Moody released Vivi’s hand, and folded the piece of paper. He had an unshakeable sense of what he needed to do. Vivi had been waiting for him, here in these swamps. And it was Isabelle who had led him here, and left her to his care.
He moved toward the table and returned the negative to its case. The negative had brought him back to Isabelle—and now to Vivi. The letter was perhaps the last thing that Isabelle had ever touched, though a tear on Vivi’s cheek might have been so, too. The letter … her words … her voice. It was hers. He tucked the letter into the negative’s case, alongside the backside of the glass. The words needed to be near what remained of her.
“There is one more thing for you to do,” Henriette said. “We need to dump that water out over your shoulder … go to the crossroads, and get rid of it. Even if the devil is there waiting for you, it is the last thing you must do.”
She was nodding—and grinning—as if she relished the very idea of danger.
“Yes—” she said, “the water does contain one of your tears. But that doesn’t fix everything. The devil gets you for your crimes.”
XXXV
THERE WERE CRIMINALS and there were criminals. What ultimately made one guilty? Was it the treachery itself, or was it merely the intention, which came from a secret place in the heart?
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, and looked about the drawing room. It was silent, and would not speak to her. For many years she had entertained the men and women of Boston in this drawing room. They had enjoyed its lush upholsteries, its luxurious curtains, the warmth of its hearth. The room had welcomed everyone from governors to masonry men. But none of them had ever really understood.
In her hand, the piece of paper—more “evidence,” as it were.
As a girl she had known the land down there, had almost grown to love it, even though it wasn’t hers—and never would be. At first she had been charmed by it, like any child in a fairyland would have been. But then the horrors came, and the sharp tones of her mother, and each journey back to Philadelphia became a political return to righteousness.
The first time Elizabeth had seen Isabelle, she knew—knew what the girl was about, and from where she had come. And the story that Elizabeth mapped onto Isabelle, strangely, had caused Elizabeth to momentarily put aside the girl’s beauty. It was astonishing, really, since Elizabeth rarely put aside anything, but for Elizabeth there was something else beyond that first dazzling effect. In the most discomfiting way, Isabelle somehow represented every poor girl that Elizabeth had ever seen.
Which is why, after all that Elizabeth had done for her, it had been such a crime when Isabelle had at last betrayed her.
Elizabeth remembered those southern women—how they had talked on the porch about their husbands. How wives and mothers learned to spot the signs, and then decide what to do about the “situation.” But Elizabeth had traveled far away from that world by then, and she lived in Boston, where such things did not happen. Or if they did happen, they happened so discretely that any knowledge of them remained buried in the bricks and mortar of people’s houses.
It was Jenny who, unsurprisingly, brought her back one day.
“That girl’s been eating an awful lot around here,” Jenny had said.
Elizabeth looked at her inquisitively, because there was always more to what Jenny said.
“Enough for more than herself, if you ask me.”
It was not a surprise, because Elizabeth had known. It was, in a way, impossible for Elizabeth not to know. Isabelle’s dresses had grown a bit tighter in the waist. Her breasts had grown fuller. Her face was aglow. And of course it made sense that Jenny would lash out in this fashion—surreptitiously, subtly, even maliciously. Jenny had always resented Isabelle for who she was.
But Jenny’s petty jealousies did not concern Elizabeth. The important question was … when had it happened?
Elizabeth’s mind began to work.
Five months, six months at the most, she predicted … for during that length of time, Isabelle could still reasonably conceal what had happened. Elizabeth traced the months backwards, and the murky road resisted her. What would those months tell her? What would that dirty path reveal?
That was late November, early December, of the previous year—when she had gone down to see her mother, and left William Jeffrey behind. There had been an outbreak of the fever in Philadelphia, and Elizabeth had not wanted to take him down with her. Isabelle and Jenny would see to his care.
And Garrett was home. Yes, conveniently, Garrett was still home. The next session would not start until the first of December.
She returned to Boston exactly one day before his departure, and when she came into the house, all was silent and empty. It felt as if someone had been waiting there to tell her something, but that person had gone, and taken all that was left along with them.
“Jenny?” Elizabeth called.
But no answer came. And no little footsteps of William Jeffrey sounded down the steps to greet her.
“James?”
But still no answer. She was alone in the grip of the house. Its knowledgeable walls and barren rooms refusing to give her anything.
• • •
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, when they returned from the Commons, Elizabeth grew even more suspicious. Senator Garrett, Jenny said, had gone back to Washington a day early. He sent his most sincere apologies.
“Apologies?” Elizabeth said.
But then she clamped her mouth shut, because she was not about to invite Jenny into the privacy of her marriage.
Garrett had disappeared—gone back to Washington for a good reason. It was enough to suppress her suspicions yet again. Because that’s what she had been doing for a few years now—suppressing suspicions. She did not want to believe that the young girl she was saving could ever have been a threat to her family.
