Mercury Boys

by Chandra Prasad

  “My assistant,” Cornelius said as the woman appraised her. “I hope you don’t mind her presence.”

  Mrs. Rothschild took Saskia in from bottom to top, starting with her modern flats and ending with her wild black hair. Saskia was aware of how extraordinary she must look: a Black girl in strange clothes accompanying a prominent and well-respected white businessman. Their pairing was bizarre, even scandalous. But the woman was clearly too steeped in grief to give the matter much thought. She opened the door and stepped aside, gesturing for them to come in. Saskia went in first, followed by Cornelius, who hoisted the satchels.

  The inside of the apartment was as bleak as the exterior. The front room where they entered was small, low-ceilinged, and sparsely furnished. Saskia saw three mismatched chairs and a scuffed table. On top of it sat a basket of rags, a Bible, and a few potatoes riddled with eyes. She spied a little cast-iron cooking stove surrounded by ashes. Beside it was an open sack of flour. Some of the flour had spilled onto the floor, mingling with mud tracked in from the streets. Out of the corner of her eye, Saskia saw something small—a mouse, a cockroach?—scurry across the floor, disappearing into a hole in the wall.

  “He’s in the other room,” Mrs. Rothschild said. “I laid him on the bed. He was so light by the end . . .”

  Saskia felt tiny hairs prick up on the back of her neck. She didn’t want to step into the other room. Nevertheless, Mrs. Rothschild led them through a narrow doorway.

  It turned out her tenement consisted of two rooms: the room where they’d entered, and this one—a tiny space for sleeping. With no windows or ventilation, it was even less pleasant than the front room. Worse, it stank of sickness.

  Through the shadows, Saskia made out crumbling plaster walls and a mattress on the ground. The dead boy lay upon it. His eyes were open, but they were vacant, hollow. His clothes were stained with blood, vomit, bits of straw and god knew what else. She shuddered.

  “Do you have other children?” Cornelius asked.

  “Two older girls.” Mrs. Rothschild sniffed. “They ran off last year. Lord knows what became of them.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He ran off, too.”

  Cornelius nodded, as if her story were a common one. Saskia realized with a jolt that it probably was. “So you are alone, then?” he asked.

  Mrs. Rothschild narrowed her eyes. Sensing her discomfort, he took out an envelope from his pocket and tried to hand it to her. “Here is a little something. It’s not much, but it may help you for a month or two, till you get back on your feet.”

  Her hesitation turned into surprise. “Oh, I couldn’t, sir. You’ve been too kind already.”

  Cornelius pressed the envelope into her hand. She paused a moment, and then her fingers closed over it gratefully.

  “We’ll need more light to make the photograph,” Cornelius observed, glancing around the room.

  “Then we’ll need to move him,” Saskia said.

  “I’ll carry him into the other room.”

  Saskia watched, her heart pounding, as Cornelius ever so gently lifted the boy like a rag doll from the mattress and brought him into the front room. He set the boy down into a chair and arranged his limbs so that he appeared to be sitting at the table. It was the most macabre thing she’d ever seen.

  “Does he have other clothes?” Cornelius asked.

  Mrs. Rothschild shook her head, ashamed.

  “No matter,” he replied, carefully picking straw off the boy’s clothes and out of his hair. His head kept lolling forward. Cornelius tried several times to prop it up, but it wouldn’t stay. Finally, he unwound the white scarf from around his own neck. He tied it securely around the boy’s neck, then looped and knotted it around the back of the chair, forcing the boy’s head to stay up.

  Saskia had read a little about postmortem photography in researching daguerreotypes. She remembered that extreme measures were often taken to make the dead appear alive and animated. On the Internet, she’d seen pictures of iron headrests fitted to the backs of chairs and other tools that looked like medieval torture devices. They’d struck her as gruesome, but she supposed they were simply part of Victorian culture.

  Cornelius took a step back and observed the boy. The child’s pallor was gray-blue, his eyes the color of water. But this was the best he was going to look. Time was the enemy now, Saskia realized.

  “There isn’t much light here, neither,” Mrs. Rothschild observed, her own pallor unnaturally white.

  “I brought some small lamps,” Cornelius replied. “Maybe they’ll be enough.”

  “I haven’t any whale oil.”

  “I brought that, too.”

  Saskia watched Cornelius open the satchels and remove their contents. Along with the lamps and oil, he’d also brought a camera, tripod, and other photographic equipment. For several moments, he stared thoughtfully at the boy and the room itself. Then he went about lighting the lamps and arranging them in different ways. He set up the camera and showed Saskia how to adjust the focus. The camera had a “slide-box design,” Cornelius explained. The lens was located in the front box. A second, smaller box was placed into the back of that one. By sliding the rear box forward and back, Saskia could control the focus.

  “You will take the picture,” Cornelius said.

  “Me?”

  “You’re my assistant, aren’t you?”

  Saskia stared at him incredulously.

  “Now,” he said, “when I give the signal, remove the lens cap. That will start the exposure.” He looked around the room again. “I just hope the light is sufficient.”

  “What’s the signal?” she asked.

