The Swan Gondola (38 page)

Dear Cecily,

Tell me something only
we
know.

F.

Dear Ferret,

1. The day we danced a waltz hanging off wires.

2. The day you pressed into my palm a scent bottle made of shell, and when I twist its stopper, it smells of caraway seeds and flower petals.

3. On Sundays, those days the Fair was dry, our favorite waiter at the midway café served us our beer in teacups.

4. On the days Dox and me felt melancholy, you called us “colly-molly” and it cheered us up.

5. At the glassblower's booth, you bought me my little ruby-red glass, etched with my name, almost—the old man hadn't heard you right, so he left the
y
off. And you called me Cecil for days after. You pronounced it
See-sill
.

6. The shoes you gave me on the day it rained.

7. Mexican cigarettes.

8. Dandelion honey.

9. That place you kiss on my neck.

I am,

Cecily

January and February
1899

E
VERY DAY
I
DROVE
Hester's haggard horse to town. Some days there were two letters from Cecily waiting for me. Some days, three. Some days, I posted two or three myself. I got in the habit of reading the letters there at the post office, and I would write in response right on the page, my words twisting around hers, my script weeding along the margins and around the roses and posies embossed in the corners. I believed in her.
If this is deception
, I once wrote,
deceive me.

When the wind bit too harshly, the librarian let me stay among the books. I curled up in quilts under the table, breathing in the smell of worn leather and glue, and the vanilla scent of old paper, just as I had on the nights of my childhood, when studying under Mr. Crowe. When I couldn't sleep from the noise of the ice and snow, I read and reread Cecily's letters at the window. In the thick of winter it never got dark—there was always that haze of silver and gray that bounced the moonlight around.

The librarian was a young woman named Eulalie—when I first saw it spelled on the plaque on her desk, I thought it was pronounced
You-lay-lee
. After weeks of my saying it that way, she finally said, “You-LAH-lee.”

Confused, I said, “I lolly?”

It was the very end of January, and a table was covered with lace and crepe paper, scissors and glue; she'd been instructing the town's lovelorn on the construction of valentines and the composing of poems. “My name,” she said. “It's Eulalie, with a
la
in the middle.” She raised her scissors and waved them like a wand, like conducting a choir, and she sang,
“La-la-la-la-la-la-la
.
”

She twisted an expert poppy from tissue paper as she sat on the edge of the table. She crossed her thin legs, and I saw the heavy winter boots she wore, a farmer's boots with buckles, lined in lamb's wool.

Eulalie knew I was all caught up in letters from a lady friend, and she naturally assumed my love was a woman who lived. “When will you go find your girl?” she asked. She wired a stem to the bloom. “There's nothing here to keep you, is there?”

“There's nowhere to go,” I said.

“Hm,” she said, holding the flower before her, as if confiding in it, “what could he possibly mean by that?”

“Do you believe in ghosts, You-la-la-la-lee?”

“I believe in the spirit,” she said. “I believe in the soul.”

“I'm talking about unholy ghosts,” I said. “The ones that aren't in heaven.”

She held the paper flower to her nose. “The ones that rattle the windowpanes?” she said, as the windowpanes rattled. She smiled and stood from the table. “No,” she said. “I suppose I don't.” She shrugged her shoulders. “No ghosts have crept up on me. But I trust others when they say that they've seen them. I believe in other people's ghosts, I guess.” She took a book from the shelf, and thumbed through its pages. She finally found what she looked for, and she marked the page with the wire stem of the paper poppy. She handed me the book—
Around the World in Eighty Days
. “This made me think of you,” she said. “Read this instead of those.” She nodded toward the stack of letters I carried around with me everywhere. I helped Eulalie on with her coat, a threadbare thing that had already had a long life as a patchwork quilt. She lived only a few doors down, in a room above the drugstore.

Her flower marked a page with an illustration of a hot-air balloon. I read a little of the book's middle, before backing up to the start. I sat by the library window and stayed up all night, reading front to end. When I got to the part about Phileas Fogg riding a sledge with a topmast and jib over the snowy fields and creeks of Nebraska, across the frozen Platte, catching a winter wind and sailing to Omaha, it seemed I could step out the door and into the story.

