“Mrs. Mosely! You’ve forgotten your laudanum.” Henry Webster called out. Mrs. Mosely really didn’t need any more laudanum, and her children didn’t need any of Dr. White’s “Soothing Syrup for Babies and Toddlers” either.
“Thank you, dear Henry. I’m so concerned about Thomas’ cough that I remembered his syrup but not my own!” Mrs. Mosely flounced back to the counter, her dress bustle rustling behind her.
Henry had long ago perfected his smile. The smile that appeared genuine. The smile that hid indifference, ridicule, hatred. It was this smile he delivered to Mrs. Mosely.
“As any good mother would.” He nodded, passing her the small brown bottle with the patent pending 1873 label.
It was Henry’s fourth month of working at Dr. White’s apothecary counter. His sister, Ellen, had left for Oberlin College, and he eagerly replaced her. Everyone was enthralled with how he took to the work. But it was no surprise to Henry, and it was certainly no surprise to Dr. White, who had been fostering the boy’s interest in all things science for years now. The human body was Henry’s calling.
As the door’s bell quieted from Mrs. Mosely’s departure, Henry’s eyes roved to the doctor’s private office. With its door open, he could see the articulated skeleton, something he’d been fascinated by for as long as he could remember, despite his mother always dragging him away from it and the glass jars of anomalies that Dr. White kept.
The door was soon thrust open violently by John Randolph. A hulking specimen of man at 6’4”, John Randolph’s muscles rippled beneath his work shirt.
“Henry! Get Doc White quick! Something’s wrong with Francis Leavitt!”
Dr. White appeared, bag in hand, from his private office.
“What’s the matter, John?”
“We were working at the mill, and he collapsed. Just keeled over clutching his chest!” John gestured for effect.
Dr. White nodded and walked toward the door, stopping before he crossed the threshold.
“Henry, I may need your help on this call.”
Henry, who had thus far only helped deliver piglets, get a calf unstuck from a broken fence, and aided in setting Marshall Montgomery’s broken arm after an unfortunate horse incident, ripped off his apron, flipped up the quarter sawn oak counter, and was behind Dr. White in moments. He knew the remedy they prepared weekly for Francis Leavitt was for his angina–a treatment that would only ease symptoms, not cure the disease. John Randolph’s description indicated the heart was likely to blame. Henry’s own heart was ready to burst through his chest.
“Lock up, my boy.” Dr. White smiled. Henry flipped the open sign to closed and slipped a key in the lock.
“Ready, sir!”
The men and Henry hurried down Gilmanton’s main road. The mill had been around since the 1600s and sat just on the edge of the small New Hampshire village. When they arrived, John ushered them to where Francis Leavitt was lying still.
Too still, Henry thought. He’d seen life leave enough bodies to know that Francis had already left his.
Dr. White kneeled and pressed his stethoscope to Francis’ chest. He put his ear close to the unmoving mouth.
“Henry, please come check my work.” He handed Henry his stethoscope.
Henry’s eyes were wide and glistening. He knew his glee was showing, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d been waiting for this moment, this privilege, for months.
He gently took the stethoscope and mimicked Dr. White’s movements–left of center on the chest, further up, back down, to the right. Henry noted the absence of lub-dubs from the heart muscle pumping blood. He then leaned closely to Francis’ mouth, waiting for warm air to hit his cheek. There was none.
Henry nodded gravely at Dr. White.
“I’m sorry gentlemen,” the doctor began, addressing the small crown that had gathered. “I’m afraid Francis has passed. Likely his angina pectoris.”
“Dr. White had been treating him with digitalis for some time,” Henry explained. The men stared at him, eyes dumb like a child’s. “Foxglove.”
John dropped his hat, which had been resting over his heart, to his side, then to the ground.
“John,” Henry said. He licked his lips, and the gleam in his eye returned. “Is Mr. Leavitt married?”
“No, Henry. He’s not.” John shook his head. “No next of kin anymore either. His mother died a few years ago.”
Henry looked at Dr. White. This was it. It was happening. The corner of Henry’s mouth crept up. He had to fight back the smile that was begging to get out.
