She nodded, her eyes still narrowed. “If you say so.”
I went inside my own house and put my packages down on the divan. I hadn’t come home empty-handed. Some of it was work—small tailoring jobs, a hem here and a seam to be let out there—but mostly it was scrap fabric and newspapers, plus some old towels. And five boxes of matches.
Safely home, indoors, with no one watching, I sorted these things into piles. The work pieces I put in the parlor, on the table next to the Edison cabinet. The rest I toted into the kitchen.
I’d thought about using the bathroom, for the cast-iron tub seems like the safest, most fireproof object in the building; but the kitchen is bigger and the sink is also iron. It would also be safe enough for experiments, and I would not have to kneel.
First, I soaked the towels and set them aside in a large bucket. Then I dried the sink, closed the stopper, and prepared the small hot-press I keep at home for personal use. It isn’t as fancy as the tailor’s goose, but it would suffice. I turned on the stove and put the iron on the closest burner.
Finally, I selected another scrap of cotton, very similar to the one I’d burned at the store, and I examined it while the iron collected all the warmth my little range could produce.
I felt like I should say a prayer.
I am not good at prayers, but for Evelyn’s sake, I gave it a try.
“Dear God, or dear . . . anyone who might be listening . . . I know that this must look ridiculous. It’s a fool’s errand, and a task that is bound to do more harm than good, or that’s what I’m afraid of. But if she is trying to speak to me, if my Evelyn needs me . . . I will do what I can. Please, forgive me—if this is something for which I need to be forgiven. Our oath said ‘until death do us part,’ but I do not think that any loving God would force a man’s fidelity to end on such a grim note of mourning.”
• • •
I checked the iron and checked my instruments of destruction. I fiddled with the first box of matches, sliding it open and testing the contents. I struck one match, watched it blaze, and shook it out immediately.
I went to the nook in the wall and released the latch to lower the ironing board.
• • •
I kept praying. “It isn’t a command, is it? At death you part, and all is finished. What if a man’s devotion proves greater, and stronger, than even the hand of death? What if, from the other side of that veil, his bride should demonstrate a willingness to continue? What then?”
The kitchen was warm enough without the stove to heat it. I could feel a faint wave of heat radiating from that standing appliance. I checked the iron again. Not yet.
“Then a dutiful man should extend his very best efforts to reach her,” I concluded.
When the iron was finally ready, I set the scrap of cotton on the board and pressed it. Out of habit I counted to five while slowly sweeping the iron back and forth, never quite stopping; but I forced myself past the norm, fighting against my every instinct, and I scorched the fabric in a great oval—filling almost all of the scrap with a terrible brown stain that would never, ever come out.
I held it up to the light. Was there a pattern? A message?
I saw only brown streaks.
I tossed the scrap into the sink and reached for another swatch of fabric—this one a nice strip of linen. It was more than enough to make a tie, but who makes ties from linen? Emilio, when I’m not watching, that’s who—when he feels like dabbling in new things that sound ridiculous.
The iron was still plenty hot, so I set it down and let it stay on the cream-colored piece. I drummed my fingers along the board and chewed on my bottom lip. When the sample started to smoke, I lifted the iron and found . . . the imprint of an iron.
I hesitated. This wasn’t working.
Next in the pile was a fine wool flannel that I liked quite a lot. It was good quality, a soft gray that wasn’t too dark and wasn’t too light. It would make no difference if I destroyed it, never mind how soft it was to touch, or how nice a pocket it might have made otherwise.
Or a collar lining. Or a decorative cuff.
I cringed to press the iron down upon it, but then I thrilled to lift it away! This time, I found prints, as clear as day!
They came from a woman’s hand, with long, slender fingers. If I looked closely—if I grabbed the magnifying glass I sometimes use for the tiniest stitches—I could see a gap on the fourth finger, where a wedding band ought to go.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” I asked the flattened sheet. I said her name.
I prayed it. “Evelyn?”
Then I felt . . . whatever the opposite is of when a shiver runs down your spine. It was a radiant buzz of warmth, traveling from my head to my heels and back again—and in the wake of this strange, hot hum, I felt sweaty and shaky. It was not a chill but a fever.
• • •
I wondered what other offerings I might burn.
I did not sweep out the remains of the flannel; I just threw everything else I’d brought from the shop on top. “Evelyn, if this is you, give me a sign.” I prayed her name again. It was a delicious blasphemy.
I dropped the match.
When there was nothing left but ashes and a few stubborn scraps of wool, I checked my sink with all the rigor of a policeman investigating a crime. I used a pencil to move the ashes around and lift aside the last of the flannel, and I blew gently downward, to chase away the lighter debris.
There it was.
The face. Again, a woman in three-quarters profile. It was a smaller version of the one that had been on the wall outside—reproduced so meticulously that they could have come from the same photograph.
Did I have such a photograph of Evelyn?
No, I did not think so. I would’ve remembered it. I would’ve kept it forever, even if it hadn’t shown her full beauty, but only this slim portion of her cheek, the line of her nose, and the curve of her lips and chin. I had only a handful of photographs; all but two were of her.