I finished the novel before morning, and I wrote Cecily a letter on one of the paper hearts, following the line and curve of the edges, turning the heart as I wrote, spiraling the sentences inward.
I'll rig a sail to a sled and get to you by nightfall
, I told her.

I
N THOSE FIRST DAYS
of February, it had never been so cold in all the history of writing things down. The temperature fell past zero, past minus ten, past minus twenty, past thirty, past forty. The numbers on our thermometers didn't even go so low. And as the temperatures dropped, the drifts rose. Four inches, six inches, twelve. The snow closed the roads, slowed the trains. The coal ran out. A fire in town raged as the firemen watched, the water from their nozzles turning to ice and falling like hail.

I couldn't get to the post office to collect my letters, but even if I'd made the journey, and even if I'd survived it, there'd likely been no delivery at all. Later, when we were able to see a newspaper again, we would learn that the blizzard hadn't been only ours. The quilt of white spread out far past our fields. We'd shared the blizzard with much of the country, though we'd had no way of knowing so at the time. The storm had muffled our noise, trapping us in our rooms. No words reached us.

Hester, who wasn't typically biblical, nonetheless now suspected I was a messenger of the Revelation. “‘And I saw another mighty angel come down from heaven, clothed with a cloud,'” she recited, as we high-stepped through the drifts, the two of us, on our way to a neighboring farm. “There are prophets who say the world will end when the century does,” she added.

The temperatures had finally begun to rise, the mercury inching back to zero. We'd covered our faces with woolen masks and buried ourselves in coats and scarves. We were off to help a farmer feed his struggling cattle.

“I'm no angel,” I said, my voice cracked from the cold.

“You are today,” she said. “We're doing a good deed.” Hester was the closest thing to a veterinarian anywhere nearby. She often helped her neighbors contend with livestock illnesses—hog cholera, tuberculosis, swine plague. She'd picked ticks off other farmers' pigs, led infected cattle through paraffin dips. She'd splinted the broken bones of horses. She'd committed herself to the animals' well-being, even here, during the coldest winter of the century, even at the age of seventy something. And she even moved quicker than I did, springing her legs up and over the tall drifts like a hound after fox.

She then told me a story I'd already heard from Emmaline, but Emmaline had insisted I never tell Hester I knew anything of it. “It was too painful a mistake,” Emmaline had whispered.

“We only had cattle on our own farm once,” Hester said, the vapors of her breath so cloudy in the cold, I couldn't see her eyes as she looked back at me. “Just a few summers ago,” she said. “I don't know what possessed us. Has Emmaline told you about it?”

“No,” I lied.

They'd shot the sickest of their cattle during an epidemic of blackleg. The killing, Hester said, not of all the cattle, but the youngest, strongest ones, the ones that this particular fever found most vulnerable, had changed both the Old Sisters Egan, unalterably so. Emmaline had not allowed Hester to take on the assassination alone. “In all our years together,” Hester told me, “in a house of guns, Emmaline had never learned to fire one. So that one early Sunday morning of the slaughter, I taught Emmaline how the rifle worked.”

“I'm not an excellent student even in the best of situations,” Emmaline had told me. It took well over an hour for her to master the loading of the gun, the holding of it, the proper stance against recoil. Hester, slowly, in gentle voice, had exercised such a grave kindness, Emmaline had wanted forever to be under her instruction, in that awful, tragic dawn.

“But I'm the one who had nightmares after,” Hester said. “Every night, every hour, I'd scream and yell. I didn't even wake myself up. But I sure as hell woke Emmaline. Every hour, every night, for two years, I woke that poor girl.”

“I've never heard you scream,” I said.

“The nightmares stopped when you got here,” she said. “And Emmaline got to sleep through the night again. And when she got to sleep again, she started dreaming up that language and that Emerald Cathedral.”

Emmaline hadn't told me any of that—she hadn't told me about the nightmares, and when they started, and when they ended. My legs grew even heavier, my steps slower in the snow. I belonged here. This farm had pulled me from the sky.

