The Spirit Room (32 page)

Clara wrapped her arms across her waist. She felt like a tree careening, felled with one swipe of his axe.

“
Would you leave us again, Papa?”

He retrieved his spectacles from his bedside table and put them on. As he watched her a moment, his scowl softened. His brown hair was sticking out in a wild mess. Clara trembled as she waited for him to answer her. In the end it didn’t matter what she wanted. She would have to do whatever Papa and Weston wanted if it meant keeping Papa home, keeping the family together.

“
No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, Little Plum. We go together or we stay here together. I didn’t mean it. You and Billy and Euphora are all I’ve got in this world. You’re all I’ve got left of my dear wife.” He scratched the tip of one of his big ears, then tried to smooth down his hair. “Go on. Find your work. We’ll be all right. I’m tired of this house anyway.”

He peered around the room, his gaze lingering a moment on something. She turned to see. It was Mrs. Purcell’s print of the slave traders separating a Negro man from his wife and child. “I’m tired of Emma, too. She’s a strict old grandmother, givin’ me the evil eye all the time. And those spinster sisters. They’re always titterin’ behind my back. A man don’t need that.” He sat up and leaned against the wood headboard. “Maybe we can build a little cabin out of town along the canal somewhere.”

Trembling easing, Clara exhaled. Yes, their own place. Maybe that’s what Papa needed.

“
Euphora knows how to cook now since Mrs. Purcell taught her. We can take care of you, Papa, and Billy can get his strong friends from the Nursery to help build the cabin.”

She longed to see Papa’s crooked-tooth grin right then, to see him sparkle the way he did when there was the prospect of something new, but he didn’t smile, not even a little. He took off his spectacles, returned them to the side table, then lay back down sliding the quilt up over his shoulders.

“
That’s right, Little Plum. Now go on and let me sleep.”

Twenty-Five

CLARA KNEW SHE HAD TO GET AWAY from Sam Weston’s paramour proposal and make Papa happy at the same time and nothing but money could do both. She put on her dark green dress with the white stripes and lace collar and covered up with Mamma’s old black hooded cape. Then she set out in the stinging sleet of early winter to visit every tailor and dressmaker in Geneva. First she went to Mr. Finck, the tailor she and Mamma had worked for, but he said he already had too much help. Then she went to Mrs. Beattie, their Spirit Room landlady, who had the millinery shop on the street floor.

“
I’m sorry, dear. I just don’t need anyone right now,” Mrs. Beattie had said. “You’ll find something. Be sure to visit Mrs. Spencer, Miss Habernathy, and the Sullivans and tell them I sent you.”

She rattled off a long list of even more names and was kind enough to write them all down for Clara, but when Clara trudged around the village and knocked on doors, no one needed her. They said, “Come back next week,” or “In two weeks I might have some waistcoats for you,” or “Come every Monday. Maybe I’ll have some velvet bands for you to set as trim.”

At the end of the second day Clara had spoken to everyone on Mrs. Beattie’s list. Clara crumpled the list in her hand as she headed home. She’d never be able to get away from Sam Weston now. Dragging her feet slower and slower, she drifted to a stop at the corner of Linden Street and waited for the Price, Shimmer & Co. coal wagon to rumble by.

She thought about meeting with Weston for the money. She thought about Papa’s sad gray eyes. She stayed fixed on the corner wondering what she could do. There had to be something. If only she could talk to Izzie, but she could never tell her about being a paramour, could she? For the Fridays with Sam alone, Izzie would think she was shameful and awful. Maybe she would write Izzie a letter and try to explain some of it. But if Papa found that she let his secret out, he’d be furious and there was no telling what he’d do. Glancing back toward the lake, she pondered stowing away on a steamship and disappearing for good.

Her fingers tingled with cold and her cape was soaked and heavy. She’d better get by a fire. Clara stepped down onto the dirt and stone street. When she reached Mrs. Beattie’s, she looked inside. Mrs. Beattie was dusting a black velvet bonnet on display in the window and when she noticed Clara, she beckoned to her.