“We can take care of the body, John. I’ll talk to Parson Arthur about a plot in the cemetery for him.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Dr. White nodded solemnly. “We’ll be back with the wagon shortly.”
#
“I thank you, Doc, for letting me attend today.” Henry said between breaths, trying hard to shoulder half of Francis Leavitt’s dead weight.
They managed to get the body onto Dr. White’s examination table in his private office.
“You’re most welcome, Henry.” The doctor wiped his brow. “It’s nice to see a young man developing his interest in medicine.” He nodded toward his desk. “Bring my surgery kit. And Henry–” He paused. “Draw the blinds.”
Henry dutifully followed orders. After drawing the blinds, he retrieved the large leather case. In it were all manner of implements, from small, sharp scalpels to a large bow saw.
The master and student undressed Francis Leavitt. A penny fell onto the floor. Henry folded the clothes and placed the copper coin on top.
“Henry.” Dr. White brushed a clip of hair from his brow. “Remember, what I told you. You cannot brag to your friends–or to anyone–about what we are about to do. Gilmanton’s citizens do not understand nor value the concept of an autopsy. We are behind the times, my young friend.”
“I disagree, doctor. We are not; our friends and families are.” Henry winked.
The doctor placed each of his instruments on a silver tray. “You’ve read up on your Vesalius?”
“It has been my bed-time reading for years now.” He’d been enthralled with the doctor’s gift when he was younger.
“And your Morgagni?”
Henry nodded. Dr. White made sure he–and his protege–were both up-to-date on current medical practices and discoveries. Morgagni detailed over 700 case studies of autopsies in his book De Sedibus et Causis per Anatomen Indagatis—On the Seats and Causes of Diseases Investigated by Anatomy. Vesalius proved the four-humour theory wrong in De Humani Corporis Fabrica Libri Septem—The Seven Books on the Structure of the Human Body. Dr. White convinced most of the town’s residents to listen to him and not the old ways, but there were older people in Gilmanton who still believed that the way to cure anything was to blood-let. The thought of using the human body as a tool for education was akin to blasphemy.
“Since you’ve been doing your studies, I’ll allow you to make the first cuts.” He passed Henry a large scalpel.
Henry’s entire body swelled with anticipation. His stomach was in knots–not from fear or nervousness, but excitement. His respiration had quickened from the moment he realized Francis Leavitt would be the first autopsy he’d get to witness, and now the doctor was passing the honor–yes, the honor–to him.
He took the blade eagerly and traced lightly where he’d make the incisions: from the right shoulder to the sternum, then from the left shoulder to the sternum, ultimately forming the shape of the letter Y.
As Henry pierced the skin, he nearly trembled with euphoria.
#
That night, Henry did not sit at the top of the stairs. He did not eavesdrop on his parents’ conversations. Instead, he sat on his chair, turning Francis Leavitt’s penny over and over in his hand. It would soon go into the small wooden box under his bed. Each memento in it brought back special memories, memories of moments that had directed his path. Moments like his young best friend’s death, and how the neck had twisted unnaturally from the fall. Moments like his cousins’ deaths, and how one lasted longer than the other in the rushing water. From the time he was small, he hadn’t wanted to wait to learn about the human body, so he hastened his learning experiences himself. And now, the most recent exhilarating experience commanded his thoughts.
His fascination with Dr. White’s articulated skeleton never waned. He couldn’t buy one of his own, but he could make one. He’d planned carefully for this moment.
The freshly-turned ground meant no one would know Francis Leavitt’s grave was disturbed. A large pile of quicklime, skimmed from Henry’s family farm, piled up in an old, unused barn near the creek. A coffin-sized box, built from the discarded shipping crates Henry collected from work, lay nearby.
All Henry needed was a body.
He grinned, looking out his bedroom window toward the creek.
And now I have one.
J.J. Fletcher is a teacher, writer, and dog rescuer. “Morbidity” is part of a short story collection that re-imagines the childhood of Dr. H.H. Holmes–Chicago’s (allegedly) first serial killer. Fletcher is currently at work on a crime novel, The Devil Inside Me, in which a descendant of Holmes resurrects his duplicitous and murderous legacy in the Windy City. Learn more at www.jjfletcherbooks.com.