T
HE MOMENT THE AIR
was no longer so cold it'd kill you, the neighbors returned to our barn. They came to the farm in the heavy fur coats they'd stitched from the prairie wolves they'd shot. Sometimes the wolves' legs and tails, still attached to their pelts, dragged in the snow behind them. The farmers wore hats made from the rabbits from their gardens, the rabbits' ears sticking out from the men's heads, and they pulled along children's sleds, the junk piled on—rusted pump handles, chamber pots with cracks, tin buckets full of bedsprings, gas chandeliers with broken glass globes. They toiled for hours, reverent and purposeful, attaching these fragments to the Emerald Cathedral with great care.

The farmers had persevered through flood and drought and now the worst winter on record. Some came to the cathedral because they heard God's voice in their ears, like Old Testament Noah, and they longed to be touched by divinity, for their faith to be restored by this inexplicable mission. Others came in defiance of the God they'd lost, the cathedral their own Tower of Babel, their own godless, renegade church. Regardless of what brought them, they left invigorated by the wonder of it all.

I watched from the window. All I could think about were the letters from Cecily, so I lost the thread of the cathedral—I could no longer sense where it was going. Whereas I'd once seen in it something taking shape, now I saw only shapelessness. I worried we'd gone too far with it—I worried we'd reached its completion weeks before, but we hadn't known enough to stop. On the nights when the whole county converged on the barn, for a dance or a feast, I feared it would fall in on us all, wiping us off the map in one fell swoop, like the slap of a tsunami.

I would serve as oracle as I always did, a few hours a day, for those who came to the house, but the rest of the time I read and reread the notes from my ghost. I read them out of order. I read pieces from this one, pieces from that.

Did I already tell you that he buried me in an electromagnetic corset?
she'd written once. Had she told me already? I didn't know, because I no longer read the letters in order.

In her death, Cecily wrote often of her health. Not only had she and Wakefield traveled to many hot springs in late summer, but they'd gone to hospitals and universities. They'd sat through seminars and experiments. She'd spent a week in hydrotherapy, swathed in wet shawls, stepping barefoot through wet grass and across wet stones. She'd had private sessions with a swami, who guided her on matters of truth and existence. Attached to her ankle she'd worn a cylinder meant to feed her extra oxygen.

Please understand, Ferret
, she wrote.
Billy was no villain. He loved me somehow. I say “somehow” because how could he love someone he knew so little? Why would he want to save a stranger? But when he saw me, he saw his dead wife, I suppose. I looked nothing like her, but she and me must've shared the same rotten insides. Beneath our skin, she and me were the same. Our hearts were little clocks ticking the same last minutes away. If he saved me, he'd save her, in a sense. And in a sense, he'd save the boy by saving Doxie, which may be the saddest story of all. They'd gone to the Chicago World's Fair, him and his wife and the boy, and they'd gone home and they'd built their own little White City with matchsticks in the library. And after the train crash that killed the boy, Billy vowed to build a world's fair in his memory. So he devoted himself to the New White City. He formed boards and committees. He hired architects. He built our Fair up from nothing but a field. And the wife faded away. And she died while he designed his memorial to his son.

That was the letter I read the most often. Because it pained me the most, I suppose. It seemed written by somebody else. I didn't want Cecily to be so forgiving. I didn't want to know how sympathetic she was to the man who stole her from me. I wanted her letters about Wakefield to be full of accusation. I wanted her to blame him. I wanted all his cures to have been her killer.
The electromagnetic corset sapped my strength
, I wanted her to confess.

•   •   •

I
DROVE A SLEIGH TO TOWN,
my legs under a lap robe of rabbit fur, a bed warmer once hot from its coals stuck in under the cushion of the bench. I looked like an old beggar woman with my head wrapped all round with a scarf, hunched against the wind, a quilt thrown over my shoulders. By the time I reached Bonnevilla, my beard was white with icicles, my cheeks a raw red.

