Maplecroft (9 page)

O
CTOBER
29, 1893

The university thinks it might be done with me, but I’m beyond the point of caring. Right now, their reprimand feels positively uninteresting—as if it’s something I should be aware of, yes, but not a source of concern. They’ve put me on leave, and it’s a vacation of sorts. I’m sick of the students, as I told them quite frankly.

(They requested frankness, and they received it in abundance.)

Dr. Greer suggested I’m sick with something other than the
tedium of teaching, but he’s a fool. It’s difficult to take his accusations personally.

The one concession I wrangled from their uniform displeasure with my performance was this: I am still allowed access to my office and the lab rooms, where my specimens and samples are stored. They are mine, and not property of the university in the first place; and in the second place, I’m working on an article for
Marine Biology Quarterly
with regard to the siphonophore specimen sent to me by Doctor Jackson earlier this year.

What little study I’ve had time to perform has raised fascinating questions about the nature of a single organism versus a colony that performs in a singular fashion, and where the line between those two might lie. A siphonophore by definition is just such a paradox: many small things that function as one large thing. But how paradoxical is it, after all? A collection of like-minded things, operating under the direction of a sole authority . . . or an individual, individually inclined. Just two ways of saying the same thing, perhaps. From a distance.

(Contrary
to the president’s opinion, my study has been minimal—pitiably insufficient, really, and it has not “eaten up all of my time for students, papers, or grades.” Far from it. I still had time to attend their stupid little meeting to reprimand me, did I not? Well, then. I’m not so disconnected as they claim.)

Is
the specimen a whole, or a portion of a larger whole? It’s nothing so simple as a
Physalia physalis
, that’s certain—and I’m beginning to wonder if I don’t have, in my own personal possession, an instance of
Marrus orthocanna
 . . . which isn’t ordinarily seen anywhere near the shore. It’s a deep-sea varietal, and all
but mythical until the most recent years, when fishermen turned up portions of one within a net. But I think that’s unlikely. No, I think we’re looking at a whole new animal (or a portion of one, as above noted).

If so, this could be a boon for the school.

Alumni might be persuaded to open their pockets, or the billfolds of grant donors might become loosened were there to be a new species coined after the university.
Physalia miskatonis
! Or
Physalia zollicoffris
—I haven’t decided yet.

Right now it’s merely “the siphonophore,” and it awaits its formal analysis and nomenclature. And no one is allowed to touch it but me.

I was a little surprised to get this slight concession on Greer’s part, but in the midst of the meeting I was seized with a terror that the specimen might be taken from me, and I could not bear the thought of losing it. Immediately, and from the depths of whence I cannot say, I informed them that the siphonophore was my personal property and I would consider it outright theft if the school tried to lay any claim to it. A lawsuit would undoubtedly ensue, thereby stripping the school of any honor by association, should the creature be proven unique or new. It was donated to me, courtesy of Doctor E. A. Jackson of Fall River, Massachusetts, and there was a trail of paperwork to support the transfer. Doctor Jackson would no doubt lend his considerable aid if anyone, anywhere, were to try to commandeer my work—or my materials—as his own.

At the reference to Doctor Jackson, they capitulated on the spot.

His reputation as a scholar and researcher is well-known, even among relative laymen like those who populate the school’s board of directors. They’re only marginally informed of scientific
advances; theirs is to administrate, not educate—but even men unschooled in the finer biological arts had heard of him and his work.

At first, there was some measure of disbelief, as if it simply were not possible that I was friendly with the mysterious scholar. But I stomped free of their proceedings, to their noisy dismay, and traipsed down to my office (still
my
office, yes) to retrieve the letter that had accompanied the package.

I produced it with a flourish, gave them adequate time to read it, and watched at least Greer go a bit green when he realized I was telling the truth. I think it surprised him, though I can’t imagine why. When have I ever misled him, or made claims greater than those I could support? He has me confused with someone else, or he’s been listening to the slanderous lies spread by students and faculty.

