it was hidden in the bottom drawer of her dressing table, behind the puffs and brushes. And she believed him. She tried to lie down and rest—there was a long night ahead, and her whole body hummed. She drifted in and out of sleep, her stomach churning against the pillow. She felt his hand ruffle softly through her hair, heard him set down his glass on the tray—then the click of the door, his light tread down the steps.

The baby, she remembered now. The baby had cried that night,
hungry and wet, while she and Orchard Broome turned down the bedsheets and emptied the jar of blood. It wailed even louder—an animal shriek—as Alphie lay half-conscious among the teeth, a sharp pain in her groin, an echo in her ears. She struggled to open her eyes. She saw the Signora bend over the basket and lift the baby in her arms. She tried to say something, to lift her head, but the Signora just cradled the baby and turned away, shushing. Alphie felt her body tremble, her face go numb. Her eyes were still open but everything was dark. All she could hear was the creak of a chair and the Signora’s voice—a lullaby, it seemed—quieter and quieter, a sound like water, singing like the sea.

A
LL MRS. BLOODWORTH SAID WAS: “ODILE.”

Odile stood up, stumbled back. “How do you know my name?”

Mrs. Bloodworth reached for her again, but Odile turned and ran, knocking over the pots and tool jars on the table, ripping through the fronds, slamming the hothouse door with such force she thought the glass would shatter. She rushed across the roof, back inside, locking the rickety door behind her—a latch and a chain. She was shaking and faint, but still she hurried, half-slipping, down the stairs.

On the bottom floor she heard noises coming from the kitchen. The clank of pans on a griddle, water glugging hollowly in a cup. She moved slowly down the hall, drawing the veil from her face, her nose filled with the smells of orange spice and boiled milk. She checked the dagger at her ankle, then peered around the doorway. The scrub-girl, Mouse, stood at the counter, peeling raw onions with her fingers, scowling and sniffling. There was no knife in her boot, Odile saw—it was out on the chopping block, a cheap toy thing made of wood. A whirligig lay beside it, at rest in a puddle of
onion juice. As Mouse turned to drop the skins in the bin, Odile grabbed her.

“You know who I am!” she said, drawing the girl close and twisting her arm. “And so does Mrs. Bloodworth, so don’t try and fool me.”

Mouse grunted and pushed back, her nostrils flaring. “What did you tell her?”

“Where’s my sister?”

“She—she can’t know! I’ll be in trouble!”

“Know about what? What did you do?”

Mouse wriggled and kicked, tried to pull away. Odile reached out and dragged her hand through the puddle of onion juice, then slicked the girl’s face, down from her brows to her downy lip, smearing it into her eyes.

“What happened to my sister!”

Mouse hollered and threw back her head. “I was scared you knew!” She blinked frantically, eyes popping and red. “I thought that’s why you was here!”

“Knew what?” Odile grabbed both of her wrists and gave her a shake. “Why did you put that bunko in my coffee? What happened?”

Tears chased down Mouse’s cheeks. She pushed her face into her sleeve and moaned. “It was my fault.”

“What was?” Odile squeezed her wrists, brought her closer. “What was your fault?”

Mouse rolled her head back and forth, her dark hair shaking loose, the water running faster from her mouth and her nose. “It was my job, you see—it’s
always
my job. I’m the Hood.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to take the baby that night.” She sniffed. “I didn’t think anything bad would happen. How could it? Everything was planned. It’s always planned!”

“My sister’s baby? Take her where?”

“To—to the new mother.”

Odile thought of the privy behind the butcher shop; Belle’s letter written in the night, despondent. “Something went wrong, do you understand? Tell me what you’ve done, and hurry.”

“Mrs. B. can’t know—she’ll murder me!”

“Tell me
now
or I’ll murder you myself.”

“You’re as mean as she is,” Mouse growled, but went on. “Belle made me a deal—if I let her go in my place, she would find something out for me.”

“All right, she took the baby to the mother herself. Then what happened?”

“I wish
I
knew. I wish she hadn’t muddled the whole thing! I’ve been on pins! I didn’t think anything bad would happen. I just wanted to know!”

“Know what? What was she going to find out for you?”

“The—the names of my parents.”

“Your parents?” Odile let her go, stood back.

Mouse rubbed sulkily at her wrists, dragged the corner of her apron over her eyes, blew her nose. “Don’t you understand?” she whispered. “I was one of those babies—the babies given up.”

Odile looked at her standing there, hissing back tears, pulling and knotting the apron in her hand.