The mail had resumed, and a postcard waited for me, its delicate paper lace only slightly tattered, its ribbons still in their proper knots. At the center of the heart-shaped card was a cupid stamped in gold foil, and on the back, Cecily had written in a tiny script:

I used to know a girl named Gertie who worked in a factory making valentines. She sat in a line, and every girl added a little something else to the same heart. Gertie would add a paper rose, or little satin lovebirds, or a little linen card with a poem printed on it. She said sometimes she'd add a strand of her own hair, maybe twisting it around a button, or tucking it into a stitch of thread. She had to quit the factory when she went blind from it. I guess this isn't a very romantic story, so I'll end here.

But she didn't end there. She ended with an invitation.
Meet me
at the Fair
, she wrote.
At three o'clock. In the
Agricultural Building on Valentine's Day, where we once watched the pigeons escape through the hole in the roof
.

My ghost wanted to be seen.

•   •   •

O
N THE TRAIN TO
O
MAHA,
on Valentine's Day, I was filled with dread. That very afternoon I would be faced with Cecily's imposter. I'd orchestrated my own undoing. I was a morbid, lovelorn fool who'd gone off to dig up another man's dead wife. The train hurried on its tracks, at an ungodly speed it seemed, the train perhaps trying to make up for all the hours lost in the storm. And I regretted leaving the farm at all. If I'd stayed behind, I considered, I'd still be miles from discovering anything at all.

I was playing right into Wakefield's hands. It was him, wasn't it, behind all this? All he'd ever wanted was everything I ever had. Why
wouldn't
he resurrect Cecily just to kill her in front of me? My torture was his hobby. I would suffer more than him.

On the farm, I'd come to believe in the logic of dreams. I believed in magic, perhaps even a heavenly order. I went up in the balloon so the balloon would come down, so Emmaline would dream, so the cathedral would rise, so Cecily would speak. Not only did I believe it, but it seemed insensible to believe anything else.

But as the train approached Omaha, black clouds rising from the stacks of the smelting works ahead, I felt I was the pawn of a darker magic altogether. There was only cruelty at work. Nothing else. I existed only to be Wakefield's victim.

I thought of the pretty little gun Rosie had strapped to his calf. I could tuck that gun up my sleeve, and as Wakefield stood before me, in the winter ruins of the New White City, I could promise a magic trick.
Nothing up my sleeves
, I would say, and as I lifted my cuffs to demonstrate that nothingness, I would drop the gun into my hand, and I'd send a bullet into his heart.

Could I murder a man?
Yes.
I could aim the gun, and if it was meant to go off, it would go off. And if the bullet was meant to stop his heart, it'd stop his heart. I was nothing but a victim of my own fate.

I felt a tug at my sleeve, and I realized I'd had my head in my hands. A little girl stood in the aisle wearing a white eiderdown coat, her blond hair as pale as a winter breath. “Are you all right, sir?” she said, with a pitying wrinkle of her brow.

I nodded. I smiled. “Yes,” I said. I smiled again, and nodded again. “Yes, thank you.” I felt ashamed, as if this angel had been dropped down to earth to look right into my head. I thought of my own little girl, my motherless Doxie.

She stepped back to her seat across the aisle, next to her mother, who glanced up at me with kind eyes before returning to her book in her hands.

There's nothing to be frightened of, I wanted to say.

•   •   •

A
S THE TRAIN PULLED UP
to the platform, I could only see the city through a fog of frost. Sunlight only barely burned through a spot in the haze, and the snow that fell lightly was ashen, as if from the clouds of smoke that collected up above.

The fog seemed to muffle not just the city's light but its noise too, stripping every sound down to its echo. Nearby voices sounded thinned by distance, and the horses' hooves on the cobblestones had a hollow clip-clop.

I headed straight to Thirteenth Street, to the Vendome Hotel where I knew I could get a squalid room for nothing much. It was the hotel where traveling salesmen perched as they passed through town to bilk old widows with real estate schemes and monogrammed Bibles. But on the sidewalk out front was a small shanty of boards and tin, and inside the shanty a cop kept cozy with a tiny stove as he watched the hotel's front door.

