In the Shadow of Blackbirds (18 page)

“Get me out of here!” I freed my mouth and tried to get up. “I don’t want to be here. Get me out of here.” I kicked and fought and struggled, but the bindings dug farther into my skin. Everything burned—my wrists, my lungs, my nose, my stomach. All I could do was shriek and writhe in the black, black world.

A pair of hands reached around my shoulders.

“No! Don’t shoot me. Get me out of here. Don’t kill me.”

Someone scooped me upward, as if pulling me out of water.

I broke through the surface and gasped for air, a light shining bright against my eyes. My room came back into view. My oil lamp glowed beside me again.

Aunt Eva’s face hovered in front of mine, as pale as moonstone. She gripped my shoulders and stared at me as though
she didn’t recognize me. “Mary Shelley? What were you screaming about? Are you all right?”

I fought to catch my breath and looked around the room—the last thing I wanted to see was any creature with wings and a snapping beak—but there was nothing with us. My skin dripped with sweat, and my bones turned as heavy as when I had returned to my flesh after the lightning strike. My eyelids weighed a hundred pounds.

“Mary Shelley?” Aunt Eva pressed her icy hand against my forehead. “Do you have a fever? Is it the flu?”

“No.” I fell out of her hands and collapsed against my bed. “No. It was something else. It’s as bad as what he said. It’s worse. What were those eyes?”

A thermometer jabbed me in the mouth. I tried to fight it at first, but my aunt held me down and wedged the glass beneath my tongue.

“You’re talking like you’re feverish.” She stared at me. “Either that or that séance went to your head. We should have never left the house tonight. We should have never gone inside that trashy room with that cheap-looking girl.”

My aunt’s spectacles blurred until the two lenses expanded into four wavering bottle caps. My eyelids closed. I fell asleep before she could even take the thermometer out of my mouth. My brain simply slipped away, and I was gone—completely gone without a single dream—for the rest of the night.

A MASKED FACE STARTLED ME IN THE DARK.

“Don’t hurt me!”

“Stop saying things like that.” Aunt Eva brought her candle closer to her face and walked to the side of my bed. “It’s just me. I’m getting ready to leave for work. Are you feeling all right? Can I leave you alone?”

My bleary eyes wandered around the rest of the room and caught sight of the outlines of Stephen’s photographs on the wall, my flu mask dangling off a dresser knob, my sturdy Boy Scout boots sitting upright on the floor.

“I said, are you all right?” She leaned over me.

“Yes.” I breathed a sigh that rustled her hair. “I’m fine.”

“Have you been having nightmares?”

“No. Not since you woke me up last night.”

She stroked my cheek with her chilly hand. “Take my phonograph apart again today or do whatever you want inside this house, but don’t dwell on that séance.”

“I won’t,” I said. It was a lie.

Her eyes studied my face one more time before she disappeared from my room and down the stairs. Oberon spoke his name to her in his gravelly bird voice, and then I heard the front door shut.

A half hour later, I got dressed and emptied my black doctor’s bag of everything but sheets of blank writing paper and some cash. Down in the kitchen I ate an apple and pulled Mr. Darning’s business card out of a little silver box my aunt kept next to her cookbooks. I then plunked myself on the living room sofa to yank my boots over my stockinged feet.

“Who’s there?” asked Oberon from his cage.

I glared at the bird.

“Who’s there?” he asked again.

“I told you to stop saying that. It’s not amusing anymore.” I laced up my boots, grabbed my mask and bag, and clomped out the door.

A crow cawed from the roof next door and gave me a sideways stare I didn’t care for in the slightest. I tied my mask strings around my head, hurried my pace, and glanced over my shoulder, making sure the black bird didn’t follow me. The crow flapped away with a whoosh of large wings and disappeared among the browning leaves of an oak tree.

Three blocks to the south I passed the undertaker’s wretched-smelling house across the street. Four men in coveralls hustled to assemble more makeshift caskets on the front lawn, and I felt the vibrations of their saws inside my bones.