The doorbell jingled as Clara entered and greeted Mrs. Beattie who kept at her dusting.

“
What do you think of the Chantilly lace on this one?”

“
Pretty.”

“
It needs something else. Ostrich feathers?”

Clara felt her eyes water up, so she looked away, out at a pack of five boys running by on the street with sticks in their hands. The sleet was slower coming down now and was turning to snow.

“
No one hired you?”

Clara shook her head.

“
I gave it more thought. I think I could use some help in the mornings. I could only pay you a dollar a week.”

Mrs. Beattie’s blue eyes were a bright winter sky. Clara fell toward her, toward her golden-sun blond hair and sweet smile, and embraced her.

“
Thank you. Thank you.”

“
Now, now. It’s only a dollar a week.”

Clara felt Mrs. Beattie pat her back.

“
When may I start?”

“
Tomorrow morning.”

<><><>

IT WAS A CLOUDY, COLD SATURDAY, the end of her first week with Mrs. Beattie and Clara was looking forward to being paid her first ever honest wage. She was sweeping up discarded threads and fabric bits from Mrs. Beattie’s workroom floor. The room was cozy, a coal fire burning in the iron stove since dawn. The two north windows at the back of her shop faced an alley and even on a sunny day, the room was dull, but the colorful fabrics and ribbons and feathers always made the room cheerful.

On her first day at the milliner’s, Mrs. Beattie had asked Clara to cut some navy blue wool for a simple cap and when she found that Clara was precise with the scissors, she lit up like a gas streetlight.

“
Oh my, Clara, this is perfect.”

Every day she had asked Clara to try something new. On Wednesday, when a man from out of town, who was in Geneva on business, came by wanting gifts for his wife as well as two daughters, Mrs. Beattie asked Clara to model one hat after another while she did the same. The two of them stood side by side in front of the long mirror smiling at their reflections. Mrs. Beattie lowered a wonderful brown velvet hat with two red roses onto Clara’s brunette hair. Then Mrs. Beattie, who had explained that her very fair blond hair was due to her mother being Swedish, put another hat, a pale cream wool, on her own head. With the flair of an actress on stage, Mrs. Beattie tied the string under Clara’s chin and made a sort of bow and curtsy.

The man must have been impressed with their presentation since he purchased three of Mrs. Beattie’s most elegant hats, a blue silk, a straw with red ribbon, and a bonnet with lace, pink flowers, and wide plaid strings. Beaming like a blazing sun, Mrs. Beattie wrote up the bill. “Come back and see us when you are in Geneva again, Mr. Worth,” she’d said and later she told Clara they would try her out at sales again soon.

“
Clara, here is your wage.” Mrs. Beattie came toward her with an outstretched hand. “I wish it could be more.”

“
Thank you.” Into her open palm, Clara accepted the small gold dollar. She glanced at the Indian head with its feather headdress, then squeezed her hand tight over the coin. After earning three or even four dollars for one group séance, and having several séances a week when things were going like wild fire with Izzie, a dollar wage for six mornings of work seemed rather puny, but it would have to do for now. Next week she would find more work.

“
What will your father want to do with the room upstairs? I need to know.”

“
Oh, I think we are letting it go.”

“
Will you ask him to come in and speak to me about it?” Mrs. Beattie’s blue eyes squinted a bit.

“
Do we owe you rent?” Papa hadn’t said anything about this. She only knew that they owed Mrs. Purcell money, but Mrs. Purcell had been an angel and forgiven it for the time being.

“
I’ll talk to him about it, Clara. It’s not your concern. Tell him to come by early in the week.”

Clara nodded and, collecting Mamma’s cape, she walked out of the shop. Out on the sidewalk the brisk air chilled her instantly. The muddy street was bustling as usual with wagons and carriages. When she had walked half way up the incline toward Main Street, she saw Papa in his low crown felt hat and greatcoat, arms tight across his chest, coming towards her.

