Free John the Posthumous by Jason Schwartz

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NINE
     
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    P erforation of the left atrium, and then the right, as occasioned by a ten-inch blade—this posits obvious complications. The introduction of said blade to the diaphragm (between the seventh and eighth ribs) or to the liver (already afflicted with dropsy, incidentally) would explain a break in the aorta. Passage through the lung (inferior lobe, left-side posterior) into the mitral valve (named for the bishop’s hat, I gather) would explain apoplexy.
    In the case of knitting needles, a pair of these, clutched in the customary way—let us imagine a wound somewhat less shapely.
    T he hospitals favor blocked columns, skew arches, brick. Crow steps are always something of a surprise. The city examples, modest as they are, are most notable for their nailhead molding. The county examples have black doors.
    If the surgical theater is found on the north side, and the boys’ ward on the south—better, then, to neglect the location of the litter.
    The awl is for soldiers rather than spinsters. A hairpin sits between a lancet and a matchbox, just above the bleeding bowl.
    A reflection will show the victim in repose.
    A wooden version, a model, with the appropriate veins and chambers painted various colors, or stuck with tacks—this accounts for the fire.
    T o repair a hole in the heart, or septal defect, of the type common in children, first determine the site of incision (the sternum seems agreeable) and mark it. Cut accordingly. If the lines remind you of pickets, or of wire, or of your wife’s fingers—look away. Rupture of the heart, or heartbreak (to use the Victorian term), requires sawdust and longcloth—though mortification of the organs usually indicates a different complaint.
    Transfixion (atrial, through the anterior wall, the tendon well hidden—or tracheal, at the first ring) requires a clean white smock. Extract the blade post haste. Suture the wound with silver rather than catgut or silk. Expect death within ten days.
    S ickroom decoration, pertaining especially to the selec tion of curtains—the depictions vary by circumstance. On Union Avenue, in an upper room. On Broad Street, across from cannons, at the end of a corridor. On New Street, in a house with a blue roof, or a red one, the rot a bit of a pity.
    Muslin is more becoming than wool, notwithstanding the examples at hand.
    Carpets stain nicely in spring.
    Pearl-ash and lime restore scorched linen—and poison the dog.
    The affliction dictates the location of the children. At the fire irons for grippe, for falling sickness, for Mother’s consumption. At the door, which is shut, for daggers. The color of the curtains dictates the color of the wood. Or vice versa—as moths cover the walls.
    T o treat dropsy, give vinegar and bitters in one-teaspoon doses, at night—keeping in mind that the father beset by horrors will favor camphor (two scruples should do) and that squills may inspire needless bleeding. Convulsions call for plasters at the throat—and, on occasion, amputation of the child’s hands.
    Heartsickness, or Saint John’s complaint (to use the correct term), is akin to black fever, at least in respect of the lesions—but the site of these, if not the pattern, also suggests plague. Were apoplexy to accompany screws or bloody flux, however, or a wound of a particular size (three fingers across, say)—worms would then explain the rattling in the lungs.
    T he pages are marked in curious ways, though ornamental borders of this sort, especially those that exhibit insects, are far more common before 1700. Plague seems to favor green birds, as it happens, or rows of wagons and houses. Certain names are replaced with urns. Another anatomy presents the ribcage in the form of snakes—with winter scenes at the bottom of every column. Plans of the spine, furthermore, often include sickles, in addition to the cleavers near the numbers.
    In folklore, the towns kill children for skulls. These are set atop sticks or crooks, the