The Spirit Room (27 page)

Finally there was a knock at the door. When she said, “come in,” Weston entered but not Papa.

“
Miss Clara Benton, you are a sight, very beautiful.” Taking off his straw hat, he approached her.

“
I can’t get to the buttons. Where’s Papa?”

“
We had a little talk. He was in a hurry to leave for a business appointment.”

Double rot
. She had to be alone with him again and there he was showing off his teeth, smiling ear to ear like he was trying for a blue ribbon in a contest for handsome teeth.

“
Let me help you with the buttons.”

She stepped back. That wasn’t right, him fussing with the dress. He was Sam Weston, Papa’s friend. Even if the dress was his gift to her, he shouldn’t be helping her with it.

“
Please. I want to see how pretty you look in it, how it fits.”

She stared at him a moment, hoping he would change his mind, but when he didn’t budge, she turned her back to him and faced the mantel. At first he did nothing. What the
jo-fire
was he doing behind her? He wasn’t opening his buttons again, was he? Then she felt two, or maybe three, fingertips at the base of her neck. They began to inch down, a dry worm crawling along her spine. She held her breath, bit down on the inside of her lower lip. The fingertips arrived at her sweaty shimmy between her shoulder blades. Then the full warm flat of Weston’s hand slid inside her chemise and came to rest on her back.

Her back tensed up as hard as an iron skillet. Then again, there were his fingertips drifting across her skin just inside the top of her chemise. Papa couldn’t have agreed to this. Why couldn’t Weston just leave now? Tears began to leak from her eyes. Papa couldn’t have agreed to this.

She felt a small pressure at her lower back. He secured a button and began working his way up, one button at a time. But it was taking him forever and a day. Her tears flowed now. When he finished, she let go of the dress shoulders and brushed her tears with both hands.

“
Turn around then. The dress is perfect from behind.”

But her face was still wet, her eyes overflowing. He’d see that she was crying.

“
Come on then. Let me see. Don’t be shy.”

When she spun around, she was still wiping at her face with her palms. His smile vanished.

“
No, no, my sweet Clara. Don’t be sad. The dress is beautiful. You are beautiful. Everything is fine. I haven’t hurt you now, have I?”

She shook her head, kept mopping at her eyes.

“
I have an idea. Next time I come, I’ll bring you a bonnet to go with the dress. Would you like that?”

A summer bonnet would be sweet. She glanced down at the indigo blue dots. Were they the color of the sea? Having never seen the sea in person, she couldn’t be sure. She nodded at him.

“
Good then.”

Was crying and nodding all it took to get a new bonnet?

“
I will talk to your father about our next time together.”

While he gathered his hat and prepared to go, to finally go, she thought that she would also be talking to Papa about that next time as well. There wouldn’t be one. That was all there was to it. No next time. A bonnet wasn’t enough. Papa said she could call the thing off if she didn’t like it and she didn’t. She despised it. And not only that, there had to be a huge misunderstanding in the first place about the five dollars and Sam Weston’s ideas about courting. As soon as she explained things to Papa, he’d set Weston right. There wouldn’t be any more of that dusty corner, the prick, or those creepy-crawly fingers on her neck. Or anything else for that matter. Papa said she could call it off.

Weston tipped his straw hat at her from the door, winked, and left. No, sir, Mr. Weston, that’s the end of that. You’ll see.

<><><>

CLARA TWISTED, STRETCHED, AND TUGGED until she got the new dress off. It was a perfect dress. It fit as though a seamstress had measured every inch of her body. And the blue against the white was bright and bold. Everyone would notice the dress when she wore it out, but now she wanted to go to the lake and wash her white séance dress, wash Weston’s slime off it. To clean the séance dress, she’d simply swim in it.

Outside, it was hot, almost evening. People weren’t rushing home. Instead of bustling, the street seemed slowed down, like a dream. People were milling around, talking or sitting on top of crates or up high on the seats of their wagons and carriages, but no one was getting anywhere.

