One

On a night of hard frost, in the ruins of a burnt church, I found a body in the snow.

Its hand poked through the powder, gripping a crumbling stone altar. When I touched the wrist, a fistful of white tumbled away, exposing a derby hat and a tuft of thin orange hair spotted with blood.

“Find it?” called the woman I traveled with.

I wiped my hand on my black dress, which had seen much worse than the residue of a corpse, and walked back to her.

“There’s nothing here,” I said, and left the dead man behind. It was no feat. I’d been walking away from corpses all winter long. This was March 1922, when our bodies refused to stay buried.

 

Ten days prior, I was spitting off the ledge of Berk’s Third Floor. Owned by one of the rare Westsiders as short and uncompromising as myself, Berk’s was a shabby saloon on the Westside half of the stem whose eastern walls and roof had, some years back, simply melted away.

The exposure to the elements made it a pleasant summertime beer garden. In the winter it remained popular only with the committed few: those antisocial types who would happily freeze for a peek over the top of the fence and the chance to drink illegal liquor in full view of the Eastside throng. The people on the far side of Broadway were fat, happy, honorable, and safe, but when they cast their sober eyes up at us, all we saw was thirst. We raised our glasses to say that though west of the fence we had no electricity, no heat, and no conveniences, that though there were no guns on our side of the island but countless murders just the same, that though we lived in what they called hell, we had liquor, and some nights that made it okay.

On the other nights, we spit.

It was at least twenty feet from the lip of the saloon to the fence, but that didn’t stop us trying to expectorate clear over the barrier to the Eastside. Long nights were passed in drunken argument about the proper angle to launch one’s missile, the ideal texture for flight, and the correct place to stand in order to harness the wind. No one had ever seen anyone clear the fence, but every drinker there insisted that once, just once, they had made it.

My mouth was drying and my projectiles were growing feeble when Bex Red appeared at my side, wrapped in every layer of fabric she owned. Born in Florida, but a fixture on the Westside art scene since before the fence was raised, Bex had never embraced the brutality of the New York cold. Sharp blue eyes peeked out through a slit in the scarves that swaddled her head, yet her voice was unmuffled by the cloth.

“Every time I see you, Gilda, you’ve managed to find a worse bar,” she said.

We sat at my table, a few inches from the edge, and I sloshed some gin into a chipped cup. It ran like sludge, and the glass was cold enough to cling to her lips, but she lifted a scarf and drained it. She dug her mittened hand into a coat pocket and pulled out a carefully folded square of thick homemade paper marked up with ninety-nine shades of blue.

“This is every blue I can mix,” she said, “and that’s every blue there is, from the not-quite-black of deep river water to this washed-out near white that’s too fragile even for a robin’s egg.”

“They all look blue to me.”

“You have always lacked an artist’s temperament.”

“Thank you.”

“Any of these look right?” she said with a theatrical sigh. I ran my finger down the page, squinting until my eyes crossed.

“Blue 72, maybe. Or it could be 74.”

“This was my whole afternoon, you know. Do I get paid for the time?”

“You get paid when I get paid.”

“Are you going to get paid?”

“Probably not.” I put the color chart away.

“Well, while we’re on the subject of wasted time . . .”

From deep in her coats she drew a worn paper envelope as soft as an old dollar bill. Inside were three portraits: two I would force myself to look at, and one I could not stand to see. The first showed a man with a gut as round and heavy as a pumpkin, shirtless at a table, a forkful of sausage and cabbage poised before wet red lips. The other was of a woman, handsome but joyless, waiting in line at an Eastside bank.

“These are good,” I said.

“Better than last week?”

“Last week’s were fine.”

“But you like these more.”

“Perhaps. They are so, so ordinary.”

She swirled her cup, scowling at its emptiness. I tilted the bottle in her direction, but she refused.

“It’s not healthy, drinking this filth,” she said.

“Beats the cold.”

She pulled her layers tighter, then leaned across the table and gave me an entirely unworkable hug. I stared as she walked away and wished I knew how to leave by her side. But I had one more appointment to keep.

