IN LATE SUMMER 1865, SADIE’S FATHER WROTE TO say that her mother was ailing and to come at once. It would be the first time Sadie had returned home since her marriage, and she longed to see the familiar sights of her town: Market Street, George Street, the courthouse, Centre Square. No canal ran through York, carrying with it the stench of sewage and dull sight of barges. She was full of expectations, so when the conductor walked through the car yelling York! she stared through the window, signaling frantically for him.
“What happened to the station?”
“They burned it,” he answered. “Didn’t you know? But the people have built another one. A testament to their spirit, I’d say.”
The old depot had been made of wood. The new one was brick. To steady herself, she recalled the feel of her mother’s fingers in her hair, the tilt of bacon from pan to plate, the plain dress sewn each year. When she saw her, Sadie would admit the letters had been lies. She would tell her all about James.
But for the second time in her young life, Sadie arrived to the news of death. In front of her house, Sadie’s trunk still on the seat of the hired carriage, a neighbor woman reported her mother had died of fever. Sadie ran inside, anticipating her father’s face, but the rooms were empty. She sat in a chair, removed her hat, and placed it on her lap.
The fact that the house had been spruced failed to cheer her. Freshly laundered linens covered the bed in her old room. Fennel sprayed from a jar on the kitchen table. She waited for the old man, but when he arrived, they said little to each other. The bookbinder’s hands were more curled than she remembered, fingers reaching toward palms. That night, he cooked supper for the two of them, dropped the spoon twice. She sat at the table watching and did not stoop to pick it up. He plated the food, and she tugged at the meat on her bone. Across from her, he studiously chewed. The kitchen was hot, close. He wiped his forehead. She remembered the small “mh” her mother would make as she ate, the soft grunts of satisfaction. Her father had cooked on occasion, her mother waiting patiently at the table, relieved of duty. Sadie put down her fork.
“You told me she was ailing. She’s been dead for months.”
He did not wait to take his last bite, rushing into the story as if he had been burning to tell it for the past two years. His voice surprised her. It had grown thin. He did not stop until he had told it all. How the city leaders gave up, surrendering to the invaders so quickly and unconditionally that the townspeople had little time to think. By then, free coloreds had scattered, hurrying out of town on the winds of rumors that they would be captured and sent south into slavery. Confederates were cutting telegraph wires, destroying railroad depots, tearing up track, burning bridges. Even the neighbors gave in to the fright, shuttering their windows, keeping the children inside. With the absence of their daughter, Margaret and Andrew felt safe, their most valuable possession put away in another place, far from the battlegrounds of war and the looting hands of men. But by the time hundreds of wounded soldiers poured into the hospital buildings set up on Penn Common, Margaret was restless and eager to help. Each morning, she walked down the road carrying a bag full of things she thought might give the men comfort: a Bible, ink and paper for letters, bound magazines from her husband’s shop. After doing this for a little over a year, Margaret came home one day with a young woman on her dogcart. This woman, another volunteer from the hospital, had fallen ill, and Margaret was determined to move her out of that place of men. Andrew did not approve, but his wife could not be stopped. The volunteer nurse got better, and as soon as she was able, urged by a calling deeper than Andrew had seen in a woman so young, returned to the place that had sickened her. He begged his wife not to follow, but she did. Soon after that, Margaret became ill. Given her age, her fever proved calamitous.
Sadie looked down at the cold meat on her plate. It had all been such a pointless sacrifice. And for what? What god had taken the offering? It was not even likely the nurse had appreciated what her mother had given. Now her mother was dead. James was dead. Samuel, remembered by a loveless widow, had not fared much better. This war had destroyed families, and it was a shame, even for the imperfect ones like her own.
“I need to see the hospital for myself,” she said.
“There is not much to see there now.”
“I need to meet the nurse.”
“She is no longer in the city.”
“How do you know?”
“I looked for her.”
“I need to go there.”
“It will not bring her back, Sadie.”
She turned from him, her hair brushing the wall. Sweat rode the groove of her nose and met her upper lip.
“Very well,” he said. “We will go together.”
The two of them ventured out on the dogcart the next morning. Her father allowed a man on a mule to pass, and he raised a hand in gratitude. Two others climbed down from their horses to help a boy who’d fallen. Even though the war was over, the pall of tragedy remained. Women walked arm in arm, eyes cast down. An empty sleeve dangled at a man’s side. A waif begged for food. The town had awakened to an awareness of its mortality, and it moved with relief. But in her mind, the people of York needed a reminder of all that was wrong in the country. Their marked optimism struck her as false, a contrivance built up by minds eager to forget. Even her own mother. A casualty of war. These people could not see it. No rift this deep could heal. Sadie longed for simpler times, when her mother had rousted the embers of the fire to make bread and dusted the tools in the shop with a careful swipe of her rag, then woke up the next day to do the same thing all over again. This burgeoning web of sufferers, these people attempting to put their lives back together as quickly as they’d rebuilt the train station mystified her. She could barely see three feet ahead. Earlier that day, she’d tripped on a crack in the road, her shoe crushing a forgotten handkerchief.
The halting cart jolted her and she shook her head as her father extended a hand to help her down. They strode onto the grounds of Penn Common, her father’s arm hooked through hers. Mother, help me to understand. Did you want to take them all with you? The corridors had recently been emptied and few patients remained, but Sadie imagined what her mother had seen: wasted faces like shriveled vegetables, thickets of beards, foul bedpans. She tried to understand the motivations of those women: cooking, washing, changing bandages as the men murmured gratitude through ruined faces. Her mother had rescued that sick nurse from a canyon of convalescents, an act for which she had given her life. A pain struck Sadie in her stomach. She needed to spit.
