Two nights later, at the end of her shift, when she’d finished explaining to the night nurse what medicines the patients required, whose condition warranted careful attention, and which supplies were in need of replenishing, Una found Dru waiting for her in the main hall. She looped an arm through Una’s as they walked back to the nurses’ home.
“Hurry to dress and forget about supper,” she said.
Una groaned. What was so important to study that they hadn’t time for supper? She wouldn’t remember a word of it anyway. Una had witnessed her share of horrors in the slums, but that ghastly scene at Hart Island continued to haunt her. Even when she closed her eyes, the sounds came back to her—the thud of coffins, the patter of dirt, the snarl of those flesh- crazed dogs. The training school, Dru’s lessons, this elaborate ruse Una had created—what was the point of any of it if she were just going to end up like Deidre, left to rot in some unmarked grave?
“I’m not feeling up to studying tonight.” “Good. We shan’t be.”
“Then why—”
“No questions. You just have to trust me.” They’d reached the steps of the home, and Dru shooed her impatiently inside. “Wear your Sunday dress.”
Once they reached their room, Dru was out of her nursing uniform and into a well-cut but unadorned gown more quickly than Una had ever seen her dress. Then she turned on Una, who’d only managed to unfasten a few buttons, batting away her hands and undressing her like a child. Any other night, Una would have protested, maybe even clocked her for being so presumptuous and pushy, but tonight she hadn’t the will for any of it. Not even enough to question whether she was fool enough to trust Dru or not.
As soon as they were properly attired, Dru tugged her out of the room and down the stairs. The smell of buttery rolls and roasted mutton wafted from the kitchen. Una’s stomach awakened with a growl. She’d skipped
breakfast and picked over her lunch. Or was that yesterday’s lunch? Perhaps she hadn’t eaten today at all. Dru pulled her onward and out of the home where less appealing smells reigned. Her stomach continued to gnaw at itself, however—an old, familiar feeling from her early days on the streets.
They caught the westbound streetcar a block up from the home just before it pulled away. Dru paid the fare and seated them on a bench two dockworkers had kindly vacated. Una had the passing thought that it was dangerous to be out where someone might recognize her, but beyond adjusting her hat so its brim better shadowed her face from the light of passing streetlamps, she couldn’t be bothered to care.
Dru talked cheerily above the rattle of the car. A new patient had been admitted to her ward with the most perplexing of ailments, which no amount of cupping or blood-letting seemed to improve. Una welcomed the distraction, listening to the animated cadence of her voice more than the words themselves. Gladness flickered inside her to hear Dru discuss blood and various procedures to evoke it with such aplomb. It sparked again at the mention of Dr. Westervelt, whose clever idea to treat the patient with acetylsalicylic acid had finally yielded improvement. The feeling was soon weighed down by guilt at having left him so abruptly in the alcoholics’ ward. But even that emotion could not be sustained, guttering like a weak flame into hopelessness.
They alighted at Madison Square Park, and Dru brought them both a pretzel from a vendor at the corner of the park. Una would have preferred a jug of whiskey, but at least the soft, salty bread quieted her stomach.
“All this way for a pretzel?” “No silly goose, come on.”
They skirted the park, turning down Twenty-Third Street when they reached the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Its gleaming marble facade reflected the soft glow of the streetlamps.
“I’ve heard it’s like a European palace inside,” Dru said to her, nodding at the hotel. “Reading rooms and restaurants and drawing rooms all done in the French style. It’s even said to have its own barbershop and telegraph office.”
While Una had spent countless afternoons in this part of town—the manicured park and fine shops that stretched south down Fifth Avenue were prime hunting grounds for pickpockets—she’d never been inside the hotel. Not even her best disguise could get her past the doormen. But she
remembered stopping from time to time in the shade of its awnings and peering through the windows at the splendor within. Someday, she’d thought, I’m going to be as rich and fancy as these bombasts. Now that thought seemed as pointless as it was absurd. All the money in the world couldn’t guarantee a death any less ignoble than Deidre’s.
They walked on half a block more, then stopped in front of a tall stone building with arched pediments and ornamental trim. E DEN MUSEÉE was carved in large block letters above the double-door entry.
“Here we are,” Dru said, squeezing Una’s hand, her face aglow with childlike delight.
“What is this place?”
Dru didn’t answer. She tugged Una up the steps and paid the doorman the entry fee, smiling all the while. They entered a wide, chandelier-lit foyer where an attendant took their coats and ushered them into the adjoining room. Several dozen people milled about inside, stopping in front of crimson-draped alcoves where actors stood in tableau. Good actors. Even at a distance, Una could see that. Not the sort of bawdy ruffians who played in concert saloons in the Tenderloin or the Points. They breathed without the slightest show of it, and their eyes stayed fixed despite the murmurs of the crowd. In stark contrast to the gray, barren trees of Madison Square Park, a profusion of tropical plants bloomed about the room, their shiny green leaves bespeaking of lush, faraway lands.
Una stood in awe of the splendor, her eyes darting from alcove to alcove, plant to plant, uncertain where to focus their attention. For the first time in days, she felt something other than emptiness.
“I knew you’d like it here,” Dru said, pulling her toward a large platform at the center of the room where a tableau of actors dressed in royal and religious finery was staged. “A group of second-years were looking at the catalog yesterday and left it behind in the library. The museum opened only last week.”
Una fought the urge to elbow and jostle her way closer to the platform, waiting in ladylike fashion beside Dru until a few of the crowd sauntered off to the next display. Up close, Una could see the intricate needlework of the actors’ costumes, the glimmering fabrics and shiny adornments. The man in the blue uniform with fancy gold trim was meant to be Emperor William of Germany, Dru explained. Beside him stood Queen Victoria and Pope Leo. But something wasn’t quite right about their faces. They wore
the same vacant expressions and had the same pale, matte complexions as the corpses Una had seen in the morgue.
