Fitcher's Brides (10 page)

She stared at the wall and asked quietly, “Who are you?”

The wall chose not to reply.

T
HE MAN TOOK SHAPE FROM THE
words of her sisters. Vern heard Amy say, “A tall man,” and Kate add, “He has to have dark hair.” In her dream they were playing the game of making up a husband, but this time he appeared, coalescing into a handsome, dark-haired man who had no mouth. Then Amy and Kate were gone, and the man they'd conjured was reaching to touch her while she retreated down eerily lit hallways that seemed to unfold forever; she turned and he followed her, and behind him the view went black, as though his body cast the light by which she saw. Stranger still, though she was always moving away from him she didn't fear him; in fact she was not moving by her own volition but could not face what impelled her, what dragged her away from him. Then all at once something supple, fluttering, like live tendrils of smoke reached out of the blackness behind him, looped around his throat, and snatched him into it, and everything went dark. She cried out and awoke. She lay in her bed in the predawn grayness, listening to her sisters' steady breathing, guessing that she had made a noise only in her dream. She called out in her mind to Samuel. Nothing answered, but when she glanced at Kate's bed, the wall above it seemed to glow with lambent fire, as though the plaster were luminous.

She stared at the glow, expecting every moment for something to emerge. Instead, the glow faded slowly away and the room darkened as if the wall were absorbing all incoming light. A shadow took form in the air beside her, a shape made from nothing. It reached toward her.

She awoke with a start.

It was morning, her sisters stirring beneath their quilts, and the air in the room crisply cold. Kate's fire had long since gone out. No shadow stood beside her. The wall above Kate's bed looked perfectly normal. Vern had dreamed that she'd awakened, that was all—one dream encapsulating another. Nothing called to her, no voice echoed upon the aether, the room was silent. If Samuel had been driven away, it was Lavinia who had done it, and not she.

As she sat up, her foot brushed the chamber pot beneath her bed. It sloshed, and she leaned down to look at it. Someone had used it during the night without waking her—one of her sisters, despite having their own pots. Probably Amy. She said nothing about it, but once dressed carried the pot out back to empty it. The ground was covered over in a rime of ice, and her breath made a mist in the air; but the sun was already blasting its rays through the trees across the road.

 

The breakfast that morning was boiled oatmeal and pan bread. Amy had made it, and it was quite good. Vern had to admit, Amy had the instincts of a cook, which she did not, though she still made some meals. It was something she could respect about her younger sister, and the Lord knew, sometimes Amy made that difficult to do. She silently forgave Amy for telling everyone about her ghost. It really wasn't Amy's fault that she couldn't lie. If anything it probably made her a better Christian. Better than her oldest sister, anyway. Vern just hoped that the ghost of Samuel would come back, that she hadn't lost him, too. If she had, she knew, it was not Amy's fault. She wanted to blame Lavinia, she had done, but the truth was, he'd instructed her to tell no one and she had disregarded that and told Kate, and then Amy, and then…

She wondered about Judgment Day, and what it truly meant. Wouldn't God be able to look into her soul and see that it was good and kind, and that what she'd done with Henri had been an expression of love? She
had
loved him. She still did, but she was resigned that she wouldn't ever see him again. He wasn't going to be let into Harbinger, wasn't going to be saved unless he changed his mind soon. She wouldn't be punished for caring for him, surely. It wasn't evil to care for someone, even if they weren't saved. Lord Jesus had cared for everyone, even prostitutes. She maintained a secret hope that she might intervene for Henri's soul when the time came—rescue him. That was a very romantic notion, but didn't it also provide proof of her purity?

She'd nearly convinced herself that she could portray her actions in the proper light if given the chance. She just didn't know how her life would be confronted, and whether she would have to look back over it as one looked back along a road one had walked down. Would she have to answer for every action, every mistake, and would they arrive finally at Henri and allow her the chance to wrap herself around him and beg for his life? She would be like Esther or Ruth. She would save somebody. Her affection for her mother lay bound up in the past, too. So much love abounded inside her, how could she be judged harshly? Not if God were fair…

It was then she turned to Lavinia and said, “Please forgive me, ma'am, for the events of last night, which were purely my fault and no one else's.”

Everyone stopped eating, Amy with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

Lavinia flushed. She bowed her head as though to pray. After a moment, she raised her napkin to her lips and patted them dry. “Of course, child, I can grant you my forgiveness. But you require a higher power's absolution than mine for your wickedness. I believe you should stay in your room awhile once we've finished arranging our household for company—stay there and think on what act you must perform to be absolved of your sins. Later, I'll call you down to make those candles that couldn't be done yesterday.”

Vern licked her lips. She traded a look with Kate, and saw in her sister's gaze a warning not to take the bait. She bit back her outrage and said, “Yes, ma'am.” Picking up her spoon, she began to eat her food as if her entire world lay in that bowl.

 

The parlor had been assembled. Kate had found some way to persuade her father to use the furniture from the third floor—at least, the chairs: The dresser and sofa remained where they were, which gave the small attic the look of an inhabited garret. Vern had to admire Kate's skill in maneuvering him. Whatever Kate had done, neither Vern nor Amy could have accomplished it. Amy was limping around the kitchen barefoot, claiming that she couldn't tolerate a shoe, though her toes didn't look at all swollen. Her father made it clear that he didn't believe her, either, and certainly she could have asked no favors from him at the moment.