“Have those boys stopped playing on the caskets?” I called to the workers.

A graying man with a thin, masked face looked up from his sawing. “What’s that you said?”

“I saw a group of boys playing on the caskets the last time I walked past here.”

“You mean those little scamps we’ve been chasing away this past week?”

“Yes.”

The man nodded toward a pile of smaller coffins beside him. “They’re in there now.”

His words socked me in the stomach. I turned my eyes toward the ground and pretended I hadn’t heard the response.

The reinforced soles of my Boy Scout boots clopped down the sidewalk.

Death snapped at my heels—
I’m coming. Are you watching out for me?

Five blocks farther south, I dug Mr. Darning’s business card out of the black bag, for the addresses were getting close. I scanned the shop windows for the photography studio, passing a hat shop, the Dream Theatre, a grocery store, and hotels. Eventually I found it—Darning Studio—a modest storefront on the northeast corner of Fifth.

Two display windows showcased Mr. Darning’s work: a collection of twenty photographs, ten per window, not a single one of them tainted by spirits, flu masks, or even the war. I saw babies in long white christening gowns and plump-cheeked children in sailor outfits. Brides in airy veils posed in front of clean-shaven men in three-piece suits. The members of a high school football team, clad in black jerseys and knee pants, folded their arms and gazed at the camera with stern expressions. A pretty young woman with dark curls piled on her head peered at me with eyes like pools of ink. On a white card below her frame someone had written,
San Diego’s beautiful chanteuse Vivienne Boudreaux.

The photos brought a smile to my face beneath my mask. They were all lovely.

I opened Mr. Darning’s glass door, next to a black sign engraved with golden letters:

MR. ALOYSIUS P. DARNING
PHOTOGRAPHER AND RENOWNED DEBUNKER
OF SPIRITUALIST FRAUDS

A jingling brass bell announced my entrance, and I stepped into a small waiting area with three oak chairs.

“I’m with a customer,” called Mr. Darning from around a partition. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“Sit still, Billy,” said a woman’s voice. “Daddy wants to see how big his boy is getting.”

More picture frames hung in the lobby, lined in a neat row along gold- and burgundy-striped wallpaper. I perused the contents of the frames while I waited, reading letters thanking Mr. Darning for catching fraudulent photographers. I looked at newspaper photos of well-dressed gentlemen clapped in handcuffs, their arms clutched by unsmiling policemen. A handwritten letter from the mayor of Los Angeles offered Mr. Darning grateful phrases such as “Your display of integrity amid a turbulent era is to be commended, sir.” And “It is never easy to stand up for what is right when so many people want to prove you wrong. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for saving countless Los Angeles families from becoming victims of fraud during this current craze for Spiritualism.”

The mayor’s words gave me chills. They echoed those of my father in his letter:
Sometimes our strength of spirit forces us to choose truth and integrity over comfort and security.

A burst of light exploded around the corner, and a child screamed.

I peeked around the partition.

Deep in the middle of a dense haze of smoke, a woman and a boy of about two or three posed on a wicker chair in front of a canvas backdrop painted to look like a lush springtime garden. Both mother and child wore flu masks, and the boy choked on tears and flashlamp smoke as he fought to pull off his gauze.

“I think that should do it, Mrs. Irvine,” said Mr. Darning, waving the thick white cloud away with a piece of heavy paper.
“You’re all done, Billy. You were such a good boy, I’m going to give you a stick of candy.”

I seated myself in one of the lobby chairs and kicked my black bag under my skirt so no one would ask why I was lugging a doctor’s bag around town in the middle of a flu pandemic. For the first time it struck me as being a strange thing to do, and I didn’t want Mr. Darning thinking me strange.

