“Goodbye, my dear,” he whispered.
When the door thumped closed, it was like the last note of a sad song. As she watched the door and listened to his footsteps rumbling down the stairs, she felt a wave of joy and grinned, but when the downstairs door to the street clunked shut, melancholy rushed up and through her, surprising her.
What if Weston did stay away altogether? Something tugged at her. She would miss him. Not his frigging himself, but the flowers, his admiration, his quirky devotion. At the first séance practice, there he had been, and there he had stayed, even after everyone else had gone. He had defended her. He had been a friend. She sighed deeply, walked to the window, and pressed her forehead against the chilly glass. The back of his figure, all in black, from boot to hat, walked away in the gaslight down along the other side of Seneca Street towards the harbor. When he had vanished, Clara turned around to face the empty Spirit Room, lit only by the single candle and the red coals.
Now what would happen? First there would be Papa’s disappointment. He might drink too much. He might hurt Billy. She remembered Billy’s wounded face, his warning that he’d leave home if he had to. It would all be her fault then. And they’d have to give up the lease on the Spirit Room and move the family to a cheaper boardinghouse or a tenement. She put a fingernail between her teeth and ripped it straight across. Her fault.
Her life wouldn’t be any different than any other poor girl’s. Who did she think she was? A famous medium like Mrs. Fielding or even Anna Santini? She was born a poor girl and she’d stay a poor girl. She could read and write, but she wasn’t smart like Izzie, who’d found a smart husband and knew to accept his marriage offer right away.
She looked out again. Emerging from his shop across the street, the baker pulled a ring of keys from his coat and locked his door for the night. Paramour. There probably were worse things to be, but still, she wasn’t going to be Sam Weston’s paramour behind the locked door of the Spirit Room. She was tired of him and the secrets. She’d rather go off to the bottom of the lake like Mamma did. Maybe Mamma’s spirit was waiting for her in Summerland. Maybe Mamma was lonely and wanted her to come join her.
Clara walked to the table and pushed in a straight back chair. “One.” Then she slid the next chair neat and close to the table edge. “Two.” Then the next and next, “three and four and five,” until she had arranged all eight chairs perfectly around the oak oval.
As she walked home in the late dusk, she wondered if Billy would take her with him if he ran away, if she should ask him. But how could he roam around with rebels and John Brown and fight against slavery with a girl along? That wouldn’t do. Besides, if it came to that, she couldn’t leave Euphora alone with Papa.
By the time she reached home she knew she wasn’t going to wait for her mood or Papa’s mood to be right. She’d tell him right away. She couldn’t do what Weston wanted. She tromped up the stairs and marched straight into Papa’s bedchamber. And there, in the darkish room, he sat hunched over in his spindly Windsor chair looking out the window. Outside, a couple of early stars dotted the evening sky. She walked quietly around to the front of him. Elbows propped on his knees, he was covering his face with his hands. The room smelled of his liquor and sweat, but it wasn’t coming from him. That was a different smell. This was the permanent smell that had soaked into his mattress feathers.
“Papa, shall I light the lamp?”
“No, let it be.” His voice was gravelly.
He lifted his head. His wire spectacles were off, and even in the dimness he looked drawn. Had he been crying? She couldn’t quite see his eyes. He hadn’t cried tears since Mamma died.
“You all right, Papa?”
“I ain’t even a man anymore, much less a father. I can’t make enough money to pay the rent. I’m asking my most precious daughter to do somethin’ no father should ever ask a daughter to do, but I don’t know how else to keep the family goin’. I keep runnin’ into problems every time I try somethin’ new. Someone or somethin’ gets in my way. I don’t see no other choices, Little Plum.”
“Mr. Weston said it was up to me. He said you wanted me to decide.”
“I do want you to decide, but I can’t see no other way.”
“I can’t do it, Papa. I can’t be Mr. Weston’s paramour. I’d rather work my fingers to the bone all day and all night. I can sew shirts. I can learn to use one of those new Singer sewing machines. You can make more money on a machine.”
Papa was silent, his jaw and mouth shifting around. He stared straight ahead toward the inky window. Why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he say, “Yes, Clara, that’s a good idea. We can make do if you do that.”
“Did Weston tell you how much he was willing to pay for the first time?”
“No, it doesn’t matter. I’ve decided.”
“Fifty dollars.”
She covered her mouth with a hand, staggered back a step. “No.”
“Yep.”
Legs weak, she walked around to the bed and sat behind him. So Papa was willing to sell her for a high price, a racehorse price, not an everyday workhorse price. That’s what she was—Papa’s prize racehorse. When he was happy, he had always called her Little Plum, his precious one, but these days he only called her those things if it somehow had to do with money. A tear rolled down her face.
“Why do you hate me, Papa? I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me.”
He kept his eyes on the window. “You have done. I wish I had four of you in place of the others. You know that. I don’t hate you. It’s the opposite.”
He stood, took the chair by one of its rungs and flipped it around toward her, then sat again. Taking his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, he put them on, ran his fingers through his hair to comb it back, then braced a hand on each knee.
“What about this? You go along with Weston for just a little while. We save most of the money he gives me, then, in a few months, we pack up the family and go to San Francisco or Colorado. I’ve been thinkin’ I might have a chance out there. No one would be gettin’ in my way, makin’ black marks by my name all the time. It’s new out there. Everything is growin’ like weeds. There’s room for fellas like me. We could all try somethin’ new. Then you’d never have to do anything like this Weston thing again and there aren’t near enough women out West either. There’s plenty of fellas for you to pick a husband.”
“But we would be a world away from Izzie.”
“You can still write letters.”
“Can I still decide for myself, Papa? Can I think about it a while?”
He tipped his chair back off his heels, poked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Sure. Sure, you can, Little Plum, but you’re the only one can help us now with your Mamma gone and Izzie gone. Billy’s makin’ nothin’ wages. It’s up to you.”
<><><>
THE NEXT MORNING, after Billy and Euphora had gone downstairs, Clara, with her stomach in a knot, knocked on Papa’s bedchamber door. When he grumbled something, she entered. He was in bed, the morning sunlight shining onto his quilt-covered shape.
“Papa, I’ve decided. I don’t need more time to think. I don’t want to be Mr. Weston’s paramour, even for a few months. I’m going out now to find work. I’m sorry, Papa.”
He raised himself up on an elbow. “Go get your menial, finger-numbing seamstress piece work. You better start lookin’ for a husband too while you’re out knockin’ on doors. You’ll need one. If I go out West, I’m goin’ alone.”
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.
The Spirit Room Page 24