A party of slummers poured through the door, nearly knocking Bex to the floor, and flung themselves at the bar crying for gin. Berk slid them a couple of bottles, exacting an outrageous price in return, and they occupied the table beside mine, laughing like only Eastsiders can.

“Isn’t it the most marvelous pit?” asked their leader, an overgrown boy in a cashmere overcoat whose slick curls stuck out below the brim of his hat. “Berk’s a troll, but she has her uses. I’ve been coming here for ages, you know, and she loves me like a son.”

I eyed the leg of his chair, which teetered beside the drop. If I smacked it, there was a strong chance he would fall to his death. Warmed by that happy thought, I returned the drawings to the envelope, taking care not to see the one that remained inside, and poured myself another drink.

I was watching snow swirl across the hardwood floor, savoring the mawkish burn of Berk’s red gin, when the bells of Grace Church sang ten o’clock, and Judy Byrd kicked open the stairwell door.

“I come to preach the electric resurrection,” she bellowed, and those familiar with her ministry pulled their glasses close to their chests.

A black woman whose tight curls were just smoked with gray, Judy vaulted onto the oak bar without apparent strain and did not turn her head at Berk’s perfunctory cry that she get the hell down. She wore a homespun orange dress and a tightly knotted kerchief, and spoke with a heavy Haitian accent that I knew to be an affectation. She clutched an ancient broom whose few remaining bristles stuck out at odd angles, hoisting it over her head like an executioner showing off his ax.

“What business have I, an honest woman, a god-fearing woman, what business have I skulking in the worst gin mills the Westside has to offer?” she asked the room.

“I think Miss Berk would take exception to that,” said the cashmere overcoat. He looked around, waiting for the room to acknowledge his barb, but even his friends were watching Judy. She was well into her reverie, which she would follow, as she always did, down twisting paths of mixed metaphor until it led us all to salvation.

“I tell you why I come here, why I drag my frostbitten feet up those unreliable stairs, why I leap upon this bar the same way we all must leap across the valley of death and into the arms of our savior. I do it for love. I love you drunks, the way you slur like the devil’s caught your tongue, the way you stumble like he’s hobbled your feet, the way your skin blisters and cracks and turns as red as hellfire, as bloody as the gin in your glass. I love you all, no matter how you try to blot out the light God lit inside you, no matter how greedily you suck the intoxicating sweat that runs off the devil’s backside. I love you as Christ loves you, and in his name I will sweep you clean.”

She snapped her old broom down on the bar, sending a hail of cigarette butts and stained linen to join the snow on the floor. She ran the length, giggling as she swept empty bottles and dirty glasses crashing to their death.

“By god, boys, she’s insane!” cackled one of the slummers, drawing Judy’s eye for the first time. With three quick steps, she bounded onto their table. They stopped laughing. The man in the cashmere coat spun around and glared at Berk, who watched the whole scene from a stool at the edge of the room, her face like stone.

“So help me,” he said, “if you let this Negro clown spill a drop of my liquor—”

He never completed his threat. With a practiced flick of her wrist, Judy flung their glasses into space—all save that of the leader, whose cup she tipped into his lap, staining his cashmere beyond repair.

He grabbed her by the ankle. She pointed her broom handle at his forehead, a matador preparing to deliver the final blow. He snickered, the way you do when your father has money and you understand the whole world has been set up for your benefit. No one else laughed.

“You’ll pay for that liquor,” he said. “The coat, too.”

“You’re the one who’ll pay,” Judy answered, as readily as a comic taking the straight man’s line. “The cost is far more than the dime Miss Berk charges—it’s ten million years in a pit of fire, with snakes pricking your pecker until it bursts, over and over again.”

“Cut out that noise and buy us another round or I’ll throw you into the street.”

“God wouldn’t let me die.”

The man tightened his grip on Judy’s leg. I saw no sign that God was preparing to intervene, and so I stepped in. I placed my hand on his soft black glove.

“Let her go,” I said.

“What’d I tell you boys,” he said to the friends who could no longer meet his eye. “Westside women are hellcats.”