A horse was hitched just outside her door. The mare’s jet black coat, stinky with sweat, glistened in the late day sun. Clara walked to her and tentatively reached out to touch the horse’s fuzzy snout. The mare snorted and jerked its big head. Clara snatched her hand away, but the horse seemed calm, its tail swishing gently at buzzing flies.

“
You’re not the old nag that was being yelled at before, are you?” The mare looked at her with huge round black eyes. Creeping around the side of the mare, Clara rested the side of her face on the solid warm neck and breathed in the smell of the horse’s damp coat.

“
I’m going swimming. I wish I could take you with me. You’re hot. But don’t tell anyone I’m going. I can’t afford the two dollar fine if I get caught. I don’t think they have fines for horses swimming so you’d be all right.” She kissed the gigantic black neck. “Goodbye, then.”

If she walked south of the harbor, past the Long Pier, past where Water Street ended at the bottom of the big hill, she’d mostly be out of anyone’s sight. Let the Constable or that cow-face Sheriff Swift arrest her. It wouldn’t matter. She was sweltering, practically dizzy. She had to wash, needed a bath, a cool bath, over her skin, toes, hair—everything all at once. She had to wash the slime away.

The town boys sometimes swam within the town limits naked after dark, after eight o’clock when there weren’t any fines. But she wanted to swim right now and get rid of her sodden undergarments. She could leave them all on a branch in the hot breeze to dry while she floated on her back in the cold clean water in nothing but the white dress.

When she got to Water Street, two boys, hooting and laughing, were riding a seesaw, a big plank set on a barrel. Up one boy, then down, up the other boy, then down. The seesaw creaked and wobbled. Two other boys, waiting their turn, watched. They all ignored her, but an older boy, standing in the open doorway of a tenement building, one of those places her family might be living if it weren’t for Mrs. Purcell, smiled at her, tipped his cap and said, “Lovely evening, Miss.”

She crumpled the skirt of her dress where it was stained to hide Weston’s spot and smiled back at him. Eyes straight ahead on her destination, she kept going. When she got to the end of the street, she walked a short while along a rubble path until she was just beneath the mansions high above on Main Street. No one was around. Nestling herself behind a huckleberry shrub, she wrenched off her boots and coaxed off her sweaty stockings. She tugged off her white dress, shimmy, petticoat, and pantalettes and dropped them all on the ground, then scrambled back into the dress. Finally she left the shrub draped with her clothing.

The rocks were cool and soothing under her feet as she made her way to the water. The rippling water slurped over her toes. What if she got caught? What if the Constable or one of his young deputies came by looking for illegal swimmers? They did that sometimes on hot days. Two dollars. Two dollars for a bath. That would be a fair part of Papa’s five dollars from Weston.

Weston. A picture of him burst into her mind, with his red hard prick, his pumping hand, his slack face, his voice calling out her name,
Clara, Clara
. She covered her ears and stepped forward into the water. At first, her ankles were shocked by the cold.
Clara, Clara.
She stumbled, banged a toe on a rock. “Ouch.” She caught her balance, waded in a few more steps, stumbled again, caught herself again. The water rose up to her calves, her knees, her thighs. She shivered, wrapped her arms around her waist and stared down at her dress floating around her legs. Leaning over, she stretched out her hands and dove out flat into the surface of the lake. Chilled from scalp to toe, she glided out. She swam toward the opposite shore, which was miles and miles away. His voice still echoed inside her ears.
Clara, my Clara
. If she filled her ears with water, that would shut him up.

She took a huge breath, held it in, and dove deep toward the bottom. She stroked hard. The water below was yellowish, green, full of moving shadows, shafts of light, floating specks and plants that looked like wiggling cornhusks. She stroked harder, pulled herself deeper. A school of minnows scattered into four smaller schools and darted away. Her lungs begged for air, but she kept her mouth and throat clamped tight. The beams of light and colors were so pretty, the minnows so fast, the cold water so clean.

