The Dark (42 page)

“Ah, fuck-a-whore,” Erastus said. “Get back, then. You got yourself until we’re weigh-locked. Fifteen minutes, no more.”

Able nodded in wordless gratitude.

The crew argued against it. John was the most vehement.

Erastus said, “Shut it, I’m the captain, and truth be told I’m sick of listening to your fucking jawing. A change is damn-dandy, I always say.”

“Huh, I ain’t never heard you say that,” Ambrose said.

Erastus winked, then whispered, “ ‘Sides, one’s got to knows one’s fucking enemies, eh? Circle round the boy. Let’s see if Able is able.”

Good man, John thought, and glared past his hawk nose at Able as the boy scrambled on board. Ambrose and Erastus spat tobacco over the hull. Jeb tested the blade of a gutting knife. Clement smiled, an honest act, which only made his ugly face more fearful. Able stumbled over a rope.

Erastus proffered a bottle of whisky. “Seeing as you’re our guest.”

Brother Able’s eyes looked about to pop out of his head with nervousness. “I-I don’t d-drink. S-Soberness is n-next to G-Godliness.”

“I thought it were cleanliness,” said Ambrose, who was neither.

“T-That t-too.”

Erastus eyed the sun. “Now you got yourself only nine minutes left.”

Able said, “If y-you p-pray, w-with people and humbly, on your kn-knees, then th-the light c-comes. W-We’re not all d-damned. It’s a ch-choice. You can save your-yourselves, you c-c …” He fell silent, looked as if about to weep.

The weigh-master called out to bring in the
Morning Star
and Erastus clapped Able on the back, nearly teetering him into the fetid canal waters. “Able-y done, Brother Able. Now bugger yourself off. Find some greener pastures to spread your horseshit.”

I
heard the coughing even before I reached the final stairway. I hurried, my satchel banging. The poor soul was doubled over, her barking a harsh sound. I slapped her back, all-brisk, all-business, then readied a poultice of black mustard and calomel and applied it in a nonce. Next I gathered up the letters scattered on her bedclothes and put them back in the bible box. Now for the laudanum. Her coughing eased.

A time later my patient asked, “Have you not a glimmer of fear for your own health, Mrs. Mellon?”

“Do I look a nervous nelly, a worry wart?”

“Not at all.”

“Exactly. I could scarcely carry on my duty if I feared for my own self.” (I presume she meant did I trouble myself about germs, those invisible infectors so talked about these days.)

“One day doctors will cure all manner of ailments and disease,” she pronounced. “It won’t be just luck and guesswork and that not-so-common sense that Leah put to use when playing nurse.”

“What chalk and nonsense. If everyone should be cured, whatever would
my
purpose be?” I smiled then, at which she gave me a startled look, as if she did not recognize me.

“I was making a little jest,” I added hastily. “Indeed, I’d rather be far less busy in my duties.”

L
EAH HUMS AS SHE TAKES UP
her appointment ledger. Since she moved to this genteel New York 26th Street brownstone last summer she has been engrossed with building a roster of reputable clients. Now, in this early April of’53, her days are chock with sittings and consultations. Never has she been busier; never has she been happier. Burr’s ten thousand is going towards decorating and furnishings (as well as to some prudent investment) and soon the brownstone will be a haven of colour and tasteful comforts, even luxuries. Mother lives here also, as does Calvin, and faithful, useful Alfie. And Leah’s sisters, of course, though Katie has many private clients of her own and is often out at their homes, giving séances and conjuring up children, her speciality. And Maggie is often out with that Dr. Kane, with Mother or Elisha’s valet serving as chaperone. Lately, however, the doctor—being so occupied with organizing his Arctic expedition—has not been calling on Maggie as often as he was (to Leah’s relief), and because of this Maggie’s moods have been snapping back and forth like hung laundry in a gale, and she is often too much in a sulk to be of use at the sittings. Not that Leah needs either her or Katie as she once did. She can fetch up the spirits nicely on her own, though her spirits are mostly older sorts who cannot rap quickly, nor for a lengthy time. Trancing and automatic writing are what these spirits favour.

She sweeps down the hall, list in hand, calling for Alfie.

Stops short. Screams.

Calvin. He crawls down the hall in a slick of blood. His fingers are webbed with mucus. “Which door? Which is it?” he gasps, as Leah sinks beside him. “I’m done for, though a doctor, a doctor might not be amiss.”

The doctor proclaims he has never seen such a quantity of blood hemorrhaged.

“My spirits, and yet we had no idea!” Leah exclaims.

“The afflicted often conceal their illness,” the doctor says. He is a diminutive man, his reddish hair slick with macassar oil. “Though I can’t comprehend how you missed it. This, ma’am, is the most hopeless case of consumption I’ve ever seen. Nothing can be done.”

“Poppycock. I shall care for him.
We
shall.”

Her mother and sisters agree. They sob and wring their hands and look to her for guidance, as always.

Calvin coughs up more blood. He is paper pale. His eyes bruised pits.

Katie says, “You just have to stay with us, Cal, please. I’m so sorry the ghosts teased you so, back when you first came to help us. The carpet balls and that candlestick that made your lip bleed so. We’re sorry. Really. Truly.”

“Kat’s right,” Maggie says. “We should never have let it go so far.”