  He snapped his fingers.

  “Okay.”

  “You’ll do fine.”

  She gave him an uneasy smile.

  During that interval, Saskia was quiet. She knew it would be fine to talk, even to move around, as long as she didn’t enter the camera’s frame. But a stillness had descended upon the room. Everyone appeared deep in their own thoughts. Saskia’s heart went out to Mrs. Rothschild. Here she was, watching her dead son being photographed for the last time, and probably for the first time, too, when only a little while ago he’d been playing, running, talking, laughing. Doing everything a little boy should.

  When Cornelius snapped his fingers, she was relieved to put the cap back on the lens. Carefully, he carried the boy back to the mattress and laid him down. Cornelius crossed the boy’s arms over his chest, then pulled down his eyelids and placed coins on them to keep them in place.

  “The cart will be coming soon,” Mrs. Rothschild whispered.

  Saskia’s stomach lurched. She wished there were something she could do, something she could say. But she knew nothing would ease this woman’s pain.

  “The photograph will be ready in a few days,” Cornelius told Mrs. Rothschild. “I’ll bring it by.”

  “I’m much obliged. I don’t have another way of remembering him.”

  Cornelius nodded. Saskia realized he must have heard that phrase often. She helped him gather the equipment and put it back into the satchels. More and more, she felt as if she really were his assistant, or even his collaborator.

  After they bid the woman goodbye, they walked back to his photography studio on the northeast corner of Eighth Street and Lodge Alley. On the way, she praised him for helping the woman.

  “I wasn’t lying,” he said. “Money is of no consequence when the life of a child is involved.”

  “How many children do you have?” she asked hesitantly. She knew over the course of his life he would have many.

  “Three. And I can’t imagine losing any of them.”

  The mention of his family filled Saskia with jealousy, guilt, and an uneasiness she couldn’t escape. Though she’d never admit it aloud, it was increasingly hard for her to bear the thought that he belonge
d to someone else, that he could never be hers. Next to her father, Cornelius was the kindest man she’d ever met. The fact that he’d offer his services for free to a mourning mother spoke volumes about his character.

  “You did a good job,” he told her as he flung one of the satchels over his shoulder.

  She shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  “It’s not easy to remain composed in such situations. Sometimes I want to weep,” he admitted.

  She nodded. “How do you not?”

  “I dig my fingernails into my palm.” She put her hand over her mouth when he showed her the angry red indentations in his skin. “Then I try to remind myself that I’m doing the right thing. I firmly believe all of human morality can be distilled into three rules.”

  “Which are?”

  He ticked them off on his fingers. “Be kind to others. Be kind to yourself. And never allow others to deter you from your chosen path.”

  Saskia stored this away in her mind in the same place where she stored his other advice. Sometimes he was a fount of wisdom. “Do you ever break your own rules?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “All the time. But one can keep trying.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  About an hour before Saskia was due to leave for Paige’s house, the home phone rang. Saskia and her father looked at each other in surprise. Since the move to Coventon, the home phone hadn’t made a peep. Saskia thought of it as a fossil: old, dusty, and useless.

  “Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked her father.

  “Anyone I need to talk to has my cell,” he replied.

  “Then why do we have a home phone?”

  “Sentimental value?”

  Saskia rolled her eyes and picked it up.

  “Hello?” a boy’s voice said. For a breathless moment, she thought it was Josh.

  “Hi,” she said hopefully.

  “Is this Saskia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh, I don’t know if you remember me. It’s Benny. From Shop Smart?”

  “Oh yeah, Benny. Sure, I remember.” She hoped her disappointment wouldn’t come through in her voice.

  “So, uh, do you have a minute? I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Sure,” she repeated. “Can you wait a sec?” She put her hand over the mouthpiece and tried to stretch the spiral cord into another room.

  Her father shook his head and mouthed, Don’t bother. I’m going for a jog. The back door closed behind him.

  “So,” Benny said, “did you have a chance to talk to Adrienne?”

  “Um, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you asked.”

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry. I shouldn’t be bothering you.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Saskia considered asking about the band, then thought better of it. She didn’t want to look desperate. “Are you worried about her or something?”

  “Can you tell?”

  “Yeah. You seem . . . anxious.”

  “Kind of.” He paused. “ Listen, I wonder if you could give me some advice—on Adrienne?”

  “What kind of advice?”

  “I know she’s seeing some other dude . . .”

  “And?”

  “He’s older, right? In the army or something? She said he just came back from a tour.”

  “Benny, I can’t go behind her back,” Saskia warned.

  “But you must have some details.”

  “None that I feel comfortable giving out.”

  “I just want something. Something helpful. It doesn’t even have to be on this dude.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He sighed. “Listen, I want to win her back, but I don’t know how. I was hoping you could lead me in the right direction.”

  Saskia wasn’t sure if Benny was a die-hard romantic, a stalker, or both. “If you’re looking for tips on love, I’m the wrong person to ask,” she said.

  Just ask your friend Josh.

  “Adrienne and me . . . we used to be close, but not anymore,” Benny said. “She’s so distant now. I can never get ahold of her, and even when I do, she’s all spacey. Do you think there’s something going on with her? Could she be using?”