“Your mother was a new person when she was here,” her father said, passing her a handkerchief.
“I’ve had enough,” she told him.
Her mother was buried on a rise of land behind the Presbyterian church. Sadie stood quietly in the soft dirt, not praying but remembering.
For several nights, she could not sleep. To pluck out that ill nurse, save her, yet sacrifice her own life. Which was the greater need, one’s own or another’s? This question unraveled her. She sat in her mother’s chair in the dark. Her foot grazed a stack of books, and it slid, tumbled. She reached down to straighten them, recognizing the bookbinder’s signature gold leaf. The smell of calfskin. She touched a spine and brought it to her nose, thinking of the days she’d spent working with him in the bindery.
“Let me get them.”
She had not known her father was awake. He kneeled beside her, handling the books gently as he squared them off and pushed them into a corner. The shelves were full. They lined the walls. He sat in the chair across from her. She considered going back to bed, but instead she lit a second candle. Even in the dim light, she could make out little half-moons of exhaustion puckering beneath his eyes. He looked intently at her. Once, that look would have withered her.
“I barely knew him.”
“You were safer with him.”
“You married me to the first soldier who came knocking.”
“Not the first.”
Something landed on the back of her hand.
“The wealthiest.”
“His money had nothing to do with it.”
“You sold me.”
He laughed. “I thought marriage would strengthen you.”
“I—” She coughed. He rose to touch her back. His shadow fell over her. She willed the coughing away. He sat back down.
“I hear a voice.”
He stared.
“A spirit’s voice. From the other side. I speak to the dead, Father.”
“Dear God.”
“I’m afraid of him. I’m afraid of everything.” She began to cry.
“Sadie, Sadie.” He rose up a little, sat again. “If you can’t forgive me, then at least honor the memory of your mother. Don’t try to punish me with this exaggerated talk.”
“I barely knew the man, yet you married me to him.”
“There was a war.”
“So you washed your hands.”
A ship passed over his face. “Sadie, you must marry again. You must come home.”
For a moment, she was suspended, a spider extending its web to an object it can barely see. It was not just that she was an abandoned widow in a foreign city. It was more than that. The opposite, even. Within that space, a brightening, an assembling of desires. She did not say it, but she knew the sensation was simply this: she preferred her new life to her old one, a dead man over a living one.
She listened to the sounds of night, the whirr of nature’s hum outside the window, and she found it easy to recall how large this house had once seemed, how vast even this chair had been. She held on to her arms, sitting in the dark long after her father had retired.
SADIE NO LONGER HAD to go on carriage rides to hear the voice. Now he visited her right there in the parlor beneath the portrait of her dead husband. One night, when she entered the room and sat at the small round table, he did the unthinkable. He brought forth her mother as she sat fixed in a spell.
Word spread that soldiers were pouring in. Lice-infested, bloody, malodorous, the men were deposited one after another in beds, and when there were no more beds, they lay on the floor, curled like snails beneath thin blankets. I volunteered three days after the battle at Gettysburg ended, virtually moving into the building for female nurses. At night, their haunted voices echoed as they called out the names of loved ones. My dear, it was something no mother should witness. So little of their youth remained. I was happy to do what I could to help: salving open wounds, holding down a man while his leg was sawed. Needless to say, it took its toll. Soon I found something I could do better than the others. I took men’s halting words and transformed them. Your father always said a word, properly spoken, could save a life, but those men taught me the power of poetry. It felt so good to be useful. I even read your letters to them, my dear daughter, though I did not, for a second, believe you. But I hoped you were living a better life in Chicago, that your lies hid the joyous freedom of an eligible young widow in a large city. The war frightened us so, and Samuel had presented as a respectable man, eager to wed after having seen so much. What I now understand, and what you must know, is how much those men needed something to hold on to, something more than love of country.
Sadie drew a breath, afraid the spirit would end the message too soon. Her mother had been an accomplice in the decision to marry her off. A conspiracy between the two of them and no one had thought to ask Sadie’s opinion. Her fury swelled, then flattened. She began to weep.
For days, she roamed the house, grief-stricken. It took weeks for her head to clear. If he could bring forth her mother, who else could he summon? He’d claimed he came to her because he wanted to help the families, and Chicago was full of widows. He suggested she could be a vehicle for them. She was still thinking of this when Olga delivered a newspaper along with her breakfast one morning.
“I don’t subscribe to this one.”
“We may as well keep it,” said Olga.
Sadie leafed through the paper, scanning the columns. “Communications from the Inner Life.” She turned to the back page, reading the advertisements. The breadth of them fascinated her: clairvoyant physicians and counsels, healing mediums, prophetic mediums, magnetic physicians, electropathists, spirit painters, psychometrics, telegraphic and inspirational mediums, business mediums, homeopathists. She could not believe there were others like her, people who could open doors to the other side. She had read of this spiritualist movement, but mostly the stories she’d heard told of men and women rapping on tables. She did not view her spirit as one of these; he was merely a voice in her head. But the sheer variety of people claiming to possess telepathic powers meant that there was more to the movement than she’d realized. She pored over the essays, poetry, and announcements.
Ultimately, it was the prospect of earnings that did it. The thought woke her up in the morning and kept her awake at night. Fifty cents per visitor was not much, but it wasn’t the amount that convinced her. Earnings meant something else. With more than a little trepidation, and without telling anyone, she placed an advertisement in the spiritualist newspaper announcing that she would offer “spirit intercourse” between 9:00 a.m. and 12:00 p.m. for entranced communication with the dead.