Balm

For David,
always

There is a balm in Gilead,

To make the wounded whole.

—African American Spiritual, “There is a Balm in Gilead”

See him at the seashore

Preaching to the people

Healing all the sick ones

Amen, Amen, Amen.

—African American Spiritual, “Amen”

For our trust in the healing root or in the strength of the vine,—what is it else than a belief in thee, from whom all that surrounds us derives its healing and restoring powers.

—
The Sorrows of Young Werther,
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan—to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.

—Second Inaugural Address, Abraham Lincoln

W
HEN
M
ADGE ARRIVED IN
C
HICAGO, IT WAS
an unusually windless summer day, and she could not take her eyes off the bluest water she had ever seen. She believed she was seeing the ocean for the first time, but she had heard from a woman who had heard from another woman that the ocean stirred waves as tall as trees, and this broad flatness looked like the floor of heaven itself. Surely it marked the end of the earth. Nothing could exist beyond that line where the sky reached down to kiss a shimmering edge.

She had only come from Tennessee, but she might as well have come from another country. It would take months to unpack this foreign land, months before she finally ventured out, walking through the retail district, a street along the lake, peering into plate-glass windows. Men behind wooden carts hawking fruits and vegetables in pitched voices. Hackneys, carriages, teams of horses flying madly by in all directions, leaving behind a cloud of dust so thick she could barely see. Signs advertising businesses whose names she could not read. The glance of
a woman leaning out of a window. A grand building with wide stone steps leading up to some unimaginable heaven. A new word—
opera . . . opera . . . opera—
melting on her tongue. Tree-bordered boulevards. The South Side avenues. The soft glow of gas streetlights. Horsecars lined with narrow benches and shoving crowds, the bolts creaking so loudly she feared the animals would break free and leave the people in the contraption behind. Five flags waving grandly from the top of a building. The crunch of grit between her teeth, dust rising through her nostrils. She covered her nose and mouth, and as she drew the folded square of cloth from her face she saw the blood on it, and upon further hurried patting, understood that it came from her nose.

This city sure enough gone kill me
, she thought.

Still, she relished every moment.

And the water: so many boats and ships like nothing she had ever seen. A city's lines etched by roads and waterways. Sweating Irish stevedores unloading lumber schooners while colored men huddled nearby, watching for injury or exhaustion or a skirmish loud enough to send the offenders home.

And Madge amidst it all, daringly alone, a freeborn woman hovering near the pier, watching as passenger pigeons descended by the dozens. She moved about unmolested, freely, wearing a bright orange neck scarf she'd found in the street two days before. Back in Tennessee, such a scarf might have been taken for hubris, but in the garish city, colors, even on a Negro woman, were just a quiet wink.

She turned, almost walking straight into the wheels of a carriage. The driver shouted at her, and she laughed. Reveling in the city's spirit, brimming with the effervescence of the newly baptized, she walked.

F
OR A LONG TIME
, Sadie felt like a visitor to another country.

The train had belched her onto the city's shores without so much
as kith and kin to greet her, and she'd struggled to find her legs. The place was far enough removed from York to impress upon her the uncertainty of a future without a husband, but it would be some time before she understood that keeping alive the spirits of the lost sat in perfect order within that immortal city.

With its tall grain elevators, winding canal, and trestled bridges, it hummed. Draymen and horsecars and lake steamers. Dead rats lining ditches where sludge-filled water traveled on its way to the river. Its fragility—plank roads and leaning shanties, pine sidewalks and marble-faced buildings with wooden shake roofs—subsumed by an ever-increasing sense of its fortitude. Everything, it appeared, coexisted as an irresolvable contradiction, a trait Sadie would come to see in herself as well, long after she'd accepted the place as home.

The railroad and telegraph worked to adjust the people's sense of the clock, and perhaps because of this, she and the other mediums would be able to convince them that time was more fluid than they imagined, the other side just a ticking away from this one.

Death is not the end
, she would tell them.