“You are outnumbered and badly disliked. This could be an amusing anecdote for your fellows on the Eastside, or it could be a tragedy. What would you prefer?”

He chuckled. His laugh sounded like slime. In a room without a wall, he was backed into a corner, and I really didn’t know if he’d give up or lash out. I believe I was ready for either. His friends made the decision for him, cinching their scarves and slinking for the exit. Seeing that he really was outnumbered—even rich boys must learn some arithmetic—he broke his grip on Judy’s ankle and followed them out.

Even through the cold, my face felt hot. I drained my drink, grateful it had survived the sermon. Judy jumped down and wrapped me in a welcome embrace.

“Gilda Carr,” she said. “My favorite sinner. God truly takes all forms.”

“Are we getting the gospel tonight, Judy, or ain’t we?” asked one of the men at the bar.

“Give ’em a show,” I said, and she launched back into her sermon, howling of thumbscrews and broken bones, eager demons and weak flesh, evil liquor and the healing power of God’s infinite grace. And she told about the coming resurrection, when our dead would rise from their graves and walk the Westside streets, when all the wounds we bandaged with liquor would finally be healed. She punctuated every paragraph by sweeping another heap of the mess she’d made over the edge of the vanished wall, where it crashed onto the street to startle the fleeing slummers. I reached behind the bar for an unbroken bottle, dropped a dime in the bucket, and poured myself a fresh one.

Before I could settle in, a hand brushed my elbow. Behind me was a sallow white man in a perfectly tailored suit that would have been the height of fashion thirty years before. His hands were bare, despite the cold, and he held a tidy wad of pamphlets that offered scriptural backing for Judy’s unpredictable testimony. He was her brother, Enoch Byrd.

“A tract, Miss Carr?”

“I’m afraid I’ve read them all.”

Enoch was at least a decade older than me, but there was something boyish about him. While his sister spoke in a rambling torrent, he chose his words with care, pausing for seconds at a time as he searched for one that fit. He reminded me of the sort of boy I met too few of as a young girl, who were too tongue-tied and pathetic to ever seem a threat.

I often saw him on cold mornings, pushing a soup cart down snowy streets, waking those who had passed out on the sidewalk, helping them get warm and get home. He ordered them about with the precision of a drill sergeant, an attitude that would have been irritating if it hadn’t saved lives. A few years prior, my father had often been one of those woken on Enoch’s morning rounds, and I had been deeply fond of this dull, middle-aged man and his rowdy sister ever since.

The business with the blue ink had started in late November, on what must have been our last tolerably warm day, when Enoch found me on my stoop pelting rocks at pigeons and watching night sweep over Washington Square. He was silent until I asked him to sit down, and then he pointed past the bare trees that filled the park to the clean, pale eastern sky.

“That blue,” he said. “You only get it at this hour, when the sun is sinking and the shadows are long and day is just clinging on. It’s my favorite color in the world.”

“It’s good enough.”

“I have dreams in that color. Dreams of hell. Not nightmares. I’ve had them my whole life. My father used to preach about the blue flames of hell, and I’ve decided I’d like to do a tract in his honor, with three-color printing, that shows damnation as only he could paint it.”

He slid a pile of meticulously printed religious blather, each eight pages long and printed in black, white, and a different shade of blue.

“And no matter how many different blues you try, none of them hits the mark?” I said.

“How did you know?”

“I know the look, that special brand of misery that comes from trying to make the real world line up with something perfect in your head.”

“And these are the cases, the tiny mysteries, that are your specialty?”

I was wary. This was the type of thing I would usually turn down. It was tiny, sure, but it was also impossible. Enoch had standards—you could tell just by looking at his perfect little tracts—and that was hell in a client. But that fall I needed work, in every way a woman can.

“I’ll turn the city upside down until you have the blue you want,” I said. “As long as you can tell me what’s so special about this shade.”

I chucked another rock, missing the bird badly, and he told me a story about a little boy who grew up in the heart of Lower Manhattan, long before a fence divided Eastside from West, the son of a gifted preacher who loved his children, but loved his ministry more.