She gasped and staggered backward through the crowd, bumping into shoulders and stepping on toes. Her breath came in rapid, shallow pulls. The room seemed to totter, the verdant plants and luxurious draperies blurring in and out of focus. Someone—something—reached out to her. She pulled away.
“They’re dead. They’re dead,” a voice was saying. And Una knew it to be true. Someone had unearthed the bodies from potter’s field and dressed them up like actors. She spun around, looking for Deidre, her hands moving reflexively to her throat.
Someone reached for her again. A scream built in her throat. Then, as if through a fog, she recognized Dru’s voice. “They’re not dead, Una. Listen to me. They’re wax.”
She let Dru take her hands.
“They’re just wax models dressed up to look like real people.” “Wax?”
Dru nodded.
Una glanced back at the tableau, her pulse thudding in her ear. Only wax? She forced down a slow breath. Suddenly she could see it. Of course, they weren’t trussed-up corpses. Their features, though deftly crafted, were too smooth, too perfect to be real. Their eyes were painted glass. Their hair, wigs.
Heat flooded Una’s cheeks as her breathing slowed. From every corner of the room, people were staring at her. An attendant scurried over. “Perhaps the miss would like some fresh air,” he said to Dru. “Or a warm drink in the music hall.”
Dru wrapped her arm around Una’s waist. “Yes, a warm drink would be lovely.”
They passed through a second room of waxwork tableaux into the music hall. Their boot heels clacked softly over the polished tile floor, barely audible above the sweeping sound of the orchestra. The attendant seated them at a table toward the back of the room away from the other guests and then shuffled off to fetch them tea.
“I’m sorry,” Una said. “I don’t know what came over me.” She ran the back of her hand across her forehead, expecting a beading of sweat. But her skin was cool and dry.
“It’s my fault. I should have told you in advance that they were wax.” “They don’t even look that real. I don’t know why . . .” Una trailed off.
Of course she knew why. She could hardly close her eyes anymore without seeing a corpse.
“I thought it might cheer you up. That’s how much I know.” Dru looked down and fidgeted with the strings of her purse.
“Cheer me up?”
“You’ve been positively glum these past few days. I thought it was on account of some disagreement you had with Dr. Westervelt, but you hardly seem to notice when I mention his name. So then I thought it might be some trouble with that smug Miss Hatfield, but she’s been gone all week visiting her family in Baltimore. Then I thought—”
“A woman I knew died. Just a few days ago.”
“Oh, Una, how dreadful! She must have been terribly dear to you.”
Una shook her head. “We were . . . we grew into womanhood together.
But we weren’t close.” “What was her name?”
Una glanced around the hall, awakening to the danger of being in so public a place. The orchestra captured most guests’ attention. Those whom the music had not beguiled chatted quietly with their tablemates or drifted upstairs to the gallery where stereopticon machines cast slowly dissolving images onto the walls. None paid any heed to her and Dru.
“Deidre was her name.”
“Perhaps you can make it home in time for the funeral. I’m sure Miss Perkins—”
“It already happened,” Una said a bit roughly. “Besides, like I said, we weren’t close.”
The waiter arrived then with their tea, setting the porcelain and silver service down with a flourish.
“Could we get a glass of brandy as well, please?” Dru asked.
Her words shocked Una as much as they did the waiter, who shifted his weight from foot to foot, gripping his tray like a shield. “I . . . er . . . I’m sorry, miss. We only serve alcohol to ladies when they’re in the company of a gentleman.”
“I don’t want it to get drunk, but for its medicinal properties. We’re nurses at Bellevue Hospital where a cup of brandy is prescribed often and to great effect, to soothe a patient’s nerves.”
“I’m afraid that doesn’t matter, miss. This is a first-rate establishment. If you want a cup of brandy, I suggest you find a saloon.”
“A saloon!” Dru’s eyes widened, and her entire face flushed red. “What sort of ladies do you think we are?”
Una choked back a laugh. She’d never seen Dru angry before.
“Beg your pardon. I wasn’t implying . . . I only meant . . . It’s management, see—”
“And what would management think if I told them you’d insinuated we were women of ill repute?”
“I didn’t say that, miss. I only . . . Please forgive my rudeness.”
Dru let the man squirm for several protracted seconds before sighing. “Very well. The tea is fine. Thank you.”
The waiter scurried away, and Dru poured the tea as if nothing had happened.
“You’re scarier than a runaway horse when you’re mad.”
“Really, these New Yorkers are so persnickety. I only wanted a little brandy.”
Now, Una did laugh, loudly enough to draw stares from the neighboring tables. She covered her mouth with her napkin but couldn’t stop the rolling waves of laughter. At first, her lungs and stomach muscles were stiff, as if from disuse, but soon they loosened. The rest of her, drawn in on itself like a pill bug, slowly uncoiled as well. She laughed until her sides ached and tears leaked from her eyes. Dru laughed too, snorting between chuckles to catch her breath.
When at last they’d spent themselves, Una reached across the table and squeezed Dru’s hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s hard being here sometimes. The city’s so big it could swallow you whole. Thank heavens we have each other.”
The lively tune the orchestra was playing ended. Una and Dru joined in the demure applause. A solitary violinist began the next song, drawing his bow slowly across the strings. The sound drew Una back to Hart Island— the gray sky, the freshly dug trench, the plink of dirt atop the coffins. She shivered and took Dru’s hand again. “The woman who died, Deidre, she was a patient at Bellevue. I think . . .” Una swallowed. “I think she was murdered.”