And that speaks volumes about his leadership, does it not? What kind of chancellor takes the concerns of his inferiors to heart, or uses them to guide his policy? If his underlings were of his own caliber, they would’ve matched his position by now. Since they are not, they ought to be disregarded until and unless they produce evidence that they are worthy of interest.

Such as myself.

But I gave them the letter, and there was a great chorus of hemming and hawing, and then I received permission that I should’ve never required: the permission to continue investigation and exploration into my own private property, with the blessing of the university, which would seek to profit from my discovery.

Damn the lot of them.

So
here I sit, not in my office but in the laboratory where I first uncorked the specimen, the siphonophore,
Physalia zollicoffris
after all, my pet, my beloved, my savior and specimen. The other labs in this wing have complained about the odor, but I scarcely notice it anymore. If anything, it’s become a welcome scent—a friendly signal that all is right with the world, and that I have come
home
.

It’s funny, now that I think of it. I’ve scarcely been at my own home these last few days, or this last week—I’m not sure. What is there at home for me? Nothing, save a small gray cat who cares for me approximately as much as anyone else in the neighborhood who occasionally lets it come inside out of the cold. And I haven’t seen even the cat since the specimen appeared.

Now that I think about it.

At home I have food I don’t care to eat, and a bed that is no more comfortable than the cot at my office—where I’ve been more inclined to rest, these recent weeks.

Not that I rest too much, anymore. How can I rest, when greatness awaits? When my darling specimen calls my name, and upon it I shall build a career of wisdom and greatness?

I’m not sure how long it’s been since last I slept. I should take better care, when it comes to these things. As I used to tell my students, when I cared enough to improve them: A rested mind is a productive mind.

I
don’t know how long I’ll have the indulgence of these old fools who run the university. I don’t know how long I’ll have access to their equipment, their space, and their patience. I don’t know when they’ll decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth, and evict me with my specimen—turning us both out into the street.

Or sending me back into my house, that small brown hovel I call a home, which . . . now that it occurs to me . . . is on school
property. No, they quite literally
can
turn me out onto the street. I live here at their indulgence, and I will go without a place to live at their whim.

The world is a cruel and unfair place.

I
should sleep.

Maybe I’ll drag the cot into the lab. There’s more privacy here, and less interruption. Fewer curious stares, fewer impertinent questions about how long my suspension might last, and whether it might become permanent. Fewer whispers of gossip overheard through the walls, tittering about how the smell travels with me, now, how they can detect the siphonophore on my clothes, and in my skin. Wondering who will have my office when I’m gone.

Is it such a foregone conclusion already?

These flickers of despair will be the death of me. I really
do
need some rest.

A
PRIL
13, 1894

I spoke with Emma Borden, and I can’t quite decide if I’m cheered or frightened by her response. She was eager—very eager—to talk about the death of her parents, to such an extent that I was frankly surprised. I would’ve thought the subject would prove too sensitive, given the circumstances of their demise—regardless of any illness leading up to that event.

Emma thinks I should speak further on the matter with Lizzie, but I’m not sure that I can bring myself to do so. I’ve spent two years convincing myself of her innocence; and if anything, I’ve been her champion in difficult times, albeit at a distance.

I hate confessing things to myself, but here it is: I kept my distance then, in case I was mistaken. And I keep my distance still, because there is a balance here—her freedom, her exoneration . . . weighed against the possibility of her guilt.

I wouldn’t entertain the darker possibility at the time, even when others were all too happy to do so. I’m not sure why. I can’t say why I defended her so; or, if I must choose my reason, then I’d say it was because of Abigail—that awful night before she was killed. Something was wrong. Something was
worse
than wrong, and at the bottom of my heart I felt that their murder might have been some kind of self-defense, instead.

Over and over, while I was on the stand, I thought of Abigail Borden and her cold, damp hands pounding upon my door. I remembered my terror, and then my revulsion as I recognized her, and saw how terribly she’d changed.

Worse than wrong. Yes. I suppose that’s the crux of it.