Isabelle was pure. Isabelle was grace embodied. To see her with William Jeffrey … she was angelic. The boy loved her, and Elizabeth loved her as well for it. The scars of what Isabelle had suffered were evident in the strange beauty that lived in her eyes. She would have been favored where she had come from, and Elizabeth hated to imagine what Isabelle must have endured.
“That girl’s been eating an awful lot around here,” Jenny had said. “Enough for more than herself, if you ask me.”
And that’s when it all came together—Garrett’s departure, his inexplicable coldness upon his return, and the girl’s sudden sheepishness and prolonged absences. When Garrett was home, he now avoided the girl, or grew uneasy in her presence. It was something that Elizabeth hoped she would never see; but in the end she could not help but see it.
There was everything to think about. They would lose everything. She could lose everything. The nation could lose everything.
Her decision at that point became irreversible.
She had seen him in the streets a number of times since his visit to the house, when he had come to claim Jenny. The new fugitive laws had brought many of his kind to Boston, and these men had been crawling through taverns and alleyways for some time. She had never acknowledged him when she saw him, but he had seen her, and had taken measures to ensure that she knew that he had seen her. Once he had tipped his hat and offered a despicable grin. She had inadvertently met his eyes, but then looked down and moved along.
It had been surprisingly easy to find him. One or two inquiries regarding a few of the reward posters around town, and there he was, at her service.
They met at a tavern in the North End, far from the places she frequented. She wore a cloak and a hood that night, and did not remove it when they sat down.
“You’re looking—”
And he spat a stream of tobacco before he went on.
“—well, Mrs. Garrett. I do say this is quite the honor.”
She was not afraid. She had rehearsed the conversation in the days before. This was not the first time she had seen a man like this, and she knew how one needed to talk to them.
; “The proposition I have for you,” she said, “is one that will … benefit you greatly, Mr. Wilcox—if you can execute this delicate matter with the utmost discretion.”
“Call me Will,” the man said. “That’s what the ladies call me around here. And as far as discretion … Mrs. Garrett, you got both my attention and my discretion.”
She recoiled at the very notion of continuing the conversation, but he was a man who could get things done, and there was something remarkably appealing about that. She would be his now—perhaps for the rest of her life—because they would share a secret that no two other people shared.
She subdued that thought as she outlined the plan … what she needed him to do, and how it had to happen.
“And there are ways,” she said, “I know there are ways—”
He was grinning.
“And I do not need to know them,” she said.
He was filthy, and smelled of all sorts of things, but he was about the same age as she was, and in another time and place the exchange might have been different. His eyes darted to different parts of her body as she talked. It was as if the man could see right into her.
She did not provide the reason behind why she wanted to do it. But still, she felt that he knew.
“Shouldn’t be any trouble at all,” Wilcox said. “Any family I need to worry about?”
“None that I know of,” Elizabeth replied.
“Now you do know, Mrs. Garrett,” the man went on, “that this matter being so ‘delicate,’ as you say, requires quite a bit more … effort.”
“You will be compensated handsomely,” Elizabeth said.
“My, my,” he said. “Ain’t you polite?”
It revolted her to think of herself engaging with such a person. The association could ruin everything—but she knew that it wouldn’t. These things were done, and if done the right way, never amounted to anything.
And that was all. On the day before the thing was to happen, she unlocked the pantry and gathered her wedding silver together. She hired a hansom cab to take her across town to the awful boardinghouse where he was residing. There were drunken men in the stairwell, and women with babies that would not be quiet.
She handed him the sack and he dumped the silver out on the table.
“Mighty fine,” he said.
The rattling had scraped her insides.
He ran his dirty fingers over the pile … separated the pieces, like candy. The handles of the forks and knives poked into one another. Some were upturned, and revealed the engraving.
“Mighty fine,” he repeated.
And he shot her a lascivious grin.
Elizabeth unwittingly clutched the front folds of her cloak.
“This will do then?” she said, steadying her voice.
“This will do … just fine,” Wilcox said.
She herself looked over the silver. He had already begun to separate out the pieces from one another. And that’s when she noticed it—or thought that she noticed it. Her son’s silver teaspoon was missing.
“Mrs. Garrett?” Wilcox said, for he did not miss a breath.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I must go.”
That night when the rest of the house was asleep, she crept back into the pantry to see if she had dropped William’s teaspoon. She had, and there it was, like a coin hiding under one of the shelves.
She could not help but think at that moment that the spoon had cursed her. It had remained in the house as a reminder of what she had done. But Elizabeth was strong then … stronger than Garrett had ever realized. Her sacrifice would ensure that nothing would tarnish his legacy. And really, there was nothing more important than that.
Now, all these years later, Elizabeth sat again in her drawing room, with yet another piece of paper in her hand that might have easily led to her ruin. It was not the only piece of paper that had been exchanged between them, for there had been many others over the years—sometimes frequently and sometimes years apart. Garrett of course never knew anything about the relationship. It was best that Senator Garrett not know anything at all.