“Even when we did get Papa to ourselves, we never got to be alone with him,” he said. “Except for one afternoon, when he took me to see the carriage parade in Central Park. Afterward, we walked the length of it. I was watching the sun set over the lake, when he told me to turn around and look east instead. He died soon after. My whole life, that blue has stayed in my heart.”

Over the next months, whenever I had the pep to get out of bed, I stalked Manhattan up and down, sifting through shops for printers, authors, artists, stamp collectors, pen collectors, calligraphers, weavers, forgers, pornographers, and anyone else with an eye for beautiful things. To the Lower West I brought bits of paper stained with every blue I found, and to all of them Enoch apologized and shook his head.

At last I found an old woman in an underground shop on the Upper West, who promised she could make ink to match any shade in creation, so long as I could provide her with a sample. But of course that was impossible. In all of New York, there was no paint shard, no fabric scrap, no broken pot or torn dust jacket or dead bug that quite matched the flames burning inside Enoch Byrd’s head. I didn’t mind. The longer he was unsatisfied, the more I would eventually bill him, and the longer I put off finding something else to do with my days.

That night at the saloon, I smoothed Bex’s array of blues out on the table and watched him run his finger down the rows of color, wondering how long it would take him to shake his head.

“Your instincts are good,” he said. “Blue 72 is close to what I’m after.”

“But close is . . .”

“Still a bit wrong. I’m sorry, truly.”

“All part of the job.”

With a final cackle, Judy cast the last of the broken glass over the lip of the building. She tucked her broom under her shoulder and sidled up to her brother, eyeing his purse.

“Any sales?” she said.

“Three dollars’ worth,” he answered.

“Berk says we owe two twenty-five for the glassware.”

“You might avoid the ashtrays, sister. They are expensive.”

“You know better than anyone that Christ demands a clean sweep.”

Enoch sighed, counted the money, and dropped it in the bucket on the bar. Berk nodded, and Judy saluted with her broom.

“Have you nearly finished that drink, Miss Carr?” asked Enoch.

“Yes,” I said, “but I haven’t even started on the next one.”

“I wonder if you would consider postponing it. You’ve done such marvelous work looking for my blue ink and I wondered if, well . . . my mother wants a word.”

I pulled the dregs of the gin through my teeth and remembered how Enoch would hold my father’s hand as he trembled up our town house steps. My glass thudded, empty, onto the bar.

“Anything for the Byrds,” I said.

Down on the street, on the frozen, broken pavement of that road some still call Broadway, the heat from Berk’s felt far away, and the lights from the Eastside glowed only faintly over the top of the fence. Judy lit a cigarette and took a slow, sacred drag.

“I thought you were without vice,” I said.

“I am opposed to the devil’s intoxicants,” she said, her Haitian lilt discarded in favor of a bracing Westside brogue. “That does not mean I am without sin.”

“Mam is waiting,” said Enoch.

Mam was a woman in a soiled white cloak leaning on the fence beside the barred Waverly Place gate. She had thin peach lips and, beneath her hood, hair translucent white. She wore a heavy ivory glove on her left hand. Her right she offered to me.

“Helen Byrd,” she said.

“Matriarch of the Electric Church,” said Enoch. “Widow of its founder, the prophet and martyr Bulrush Byrd. Mam. And this is my sister Ruth.”

Ruth had a pointed chin and flat hair. A heavy scarf covered most of her face. She stared through me blankly, looking so much like her mother that it made me a bit dizzy. With only the flickering light of Berk’s faraway fire to guide me, it was hard to tell if Helen looked young for her age, or if Ruth was old for hers.

“I’m not impressed,” said Helen after she finished sizing me up.

“I’d be worried if you were. What is it you want?”

“Something has gone missing from our church. My children insist you are the woman to find it. I don’t agree, but they don’t care.”

“If you’re waiting for me to defend myself, don’t bother. I’m too cold to beg.”

She scowled more, somehow, and went on.

“It is the finger of Róisín of Lismore, a saint. Our saint. It is a fixture of our ministry, the centerpiece of our faith, and it was stolen from our church earlier this week. I am told you specialize in finding tiny things.”