Three are from our wedding, two of those posed after the fact in a studio. One is from our honeymoon, standing on the boardwalk at the Saint Petersburg pier. (We had no money. We did not go far.) One is from the day we bought the house, and she is standing in front of it with a smile on her face that is all love and potential and life. She is holding a basket of fresh bread and a bouquet of flowers that Mrs. Vasquez gave us as a welcoming present. I still remember the smell of them.
As for the other two photographs, one is a picture of my parents. The other is a portrait of myself, modeling one of my suits. It is not here at home, but framed in Cordero’s with a plaque beneath it, identifying me as the proprietor. I think it’s a little silly, but Emilio loves it. On the day the photograph was taken, he said that I looked very handsome and that I should be my own best advertisement. I was flattered, and I told him that he and his brother were better ambassadors than I could ever be, but he wouldn’t hear it. He sent me down to the studio that afternoon. I went. It was easier than arguing with him.
• • •
I wish yet again that I had a camera of my own. I wish that I could aim the lens into the sink and capture the face, with the remnants of the rough handprints (now smeared and partly obscured), so that I could keep it and remember it. I would not show it to anyone as proof of what had occurred. I did not want anyone to know what I was doing, and besides, any skeptic could claim that I’d made the marks myself.
I only wanted another photo of Evelyn. I would settle even for a preternatural portrait made of soot in the bottom of my kitchen sink.
• • •
BUT I couldn’t stop there.
• • •
WHAT else could I burn? I was vibrating with the thrill of it all, this sudden knowledge that she was listening and trying to speak. It could be no one else. No one else on earth or below it cared enough about me to go to th
ese lengths, to defy both the grave and the flames of hell.
I darted from room to room, considering hand towels and curtains, swiping a pillowcase from the linen closet. Into the sink it went, all of it, and on top of it I added the flames . . . I threw down match after match until the sink was filled with ashes and the hardier corners of wool, and whatever edges of anything else that had not quite been consumed.
The ashes told me nothing.
The sink was black, and my arms were black all the way to my elbows. My fingertips were tender from striking too many matches too closely.
I turned on the faucet and washed away what I could, scraping out the rest. I scrubbed down the sink with a rag and some soap. I didn’t get it clean so much as I got it ready for another round of fiery experiments.
If these were offerings, and if I expected a response, I needed to find something precious. I needed to make a true sacrifice.
I went to the parlor and looked at the bookshelves. I had some detective dreadfuls, some books on astronomy, and one or two on gardening. I also had my little book of photos. It was mostly empty, except for the aforementioned handful.
Maybe one of those would work.
I took the album down and opened it up. On the first page were photographs from our wedding. Two of them were identical. I could part with one, couldn’t I? I slipped one out from the glued-on corners and looked at it closely.
When I flipped it over, I realized it was only the photographer’s proof—and I could live without that, couldn’t I? Just the proof, not the picture where I wore a suit of my own brand, and Evelyn wore a gown that her sister made, with a veil that her mother had worn on her own wedding day some twenty years earlier.
Now I wasn’t vibrating so much as trembling. I carried the proof back to the sink. I stood there holding it by two fingers on one hand, and I struck a match with the other. I connected the two, and once the destruction was ensured by a tall, vigorous flame, I dropped the photo and let it burn.
“Evelyn, if this is you . . . please. I must know.”
This time, yes.
This time when the last of the light was gone and the final seam of char had cooled to gray, I was rewarded with incontrovertible proof—for in the little shadow that was hardly any larger than a playing card, I was given the initials EMC.
Evelyn Maria Cordero.
I clasped my hands up over my mouth to keep myself from shrieking with joy.
• • •
THE smoky room went dark, then bright. I felt that same terrible tingle of heat course from crown to foot once more, and I squinted, my eyes red and stinging. The smoke clustered around me, closing in and smothering me, unless this was another one of those flashes—something from the war strain. I flinched, blinked, and shook my head hard. It didn’t help. The darkness didn’t go away, but I wiped my eyes and thought it was my imagination, probably. The room was no darker, no warmer. There was smoke. But that was all.
I looked down in the sink, at the remnants of the proof. What else could I offer?
I would not burn the wedding photo, the proper one of the pair of us. That one is sacrosanct, and Evelyn would not want me to destroy it. (I feel this in something deeper than my bones.) So I did not choose the wedding photo or the other photos of her. I would not trade the real thing for an uncertain copy. Not yet.
Instead, I thought of something that would have been irreplaceable to her . . . but something I could part with in good conscience. I pulled her family Bible off the shelf. I toted it back to the kitchen and dropped it on the counter. I put the book in the sink and opened it up to a random spot in the middle, so that half of the pages (give or take) fell in each direction. I tried not to look. I looked anyway.
And he made his son pass through the fire, and observed times, and used enchantments, and dealt with familiar spirits and wizards: he wrought much wickedness in the sight of the Lord.