“Nobody goes in, and nobody gets out,” the cop said as he pushed the door open a crack. “Hotel's under quarantine.” Before I could ask for the specifics of the sickness, he'd shut his door to return to the apple he ate. I looked up at the hotel windows, to his prisoners, men and women who pressed close to the glass to see as far up the street as they could.

August's was only a few blocks away, so I headed off to his shop. I needed his forgiveness, I realized. I would fib, if I had to. I would tell him the balloon's rope had come undone on its own. Somehow, this had to be settled.

The door to the stairs in August's building, to his apartment, his lab, to my old office, was locked, so I stepped into his father's bookstore. The only customer was an old salt in a yachting cap studying a map with a magnifying glass. A long table stretched all down the middle of the shop, and the walls were lined with books packed tight in bookshelves. Atop the shelves were framed posters of all the somewhere elses to go—Paris, Berlin, Morocco.

I looked over the man's shoulder; the map depicted some island in some sea, and the mapmaker had playfully inserted a kitten-whiskered sea monster in the corner of the ocean, its serpentine tail crushing a ship.

At the other end of the shop stood a clerk with his back to me, but when I asked after August, and the man turned, I saw that this was August himself, in a kind of decline.
He
would consider it a decline, anyway—he looked every bit the dignified businessman. He'd cut his hair to the very nib and he wore a brown suit, a brown vest, a brown tie. The only sign of August anywhere in this serious gent was the cloud of perfume that hovered over him, some scent as precious as peonies, so strong it watered my eyes.

“Ferret,” August said, and the relief in his voice made me relieved too. He rushed into me, pressing himself against my chest, wrapping his arms around. I brought him closer, put my head to his.

August stepped away and glanced at the carpetbag at my feet. Before leaving the farm, I'd shoved my few scraps of clothing into the bag. Emmaline had unpacked it, pressed the clothes, and packed the bag up again. “Are you back to stay?” August said.

“I was going to check into the Vendome,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. “The Vendome.” He lifted his hand to his mouth and whispered, “
Smallpox
.” He said, “We're all afraid of an epidemic. There are a handful of houses locked up by the police, the families stuck inside, waiting for the disease to come or go. They've been trying to build a smallpox hospital at the edge of town, but it's been too bitterly cold to get the walls up.” He stopped, then took my hands in his, and squeezed them. “But don't worry, love. There are only a very few sick from the pox. And a few others sick from the pox vaccine. You'll stay here, up in my room.”

I heard hardly anything he said. I was too caught up in his transformation. “What happened to you?” I asked, reaching up to give the prickle of his head a big-brotherly rub with my knuckles.

“My father fell on the ice,” he said. “Hit his head. Had a hemorrhage. He can't speak.” He rattled it all off, but I wasn't convinced it was an answer to my question. August had changed too much.

“I'm so sorry,” I said.

“So I'm keeping respectable to save the family business,” he said. He inspected his fingernails.

“You're a good son,” I said. “Will your old man be okay?”

“It's too sad to talk about,” he said. “Everything's too sad. Cecily died. The Fair ended.” He paused to look me in the eye. “You left,” he said. He kept my gaze for a bit, then looked toward the front window. “I don't think winter will ever leave. Summer will come and everything will still be frozen.”

August rushed the old sailor out, and locked up the store to take me upstairs to Rosie's den. “I turned my laboratory over to Rosie, and he built a darkroom around the sink,” August said. On our way past a hook near the door to the shop, August plucked up a silk scarf. He wrapped it around and around his neck as we climbed the stairs, the pattern bright with parrots with berries in their beaks. And with that scarf flittering from his throat, I began to recognize him again.

“He uses the apothecary for his chemicals,” August continued. “He photographs his lovelies right there, then sells the pictures to men by appointment. He made a quaint little sitting room with wing chairs and a stove. And a humidor. And he peddles more than just his photographs; he deals in all sorts of respectable filth. They're things that can't be sent through the mail, so they're brought in by smugglers.”

Rosie welcomed me with a back slap and a vigorous shaking of my hand that threatened to yank my arm from its socket. Then he pulled me in for a hug that crushed my lungs and stopped my breath. He grabbed my head to hold it still while he pushed his lips against my cheek in a kiss.