“It’s the little finger,” said Judy. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to be funny, but I did my best not to laugh. “Left hand. Pickled.”

“When was it stolen?” I said.

“After dark on Thursday night,” said Helen. “Ruth noticed it missing at dawn.”

“No one saw anything?”

“If we had, we would not have come to you.”

“Who has access to the church after dark? Just the four of you?”

“The whole city has access to the electric faith.”

“What?”

“We leave our doors open to the neighborhood,” said Enoch. “That any passing vagrant might take shelter. We have nothing to steal.”

“Not anymore, anyway,” I said, ignoring Helen’s and Ruth’s irritation. “You’re certain it was stolen? I find that the smaller the finger, the more likely it is to be misplaced.”

“Saint Róisín’s finger resides in a small glass case,” said Helen. “It is never disturbed, even during services. The only key is kept in my office, and that door is always locked, no matter the needs of the city’s vagrants.”

“The case was smashed?” I said.

“To dust,” said Ruth, so low I could hardly hear.

“Nothing else was taken?”

“As my brother said, there really is nothing to steal.”

“And why do you need the finger back?”

“What kind of question is that?” said Enoch.

“It’s, what, an inch and a half long? Shriveled? Pink? I can find you one to match in any snowbank on this avenue. I assure you, the donor will not mind.”

“It wouldn’t be Róisín.”

“And you really believe that little scrap of flesh you keep in a box is?”

I thought they would be angry. If they were, it didn’t show. Enoch blanched; Judy cackled, and Helen became, if this was possible, even more blank. Ruth’s stern eyes softened, and she looked on me with pity as she took my hands in hers.

“You have lost quite a lot,” she said, stroking my hands, searching my face.

“So has everyone. That’s an easy thing to guess.”

“You’ve lost a parent. Both parents?”

“What does that have to do with your stolen digit?”

“You have no family, few friends. You have seen too much bloodshed, too much pain. This winter has been hard for all of us, but harder for you. You try to carry the city on your back, and it has bent you double.”

I tried to keep her from seeing that she wasn’t wrong. I don’t think I succeeded.

“Róisín is the patron saint of suffering. Her death was more horrible than you could imagine, and she bore it with a smile. Our family has lost much, too, and our parishioners have lost even more. Decades of suffering, and she has always been there. Without her to point the way, our family, our church, will be lost.”

“Our city, too,” said Enoch. “Without our church, the whole city is in jeopardy.”

I had never been inside the building they called a church, but I had seen it. A onetime Italian banquet hall on Carmine Street, its old sign shone through the poorly painted marquee that invited the world to “Join the Electric Church.” I had always wondered why they chose it. In a district overrun with abandoned churches, some in serviceable condition, they preferred a dump.

I looked at the four of them, their clothes and bearing as ridiculous as their faith. They were pathetic, but they were kind. In a city and a winter that fought so hard to crush those who believed in anything but greed and death, they pressed on. Delusional, certainly—Enoch couldn’t really believe the whole city was counting on them—but their intentions were pure. If they thought the finger would help them continue with that mission . . .

“I’d be honored,” I said.

“I still don’t like her,” said Helen.

“And I don’t like you, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a bit of fun.”

Helen gave me the kind of look you normally expect from a Gorgon. Judy pulled her mother back and whispered, “She’s the only one.”

“Fine,” said Helen. “Fine.”

“A ringing endorsement,” I said. “I can’t wait to get started.”

“Thank you, Miss Carr,” said Enoch. “And while you’re working for Mam, of course, you can let the blue ink go.”

I appreciated that. I’m sure Bex would feel it was far more healthy to chase just one impossibility at a time.

I could have gone back upstairs for another drink, but instead I let them walk me home, as they had done so often for my father, to the town house that stood alone on an empty block on the western edge of Washington Square.

I stepped from the frozen street into my frozen parlor, lit a fire, and tried to drive the frost from my chest. I drew a fat album from a high shelf and laid it on the floor before the dancing flame. Inside were dozens of Bex’s drawings of the old man and the young woman, drawings of them walking and eating and bathing and living lives too ordinary to be believed. He was the Glen-Richard Van Alen who lived in another New York, far gentler than our own. She was Juliette Copeland. Him I’d shot in the chest. Her I’d drowned. These drawings, which I’d started commissioning from Bex when I realized my guilt would not fade with autumn, were glimpses into the sorts of quiet days my victims would never enjoy.