“
Papa.”

“
Did you get paid?” He put his hand out.

Still clutching the gold dollar in her fist, she hadn’t even thought to put it in a pocket. Sighing, she dropped it into his wide-open hand. It hadn’t been hers more than three and a half minutes.

His face looked empty and drained for a moment as he stared at the gold coin, the side with the “one” surrounded by a wreath. “This will carry us to about dinner time.”

“
I’ll make more next week.”

He put the coin into his coat pocket and stepped around her. Then he continued walking toward Water Street. He had left her with no “thank you, Little Plum,” no “good work, daughter,” no pat, no smile, no anything. She felt like one of those mud ruts on the street, flattened by a wagon wheel.

“
Mrs. Beattie wants to talk to you about the Spirit Room,” she called after him.

Taking long duck-like strides, he kept on down Seneca Street. Without even a sideways glance, he passed right by Mrs. Beattie’s shop door, and then strutted on toward the lake, toward his taverns most likely. And with him went the dollar, her dollar, which probably wasn’t going where it was owed, to Mrs. Purcell or to Mrs. Beattie for rent on the Spirit Room, but most likely it was going to his friend, John Payne, the saloonkeeper.

Drawing up the hood of her cape, she drew the cloth as far around her face as she could. If only she could disappear altogether. Out in the harbor, a double pipe steamboat was making its way south. Someday, when she was older, she’d take a steamboat away from here. She’d go to New York City and sell bonnets and gloves and silk scarves at A.T. Stewart’s store on Broadway and wear handsome dresses like Mrs. Beattie did. Someday.

<><><>

AFTER CLARA STARTED WORKING for Mrs. Beattie, Papa wasn’t home much. He’d come by the Blue Room on Saturday nights and collect Billy’s wages and Clara’s dollar and ask if she had another job yet. After five weeks and five dollars, Clara hadn’t found another job. There was always an older woman, usually a mother, ahead of her that got the work. Clara would hear Papa come into his bedchamber some nights in the wee hours and some nights he didn’t come in at all. A few times he came to supper, but he and Mrs. Purcell just glared at each other the whole time. That made everyone either talk too much or not talk at all. Clara wasn’t sure if Papa was paying Mrs. Purcell anything for room and board or not.

One night a loud clatter, much louder than Papa’s usual noises, coming from somewhere in the house, woke Clara. It was a quarter moon night, just enough to see the shape of things in the dark.

“
Billy, Billy, did you hear that? Is it Papa?”

“
What?”

“
Wake up and git down here!” Papa called from downstairs. “We got some business. Billy. Git down here!”

Something crashed in Papa’s vicinity.

Clara cringed. “He’s real drunk.”

Euphora grabbed her arm under the quilt.

“
Aw, tarnation.” Billy shoved back his blanket and sat up.

“
Billy. Git down here now!”

“
I’ve got to get out of here. He’ll skin me alive. I wish this house had a back stairway.”

“
Maybe we should go into Mrs. Purcell’s bedchamber.” Clara pushed herself up in bed. It was cold, all the fires having died down hours ago.

“
He sounds like he’s stewed to his ears.” Billy said as he rose. He picked up his trousers off the foot of the bed and began to dress in the dark. “It’s none of Mrs. Purcell’s business. I can get by him. He’s too drunk to catch me. I can slip by him before he knows I’m there.”

“
What if he’s faster than you think?” Euphora asked. She pressed against Clara’s side.

“
Clara, take Euphora into Mrs. Purcell’s room if you’re scared. I’m going.”

Just then the doorknob clicked and a light shone in. Clara gasped and clutched at Euphora, but her little sister squirmed away under the quilt.

It was Mrs. Purcell with a candle lantern. She looked like a ghost, her white hair flowing down around her shoulders, her white cotton night robe covering her from neck to toe.