Is this what Mamma wanted? Did she want to live under the water with her ears plugged so she couldn’t hear her spirit voices? Did she want to live where no one could see whether she was naked or clothed? Mamma, is this what you wanted?

She grabbed a stalk of the billowy husk plant. It slid from her grip. She hit a pocket of icy water. Golden-eyed, and with silver sparkling scales, a fish hovered near her and stared at her. She stared back. It flitted off into the shadows.

Her lungs were about to explode. If she opened her mouth now, she could drink in the lake. The lake would quench her. She could be with Mamma, in the lake with Mamma. Air. Air. Air. She needed to climb. Tucking, she turned herself, pointed hands up, arms up to the bright, the sky. She kicked hard.

She wasn’t going to make it. It was too far. She was about to burst. She’d waited too long, swam too far down. She stroked. The water was heavy, wouldn’t get out of her way. One more pull. That was two. One more. That was three. Her mouth was going to open against her will. She’d drown like Mamma. No. Mamma, don’t let me.
Please
. She clenched her teeth as hard as she could. Just one more stroke, four, and five, six, seven, eight, nine, then her hands broke the surface. Her head burst out of the water.
Air
. Mouth gaping open wide, she sucked loudly. She sucked again and again. A sledge hammer beat at her chest. She was all right. Not drowned. The blue sky, sunshine, and wispy clouds were hers, hers. Her heart began to slow from its frantic pounding.

Gradually, treading became easier, breathing easier. Like a traveler on a boat she was out some distance in the lake.

On the shore, near her clothing on the shrub, there was a young man approaching the water. He was wearing a constable’s hat she realized. He was a deputy.
Hell-fire
. She’d have to talk him out of the two dollar fine. He watched her as he scrambled along the rocks. Maybe he’d like a free séance, she thought.

<><><>

THE CONSTABLE’S DEPUTY WAS POLITE, even shy. When she climbed out of the lake, dripping like a just-caught bass on a hook, he mentioned the fine more like a gentle threat. “You know you are breaking the village ordinance even in that dress,” but then he looked her up and down and asked her if she wanted him to walk her home. When she declined his offer, he wished her a good evening without mentioning the fine again, and walked down the rubble path toward town. Her dress was clean of Weston’s stain, but had turned a little yellow from the lake water. She shoveled her wet feet into her boots, rolled up her undergarments into a ball, and tucked them under her arm. As much as she could, to keep away from being seen in the clinging, dripping dress, she took alleys and footpaths up the hill to get home.

Later on, in the candle-lit kitchen, Clara held the wet séance dress across her arms, ready to hang it out on the line. As she reached the back door, lightning snapped and a giant roll of thunder boomed and rain flooded from the sky. She opened the door and stood listening to the thunder crashing and rain pelting. After a short while, the rain eased and drifted off. The trees and roof continued to spit down noisy streams. That’s it, she thought. That’s the end of summer. And that’s the end of Sam Weston, too. She would talk to Papa in the morning about him.

She took the candle lantern with her outside and set it down on the soaked grass near the laundry line. She hoisted the dress over the line and raised a wooden pin to clip it tight.

“
I brought you a gift.”

“
Oh!” Clara’s heart hopped like a cricket. But it was only Papa. “You scared me.”

“
I got you these. Here.” He held out something small and black, draped over his palm. “It’s those lace mitts.”

It was a pair of black gloves, the lace kind with open fingertips that girls and women wore when they dressed up. How did he know she wanted a pair of those?

After taking them from him, she immediately inserted a hand and tugged one on. The lace was snug and reached half way up her forearm. Bending down toward the candlelight, she admired her delicate, grown-up hand.

“
They’re beautiful. Thank you, Papa.”

Dang
. This was going to make it harder to tell him she didn’t want to go on with Weston. She took a deep breath and stood up straight. If she was going to tell him, it had better be now.