“Oh, he’s forgiven you girls,” Leah says. “Have you not forgiven them, Calvin? Just nod … Good. Now, Mother, you fetch the linens and poultices. And a bucket, yes, and I shall telegraph straightaway to Isaac for medicine and advice. We shall triumph as ever. Did I not save little Charlie from Death’s clutches? Did I not defeat our dread nemesis, that prattling poseur, that Chauncey Burr?”

Her mother and her sisters agree again. Even look cheered. Calvin murmurs, “I should have duelled Burr. I would have if—”

“Hush. Rest,” Leah orders. Thinks: Yes, it might have come to a duel if poor Calvin hasn’t been overtaken by a fit of coughing. God and the Spirits, how could I not have known that this one was in such peril?

Leah recalls Burr striding into the Columbus courtroom. He was a head taller than any other man and he bit on an apple to show his contempt for the proceedings. As the case went on, Burr fixed on Leah as if they were alone in the room, as if no one else was of any import. And when the verdict came down against him? He actually laughed, and continued to do so even when the raps sounded loud in agreement.

Leah looks down at the man in the bed. Ah, Calvin.

The hours spin into days. The days grow warmer. Calvin coughs ever harder. Grows ever thinner. Leah learns resignation. She cannot always conquer Death it seems. She sings him
Over the Hills and Far Away
, his favourite song. The notes do not reveal their colours, not even faintly. An ominous sign.

Calvin consoles her, consoles them all. He is determined to have a good death for their sakes. Has already selected a minister, a grave plot, has already proclaimed his sins, such as they are. Has composed
his last words, made suggestions for a eulogy. He has left the music selections all to Leah.

Bach? Mozart? Leah cannot decide. She is in the parlour sifting through her music books. Perhaps a gladsome song to prove that death is but a beginning. Or perhaps a military march. Poor Calvin. He has missed his chance at battle. There will be no more wars on American soil. “We may expect peace for a thousand years,” or so the spirit of General Washington assured at a recent sitting.

Leah comes upon her father’s last missive. Here she had merely asked her father if he recalled the passenger pigeons lifting her up and he had gone on for pages about his own self. Her father had never been one to “paper the walls with his talk,” as the saying goes, yet his letters could paper a small parlour. She reads this particular letter twice through to the end.
What I mean here, Leah-Lou, is that all your certainties can collapse swift as the walls of Jericho
.

Jericho? Did not its citizens deserve to be crushed by divine will or some such? And how is it, exactly, that her father became a knee-kneeling man of God? He has not yet said. It is as if he is too stubborn to do so.

She folds his letter and tucks it in the lily box, but far beneath those other letters of commendation and gratitude, and just atop the clip-outs she has collected on Chauncey Burr. She does not collect them merely to relive her victory over the man, but as a reminder, yes, that she must be ever on her guard against … well, many things.

A touch at Leah’s shoulder. Mother. “Leah, our Calvin has asked for you.”

“My spirits, is it time already?”

Mother dabs at her red-rimmed eyes. “I believe so, yes, but he wishes to ask something of you first, doesn’t he?”

Leah finds Calvin propped up with feather bolsters. He has combed his hair and wrestled on a boiled shirt, a starched collar. Has coughed his lungs clean of blood and phlegm. He takes Leah’s hand on one side. Mother Margaret’s on the other. Maggie and Katie stand distraught at the foot of his bed.

Leah does not give her answer for several days, and then she does. They marry on the 10th of September. Calvin says his vows while
tucked in his deathbed. Leah says hers while arrayed in silver taffeta. Maggie and Katie weep into their champagne glasses. Mother Margaret throws rose petals on the couple as the minister intones the marriage rites. And then Alfie brings up the cake Leah has ordered from Weins and Rice, the best bakers in all of New York.

Calvin gestures to Katie and Maggie, who are occupied in mixing rum flips. He whispers hoarsely to Leah, “I fear for them, my darling wife. They are of an age now. And this Dr. Kane. I must tell you, Leah, tell you that Kane’s intentions with Maggie are suspect. That his intentions may even be … dishonourable. God, I wish I could protect her! And Katie! Watch them closely, beloved.”

Leah promises she will, as she has always done. Promises to keep a vigilant watch on Dr. Kane, as she has also been doing, by the by, since the cad entered the scene.

“At least you will have the shield of my name now, dear heart. Now you will be a proper widow and I may go to my grave knowing slander cannot assault you.”

“You should not think of me at this hour, you should—”

“You are all I’ve ever thought of, Leah. You and this family. You took me in and loved me when I lost my own family and—” He sobs.

Leah pats his shoulder, slightly aghast. Need a deathbed scene be so overwrought with emotion?

Calvin gathers himself. “Know that even once I am dead I will do my best to protect you and your name. Call upon me during the sittings. I will arrive without delay.”

Leah’s sisters look over at this, perplexed.

“Do compose yourself, Calvin,” Leah says. “For soon—”

“Listen, Leah. My mortal remains mean nothing to me. I am yours in death as in life. If ever I am needed to—”

“You need to rest, Calvin.”

“Mrs. Brown. How I like the sound of that.” Calvin sits up and gauges the wedding cake on the sideboard. “They should have used gum paste for the scrollwork. But it looks passable. Do hand me a slice, my darling.”

Leah does, and looks on with astonishment as he eats not only that slice, but three more.