Some of the rugs had been beaten, the lamps and vases and dishes arranged, tea tables set up, the antimacassars laid over the back of the sofa. She knew what was coming next, but rather than have Lavinia banish her—which would surely include further upbraiding for having not governed herself—she retreated to her room on her own.

There was nothing to do there, of course. She had no needlework at hand, and the only thing to read was a copy of
Wieland
that had been unpacked from Amy's things. If nothing else, it might provide a diversion to make the time go faster.

She removed her shoes and lay down on her bed, opening the book. She read aloud, “‘Wieland, or the Transformation. An American Tale.'

This was followed by an advertisement by the author, who promised that the book would address “some important branches of the moral constitution of man.” Well, Vern thought, no wonder Amy felt compelled to read it—she was always worried about her moral constitution and never entirely resolved that she might have one.

All Vern had known of it was that Amy thought the book spooky and strange, but didn't really seem to understand it.

She started to read the first chapter, but had gotten only a few lines along—to where the narrator promised to tell of things that had happened to his family—before her eyes were drawn beyond it to the wall over Kate's bed. Of course it was dull and blank. There was no glow, nor anything else that had been in her dream.

No, she didn't want to think about it. About the voice of Samuel.

With a furrowed brow, she plunged into the book again, trying to absorb the full depth of what was being proposed. Something had happened to this narrator, something to destroy his hope. She read with growing unease, as everything he said seemed like a description of her own state: “I have nothing more to fear. Fate had done its worst…the storm that tore up our happiness…” She closed the book before some detail might destroy the illusion that this was her life, her misfortune, her own happiness torn up. It wasn't fair that she'd been robbed of it before she was old enough to know life, to make one of her own—a conspiracy of fate. All of humanity doomed, and she along with it.

Sitting up, she walked over to Kate's bed and sat down. At that point her nerve failed.

She sat without saying anything, afraid to inquire, afraid that he wouldn't be there and that if he wasn't she would have to admit she'd driven him away. And that would be too terrible to bear. Everyone was driven away from her.

She wanted him to make a sign so that she wouldn't have to ask—to show that he knew where she was—but there was no tapping. No voice spoke.

She rested her chin on her fists. There was no point in going back to her bed and trying to read that book. No point in trying to do anything else. What she really wanted to do was talk to her ghost.

Finally, she said, “Samuel?” She closed her eyes and listened. “Samuel, are you there?” She thought she heard a scratching in the wall, and placed her cheek against it. “Can you hear me?”

There was not a sound, but something slid against her face, crawling caterpillarlike over her cheek where it touched the wall. She drew back in alarm.

She heard his voice then: “Vernelia.” Her name spoken as though by rustling leaves or wind upon long grass. “I am here.”

“Yes,” she replied. Her heart opened to him with a loving tenderness that was almost painful to bear. She touched the wall and it seemed that her hand passed straight through the surface of it, as if
she
were the ghost. So close, the plaster became a mist, a fog. She let it draw her in.

This is Heaven
, she thought,
I'm in the clouds
.

Nothing condensed, no form appeared, no specter. She saw no more than milky whiteness, which seemed to press itself to her, its touch bittersweet, arousing. She shifted her hips against the pressure, and a soft moan escaped her, muffled in the mist. She spoke his name again, and he answered, “I'm here, Vern,” his voice coming from everywhere at once, but so close that it filled her head, leaving no room for thoughts of her own. His voice made her fingers move, her toes curl, its sound was like strings upon her; it kissed her throat with pleasure. He told her, “I'll guide you to do what you need to do. But this time you tell no one. I am the way.” She could only answer that he was. Her eyes rolled up and her tongue licked the sweet air. He laughed and she pursued the sound.

When, an hour later, Kate entered the room, she found her sister curled up in bed with the book that Amy had been reading. The last thing Kate wanted to do was wake Vern. She would have to be very quiet, but at the same time had to try to communicate, which meant asking questions. Would a ghost hear her if she whispered?

She sat on her bed, facing the wall, then thought awhile about what she wanted to ask. She placed her palm against the wall. “Hello?” she said softly, and glanced at her sister to make sure Vern didn't stir. As she twisted, something tapped against the wall beneath her palm. She jerked her hand away, then chided herself. This was what she'd hoped for, after all. She put her hand to the wall again.

“Samuel?” she asked.

Nothing happened.

“Are you there?” Another tap.

Not Samuel, then, she concluded, and wondered,
How many ghosts are there in this house?
She spent a moment deciding if she wanted to take the time to try to identify the entity. She didn't know how long she would have, if Vern might awaken or Amy come looking for her. She didn't want a reenactment of the previous night.

“Did you know the people who lived here before?”

Tap
.

“The Pulaskis.”

Tap
.

“What happened to—oh, wait, that's not the way to ask it. Are they—are they alive?”

Tap
.

She opened her mouth to ask if they were close by when the second tap came. Did that mean “no” or was that “yes” for each of them? A “no” had been much quicker the night before, but this wasn't necessarily the same spirit, or even any spirit—after all, it hadn't said anything so far that meant anything.

“One of them left this house first. Was it Mr. Pulaski?”

Tap. Tap
. Quickly this time.

“It was his wife.”

Tap
.

That was right, or at least it agreed with what Mr. Jasper had said.

“Did you see her go?”

Tap
.