debunking frauds, I’m guessing he enjoys science. I’d like to write to him and ask him some questions—to give me something to do.”
“You don’t need to be corresponding with a grown man you barely know. I’ll put his card in my file in the kitchen, and we can consider the complimentary photograph in the future.” She pointed upstairs. “Now go back to bed before I make supper and draw your bath. You’re still paler than a ghost.”
“Have they buried Stephen yet?”
She lowered her arm. “What?”
“Have they held his funeral while I’ve been recovering?”
“No. Not yet.” She cast her eyes away from me again. “They’ve been waiting for his body to come home.”
A sharp pain pierced my stomach. “Let me know when they do, all right?”
She nodded. “I will.”
I retreated back up to my room on unsteady legs.
To chase away images of Stephen’s body coming home in a casket, I forced myself to imagine him crawling through the porthole windows of his family’s studio to save the photography equipment from the salty air, as he told me he did. He probably had to somehow scale the outside walls just to reach the high openings and risked breaking an ankle to jump down to the studio’s floor. My lips turned in a small grin at thethought of Stephen’s acrobatic feats of heroism. But I had to wonder what was happening to the camera’s precious metal and glass now that he was no longer there to protect it.
I pulled a box of matches from the top drawer of my bedside table, lit the pearl-hued oil lamp, and checked in with Uncle Wilfred’s compass before climbing back into bed. My legs found their way under the sheets, and I was about to sink my head into the pillow when my brain registered something my eyes had just seen. I sat upright and looked again at the compass. My mouth fell open. A shivery chill breezed down my spine.
The needle had stopped following me. For twenty-two more seconds, the little metal arrow directed itself with steadfast attention toward two objects across the room—two objects related to the person who had just dominated my thoughts.
The needle pointed to Stephen’s photographs.
• October 29, 1918 •
AUNT EVA WOKE ME UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING BY exhaling a loud sigh next to my bed.
I held my breath and opened one eyelid. “What’s the bad news?”
She held her mask in her hand, so I was able to see her pursed, whitened lips. “Julius telephoned me last night. They’re burying Stephen this morning. I’ll be working an extra shift later so I can take some time off work to go to the funeral. The Emberses were so kind to me when Wilfred died.”
“I want to go, too.”
“No, you need to heal.”
“I want to be there. Please don’t make me miss saying good-bye to him.”
She sighed again. “All right, but I’m bringing you home the moment you seem too unwell to be there. I’ll feed you onion hash this morning to make sure you stay safe, and I’m putting us in another taxi so we don’t have to ride on the streetcars.”
“OK.” I closed my eyes, for they had started to sting.
Aunt Eva patted my arm. “Pick out your nicest dress. We need to leave in an hour.”
EVERYTHING I PUT ON MY BODY THAT MORNING—FROM A big blue hair bow to my black silk taffeta dress—felt like iron weights bearing down on my bones. My healing lightning burn itched worse than a poison oak rash beneath my bandages. Even my mouth hurt, probably because Aunt Eva made me eat enough onion hash to disintegrate my taste buds. I felt like a broken, clumsy version of myself as I made my way back into the briny outside air for the first time in more than a week.
The funeral rooms of Barrett & Bloom, Undertakers, were located on a hill east of downtown, inside a white colonial-style house with black shutters and two front doors that seemed three feet taller than a normal entryway. If caskets of flu victims had flooded the premises like at the undertaker’s house where
“You don’t need to be corresponding with a grown man you barely know. I’ll put his card in my file in the kitchen, and we can consider the complimentary photograph in the future.” She pointed upstairs. “Now go back to bed before I make supper and draw your bath. You’re still paler than a ghost.”
“Have they buried Stephen yet?”
She lowered her arm. “What?”
“Have they held his funeral while I’ve been recovering?”
“No. Not yet.” She cast her eyes away from me again. “They’ve been waiting for his body to come home.”
A sharp pain pierced my stomach. “Let me know when they do, all right?”
She nodded. “I will.”
I retreated back up to my room on unsteady legs.
To chase away images of Stephen’s body coming home in a casket, I forced myself to imagine him crawling through the porthole windows of his family’s studio to save the photography equipment from the salty air, as he told me he did. He probably had to somehow scale the outside walls just to reach the high openings and risked breaking an ankle to jump down to the studio’s floor. My lips turned in a small grin at thethought of Stephen’s acrobatic feats of heroism. But I had to wonder what was happening to the camera’s precious metal and glass now that he was no longer there to protect it.
I pulled a box of matches from the top drawer of my bedside table, lit the pearl-hued oil lamp, and checked in with Uncle Wilfred’s compass before climbing back into bed. My legs found their way under the sheets, and I was about to sink my head into the pillow when my brain registered something my eyes had just seen. I sat upright and looked again at the compass. My mouth fell open. A shivery chill breezed down my spine.
The needle had stopped following me. For twenty-two more seconds, the little metal arrow directed itself with steadfast attention toward two objects across the room—two objects related to the person who had just dominated my thoughts.
The needle pointed to Stephen’s photographs.
• October 29, 1918 •
AUNT EVA WOKE ME UP THE FOLLOWING MORNING BY exhaling a loud sigh next to my bed.
I held my breath and opened one eyelid. “What’s the bad news?”
She held her mask in her hand, so I was able to see her pursed, whitened lips. “Julius telephoned me last night. They’re burying Stephen this morning. I’ll be working an extra shift later so I can take some time off work to go to the funeral. The Emberses were so kind to me when Wilfred died.”
“I want to go, too.”
“No, you need to heal.”
“I want to be there. Please don’t make me miss saying good-bye to him.”
She sighed again. “All right, but I’m bringing you home the moment you seem too unwell to be there. I’ll feed you onion hash this morning to make sure you stay safe, and I’m putting us in another taxi so we don’t have to ride on the streetcars.”
“OK.” I closed my eyes, for they had started to sting.
Aunt Eva patted my arm. “Pick out your nicest dress. We need to leave in an hour.”
EVERYTHING I PUT ON MY BODY THAT MORNING—FROM A big blue hair bow to my black silk taffeta dress—felt like iron weights bearing down on my bones. My healing lightning burn itched worse than a poison oak rash beneath my bandages. Even my mouth hurt, probably because Aunt Eva made me eat enough onion hash to disintegrate my taste buds. I felt like a broken, clumsy version of myself as I made my way back into the briny outside air for the first time in more than a week.
The funeral rooms of Barrett & Bloom, Undertakers, were located on a hill east of downtown, inside a white colonial-style house with black shutters and two front doors that seemed three feet taller than a normal entryway. If caskets of flu victims had flooded the premises like at the undertaker’s house where
Similar Books