I pasted the new pair onto blank pages. There was one more drawing inside Bex’s envelope that I could not bear to see. I left it inside and fell asleep by the fire, hoping that if the finger of Saint Róisín couldn’t save the city, it could at least save me.

 

The next morning I breakfasted in the Upper West, on a sliver-thin side street nestled between Fifth Avenue and the fence, where the smell of old money still hung in the air. In a double-wide town house painted a chipped, fading blue, I was greeted by a woman with tight white curls whose skin was as wrinkled and clear as cellophane. This was my grandmother: the distinguished Anacostia Fall.

“Did you bring it?” she said, as she welcomed me in from the cold.

“Is there sausage?”

“The way you can gorge without doing the decent thing and becoming monstrously fat—it simply baffles.”

“I assure you—when out of your sight, I eat as delicately as a bird.”

She honked out a laugh. I followed her across the polished parquet, beneath a dripping, wax-encrusted chandelier, past a heavenly staircase that twisted to the floors above. Candles flickered over photos of relatives long dead, posed as stiff as corpses but smiling, as the Falls usually did, like hoodlums. The final picture showed Ana, severely corseted, flanked by her children: a boy with hair as matted as beaver fur and a smirking young woman named Mary Fall.

In a dining room decorated with haunting landscapes of upstate New York, we sat at the corner of a table that could seat twenty-four paunchy men. Ana rang a bell, and a segment of wall shot open to reveal two steaming dishes of fatty sausage, buttered toast, and egg pudding. She carried the plates herself, hands shaking just enough to keep it interesting. The first bite warmed me down to my calluses, and I did not stop until I was numb with grease. I dried my fingers on the tablecloth.

Now it was time to pay the check.

I slid Bex Red’s envelope across the table. Ana flipped it open and eased out the picture. She stared at it for a long time, then slumped back and sighed.

“Can I see it?” I said.

“You don’t usually like to look.”

“The dreams have gotten worse.”

She handed it to me. Bex’s effortless lines showed a middle-aged woman sitting at her kitchen table, a tomato sandwich in one hand and a neatly folded newspaper in the other. The table was my table. The woman was my mother.

Mary Fall died of pneumonia the summer of my tenth year. I’d thought that pain forgotten until last year, when I killed for the first time and she began to appear in my sleep. The dreams were violent enough to wake me, strange enough that I couldn’t shake them, and when they became unbearable I began visiting the only woman in New York who might understand.

I’d hardly known Ana when my parents were alive, but she welcomed me without question and fed me well. When I told her how I was torturing myself with drawings of my victims living the lives I’d cut short, she asked if Bex could do the same for the daughter she’d lost decades before. We rarely spoke of Mary—we rarely spoke at all—but when we did, it was like opening a steam valve that eased the pressure and let me breathe again.

“She looks happy,” I said.

“She doesn’t. She looks normal. That’s enough.”

I gave it back to her.

“You didn’t approve when she married my father, did you?” I said.

“Why would you ask me such an inane question?”

“I’ve always wondered how they met.”

“Your father was a brute, and after she met him, Mary was never my daughter again. I never bothered to ask how it began.”

I followed her down the long hallway, keeping my eyes on the photo of Mary for as long as I could. At the end of the immaculate passage, one of the doors was open an inch. Behind it I saw a heap of broken furniture, rotted books, ruined artwork, tarnished silver, cracked glass, and other refuse far past the point of identification. Ana shut the door, and I pretended I hadn’t seen.

She insisted on helping me put on my coat. As I slid my left arm home, I asked, “Was she as good as I remember?”

“Better,” said Ana. “There never walked a purer soul.”

She called her carriage, an electric green behemoth drawn by a black horse speckled white with snow, and I glided home. As we crossed the Borderline, the tranquility of the Upper West fell away, and I steeled myself for work.