  “Again, I don’t feel right talking about this with you.”

  “Understandable.” When he sighed again, Saskia started to feel sorry for him.

  “Maybe it’s time to move on,” she suggested.

  “I’ve tried! But every time I have this voice inside me saying, ‘Just take one more shot. Plead your case.’ Sometimes I wait outside her house, hoping she’ll come out so I can talk to her. But she barely goes anywhere. Tell me, how is she seeing someone if she never leaves her house? Unless they’re Skyping or sexting . . .” His voice trailed off in disgust.

  “You know that saying: if you love someone, set them free. If they come back, they’re—”

  “Screw that saying!”

  “Maybe it is overrated,” she admitted.

  “Saskia, please. Look, I’ve never begged in my life, but I’m begging you to help me. She listens to her friends. Maybe you could change her mind?”

  “No offense, but I don’t know if you can compete with this other guy. He’s seen things we haven’t, done things we’ll never do. He’s—in a whole different league.”

  “He can’t be perfect,” Benny complained.

  Saskia hesitated to discourage him again. She didn’t want to be cruel. Plus, he seemed intense. She wondered if further dejection might push him over the edge.

  On the other hand, if she wanted to stay in the Mercury Boys Club, she couldn’t be his ally.

  “Benny, I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try to put in a good word for you.”

  “Really? Oh, that would be great . . .”

  “Just please don’t get your hopes up.”

  ’Cause they’re bound to come crashing down, she thought, saying a brisk goodbye and hanging up the phone.

  At the sisters’ house, Saskia didn’t know whom to tell about Benny’s phone call, if anyone. She had the feeling that sharing would only get her—or more likely, Adrienne—in big trouble. She really didn’t want the drama. The healing blister on her finger reminded her that she’d had too much of that.

  Everybody at the Sampras residence seemed to be in good spirits, Paige especially. She announced she had a surprise—something special. In the den, on the usual pieces of plush furniture, the girls sat up straight and attentive.

  “Close your eyes,” Paige instructed, “and don’t peek.”

  Saskia heard the sound of footsteps and then something large and heavy being dragged across the floor. Beside her, Adrienne wiggled giddily.

  “Okay, you can open them,” said Paige.

  There, in the middle of the room, stood an enormous old trunk. It was so big, one of the girls could easily have fit inside. The trunk had rusty, ornate buckles and fasteners and tattered leather handles. The initials MBC were painted on the side in chipped white paint.

  It was a steamer trunk, Paige said. She explained that in the olden days, steamer trunks were a common kind of luggage. This one was made of steel and wood—the former rusted into a rich brown patina, the latter worn smooth by age and handling.

  “Where’d you get it?” asked Adrienne, her eyes alight.

  “eBay,” Paige replied. “When Sara Beth and I saw the initials, we knew we had to have it.”

  “It’s amazing,” Lila said, running her fingers over the wood, which was smooth and glossy with tung oil. “Must have been expensive.”

  Paige flipped her hair and gave Lila a withering look. “It was worth the price.”

  “What are we supposed to do with it?” asked Adrienne.

  “That brings me to the second part of the surprise.”

  “Paige and I went a little crazy on eBay,” a
dded Sara Beth. “We kept finding new things.”

  “Necessities,” said Paige.

  The sisters unsnapped the buckles and lifted the heavy lid. It groaned on ancient hinges.

  “Voilà!” Paige said. Both she and her sister beamed.

  Peering into the trunk, Saskia saw heaps and heaps of old clothes. They looked fragile and discolored, items you’d find in a museum or historical society. An odor of decay and dust filled the air.

  “These are our period clothes,” Paige informed them, “for when we meet our Forever Boyfriends. Everything here’s real. We couldn’t find many things from the 1800s, but most of this stuff’s a hundred years old.”

  Paige took out the pieces one by one. She laid them carefully on the floor. Kneeling, the girls examined them up close.

  “The drama club would go nuts if they saw these!” Adrienne said. She sounded as if she were swooning.

  Saskia studied whalebone corsets, layered lace petticoats, buckled shoes, bonnets, bustles, fancy hats, parasols, dresses with cinched waists and puffed sleeves, and eyelet summer frocks, once white, now ivory as an elephant’s tusk. She thought uncomfortably about the ladies who’d once worn these clothes. Women who were now only moldering bones in the ground.

  Saskia hoped these women had living relatives who knew their stories. Knew enough to miss them. She thought about Lila’s dragonfly parable, and wondered if the women who’d owned these fine things were still out there somewhere in the ether, like the Mercury Boys. Saskia shivered at the thought. More and more she felt like the line between the living and the dead was dissolving.

  “Careful. It’s delicate,” Paige warned as Adrienne lifted up a fancy cream dress, all frothy lace and delicate appliqué. The bodice was cut low, and a train at the back was long enough to skim the floor. Something about the gown’s eerie beauty sent another shiver down Saskia’s spine. She realized it was a wedding dress.

  “I love this one,” Adrienne exclaimed.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Paige said.