The Dark (25 page)

“That wasn’t Barnum that said so,” Heman ventures. “He’d never insult his paying public. Nope. Besides, he couldn’t figure how the Fox women were doing it neither. I heard it pissed him off to China. That’s why he wouldn’t contract them for the museum. He couldn’t figure it. Nope.”

Chauncey studies his brother. He’s got the eyes of a porker, he thinks. And look how he wallows in his clothes. Look at his pig-piggy nose. The bristles sprouting. God’s holy slippers, but why won’t he cut them? Surely he’s seen his visage in a looking glass. Not for the first time, Chauncey thanks Christ and all his cronies that he doesn’t resemble Heman in the least. He sighs. He misses Theophilus Fiske. Fiske understood the moods of Chauncey Burr, the firecracker nature of this thoughts. And he could take a ribbing, unlike Heman, who scowls at the least jest at his intelligence. Ah, but Fiske Fisko is dead as a dodo, of cholera that killed him so quickly it was as if the disease couldn’t be bothered to make his carcass suffer. And as Chauncey’s older brother, Edwin—the sharp, sporting one—died over a decade ago, there is only his younger brother, Heman—the slovenly, bacon-brained one—to assist Chauncey with his mesmeric electro-biology demonstrations. But people are not attending such demonstrations as they once did. The enthusiasm for science lost
ground along with the shutdown of the theatres and lecture halls during the last cholera epidemic. No enthusiasm was lost for the ghost-talking, mind. The papers groused on about it, even before the Fox sisters arrived in New York in the summer. Reported every exhibition and “lecture” in Auburn and Troy and the lesser towns. Worse, this idiotic superstition is being further wrapped up in scientific cant—Chauncey’s cant.

“What ho, Hemano! Spirit telegraphs? Spirit vibrations? Invisible forces? The four laws of spirit attraction? Next they’ll be reeling up that fish-eyed Newton from the damnedo River Styx to explain old wives’ tales in fugging equations and—”

“Great God!” Heman cuts in. “They’ve made a conquest of Horace Greeley himself. And convinced him. Yup.” He shakes his head and circles a column in the
Tribune
.

Chauncey snatches the paper from Heman. Reads aloud, his voice rising with incredulity:

Chauncey hurls the paper to the floor.

Heman gives a telling smile. “They’re hiding in plain sight. That’s what. Plain sight. And in the open. Yup.”

Chauncey stuffs his pirate-head pipe. Half listens as Heman suggests rethinking their lecture. At Chauncey’s insistence, the Fox Sisters’
Fallacy (as he has dubbed that segment of his demonstration devoted to this growing preoccupation) has gone from being a comedic aside to a lengthy warning about the raising of the dead in general and the Fox sisters’ spirit sittings in particular. A warning of how the “ghosts” are created by legerdemain and by mesmeric forces—the person’s own mind, that is, hearing and sensing what it chooses. Chauncey can prove that part. His whole lecture is proof. The science of electro-biology is proof. But, yes, as Heman is harping: “If we had a true expose, folks would come in spades, sure, Chaunce. In spades and aces. But it can’t be an expose if we don’t know the trick. Nope. Then it’s just a rant. A canard. And we’ll be accused of envy and the like—like, jealousy.”

“Envy? Hah!” Chauncey laughs, but has to admit his brother is righto for the once. Yes, and Chauncey
is
touched by envy. A new religion is not as easy to fashion up as one would think. Takes a confidence that gives even Chauncey pause. And she has played it so damnedo well, that Leah Fox Fish, that conductress of it all. No set doctrine. No new text daring to supplant the holy book. No single person claiming Godly powers. Because all can channel the dead, apparently, with a cup or two of practice, a dash of faith, a fat lot of dim light. Spread the damnation around. That’s the trick. Never give the mob a set thing in which to sink its fangs.

He surveys his brother, his saggy linen shirt that would better suit a labourer, a sailor. “Give me that damnedo rag off your back, Hemano. I’ve a plan.”

