December, 1859
Mother would not go with me to the Spiritist lecture with William Mumler.
Because I was a woman now. William a man. Mother would not come between us.
Until.
When Willy came to call. Beard combed out from him in waves. Ruby cufflinks at his wrists. Beyond them stretched two white silk gloves. Withdrew from his coat to complete the ensemble, beneath a brief and private smile, mother’s cameo necklace. Buffed high and repaired. And then held it open for her to step into.
No explanation, of course, why he had it. Why he and not me had presented it to her.
Watching me as she thanked him. “So lovely,” she said. “More lovely even than before.”
Now we travelled there together. Willy up front and Bill Christian in back. Rode between Bill and my stern island mother while Willy narrated the passing landscape.
Here the airy reservoir. There the Tremont House Hotel. Armoury-Ticknor on the left from which the Hub dispatched its books.
Melodeon loomed up at us. Clean and carved and bright. Reins ho.
Mumler and Willy fetched up at the train where they lifted a bulky suitcase to the curb.
A man of some proportion met with Willy at the doors. Did not seem to recognize him. Wore a crimson coat with tails. Carnation stabbed in his lapel.
“Help you, sir?” said crimson-coat.
“We’re here for Katherine Fox’s lecture.”
Said crimson-coat: “That’s two hours off.”
“Miss Conant will forget such things! It was her that instructed me, sir: be here early. And bring your billings with you, please. Please”—he touched the bulky case—“is what she would say to you now, were she present.”
“I’m afraid that I can’t, sir, instructions or no. Not without Miss Conant here.”
Willy Mumler smiled. Moved in: “A private word, if you don’t mind.”
The two of them in low cahoots. His white glove relaxed on the broad crimson back.
Now crimson-coat was laughing strangely. Looking me from toe to crown.
“Spiritualism,” said the man. “It is the purveyor of our age.”
And then we were in through the carved double doors. Into the hall and the suitcase was open. Open between them, the jeweller and Bill. They rafted it before them like a banner they were hanging. Out from it came little cards that they placed on the first of the seats in each row.
Willy turned back as they went down the aisles.
“You’re gifted,” said he. “There’s no arguing that. In a couple of hours hence you’ll be famous, my girl!”
Looking down I saw myself. Tipping out of Willy’s grasp. My eyelids fluttering and sick. My island skin—so poor, so pale. While Grace. Just behind me. Just there, by my chair. Her auburn hair gone dark and wet. Extending one pale, wrinkled palm toward the camera. On every seat, this same tableau, stretching onward toward the stage.
These items, I knew, were called cartes de visite. Everyone in house would have one.
And then I thought, Lift up your face. Marvel of this place that held us. Gold leaf as far as the eye could make out. Chandeliered and tin-stamped ceiling. Sweep of the seat-rows reflected above, wider the higher they climbed toward the rafters.
Turnout enough for the show to begin. Some forward-sitting. Some slumped in their seats. Some of them standing, hands folded before them.
A thin man in coattails who might be an usher standing with his back to me.
But no: unbidden, dead. He turned. The dark and curtained stage receded.
“The Scottish play or Lear they’re on? Which do you prefer, my dear? Now where was I sitting?” The man scratched his chin. “Where is my wife, Berenice? Have you seen her? Can I be such a muddle-pate that I have banged my face up laughing?”
The curtain parted on the stage.
A pale girl appeared. Wore a bell-shape of hair. Lowering her crinolines. The curve of her bending, re-bending the fabric. The shallow crescent of her back. She was testing for strength or for comfort, it seemed, a polished wingback chair. Stage-centre. And having took my breath from me the curtain closed. The vision gone.
Say your name, I might have said.
The girl was alive, there was no doubt about it.
I had to wrench my gaze away. For here was mother on my right. Presenting me one of the cartes de visite. Who’d seen me see the pretty girl. Who’d seen me blush for want of her. Here was my mother who knew everything. About Willy, photography. Taking the locket. Stillness of her. Watching me.
“People are going to know you now. It doesn’t flatter you to stare. Stand up straight,” said she. “Smile, Hannah. Pay these poor lost souls no mind.”