“She said she would look in Mrs. Bloodworth’s ledger for me,” Mouse went on, “the one with all the names, but she never did. She just
left.
She took the baby, and she never came home! I didn’t know how to explain it to Mrs. B. when she was still gone in the morning. So I lied—I told her I’d done it and everything had gone fine. But that was two days ago now, and Belle still isn’t home, and Mrs. B. is worried sick. She thinks maybe Belle just got sad and left us with no word, but before long she’ll know something’s wrong. And she’ll know it’s my fault. You can’t tell her!”

“The ledger”—Odile’s skin started to prickle—“where is it?”

Mouse stared at her now, eyes clearing. She licked at her teeth. “I’ll show you,” she said slowly, “but only if you promise you’ll look in it for me.”

“And it has all the names in it, everyone who ever came through here?”

She nodded. “But you
can’t
tell Mrs. B.”

“I won’t if you won’t. So show it to me—now.”

Mouse led her through a pantry, past a tub-sink and a drying-horse and a rack of black cloaks. They moved down the hall, over a floor with a dingy runner. Odile peered into each room as they passed. In one she saw a small bed, neatly made, and magazine drawings pasted to the walls—cherubs and roses, holiday seascapes, Gibson girls in candy-pink dresses. A table was littered with handkerchiefs, combs, bobbins, and yarn. There was a sewing machine, an older model, with a baby’s gown abandoned beneath the needle.

“That’s where she stayed,” Mouse said. “It’s the best room. I always wanted it. But—” she frowned, then lowered her voice. “What if the parents come here and say she never made it? What if she took the baby herself and ran away? Mrs. Bloodworth will know I’m a liar. And then what—she’ll send me down to the Frog and Toe, and I can’t live there, I would
perish
.”

She took a ring of keys from her pocket, shook one loose, then hesitated. “You’ll really find it for me?”

“Of course,” Odile said. “But you have to show me first.”

At the end of the hall Mouse unlocked the door to Mrs. Bloodworth’s office. Inside she fumbled with a candle—Odile heard the drag and hiss of a match. Then the wick caught, and the room seemed to open and glow. She saw a simple desk and wingback chair, bookshelves lined with old atlases and medical encyclopedias and what looked like a dusty flint of bone in a jar. Behind the desk stood a Chinese screen, inlaid with golden tigers.

Mouse jimmied open a drawer and pulled out a book—heavy and clothbound, frayed from years of thumbing. Odile lifted the cover. The whole thing fell open in the middle, where the spine had cracked. She leafed through, studying the snarl of penmanship in the candlelight, the columns of blotted burgundy ink. She couldn’t decipher how it was organized—everything was annotated, abbreviated, cross-referenced—and the handwriting was so small it was almost impossible to read. She turned through the pages, hurriedly and damp-fingered, looking for her sister’s name.

“Why would you make Belle do this for you?” she asked Mouse, who hovered by her side, leaning over the book and breathing loudly through her mouth. Odile’s eyes began to water at the smell of the onion. “Why couldn’t you just look for the names yourself, if you already knew it was here?”

“Oh.” The girl whispered, then sniffed. “I can’t read.”

There was a knock and a bang from a floor above—Mrs. Bloodworth’s voice, calling for Mouse. The sound of rattling, pounding; a loud thump.

“Hurry!” Mouse said.

Odile turned the pages, back and forth, looking for something, anything at all—a word, a name.

Then she saw it.

CHURCH.

She pressed her finger down and ran it, trembling, across the page. But it wasn’t Belle’s name that followed.

CHURCH, Friendship W.

She stared at the words, faded and blurred beneath the white of her fingertip. How could their mother have been there? She’d never given up a baby. Had she?

She scanned back and looked at the date:
September 30, 1875.
Almost twenty years ago.

ACQUIRED THEREIN:

            
CHILD 14

            
Sex:      Boy/androgyne

            
Spec:    Brown eyes, hair; abnormal sex organs

            
CHILD 21

            
Sex:      Girl

            
Spec:    Brown eyes, hair; multiple appendages

            
PAID

She put her hand to her throat. Aldovar and Georgette. Her mother had purchased them here, from Mrs. Bloodworth. Perhaps Belle had known about it.

Above she heard the door break open, footsteps fast on the stairs, Mrs. Bloodworth’s voice, calling out.

“Am I there?” Mouse leaned over. “Hurry, tell me! Is it that one?”

Odile rummaged in her pocket for the envelope, then held it out to the girl. She could see it now: the stout frame and storky legs, the puckered mouth, the wobbly chin. “Your mother’s name is Miss Lillian Edgar. She’s a very kind woman and she plays at the Garden Theater in Greenwich Village.”

Mouse reached for it, but Odile drew it back. “First tell me. Where was Belle taking the baby?”

Mouse looked quickly over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. “To the undertaker’s wife,” she said. “On Orchard and Broome.”