Heman pretends absorption in the
Tribune
and the predominant sketch of a ship being smashed by monstrous waves, the shore in sight, the passengers waving all-forlon from the listing deck. “They never did find the body of that learned lady … that Miss Fuller, that’s it, nope, nor her husband, just the babe’s corpse washed up. Sure was some spectacular wreck. There’s got to be some lesson in it all, or something like it, like a warning or a sign.”

Chauncey snap-snaps his fingers in front of Heman’s nose. Heman swats them away. “Give it up, is what I mean, Chaunce. Better men than us have tried to find those females out. Yup, they have.”

“Better fucko men than you. Not ‘us.’ ” Chauncey now snaps his fingers against Heman’s periodical. The sound is a cracker shot.

“Stop it. Just … stop! Goddamn it and God help you, or I’ll—” Heman’s shout dies away as Chauncey cracks his knuckles. Such a tremendous loud sound for such a small action. Heman eyes Chauncey’s balled fists. Slinks back.

Chauncey hauls his brother up by his lapels. He towers over the younger Heman. Has since they were both boys. A great benefit in their situation. “God helps those who helps themselves, brother mineo. So says the scriptures, and so says I.”

Heman, released from his brother’s grip, rubs his neck, says warily, “Wasn’t that Benjamin Franklin? I heard that, anywise.”

“Not God? Well, Benji was a damnedo American, wasn’t he? And that’s the next best thing.”

“A
gain you hit the mark,” I cried, as if my patient were five years of age and not (as she had confessed) a year shy of sixty. We were spitting cherry pits into a tin bowl—a good exercise for weakened lungs. My patient spat out another blood-red stone. I thought of my son just then. I should have insisted, I realized. Insisted he practise his marksmanship. But he had no desire to shoot birds out of the blue air, raccoons out of green branches. “What a ninny-man he’ll be,” Mr. Mellon sneered. “What a lily-liver.” But my son wasn’t lily-livered. He was kind.

“Mrs. Mellon? It’s your go.”

“We’ve played enough, duck. No more,” I said hastily. I brought out her medicine then, as well as some blancmange and white-cake. I should add that she was feeling particularly fine this day. Had even stood up just before we began our cherry-spitting game and, with my help, walked one turn about the garret.

Now, back in the safe confines of her little bed, she said, “Come, let’s pretend we’re at a charming hotel. New York is at our feet.” She chuckled. “Yes, our very feet, and the moment is full of happy talk and harmony, the future full of triumphs.”

I did not generally advise false optimism, but there seemed no harm in it that day. And the sun, as if in agreement with our fantasy, buttered those three linked windows and nearly encompassed us in its fleeting warmth.

L
EAH TAPS STACCATO BEATS
on the table. “Now did any of you attend That Man? The one with a spade beard? He came to the afternoon sitting. He asked not a single question. He merely smirked. I have seen him before. I am certain, but who is he?”

The girls shrug and laugh. Maggie reaches for the champagne. “I’ve not a glimmer, I was too busy dancing attendance with Madame Hippopotamus. Dash-it, but my toes still ache … from her tromping.” This elicits much laughter, then Katie says, “But all Madame Hippo wanted to know was if spirits get to eat anything.”

“And do they?” Mother asks, her question suggesting honest bafflement, as usual.

“Surely! Chocolate eclairs and sherry trifle,” Maggie says.

“With water-ice and quince preserves,” Katie adds, and both girls chortle.

Leah gently admonishes, “The spirits were being naughty. A good spirit would have declared the love of Our Lord sweeter than any food.”

Church bells strike the tenth hour of this August evening. The last of the sitters have only recently left the sisters’ suite at Barnum’s Hotel. Really, Leah thinks, there should be a sign explaining this is not P.T.’s establishment but his more worthy cousin’s. Indeed, Leah is glad she decided against working with the churlish P.T. himself. She is busy enough without his cheap-john promotions.

