Hologram

by James Conroyd Martin

  Meg chuckled that the woman could remember a name from ninety years before, but not the name of someone she has just met. She sat down and began to sift through the voluminous information on Hammond, where—as one advertisement boasted—“all roads meet.” Kurt would have a fine comment on that.

  She sorted through many items from the early 1900s. In 1910, she learned, the population in Hammond was nearing 21,000, the first five and dime was established, and citywide gas service had begun.

  She became more and more amazed at the prosperity of early Hammond. Its present state was just a shadow of what it had once been. New factories, foundries, mills, theaters, stores both big and little, and banks were erected, year after year. Interesting as it all was—the history, fashions, inventions, human drama—Meg worked fast. She did find a number of references to the Reichart Law Agency, but almost two hours yielded nothing germane to the house or the Reichart family.

  She copied anything remotely of interest.

  She was paging through one of the last books when a picture caught her eye. It was a photograph of a very slick-looking street; moving down it was a hulking piece of machinery that seemed to be spraying it. Meg thought it some kind of an early street sweeper contraption that sprayed the streets with water. But a close look and the photograph caption clarified the matter: it was a machine that spread oil onto the streets. The caption identified the “street oiler” in the high driver’s seat but gave no additional information.

  Meg walked over to Miss Millicent’s desk.

  “Find something, my dear?”

  “Something odd. Look at this picture.” Meg placed in on the desk. “What is a street oiler?”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Millicent said, looking down over the big red glasses, “that is very odd. It’s a wagon-tank and sprinkler. On dry, dusty days they used to coat the city streets in oil—to keep the dust down, you see. Goodness! Seems a colossally stupid idea now, doesn’t it? I’d rather deal with a little dust than have my shoes and hem coated in oil. And can you imagine sending children out to play? My! My!”

  Meg walked back to her table. She stood, staring silently at the photograph, her heart quickening.

  Miss Millicent called out in a stage mother’s whisper: “I’ve got the microfiche materials ready—whenever you are.”

  “Thanks,” Meg answered absently, not taking her eyes from the picture. This was at last a payoff. She recalled the first dream, remembering now how oil seemed to blanket the streets, how it clung to her shoes, stained the hem of her long dress.

  Meg copied the picture. Here was definitive evidence that her dreams were not hers. How could she have known about such a bizarre practice? Today was the first she had ever heard of oiling the streets.

  Buoyed by this success, Meg moved over to the microfiche machine.

  Miss Millicent stood nearby. “I’ve got the newspapers here for you. Mostly The Lake County Times. It may be a tedious task, but I’m sure you’ll find something.”

  “Now, you didn’t know the Reicharts?” Meg asked.

  “Personally? No. You see, they were Presbyterians. My people were Lutherans. One really kept to her own circles then, not like now. Why, did you notice in those other materials how even the banks encouraged separatism by catering to a particular community, calling themselves things like the Citizens German National Bank or the First Polish National Savings?” Her laugh was surprisingly full and throaty.

  Meg laughed, too. “I did.”

  “Later on they dropped the ethnic part. Not good for business—or community, for that matter! To limit yourself like that.”

  Meg set to work again. She found it painstaking, mainly because the name of Reichart appeared so many times, usually in reference to the law business. Johann Reichart had established the firm and had taken junior partners. Meg found the only reference to his wife in his obituary of 1905. Her name was Florence. Jason Reichart, his son’s name, began to appear frequently after that in relation to lawsuits and advertisements for the firm.

  The 1907 story of a land purchase caught Meg’s eye:

  REICHART PURCHASES

  OLD HAYLEY FARMSTEAD

  The text detailed how Jason Reichart purchased the farm from the estate of John Hayley, and that he planned to break it into lots for those wishing to live “removed from the stresses of the city.” It would be called the Homewood Addition, a name Meg remembered seeing on her own deed. Stresses of the city, Meg thought, everything changes, yet nothing does. She wondered at the notion that her area of town—not even a mile and a half from the city’s core—could be considered “removed.”

  Meg was at last getting into the 1910 files when Miss Millicent cautioned her that the Calumet Room would be closing at 4 p.m. Meg looked at her watch: less than half an hour!

  She would gladly have spent the day there, if she were allowed to do so.

  Her expression was not lost on Miss Millicent. “I’ll be back Wednesday, my dear,” the woman said.

  “Not till Wednesday?” Meg’s disappointment sharpened.

  “No, I have a librarian’s seminar to attend tomorrow. Always something new to learn, you know.”

  “Could I perhaps bring these files down to one of the machines in the main library?”

  Miss Millicent stared at Meg in horror and her tone had a bite to it. “Absolutely not!”

  Meg regretted the suggestion, but before she could cushion what had been taken as an affront, Miss Millicent walked briskly away.

  The woman was left of center, Meg thought, nothing new there. But Meg needed her help—she must be careful to keep the woman in her corner.

  Meg took no time to brood, however, and moved at a still faster pace.

  She didn’t know what she was looking for—not really. Some clue to the people who first lived in the house. Scores of families had occupied the house after the Reicharts: the tax records and old telephone books had given up that information. What if the secret were hidden with one of them? The house, it seemed, had not welcomed any one family for more than just a few years, sometimes not even that. Meg had her suspicions why.

