“And if someone comes?” the first voice said.
“We are burying Miss Annie Blumberg today,” the second voice said.
Clara drew in a sharp breath. It was Bruno and the gravedigger. She started to push up on the coffin lid, then heard heavy footsteps running in the tunnel. She froze. The door to the storage room screeched open.
“You seen anyone down here?” a man said, panting.
“We are burying Miss Annie Blumberg today,” the gravedigger said. “She is going to heaven to be with Jesus.”
“I didn’t ask what you were doin’, Lawrence,” the man said, irritated. “I asked if you’ve seen anyone down here in the tunnels. We’re missing a female patient.”
“We haven’t seen anyone,” Bruno said. His voice was louder than it had been a minute ago, as if he were standing over the coffin.
“I’m not asking you,” the man said. “I’m asking Lawrence here. You seen anyone or not, Lawrence?”
An eternity passed before Lawrence answered. Clara thought she would scream before he said anything. “No,” Lawrence said. “I have not seen a female patient down here in the tunnels. We are burying Miss Annie Blumberg today. She is going to heaven to be with Jesus.”
“Well,” the man said. “You make sure and let us know if you see anyone. You understand me, Lawrence?”
“Yes,” Lawrence said. “I will tell you if I see a woman who is not Miss Annie Blumberg.”
The door screeched shut and Clara exhaled, her limbs shuddering in relief. Her first instinct was to push open the coffin and get out, but she had to wait. She had to make sure the orderly was gone for good. She dug her nails into her palms.
“You in here, Clara?” Bruno hissed. He sounded farther away.
Clara swallowed and tried to speak around the burning lump in her throat. Nothing came out.
“Clara?” Bruno said again.
“Here,” Clara finally managed. She rapped her knuckles on the wood. “I’m in here.”
A loud
thump
on the coffin made her jump and the coffin shuddered, as if someone had kicked it. Then the lid slid to one side. First, she saw fingers, then a slice of Bruno’s face. He removed the lid and looked down on her, his face etched with concern. She started to sit up.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. “And don’t say anything.” She lay back down. “You all right?”
She nodded, forcing herself to smile. It felt like a spasm.
“We’re going to get you out of here,” Bruno said, still whispering. “And we’re going to escape tonight. Lawrence is here to help.”
The gravedigger’s long, bristled face appeared above her. He took off his cap, ran a hand over his gray, disheveled hair, and gave her a quick nod. The skin around his eyes was thin with age, giving his lids a pinkish tone, and the creases around his neck were lined with grime.
“It’s not right what they did,” Lawrence said, shaking his head. “It’s not right that they took your baby.”
Clara’s eyes filled. She took a deep breath and nodded, smiling weakly at Lawrence. But then Bruno’s face went dark and she started shaking again. Something was wrong.
“We have to carry you out of the tunnel,” he whispered. “We have to take the coffin up the steps, load it on a wagon, and take it over to the cemetery. We took Annie’s body out early this morning and hid her in the cedar grove near Lawrence’s shack. We’re going to make the switch in the woods, but we have to hurry. There’s still a couple hours of daylight left and when they can’t find you in the infirmary, they’ll start searching the grounds.” He straightened and scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. Then he sighed and directed his gaze at her again, searching her face. “We have to nail the coffin shut, Clara. We won’t put in all the nails, but we have to nail it shut in case someone stops us on our way to the cemetery.”
She nodded and tried to smile, a cold, hollow feeling making her shiver. Bruno knelt and reached into the coffin, wrapping his warm hands around the back of her head. He bent over and kissed her, hard, on the mouth.
“I promise I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispered, his eyes glassy. “You’re going to be all right.”
He released her and reached for the coffin lid, his face white as bone. Then he slid the lid into place, locking eyes with her until the last second, until the coffin was closed all the way. Again, Clara was pitched into darkness. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists, trying to breathe normally. Then she heard what sounded like someone rummaging around inside a bag of nails. A soft
thump
hit the lid.
“Here’s the first nail,” Bruno said.
Despite the warning, the loud bang made Clara jump. Then there was a pause, as if Bruno was letting her get used to the sound, then
bang, bang, bang, bang.