Leah turns at a swishing sound. Her mother has begun sweeping the peanut husks from the carpets. At the sideboard Calvin is arranging the offerings from all the gift baskets. Oranges and grapes. Brandy and champagne. Tins of biscuits and chocolate. In the anteroom, Alfie is taking account of the ledgers. And how much account does he take of our conversations? Leah wonders, and looks at him sidelong.

“Capital, don’t you judge, Leah?” Calvin asks, and indicates the pyramid he has made of the oranges.

“Very clever. And pretty. But, my spirits, how precarious,” Leah says, and thinks again of That Man. He wore a linen shirt with the
collar open in sailor fashion, wore his trousers tucked into his knee-high hessian boots, and no waistcoat under his Albert coat; and yet his black spade beard was immaculately cut, and his movements had a surety, even a grace for one so tall and heavy-built. Several times he pretended to fumble and drop items—a pirate-head pipe, a key, a copper token—items that he then bent to pick up, looking all about the floor as he did so. He apologized gallantly each time, and the
tessatura
of his voice was a rich baritone verging on the bass, the like of which Leah had never heard. She kept discreet watch on him as he rose to leave. A good idea, for just before That Man exited he gave a triumphant smile, as if confirming a suspicion.

“You look fit to gasp your last, Leah,” Katie says.

Leah presses her temple. “My head-pain. It is starting up again.”

“Here, let me get you some tonic.” Katie jumps up, jostling a candelabra. The flames hiss as wax sloshes onto the table. The candles themselves have been lit so long they have melted into a menagerie of grotesque little shapes.

“What? Ah, yes, but only a half-glass for now,” Leah says as Katie proffers a bottle of
Bertucci’s Finest Cinnamon Laudanum
, a gift from an admirer. “There, that is sufficient, Katherina. Now, who was the lady who asked about a dog?”

“That was Slick-Wig,” Maggie puts in. “She asked if dogs had souls. And if she’d see her dachschund in Spirit Land.”

Katie says, “But the spirits just gave out that they sure hoped so. Then they pattered off.”

“And she was content with that?” Leah asks.

Katie shrugs. “The Whomevers aren’t particular.”

“I have always thought it would be grand to have a dog,” Leah muses. “Excepting it would have to be fed and watered and such.”

“I’d feed the dog for you,” Calvin offers. “Honour bright, I would.” He is on his knees, adjusting the wobble-legged table. His zeal irks Leah, though why she isn’t certain. Perhaps, she thinks, it is not his zeal but his voice, which is still nasal-toned and still of an uncertain timbre, though the boy must be what? Twenty-five?

“Then it would be your dog, Calvin. And do stop passing notes to Katherina during the sittings.”

“Fiddle-de-dum, it’s just funny old rhymes and nonsense,” Katie says.

“Of course it is,” Leah says, “but people might imagine something untoward.”

“But I get bored to death. Fuss-it, but I wish John were here. He always makes me laugh.”

“Which is peculiar, as
Mr
. Robinson has never been celebrated for his repartee.”

Katie makes a face at Leah and reaches for Calvin’s glass of toddy. He snatches it away. Grins.

“Oh, here, Kat, steal my champagne, if you must,” Maggie says. Like Katie, she is evincing a worldliness that goes beyond Leah’s tutelage. Perhaps it is best that their sojourn in Manhattan will soon be over, Leah thinks. It has been a great success, of course, the grand finale of their tour that played first through Albany and Troy and a host of other towns. But success has also brought the envious out from under their rocks. Leah has been accused of profiting from grief, of overstepping God, and so forth. That is to be expected. But more recently some have accused her of having an amalgamist agenda, even an anti-Christian agenda, and this because she encourages clients of any colour and religion to patronize the dead. All that she requires of her clients is that they be upstanding and of good society. Leah considers, as she often does, whether she should assist Amy and Isaac Post in their abolitionist struggles. But, no, no, she cannot court more controversy. Poor slaves, mind. Leah knows she would make a shoddy one. To be held captive? Forced to constant toil and constant deference? To be forced, even, to fornicate with the man of the house? It is likely worse than marriage.