But hope withered in a city where cholera picked off entire families, men marched off to war never to return, and thousands of cattle were slaughtered in vast stockyards. She had heard that over three thousand miles of railroad touched the city like the arms of some mythical creature, but she did not enjoy knowing that number because it seemed to emphasize the distance between this lakefront city and the Pennsylvania town that birthed her.

Yet those awe-inspiring trains, slamming their brakes in a rush of steam, huffing like hulking shovers, reminded her of the impending sense of everything hurtling recklessly forward. It thrilled and frightened, entranced and repulsed. It was both a nascent Romish state and a virulent pesthole.

She'd journeyed to the city two weeks after he'd gone ahead to
prepare their home, traveling on solemn boxcars filled with anxious faces dashing from one town to the next. Her hand shook the entire time, and she did not know if it was the rolling landscape outside the window or the train's constant rocking that made her feel ill.

It was March of 1863, which meant that her first impression of the city was not the height of winter's beauty but the dark, murky ruts of snow that had fallen for months. The river was frozen, the lake marbled with slices of water traveling between gray sheets of ice, the canal virtually impassable.

They did not send word ahead of her arrival, and it was only once she reached the city that she learned his train had derailed. The railroad company retrieved the bodies in the first-class cars first, then set to work accounting for its passenger list. She had not read a newspaper in some time and never saw the headline.

When she arrived at the house on Ontario Street, a silent group of servants hired by her husband waited for her: the butler, cook, housemaid, and coachman, all ready to greet the young widow and determine if she had the grit necessary to survive long in the city. The housemaid took the cape from Sadie's shoulders as she stepped inside.

The servants had kept the body in the house, and Sadie noticed two things: he looked exactly the same, down to the mustache-capped line that had been his mouth, and there was no odor. After clearing his throat, the butler recounted that her late husband had once met a certain gentleman in New York, an embalming surgeon, and after a long evening in which he sat riveted while the man explained the advancements of how one handles a body, preserves a face as if it were sleeping, injects an arsenious fluid into a man's arteries, Samuel had instructed his servant that should a calamitous fate befall him, he would like to be filled with this magical fluid, cast in an earthly monument to his living body. But Sadie was disturbed by the bluish cast of his face, so dull it glowed, hair so dark she was certain it had been blackened. The body
achieved the odd illusion that he was younger in death than in life, certainly not the worldly man she'd accepted as her husband just two months ago.

The space above the fireplace was painted green, a barren field. She turned to face them, unsure what to say or do. She had no experience with servants. He was the one who was supposed to take care of these matters.

“Thank you,” she said. One of the women, the cook perhaps, clearly outranked her in age. But they took it for the dismissal it was intended to be and left her alone.

Uncertain what was expected of her, she entered the drawing room, the mirror of the room across from it. He had proudly boasted that the two rooms were identical, stating it as if proof of his love that she would have a room dedicated to her evening pursuits as spacious as his. A lie. The house was not a monument of his love—he had not asked her opinion of a single yard of fabric, and she felt like any other mourner come to pay her respects.

Two years after this unexpected welcome by her husband's corpse she would see the house completely differently, a holy space where spirits convened and she, speaking in a voice unimaginable to anyone who'd ever known her, commanded reverence as the dead returned.

But at that moment, her only future had a corpse in it, and all she could do was stare at his grotesque face as she scrambled to pose the questions she'd planned to ask: What were his plans for the future? What was there for a wife to do? How did he like his breakfast prepared?

T
HE MISSIONARY HAD PROMISED
to take him to a city where he could find work and where other coloreds might help him find his wife. But when the freedman arrived, the ceaseless noise silenced him. Waves
broke against a pier. A train's whistle screeched. The plink of a piano skipped through a window. As wind rushed the street, a door slammed and a hat went sailing, the lady calling after it. Hemp turned and wiped a grain from his eye.

When he paused long enough to quiet the racket ringing about his head, the freedman was certain he looked upon a city where an unfettered man could swell into his new name. Wooden frame houses, pine cottages, swinging bridges, freighter smoke all stuffed together so tightly, he wondered how they had moved through the narrow lanes with the timber to build. He struggled to decipher among the smear of faces. On the other side of the street, one suit called to another, the accent so thick, Hemp wondered if it was another language. For a moment, he lost his missionary in a crowd. Relief when the man waved back at him. Hemp picked up his step, veering off the sidewalk as he circled a dozen bales of cloth lined up outside a store. The missionary stopped at a pump where the two men filled their canteens. Hemp spit out the water.