She winced with each report, tears sliding down her temples, then slid her hands up her chest and pushed her fingers into her ears, the sharp metal whacks piercing her brain. She bit her lip, her stomach churning, and tried not to think about what would happen if, somehow, Bruno was prevented from letting her out of the coffin. Finally, Bruno spoke again.
“That was the last nail,” he said, his voice tight. “We’re going to take you outside now. Try not to move.”
The coffin rocked slightly, then was lifted in the air in one swift upward movement. For a second, Clara couldn’t feel her body weight. Her head started spinning and she pressed her hands against the wooden sides, tiny splinters digging into her skin. Bruno and Lawrence carried her into the tunnel, up the steps, and onto a waiting wagon, her body shifting inside the coffin like a rolled rug, no matter how hard she tried to stay still. It was all she could do not to scream.
Near the back of the cemetery, Bruno and Lawrence unloaded the coffin from the wagon and carried it into the cedar grove, hiding it within a dense stand of trees. Bruno used a crow bar to pry open the lid, careful not to break the wood so they could reuse the coffin for Annie Blumberg. Waiting to be free, Clara took slow, shaky breaths, fighting the urge to push her way out. Then, finally, Bruno pulled the cover off. Clara bolted upright and scrambled out of the coffin, taking deep gulps of fresh air, like a woman rescued from drowning. Bruno stood and crushed her to his chest, his face buried in her neck, his warm, jagged breath on her skin. She pressed herself into him, soaking in his warmth, trying to stop shivering. It felt like an eternity since she’d felt his arms around her. She didn’t want him to let go. Bruno took her face in his hands and kissed her with a hungry, open mouth. Then he drew back and looked at her, his eyes glassy.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he said.
“I’ve missed you too,” she said, teeth chattering. “I don’t know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shhh . . .” he said. “Everything’s all right now. We’re going to get out of here and find our daughter.” He kissed her again, once on the lips. “But right now, you need to run. Hide under Lawrence’s bed until I come for you.”
She nodded and threw her arms around him one more time, pressing her head to his chest. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” he said. “Now go!”
Clara turned and ran, her breath pluming out in the cold air. She glanced over her shoulder and slowed, pausing to watch Bruno and Lawrence pull layers of evergreen boughs off Annie Blumberg’s sheet-wrapped body. They lifted her up and laid her in the coffin, then replaced the lid. Clara said a silent prayer of thanks to the woman for giving her a chance to escape, then ducked beneath the trees and ran without looking back.
When she reached Lawrence’s shack, she hurried across the crooked front porch and yanked open the sagging door, her heart racing in her chest. Inside, she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, overcome by the rank smell of feces and decomposing rodents. The stench burned her eyes and she could hardly breathe without gagging. She was afraid she’d have to hide outside, lying on the roof or crouched inside a concealed nook behind the house. But no, she couldn’t risk being seen. She had to follow the plan. Looking around, she tried to get her bearings.
The disintegrating structure consisted of two small rooms—a kitchen/living area and a bedroom. The living area floor was made of shale, and a crumbling brick fireplace dominated one timbered wall. A painted cupboard sat beneath a filthy window with a ripped paisley valance, its wooden countertop outfitted with a water pump and a rusted sink. In the center of the room, a cane back chair sat on three legs, the fourth leg replaced by a stack of broken bricks. A dining table had been fashioned out of an old door, its entire surface covered with empty cans and old newspapers. A pot-bellied stove crouched in one corner, licks of orange fire crackling behind its iron grate.
Fighting the urge to sit by the woodstove and get warm, Clara hurried across the living room into the dirt-floored bedroom, where a wooden bed with a horsehair mattress was pushed up against one wall, and a lopsided chest of drawers squatted like a deformed dwarf beneath a partially boarded-up window. The upper windowpanes allowed the waning daylight to filter across a threadbare rug in front of the dresser. It was a Persian throw rug, the geometric design reminding Clara of the carpet outside her father’s study.
Pushing the image of her father from her mind, Clara scrambled beneath the bed, her knees and elbows scraping the earth floor. She pushed herself under as far as she could, until her back was against the timbered wall, then peered out from beneath the low bed rails, trying to take shallow breaths. The stench of feces was nearly unbearable. A metal bucket sat in the corner near the dresser, grainy splashes and brown trails caked to its sides. She pulled one corner of a wool blanket down from the bed, blocking her view of Lawrence’s makeshift toilet. Dusty cobwebs clung to her wrist. She brushed them away and waited, trying to ignore the cold radiating from the dirt floor.
