stream, the difference she and Charlie had felt and shared became impossible to forget.
On New Year’s Eve, Emma found her mother staring into the mirror and sobbing. They had f inished scrubbing and sweeping, her mother’s ritual. “You start the new year with a clean house,” her mother always said at this time of year. “Then good luck will come your way.”
Not this New Year’s Eve. On December 31, 1914, her mother couldn’t speak at all.
“It’s going to be f ine, Mama,” Emma said. The words felt fraudulent even as they left her mouth. How absurd of her mother to shine things up as though it made a bit of difference.
Glen Walters and his Church of Light were hosting a New Year’s Eve prayer meeting and celebration. Posters had been hung all over town.
F IGHT THE EVIL AMONG US
BRING BACK LIGHT IN THE NEW YEAR
Of course, the Church of Light had never approved of their families. They’d been unequivocal in their judgment. In their eyes—and words—the Alligator Farm and Museum gift shop was another symptom of general human decay in the form of silly pleasures and thrills. And their congregation was growing each day. Converts had taken solid root in this little part of St. Augustine. Maybe it was the heat that set their apocalyptic drums beating. Or just their inclination to f ind the devil in anything that felt different. The rumors had begun slowly and then with increasing speed and venom. Whatever was going on with the O’Neills and the Ryans went against the laws of nature.
Emma had never even been so much as disliked. Now she felt hatred, the same as she’d felt fear of polio, the same way she felt the heat of the sun. Hatred from the people who’d once been their neighbors, who’d spent time at the museum and the aviary.
THE FAMILIES HUDDLED together that night at the O’Neill’s carefully cleaned house, toasting to 1915. The cheer was forced, the toasts were empty.
“They won’t calm down, will they?” Emma’s mother whispered.
“It can only last so long,” her father soothed. “Things like this, they have a way of burning themselves out.”
As for Frank Ryan, he used the word “immortal” for the f irst time. He said it apropos of nothing, during a long silence, but they all knew what he meant. He was referring to their collective condition, his voice awed and terrif ied at once. He wasn’t even drunk.
Emma’s mother—who no longer laughed at Frank’s stories or hung on his every word—clutched at baby Simon.
“No,” she keened, sobbing. “No.”
“He won’t ever catch polio,” Emma’s father said. (He was drunk.) As though this made up for Simon staying forever two. Emma’s mother slapped him, hard, across the face.
“Mama!” Emma cried, shocked.
“Let her be,” Charlie said, and he led her outside. They sat on the front steps. It was the f irst time Emma thought about running away. But where would they go?
“Are we?” she asked Charlie, barely believing what she was saying. “Are we really . . . immortal ? Is that possible?”
Charlie was silent for a long time. Through the open window, she could hear her father and his arguing about what to do.
“They won’t leave,” she said. “You know they won’t. The business . . . it’s all they think about.”
He didn’t respond to that, but said instead, “I think we are. Em, I think something changed inside us. When I look in the mirror, I just . . . will it last, do you think? Maybe it’s only—”
“Temporary,” she f inished for him. Neither of them smiled.
Emma studied Charlie’s face. Did he feel exactly as she did? Because the truth was this: When Emma looked in the mirror, she saw that her eyes were wide and bright and clear. Her black hair fell in long waves. She was scared, but she was also thrilled, alive.
“We’ll talk to Lloyd once the year turns,” she heard her father say back inside the house. “We’ll f igure this thing out.”
But 1914 turned to 1915, and
On New Year’s Eve, Emma found her mother staring into the mirror and sobbing. They had f inished scrubbing and sweeping, her mother’s ritual. “You start the new year with a clean house,” her mother always said at this time of year. “Then good luck will come your way.”
Not this New Year’s Eve. On December 31, 1914, her mother couldn’t speak at all.
“It’s going to be f ine, Mama,” Emma said. The words felt fraudulent even as they left her mouth. How absurd of her mother to shine things up as though it made a bit of difference.
Glen Walters and his Church of Light were hosting a New Year’s Eve prayer meeting and celebration. Posters had been hung all over town.
F IGHT THE EVIL AMONG US
BRING BACK LIGHT IN THE NEW YEAR
Of course, the Church of Light had never approved of their families. They’d been unequivocal in their judgment. In their eyes—and words—the Alligator Farm and Museum gift shop was another symptom of general human decay in the form of silly pleasures and thrills. And their congregation was growing each day. Converts had taken solid root in this little part of St. Augustine. Maybe it was the heat that set their apocalyptic drums beating. Or just their inclination to f ind the devil in anything that felt different. The rumors had begun slowly and then with increasing speed and venom. Whatever was going on with the O’Neills and the Ryans went against the laws of nature.
Emma had never even been so much as disliked. Now she felt hatred, the same as she’d felt fear of polio, the same way she felt the heat of the sun. Hatred from the people who’d once been their neighbors, who’d spent time at the museum and the aviary.
THE FAMILIES HUDDLED together that night at the O’Neill’s carefully cleaned house, toasting to 1915. The cheer was forced, the toasts were empty.
“They won’t calm down, will they?” Emma’s mother whispered.
“It can only last so long,” her father soothed. “Things like this, they have a way of burning themselves out.”
As for Frank Ryan, he used the word “immortal” for the f irst time. He said it apropos of nothing, during a long silence, but they all knew what he meant. He was referring to their collective condition, his voice awed and terrif ied at once. He wasn’t even drunk.
Emma’s mother—who no longer laughed at Frank’s stories or hung on his every word—clutched at baby Simon.
“No,” she keened, sobbing. “No.”
“He won’t ever catch polio,” Emma’s father said. (He was drunk.) As though this made up for Simon staying forever two. Emma’s mother slapped him, hard, across the face.
“Mama!” Emma cried, shocked.
“Let her be,” Charlie said, and he led her outside. They sat on the front steps. It was the f irst time Emma thought about running away. But where would they go?
“Are we?” she asked Charlie, barely believing what she was saying. “Are we really . . . immortal ? Is that possible?”
Charlie was silent for a long time. Through the open window, she could hear her father and his arguing about what to do.
“They won’t leave,” she said. “You know they won’t. The business . . . it’s all they think about.”
He didn’t respond to that, but said instead, “I think we are. Em, I think something changed inside us. When I look in the mirror, I just . . . will it last, do you think? Maybe it’s only—”
“Temporary,” she f inished for him. Neither of them smiled.
Emma studied Charlie’s face. Did he feel exactly as she did? Because the truth was this: When Emma looked in the mirror, she saw that her eyes were wide and bright and clear. Her black hair fell in long waves. She was scared, but she was also thrilled, alive.
“We’ll talk to Lloyd once the year turns,” she heard her father say back inside the house. “We’ll f igure this thing out.”
But 1914 turned to 1915, and
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