“They can help you here.”

“Where?” Hemp said, alarmed.

Clearly, they had reached the end of their journey together, but Hemp was not ready. He wanted to clutch the white man's hand, express his gratitude.

“God bless you,” the man said, slapping Hemp's arm, and the freedman struggled, once again, for words. He could not gather himself in time. The missionary was gone.

Hemp looked at the door to the church. A crude wooden cross hung from a nail. Built out of narrow, whitewashed boards, the balloon-frame building sat on a busy corner, and, aside from the occasional curious look, no one spoke to him. He sat on the edge of the porch. The preacher back home had expected something for his services, and this one would be no different. Hemp had nothing to offer but hands.

A meanly dressed white man walked by. Hemp scooted back, careful to keep his feet out of the way. He felt in his pocket for the freedom papers he'd received at Camp Nelson. The war was over, but Hemp was still gripped by the fear that at any moment, someone would chain his ankles, push him onto a wagon, and take him back to Kentucky.

The door opened behind him and he turned.

“You just arrived, son?”

Hemp nodded.

The man motioned for him to come inside. “You got water in that thing?”

“Yas, sir.”

The man folded his hands in front of his chest, and Hemp thought he looked righteous in his stiff collar. He was a short man with thin curls picked out over a round head. Inside, Hemp could see the sky peeking through a hole in the ceiling over plain pine pews. Another man, thin and wiry with a shot of gray hair like a lightning bolt, descended a ladder.

“What's your name, son?” the preacher asked.

Hemp hesitated, wavering. Outside the city thrummed, sounding a beat in his ears.

“I goes by Hemp.”

“Well, my name is Reverend Martin.”

Reverend. Something about the very word felt like an embrace, and he allowed the exhaustion to pile softly behind his eyelids.

“Richard, take him on over to Mrs. Jenkins's house.” He pointed to a basket in the corner. “It's some extra clothes in there though it's likely you can't fit none.”

“I reckon a wash will do me just fine.”

“Service here is on Sunday at nine. Come on by once you land on your feet.”

“Yas, sir.”

“Take some clothes anyhow. You need something decent to find work.” He pointed to the basket again, but the freedman did not move.

“What is it?”

“I'm looking for my wife, go by the name Annie. She got a daughter, go by the name Herod. I'm wondering if you heard tell of them. We from Kentucky.”

“Annie and Herod from Kentucky?”

“Yas, sir.”

“Can't say I have. Once you settle, we can ask around.”

Hemp nodded.

“How I'm supposed to know when it's nine in the morning?” he asked the gray-haired man when they were on their way.

“Courthouse bell. Count it.”

Numbers meant little to Hemp. He could count his twelve knuckles, and that was it. There had been a class at the camp where they'd taught the men to apply those twelve numbers to the day, but he had not gone to class often enough to learn.

“What day is it?”

The man looked at Hemp as if he had just dropped from another world. “Tuesday. June fourteenth, 1865.”

“This it?” he asked when they stopped in front of a row of tightly sandwiched houses.

“I be seeing you at church.”

He offered his hand, and Hemp took it. There was no end to this new feeling of overwhelming gratitude. He wanted to ask the man to come inside, but he didn't. Hemp stared at the door. Behind it lay another threshold to be crossed. A fist of terror stuck in his throat. He lifted one leaden foot and then the other one.

He knocked and a woman in a dark dress opened the door, a broom propped between arm and body.

“You looking for a room?” She swept a glance from his tattered shoes to his harshly shaven face.

“Reverend Martin sent me.”

“Where you from?” she asked.

“Kentucky.”

She narrowed her eyes, wrinkling a scar across her face that had taken some of the bridge of her nose with it. “I don't allow no riffraff in my house. That include liars and cheats and no counts, the don't-want and the can't-do. My husband and me is God-fearing people.”