John Milliken Thompson - The Reservoir

Copyright John Milliken Thompson 2011

Production Editor: Yvonne E. Crdenas
Text Designer: Simon M. Sullivan

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Thompson, John M. (John Milliken), 1959
The reservoir / by John Milliken Thompson.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-59051-445-0
1. Richmond (Va.)Fiction. 2. VirginiaHistory19th century
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.H68325R47 2011
813.6dc22
2010040659

v3.1

F OR M ARGO , E VAN, AND C LAIRE
A ND FOR MY P ARENTS

The way it floats in the water so serenely in the moonlight and the sunlight you would have thought it was meant to be there. Pure and unyielding and as solid as silk. She floats there, a mystery as deep as the moon and the mind of God. What does it mean? A pregnant girl floating in the citys drinking water?

O N M ARCH 14, 1885, a body is floating in the old Marshall Reservoir, in a light snow, and then under a waxing moon.

In the morning the superintendent of the reservoir, Lysander Meade, discovers a furrowed place on the walkway that he does not remember seeing the night before. Someone has crawled through the fence againearly in the year for youngsters to be out cavorting at night. He glances down toward the water and sees what appears to be a dress. Its floating along the edge of the water, where the embankment slopes down to a picket fence. Hes seen a lot of oddities in his yearsrubber condoms and smutty books and the occasional sack of puppiesbut never a dress. He tries to imagine the scene. Mighty cold last night for such carryings-on. Except now he sees it isnt just a dress, but a whole person. A woman. And a dead one at that, or what appears to be. Never has he found a dead woman, nor man neither for that matter.

So down he goes for a better look. Who would not want to see a dead woman? Could she be something to look at? Could she be a fine-looking lady, or might she be one of your more common sorts? Mr. Lucas comes up from the pump house where he has been repairing a stopcock, and helps Mr. Meade with his speculations. They stand there together, Lucas a head taller, loose-limbed and slack-jawed, with stick-out ears, while Meade, wearing thick eyeglasses, bends rigidly forward at the waist, his navy jacket stretching across his back, his neat mustache crinkling as he sniffs the air. All they can make out at first is a gray wool dress with flounces at the bottom and hair hanging like dark weeds about her head. The grappling hooks the thing, Mr. Meade says.

Mr. Lucas comes back presently, hook at the ready. But now Mr. Meade is not so sure. He nudges the body closer to the shore. Then he stops and yells. Hello, maam? Hello, miss? Hello?

I expect youll have to yell louder than that, Mr. Lucas suggests.

Mr. Meade nods. Yep, dead sure as Im standing here. Dead as dirt. But now he thinks that Mr. Lucas should go fetch the coroner. Let him decide what to do.

So off goes Mr. Lucas again. And now its a long wait. Mr. Meade stands guard with his hook like a spear hunter over his kill, thinking of all the time this is going to take, when he would be nearly finished with his morning walk and inspection by now and heading back to the warmth of his house. The girls legs swing out, the gray woolen skirt going with them, and Meade reins her back to the edge. A lock of hair has come loose from her combs and curls lazily across her forehead, her eyes looking glassily heavenward. Her prim little jacket looks so dignified against the dishevelment of her conditionas if she were only momentarily delayed here on the way to some important engagement.

And then Lucas returns with Dr. Taylor. Hes wearing his black coat and carrying his medical bag. Balding and wall-eyed, he appears to survey both men at once. The three of them maneuver the body to the little gate in the picket fence, which Mr. Meade opens. Mr. Lucas goes out onto the narrow grassy ledge and, because the water level has dropped during the nightwhat with people drawing from the pipeshas to lie on his belly, Mr. Meade holding his legs, and take hold of whatever he can, which happens to be the womans right arm. Its up and stiff. He takes it at the wrist. Its like cold gutta-percha, and the hand is clutching mud. He tugs and she comes right up, dripping water. Smaller than he thought, like a child, but round-faced and strangely stout.

Could be one of your German women, from over in Manchester. He nods toward the industrial section across the river.

Dr. Taylor pays no attention. Hes feeling for a pulse, examining her eyes, pushing at her skin, unbuttoning her coat. Mr. Meade is not looking at the girl at all. But Mr. Lucas cant take his eyes away from her. She looks like a perfect little doll, and now he wishes he had found her and could take her home with him. What an odd thought to have, he tells himself. Why would she come all the way over here to do herself in? he says. When the rivers right there?

Mr. Meade, Dr. Taylor says, would you mind lifting her head just so? But Mr. Meade cannot seem to make himself touch the girl, and so Mr. Lucas obliges. Its not every day, he tells himself, that a dead girl washes up in your very own reservoir. And now as sure as anything theyll be wanting him to drain it out, but as for himself he doesnt see how a girl like this could unpurify the water. He wouldnt mind drinking it himself. Not at all. He is on the verge of telling this to Dr. Taylor, when Dr. Taylor slaps her between the shoulder blades and water trickles from the corner of her mouth. Mr. Lucas keeps her head off the ground as if she were a sick child, and he is reluctant to let go when Dr. Taylor turns her onto her back again.

By now onlookers have begun making their way up to the embankment, which rises like an earthen fort above the reservoir grounds. Its a pleasant Saturday morning in Richmond, with a hint of spring in the air, and news of something going on at the reservoir spreads abroad like pollen. Here comes Detective Wren, his greatcoat unbuttoned and flapping as he lumbers at an angle up the embankment, then pauses to get his bearings. In his mid-thirties, he is large, bulldog jowly, sideburned, and pink-faced, with a divot in his chin; he gives the impression of worldliness, gaining respect by appearing to know what others have just discovered. Mr. Meade fills him in and points out the footprints. Has anybody else walked up here? Mr. Wren thunders, moving toward the footprints. Mr. Meade is not sure but says he can find out, and Mr. Wren shakes his head in exasperation and in a surprisingly high, yet commanding voice tells everyone nearby to please step off the walkway. Mr. Meade obeys and, unsure how much authority Wren really has and how well he knows Meades boss at the waterworks, decides just to try to avoid this meddlesome bear who has intruded as much as the dead girl on his mornings routine. He rejoins Dr. Taylor at the waters edge.