There had been fires, a robbery or two, and other random acts of mayhem. Anything that might be required when Garrett’s political “situation” was in need of that last bit of help. She never knew the details of the things the man did, and for her own good they had kept it that way.
“Mighty nice way to do business,” he had once said to her. “Your husband doesn’t know how lucky he is.”
But now, the one act that had started it all eighteen years ago had somehow resurfaced. It had never been put to rest.
“Finish this,” she said to him. “Finish this once and for all.”
And he had nodded, and told her he’d take care of it.
She looked down at his note—the hideous writing she had come to recognize.
I know where ther at.
Tomorra its all finished.
She lit a match and threw the burning letter into the fireplace. For a moment, she saw a face there, with an open mouth ready to scream. The face startled her, but disappeared almost as soon as it had come, and the letter she had tossed quickly melted into flames.
XXXVI
VIVI WAS AN artist, and her pictures told many stories—not simply the story of Isabelle’s kidnapping, but also the stories of other people whose spirits had lived on through Vivi’s hands. There were pictures of farmers, and storekeepers, and mothers; of people working the land and people in great cities. Henriette had collected a large portfolio of Vivi’s sketches over the years, though she seemed cautious about revealing it, when she exposed it to Joseph and Moody.
“Not everyone can see what this girl sees,” Henriette said. “Not everyone has the courage to see.”
Henriette had sheltered her, and yet, even in her silence, Vivi seemed to know much of the world. She was the child of the swamp, and yet the child of something else, and there was a sense that she was a young woman of motion. At one point she draped a gauze over her head and abruptly made to leave—as if beckoned by a call, somewhere beyond the walls of Henriette’s cabin.
Henriette took no notice, and simply waited for Vivi to go. Once Vivi had departed, Henriette began to talk about their time.
“For that is how I see it,” Henriette said. “Just time—which was never mine. I knew that you would come some day, and that we would need to decide what to do. She was drawing these things when she was just a little child, before she even knew what they were.”
Then Henriette leafed through the portfolio and pulled out a picture that had been hiding amongst the others. It was a sketch of a young man—a handsome man, with a beard. The man bore a rough resemblance to Moody.
Henriette handed Moody the sketch. The pencil strokes were bold—almost violent.
“The girl knows,” she said. “It is remarkable, what this girl knows.”
That was what Moody had seen in Vivi’s eyes … not just sorrow, but knowledge. Isabelle’s knowledge, and the knowledge of the many hundreds—thousands—who had come before her.
Moody stared at the sketch—was it him, or someone else? Was he seeing what Isabelle’s daughter had seen, or what he himself wanted to see?
But the swamp would only condone so many revelations, for soon the door creaked, and admitted one of Henriette’s men.
There was no urgency on his face as he approached Henriette, and she looked down at the floor as he whispered into her ear. These men who surrounded her were hardened and unkind. Henriette remained unmoved by what he said.
At last the man finished and was gone as quickly as he had come.
“So,” Henriette said, her eyes fixed on Moody, “you went ahead and brought the devil along with you, eh?”
Moody at once knew what Henriette meant.
“I am sorry,” he said. “We should go then—right away.”
“Too late—but not to worry,” Henriette replied. “We’ve dealt with men like him before. Important thing is, we must get to the crossroads an
d get rid of that water. Then you can be on your way. We don’t have much time … you don’t have much time.”
It was not yet evening, and they piled into a boat—Joseph, Moody, Henriette. Henriette pushed them away from the dock.
“And Vivi?” Moody asked.
“She has things to do,” Henriette said. “But she will be there to greet us. That girl is rarely where she doesn’t need to be.”
Henriette navigated the boat with surprising skill, her body strong, upright, and unwavering. In the water, the eyes of alligators sparkled like pairs of misplaced coins.
No birds called—only insects screeched. It was a dreadful kind of symphony.
The lights of Henriette’s cabin were barely discernable far off behind them, when the boat brought the group to an unusual bump of land, covered with thick brush. Dense walls of cypresses surrounded this piece of terrain, but a series of canals had cut through the walls too, forming ambiguous paths through the giant trees.
“The crossroads,” Henriette said.
There was a figure—beyond the shore.
However it had come to stand there, it had come forward with the darkness. It was draped in the weeds of the swamp … but also in other things. There was moss upon it, and rags, and a skirt that might have billowed. Who could have owned such a terrible scarecrow? Had Henriette placed it there, as a warning?
“I told you that she is rarely where she doesn’t need to be,” Henriette said.
And as the boat touched the shore, Moody watched the figure transform into Vivi.
Moody’s breath retracted, so sudden was the transformation. The uneven shadows of the swamp had both hidden her and revealed her. Then Moody stepped out of the boat, followed by Henriette and Joseph. He wanted to run to Vivi, and seize her, and remove her from this horrible place. She seemed impalpable though … camouflaged beneath the murky greens and grays of the swamp. He moved forward—a small step—but then felt the pressure on his arm.
“Careful, photographer,” Henriette said. “There’s the water to deal with first, and we are running out of time.”
The Spirit Photographer Page 24