  It was her intuition that led her to persist with the first family—along with that first recurring dream. In it Meg was dressed in heavy, tightly laced, old style clothing. The setting of the dreams, too, with the hard dirt streets, storefronts, medieval cars, and an occasional horse supported a Reichart theory. And, of course, the 1907 photograph of the street oiler. How many years could they have gone on oiling the streets? Surely they were unneeded once streets were paved with bricks.

  Still, she had no clear evidence that her dreams were connected to the paranormal manifestations in the house. But she knew that they were. Intuition again. But strong.

  The microfiche images were flying by so fast she almost missed it. She backed up a page. Sure enough, a short narrative and a picture of the house, her house on Springfield Street! The caption over the photograph read:

  REICHART HOME FINISHED

  The article of August 1, 1910, highly praised the architect for the building that sat squarely on three of the new Homewood Addition lots, citing as key features its architecture, mullioned windows, Tiffany stained glass, verandah, balconies, and interior use of woods. Jason P. Reichart, his wife Alicia, and their three young sons were to take possession by the end of the week.

  Meg studied the picture. The house today was little changed. Beautiful in its design—a kind of grand simplicity. Well, maybe not so simple. Knowing she was seeing the very first picture of her house lifted her. But what took her breath away now had to do with where the photographer—no doubt long dead—had positioned himself. He had placed himself far enough away so that it became apparent that the land on either side and immediately behind the house was merely farmland. Rooftops of downtown buildings stood in the distant background.

  What wonderful views the Reicharts must have had from the verandah and side windows, and even from the rear! Today, houses blocked those views.

  Meg was
certain, too, that the front balcony of the house afforded a completely unimpeded view of Indiana prairie. No South Hammond. No Munster.

  Just one sweeping, splendid panorama.

  Meg now experienced something very strange. Later, she would not remember if she actually closed her eyes or not, but her experience was intensely real, vivid yet blurred, like a Monet. She was standing on the balcony looking to the south, taking in the landscape of gently rolling prairies, farmland, trees, brush, flowers—even their scents—the sounds and flights of birds. It was a majestic sight. She reached out and touched the wooden balustrade, freshly painted. Her heart was flushed with pride: This is my house, she thought. I am the first to live in it. I will spend all my days here.

  The sensation—vision—lasted less than a minute. Meg was pulled from this other world by Miss Millicent, who was giving her a ten-minute warning.

  Probably saw me staring off into space, Meg thought. She’s not the only one a bit eccentric.

  Meg could not shake the feeling that she had left her own self, if only for a minute. The experience had been much like one of her dreams: for the moment she had been that first person to walk the balcony, the first to say, This is mine!

  Meg copied the picture.

  Almost immediately, she came across another photo of the house, taken for the October 20, 1910, issue of The Lake County Times.

  A group of grim-faced women stood on the front porch as if confronting the enemy-photographer. The caption read:

  PRESBYTERIAN LADIES MEET

  No article, just a short blurb that stated Mrs. Jason Reichart was entertaining the Presbyterian Ladies Group in her home. Missionary work at home and abroad was their topic of conversation. No one in the picture was identified.

  Rotten luck, Meg cursed, Alicia Reichart is undoubtedly in this picture—but where! Which one?

  She eagerly, methodically, scanned the three rows of fifteen or sixteen properly dressed, rigidly posed, unsmiling women, wondering, Which one?

  Her eye was drawn to a woman in the lower left-hand corner, a woman with dark hair neatly swept up and attractive features including what appeared to be a mole on her right cheek—unless this was a blemish on the photograph. She had a strong frame, it seemed, and any curves were well hidden beneath dark fabric.

  This is Alicia Reichart, Meg thought, not quite knowing why at first, just knowing.

  She studied the face more closely. Yes, this is she, she decided. The face, the very stance. Her face was not so much grim, as the others, as it was—what?—smug? Yes, a kind of smugness and pride radiated from her posture: straight and tall, forward thrust, with hands free at sides, as if they could go to her hips at a moment’s notice should the photographer displease her. This was the woman who stood on the balcony and said, “This is mine!”

  Miss Millicent came over. “Find something, dear?”

  Meg showed her both pictures.

  “Bravo, young lady!”

  “Tell me, Miss Millicent, do you know any of these women? Can you tell me which is Alicia Reichart?”

  “Oh, I suppose you think I am as old as they?” She picked up the copy.

  Meg immediately thought she had offended the woman. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply— ”

  “It’s all right,” she said, studying the faces. “To you young people, old is old. What’s a decade after sixty-five? Am I right?”

  Meg felt herself blushing with embarrassment. “Forgive me. Of course, you couldn’t be their age. All of these women must be— ” Meg stopped abruptly, certain she had only compounded her faux pas.

  “Dead?” The word came like the sting of a wasp.