The little boy waddled out of the studio first, wiping his red, runny eyes and shoving a purple candy stick under his flu mask. He smelled like a sticky grape mess. The copper-haired photographer, dressed in a black coat and tie and, of course, a gauze mask, escorted the mother out on his arm. Her blue cotton dress hung off her thin body like an empty sack of flour.

“Thank you, Mr. Darning,” she said, taking her little boy’s hand. “I hope my William appreciates the photograph. His letters have turned so somber since he fought at Belleau Wood.”

“I’m sure he’ll adore the photograph. And I’m sure he’s fine over there. I wish I could be there myself, but I’m prone to asthma.”

“I know I look a fright after the flu, so I’m not sure I’ll be much comfort to him.”

“Nonsense—you’re enchanting. Your husband will love seeing the two of you alive and well.” Mr. Darning opened the door for the pair. “I’ll have the photograph ready in two days, and then you can put a wonderful little package in the mail to raise his spirits.”

“Thank you.”

They said their good-byes, and Mr. Darning closed the door and swiveled toward me. “Miss Black. How are you?”

I pushed myself out of the chair. “I’m all right.”

His blue eyes warmed with compassion. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I—” I remembered that the last time Mr. Darning had seen me, Julius and Grant were dragging me away from Stephen’s casket while I kicked and screamed about Stephen’s whispers. “Um … you offered me a free photograph when you visited my aunt’s house, and I would like to take you up on that opportunity.”

“Certainly. But didn’t your aunt want to come along, too?”

“She’s at work, so I’m here on my own. If you don’t mind, I also have some questions I’d like to ask you about spirit photography.”

“Ah, I see. Well, I’d be happy to answer them.” He waved for me to join him in the studio. “Come on back and you can ask me whatever you’d like while we set up your portrait.”

I followed him around the corner, and the familiar atmosphere in that main room knocked me off balance. I had to hold on to the back of a nearby armchair to recover from a painful wave of nostalgia for Stephen’s father’s old studio up in Portland. The assortment of props piled next to the staging area—fake boulders, parasols, teddy bears, Parisian fans with long white feathers—summoned memories of rainy Oregon weekends spent inside Mr. Embers’s workplace. Stephen and I would wear grown-up-size costume hats and read books or
play games while lounging on the studio’s velvet-upholstered chairs and settees. I remembered the scents of darkroom chemicals and smoke and the lingering sweetness of customers’ perfumes, as well as the sacred silence of Stephen’s father developing his photographs.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Black?” asked Mr. Darning.

I nodded. “I’m fine.”

He slid a rectangular wooden holder containing the used photographic plate out of the back of his boxy camera. “Let me go put this glass plate in my darkroom. I’ll be right with you.” He strolled through a doorway to the left, but he was back in less than a minute, rubbing his hands, ready to jump into work. “Now,” he began as he scooted the wicker chair he had been using for the previous portrait to an empty spot at the side of the studio, “what did you want to know about spirit photography?”

“Well …” I picked at a navy string dangling off my right cuff and tried to figure out where to start. “My aunt said you’ve been exposing fake spirit photographers across the country.”

“That’s right.” He rolled up the backdrop with the painted garden. “I traveled during the summer mostly, before the flu started shutting down cities. Far too many photographers have added spirit images to their repertoire, I’m afraid. The wave of grief sweeping across the land has resulted in desperation and gullibility.”

“‘Like rummies chasing bottles.’”

He peeked over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“That’s how Stephen Embers described the desperation when he talked about his brother’s customers. He said he’d hear them crying downstairs and it broke his heart. It’s sickening to think of people preying upon grief.”

“It is sickening, but the crooked photographers all use the same tricks, so they’re easy to catch. They believe they’re skilled enough to fool me.” He pulled down a plain gray canvas. “The only one who’s proven to be a challenge is our own Julius Embers.”

“I’m guessing you’ll catch him one day, though.”

“Perhaps.”

I stopped picking at my sleeve. “You don’t think he’s telling the truth, do you?”

“Part of me wants to believe.”