2 KINGS 21:6
I flipped a few more pages, to make the book lie more evenly. That’s what I told myself. In truth, I wanted to look away from those words. There was no wickedness here, in a man’s devotion to a woman. To his wife, married as such in front of God.
I lifted another match. The flame wobbled. I let it fall. The book caught fire, its onionskin pages lighting up as bright as a lamp, the flame digging a hole through the New Testament. The hole spread across the spine to the Old Testament and to the family histories in the front pages, drinking up the ink and the colored plate illustrations. Licking up the lineage of half a dozen generations, painstakingly recorded in the hand of my wife, her mother and grandmother, and other assorted relatives through the years.
It all burned, and burned, and burned.
And when it was gone, I blew away the ashes and read the remains like tea leaves.
My heart did not stop, though I thought it might. I opened the kitchen windows and let the smoke leave. I didn’t care if Mrs. Vasquez saw it, and I didn’t care if it worried anybody. I didn’t care about anything, anywhere, except that my dead wife had sent me an unmistakable message, written in her very own handwriting.
Two small words, left behind, and my whole world was upended: Help me.
• • •
OH God, Evelyn. I will.
• • •
I don’t know how, and I don’t know what to do, or whom to ask, but I will find a way and I will be whatever you need. I will do whatever is required. I will chase you into the flames and drag you out myself, though it should cost me everything. I will take your place, if that is an option that heaven will offer me.
But how?
• • •
I wonder how far away Cassadaga is. How long would it take me to get there?
Where else can I go, except to this town that speaks to the dead? Who else should I ask, if not the enlightened clairvoyants at the camp meeting? They converse with the spirits, and they do not pretend otherwise.
I hope they will hear me out. I hope they will have some wisdom to enlighten me. I hope I am doing the right thing. If I’m not, I hope the church will have me back should I return, hat in hand, to the confessional with a tale to keep Padre Valero awake for days.
This is worth a try. I believe that, and I must take steps toward this peculiar town with its collection of mediums, its seminars, and its meetings. I may need more than a few days to undertake this task, so tomorrow I will go to the shop and ask the dear Casales brothers to indulge my absence for another week or more. I don’t think they will mind. I’ve been gone for such a length of time before, and the store has run beautifully without me. I can always hand those men the keys and trust that all will be well.
• • •
I should draw up a will. I should leave the place to the pair of them in case I do not return from this trip—or in case I never successfully undertake it. The house might come down around me in the night, and I might never awaken. I could be hit by a trolley tomorrow.
I’ll write something up tonight.
• • •
I cleaned my kitchen, reluctantly washing the message down the drain along with whatever ashes were not content to blow away or be dropped sopping wet into the garbage. I left the windows open because the day was warm but breezy. I hid the evidence that I’d been setting fires, indulging in the very behavior I’d been so wrongly accused of. I’d left footprints in the fallen ash that dusted my floors. I pulled out a broom and did my best to banish them all.
And when I put the broom away, a tiny scrap of unburned paper fluttered past me, settling on the floor. I picked it up and read.
Is not my word like as a fire? saith the Lord; and like a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces?
11
ALICE DARTLE
Cassadaga, Florida
MR. COLBY COULD not make the meeting over breakfast that he’d arranged with Dr. Floyd and me to discuss my “pro
gress” and so forth. He wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed home and Mr. Fine looked in on him. I hear that Mabel brought him groceries, so I’m glad to know that he’s being looked after with such warmth and care. He’s quite an elderly fellow, and he has some trouble taking care of himself these days.
“We do our best to see to his needs,” said Dr. Floyd, after apologizing for the founder’s absence. “He’s in fair health for a man of his years, but he has his good days and bad. Especially since he lost his little house, late last year.”
“What happened to it?”
She shrugged uncomfortably. “He . . . he lost it. The bank took it back, I mean. It isn’t gossip because it’s no great secret: He gave so much of his time and money to Cassadaga and to the church that he isn’t secure in his old age.”
“Oh dear . . .”
“Yes, well, he is always welcome here, and we always make a place for him. The house was outside of town, out in DeLand. So now he lives here, either in Harmony Hall or in the Brigham house, depending on the season. Sometimes he stays at other camps. He’s still quite well regarded, you know. People still want to hear him speak. It just takes so much out of him . . . and he has a hard time telling people no when they ask him to travel.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. “I mean, the part about him losing his house is terrible. Not the part about him doing so much to help the community.”
“I know, dear. I know.” She took a sip of tea, and her eyes flashed that weird little twinkle at me. “He provided the land for the town. Did I mention that? He donated it, years and years ago. As far as I’m concerned, Cassadaga will always belong to him, and he will always have a place here—until he crosses over, and after that fact, too.”
“I suppose no one really leaves. Or no one has to leave,” I corrected myself. “Since there will always be people here to listen to them.”
She took another sip of tea. It was warm enough that I couldn’t imagine doing likewise. I’d opted for juice instead. “I hope so.” The twinkle flashed again. She frowned, then caught herself—like she didn’t want me to see either the twinkle or the frown.