I have been afraid all this time that Lizzie performed some act of self-defense that could never be defended in court—an act that I would have pardoned and justified, given how readily I’d wondered where my pistols had gone when I saw that slack, imbecile shape rocking back and forth on my stoop.

But that can’t have been all of it. Andrew was murdered in his sleep. Abigail was taken by surprise, from behind. Can any such attack ever be construed as self-defense?

And so I twist myself around and around again, never certain if I made the right decision, but quite certain that I couldn’t have made another one. Not if I wanted to live with myself.

Now, if I wish to speak of the matter to Lizzie, I may threaten this weird balance between us. Our polite deferral of the topic, and a mutually agreed-upon (yet never openly discussed) pact to
avoid it. My knowledge of the night before they died. Her knowledge of everything that came before and after.

What if she were to make some slip, drop a few stray words by accident—words that incriminated her? What if I am forced to confront the possibility that I was wrong to stand by her side? Would I be compelled to report the matter? Would it mean anything if I did? I don’t believe she could be tried again, but public opinion has long since had its way with her.

It might well be that I fret for nothing but exposed feelings, and unpleasant truths that reveal nothing and mean even less, given that the time for consequences has passed.

So
it seems my only excuse for avoiding Miss Borden the younger . . . is a squeamishness on my part. For all I know, she has no such squeamishness; for all I know, she has no polite agreement with me—a gentleperson’s imaginary agreement, assumed in order to avoid an unseemly topic. This might be entirely one-sided, and it might be entirely in my head.

I believe I’ll have a word with her after all, at Emma’s next appointment.

Because I went back to see Matthew Granger today.

And just look at how many inches of script I’ve dedicated to avoiding that subject! But this is what happened, and I will not be squeamish about it. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sake. I’ve seen the worst the human body has to offer. This should not bother me, deter me, or disgust me. This should be recorded.

I will record it.

In
only a matter of days, the boy’s condition has deteriorated. His shoulders are sloping more steeply. His face is becoming
fuller. He moves his hands as if he’s forgotten he has fingers, slapping at things as if his appendages are only paws or flippers.

His godparents are beside themselves. They can no longer pretend that his condition is youthful depravity—and now they’ve removed him from his duties gathering the sea glass and knitting the nets. They’ve locked him inside their home, in the back rooms of their shop, under the guise of giving him rest in order to recover. I’m not so stupid as that. They’ve hidden him away so that others won’t see what’s becoming of him.

Mrs. Granger is a prayerful woman, and she sings her petitions to God, day in and day out. She’s given the boy a Bible, which he ignores. She’s left small crosses and holy baubles about the boy’s room, and he ignores those, too. If he even sees them.

I don’t know how much of anything he sees. His eyes are filmy, almost that same blurry fog of an older man’s cataracts, but this is something else—something overlaying the exterior structure of the eye, almost like the nictitating membrane of a sickly housecat. When I made some efforts to examine this membrane, Matthew did not object or resist. And finally I noticed that he didn’t merely appear unblinking . . . he had stopped that unconscious behavior altogether. Not in the twenty minutes I kept his company did his upper lid so much as
twitch
.

But he covered his eyes with his hands, when I brought the light too close. It was dark in that room. Sickrooms often are, but whatever is sickly about him, the darkness and quiet aren’t helping it.

They’re incubating it.

I had thoughts of asking for blood or saliva samples, but twenty minutes was all the time with the boy I could bear. I left his family with suggestions for soup, tea, and continued prayer.

Who knows? The soup or tea might actually do him some good.

As for the prayers, I suppose they can’t hurt. I’ve never found much good in them, I’ll confess that here, though I keep such thoughts private when in public company. Who would confide in a physician who claimed no affiliation with God? I still must feed myself, and keep my house. I still need my patients. But too many people believe with too much conviction in what amounts to, at best, a superstition.

I’ve seen science change a patient’s diagnosis, but I’ve never heard a prayer that changed God’s mind about a damn
thing.