Balm by Dolen Perkins-Valdez Page A

with Hemp and Annie, she was part of the three.

11
    B OTH S ADIE AND M ICHAEL WERE TRYING TO FIGURE out how it all started, what took them from acquaintances to companions to a marriage proposal. She recalled his second visit to her house, when he’d interrupted a call from her late husband’s lawyer just a few months after she’d begun delivering séances in her home.
    â€œSome women mediums,” the lawyer had claimed, “have been subjected to authenticity tests.”
    â€œAuthenticity tests?”
    â€œAnd there is talk.”
    â€œWhat kind of talk?”
    â€œPlease forgive me if this sounds impertinent, but there are some who would like for you to cease your séances.”
    She waved her hand dismissively.
    â€œMrs. Walker, have you received many proposals? Surely there is a suitor. I believe it would be best—”
    A knock interrupted just as Sadie was pushing her chin into her chest to tamp down her anger.
    Madge announced a doctor. The lawyer bowed, looking pointedly at the other man as he left.
    â€œMrs. Walker, please forgive the intrusion.”
    â€œIt is quite all right, although I don’t believe I called for a doctor. The voice—I—”
    She was smaller than he remembered, and though she was not wearing the veil she had become known for, he detected a guardedness, an odd sense that something still obscured her face. He did not know if he believed, but he was open to the possibility. If she truly possessed a gift, he would soon be speaking with his brother. He raised a hand. “I am not here to cure you of that remarkable voice.”
    â€œI don’t think I’m following you.”
    He rested against the back of an armchair. He tried to form his words, but he was stricken by thoughts of what it would be like if his brother’s voice were to overtake the widow’s, if the movements of her body morphed until she took on the crooked way James had held his mouth, the nervous foot tap. Michael looked through the window at the black iron gate. He tried to speak again. The only way he could explain his behavior was to admit that his lack of courage was some kind of defect. He had no doubt. He was in need of saving.
    â€œMrs. Walker, I am here to engage your services. You see, my brother died in the war, and I . . . I’m wondering if you might help him speak to me.”
    She smoothed out the skirts of her dress, looked toward the other parlor. She started to say, Now I remember you . I thought you didn’t believe . But a noise rushed her ears like waves. Faraway, her father sat down to dinner each evening in a quiet house. Beneath him, the bookbindery was closed, long emptied of its tools. Once, they’d worked together in that little room.
    Michael nervously began to fill the silence, telling her about his brother, how he’d died in the war. Finally, she appeared to understand. She led him to a room across the hall. A round table covered in black cloth sat between two chairs. He could smell the remains of a meal, and it calmed him to know she ate, that she was human. He looked up at a large painting of a man with a thick face and trim mustache. The man’s eyes penetrated. Bloodred wallpaper, a wooden cabinet in the corner as tall as a coffin, a pair of porcelain urns on the mantel. He pictured the widow projecting a voice, casting spectral shadows with a lantern.
    â€œPardon me?”
    â€œPlease sit.”
    He lowered himself into the chair opposite her. Minutes passed as she gave him time to collect himself.
    â€œYou lost your brother in the war?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo many lost.” She closed her eyes. “I make no promises, Doctor.”
    She placed her palms on the table. He did not know what else to do, so he followed her lead. She closed her eyes. He watched her, afraid that if he, too, closed his eyes, he would miss James, and he wanted to see everything. He had heard a woman recount