  Meg was speechless. Her cheeks pulsed hotly.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” the woman clucked. “I’m eighty-two. I didn’t come into the world for a few years after this was taken. So I’m not that far removed from the time, after all. I’m a Lutheran, my dear, and these are Presbyterian ladies, so it’s doubtful I would be acquainted with any of them—although . . . ”

  Meg watched as the woman’s face tightened, her eyes crinkling and narrowing behind the red rims as she focused on a particular face.

  “What is it?” Meg asked.

  The woman’s eyes were trained like a laser on one tiny bit of the picture. She set the copy down and hurried to her desk, returning with a magnifying glass.

  “Lord a’ mercy!” she cried, as soon as she placed the glass over the youngest in the picture, a girl in white and no more that twelve years old. A gasp as heavy as if it were her last escaped. “It’s Bernie Clinton, I do declare!”

  “Who?”

  “Bernadine Clinton, my babysitter! My, what a flood of memories this brings with it!”

  “Oh.” Meg could not share her enthusiasm. This hardly seemed to advance her research.

  “Why, I’d almost forgotten she was a Presbie. That’s what I called them then. Bernie lost her faith altogether as an adult.”

  “I see.”

  The woman leaned over, looking Meg squarely in the face. “Why, maybe she could be of some help to you.”

  “Surely, she’s not still— ” Damn!

  “Alive? Last I heard she was! Although she’s in a home in North Hammond. Can’t vouch for what kind of shape she’s in. I won’t step inside one of those places if I can help it.”

  Meg’s heart was racing. This was the big break of the day. To be able to talk to someone from that era, someone who knew Alicia Reichart . . . Then came second thoughts. She stared at the picture, not fully convinced. “If she was eleven or twelve when this was taken, that would make her— ”

  “As close to the centenary mark, my dear, as a flea on a dog—you’re right!”

  “Can you tell me where this home is, Miss Millicent?”

  As Meg pulled into the drive, she kept her eyes averted from the coach house in front of her.

  She was ebullient. She entered the main house through the side door, carrying the sheaf of library papers under her arm and the little scrap of paper with the Hammond Retirement Home address on it clutched in her hand as if it were currency. It was a very successful day. Her sleuthing was paying off.

  The phone was ringing.

  Probably Kurt or the damn real estate woman, greedy for another quick sale. No doubt her mouth salivated at the prospect of making money coming and going. As she had pulled into the driveway, she could not help but notice the For Sale sign that had been newly posted in her front lawn. But she refused to let that deflate her euphoria.

  Meg picked up the phone on the fourth ring. Her initial greeting was tentative until she realized it was neither Kurt nor Mrs. Shaw.

  Her voice brightened now. “Hello. Who is it? Oh, Wenonah! Yes, what is it? You sound a bit odd.”

  FIFTEEN

  Meg sat in her blue Saturn outside the Hammond Nursing Home, a labyrinthine structure on one level, sixties in design.

  Yes, the woman had said on the phone, Bernadine Clinton was a resident. Visiting hours were from two to four in the afternoon and from six to eight in the evening. Could exceptions be made? Yes, sometimes morning visitors were allowed if arrangements were made in advance. Ten o’clock would be fine.

  And now she sat. She had not slept well. Wenonah’s call had unnerved her.

  She pushed herself out of the car now, resolved not to think about it. She would stay focused on this visit. After all, the woman she was about to meet had been one of the first to be entertained in the Reichart house—over 90 years ago. This woman as a girl had met Alicia Reichart, the first resident of the house.

  The thought sent a shiver through Meg. She tried to collect herself.

  Bernadine Clinton was a link to the past. Might she provide answers to the events at the house—and even answers to Meg’s dreams?

  The strong deodorizing vapors hit her at the door. Oh, Meg knew what Millicent Reidy had meant about nursing homes. She hated them, too. As a social worker, she had seen some terrible, God-forsaken places, but even the good ones—the
best ones—were depressing. She always mentally rated them like hotels: from five stars to none. She had yet to find a five-star.

  They were places where people came to wait for the end of their earthly lives, many mindlessly, many drugged into a stupor. Maybe they were the lucky ones.

  But what was on the other side? Not knowing was surely what kept many people holding on to life. Such was Hamlet’s dilemma. Her mind pared a few lines from a soliloquy she had once memorized in high school. But that the dread of something after death—The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn no traveler returns—puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of?

  Meg felt lucky. Both her parents were still alive and active in their seventies. No major illnesses—yet. She knew, however, as an only child she might one day be faced with the nursing home conundrum. She prayed not. Not even a five-star for them if she could help it.

  Her hand instinctively went to her belly as she moved down the hall to the front desk. Her own child—would he one day have to make a decision concerning her fate? She chided herself for the ridiculous thought.

  Yet, how quickly the years did go! She observed the seniors moving along, or being transported in wheelchairs, their faces reflective of various degrees of alertness. A few were even quite animated. It was not that many years ago that they stood on the thresholds of their dreams. How had life played out for them? Had any of them achieved their dreams? Perhaps.

  And yet—whether they had failed or succeeded, they were here.

  Yes, Meg was told by a stout woman at the desk, she could see Bernie Clinton now; she had already had her full bath. Room 120.

  “How is she?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, she’s a character. Lucid and lively—although she might be a bit blue today. Lost her roommate yesterday.”