Wondering how long it would be before Bruno came to get her, she tried remembering how much time it took Lawrence to bury someone when she watched from the Rookie Pest House. But she had been consumed by grief and laudanum then, and couldn’t remember. Hopefully, he and Bruno would hurry and, between the two of them, the job would take only half as long. It was already getting dark outside, the light in the shack growing gray and thin.
After what seemed like an eternity, the front door opened. Clara started out from beneath the bed, hardly able to see in the darkening room. Then she shrank back, suddenly realizing it might not be Bruno and Lawrence. Even if it was, they might not be alone. She froze and listened, trying not to breathe. Out in the living area, someone struck a match. Something hissed and ignited. A pair of mud-covered boots came through the doorway, a yellowish glow lighting up the bedroom. The rubber boots scuffed across the dirt and stopped near the opposite wall. A rusty oil lantern was set on the floor. The owner of the boots slipped them off, exposing filthy bare feet. A jacket fell in a heap on the dirt. It looked like Lawrence’s.
Why would Lawrence be here without Bruno?
she wondered.
Did he turn Bruno in? Was he waiting for the orderlies to come get her? What if Bruno was sent back to the ward because a patient was missing? Had Lawrence forgotten she was hiding under his bed? Then again, maybe the man in the shack wasn’t Lawrence.
The filthy feet padded over to the bucket. Suspenders stretched and snapped, and trousers fell around the man’s ankles. A stream of urine hit the walls of the bucket. The man groaned and waited a moment before pulling up his pants, then turned and headed in her direction. At the edge of the bed, he got down on his hands and knees, gnarled white fingers digging into the dirt. Clara held her breath and pushed her back against the wall, her heart about to burst. Then Lawrence’s wrinkled face appeared, pink-lidded eyes squinting. She exhaled.
“They are searching for you,” Lawrence said.
“I know,” she said, trying to rein in her galloping heart. “Where’s Bruno?”
“He is burying Miss Annie Blumberg,” he said. “He said to say I am sick when they come to my house.”
Clara swallowed. “When is he coming to get me?”
“When it is safe,” he said. “When it is safe you and Bruno will be able to go find your little baby. But I must hide you in a better place.”
Clara felt blood drain from her cheeks. “Where?” she said.
Lawrence grinned, his crooked teeth like kernels of corn between his chapped lips. He motioned for her to come out, then scrambled to his feet. She dragged herself across the earth floor, clambered out from beneath the bed and stood, brushing dirt and cobwebs from her elbows and knees. Lawrence hurried toward the dresser, bent over, and drew aside the throw rug, revealing a small trapdoor. He grabbed the iron ring and pulled the door open. A set of rickety steps disappeared into what looked like a bottomless pit. Lawrence gestured for her to climb down.
“Do you have a candle or another lantern?” Clara said, trying to breathe normally. “So it won’t be dark down there? If I hear someone coming, I’ll put it out.”
Lawrence twisted his mouth and looked down at his feet, scratching behind his ear. Then he hurried into the kitchen. She followed and stood in the doorway, keeping an eye on the front window in case someone came across the porch. Outside, the sky was nearly dark, the shadowy silhouettes of trees growing murky. Lawrence went over to the makeshift table and picked up tin can after tin can, looking into each one before dropping it to the rock floor with a clatter. Bugs and maggots moved in the bottoms of the tipped-over cans, squirming in a blackish-gray mass. Clara clamped a hand over her mouth. Finally, Lawrence found what he was looking for. He headed to the woodpile next to the cast-iron stove, broke up several pieces of kindling, shoved the snapped sticks inside the tin, then retrieved a box of matches from the windowsill above the sink.
Back in the bedroom, Lawrence held Clara’s hand as she climbed into the old root cellar, then handed the tin can and matches down to her. She knelt, set the can on the earth floor, and lit the kindling. The flame caught and burned, flickering along the rock walls, illuminating layers of dried dragonflies and praying mantises tied to strings and hanging from nails stuck between crevasses like a giant bug collection. At first, Clara recoiled, then she realized what she thought were bugs were actually tiny crosses made of wood and twine. There were thousands of them, covering every square inch of the cellar walls.