LIKE THE NIKON AND THE DARKROOM, THE CAR WAS something to behold. The few things that were truly Aunt Esther’s and not tied to the house were perfect. And her Ford Triumph was no exception.
The car had the long, sharp art deco lines of its period. Bright chrome stripes and triangular backseat windows. Cat’s-eye brake lights. Double headlights. A shining sleek-looking grille. A white interior that had miraculously managed, over the decades, to stay white. Along its sides there were wide white panels, but otherwise the color was dinner-mint green. The color of the chalky candies some diners still kept in glass bowls by the register.
Somewhere Gretchen had seen a photograph of Grace Kelly wearing a silk scarf on her head, driving exactly this car down a stretch of mountain road above a beach.
“Wow,” she said. The incredible vintage chic of it was amazing. Simon would lose his mind when he saw this car. Oh, Simon, she thought, she had to try calling him again as soon as she could.
“It’s pretty awesome,” Hope said. “I’ve been taking it out for the last week—just driving around the hills.”
“How old are you?” Gretchen asked Hope.
“Fourteen,” Hope said, and shrugged. “I didn’t say I was legally driving it around the hills.” There was another old car up on cinder blocks at the back of the barn, this one a small convertible. “It’s a Citroën,” Hope said. “My dad and I were working on it before he passed. He’d wanted it to be totally restored by the time I was old enough to drive. I’ve almost got it there.”
Apart from the car being a beautiful thing, Gretchen was relieved it was there. They could leave if there was an emergency. And they could also use it to transport things from the Axton mansion.
She had never really thought about anyone except paid mechanics fixing cars. It never occurred to her that some people might want to do it for fun.
“Does Hawk work on the car too?”
“Hawk?” Hope laughed. “That boy can’t screw in a light bulb without help. Part of the reason I learned to drive is so I can take him to music lessons. He’s got a long walk in the winter.”
“Guitar lessons?”
“Everything,” Hope said. “Cello, clarinet . . . banjo.” She grinned when she said it. “He’s going away to music school next year.”
“What will you do when he leaves? Will you still live here?”
“Now that Esther’s gone, I don’t know. I want to stay in school here. I don’t want to move.”
“Not even with all the . . .”
“The accidents?” Hope laughed. “There’s about one day a year all that stuff seems like something to be worried about. I’m not scared of accidents. If an anvil falls on my head, it’s because my time has come.”
Gretchen rubbed her shoulder. It felt bruised and tender but was scabbing over. “Last night,” Gretchen said, “I saw the girls you were talking about.”
“Celia and Rebecca,” Hope said. “Were they playing with a rope?”
“You’ve seen them too?” Gretchen asked.
“I’ve seen pictures of them.” She shrugged. “I believe in these things because of Hawk. Because I trust him. Because I know the world is full of things we don’t understand. But honestly, my mind’s not entirely made up on what’s causing all this stuff. Science used to seem like magic, people once believed lightning was God’s wrath. We can call them ghosts and accidents but we may never really know what any of this is about.”
Gretchen touched the bite mark at her side, and thought of the pictures she’d taken last night—the ones to prove to herself later it was all nothing but a hallucination. It was clear Hope was the practical part of the Green siblings. Just talking to her made Gretchen feel more grounded.
“Listen,” Gretchen said. “I think we should take the car back over to Esther’s and gather some of her things, before . . .” She was about to say “before they take over” but had no idea what that really meant. Or why she suddenly felt so sure she knew what she was talking about. She felt like she had in the morning after she’d found the rope—a little light-headed and then suddenly very determined.
“Sure,” Hope said. “Let’s do it!”
“If you’re going over to the house,” Hawk said, startling them as he stood in the doorway, “be careful of Celia and Rebecca.”
Gretchen could tell he’d experienced firsthand some of the things she’d seen. She shuddered thinking about their horrible little hands. About the rope she found in her suitcase, the pain of those razor-sharp little teeth in her side.
“Why are they so angry?” Gretchen asked. “What do they want?”
“No one,” Hope said, “can know what the dead want.”
As if by some silent consensus, the three of them hopped into the car. Hope and Hawk got in the front, and then Hope pulled out of the barn and onto the low-shouldered road.
“Our mother was writing about the fire at Calvary Church for years,” she told Gretchen. “She spent a lot of time interviewing Esther, looking through her family archive. She said late one night on the anniversary she felt the whole congregation there. Sad, confused, scared, angry. Wandering around. She never saw them—just like me, she never saw a ghost—but on that day she said she felt their presence. The undeniable weight of history, she called it.”
“It’s ’cause you choose not to see them,” Hawk said to his sister.
“Choice has nothing to do with it,” Hope said, raising her voice just a bit.
Gretchen had to agree—she certainly had no choice in the matter when she saw Celia and Rebecca the night before, or when she and Hawk had watched the crowd of people out by the trees. She wanted to tell Hope and Hawk about the other creatures but her throat felt tight when she thought of them—of the thing near the darkroom, of her aunt’s face contorted in pain after drinking the chemicals. Her words in the moments before, Mona . . . she was here.
The countryside flew past as they drove, the woods dark and cool flanking the road. Hope had gone completely quiet, but looked more determined than ever. Hawk looked dreamily out at the forest. Gretchen thought of the people who must have hidden there, trying to make their way to the church. As she thought of Fidelia’s description of bringing people to safety, she reached up and touched the ivory hair clip. And suddenly had an urge to sharpen it, to make the tines as deadly and useful as a knife. What a badass that woman must have been.
Just like Esther, who had stayed alive for almost one hundred years even though she clearly thought about killing herself every day for the last forty. There had to be a reason Esther did what she did—planned it like this.
On a hunch Gretchen asked, “When is the anniversary?”
Hope looked at her brother in the rearview mirror, and then he cleared his throat.
“The day after tomorrow,” he said.
★ THE MAYVILLE EXPRESS ★
Reporting Above the Fold Since 1820 • June 4, 1863
AXTON FAMILY BECOMES SOLE EXPORTER OF COTTON FOR THE NORTHEAST
Heir to the Axton fortune George Axton has been granted a cotton permit by the government to continue his work as a shipper and trader, purchasing the coveted commodity from at least three states in the Confederacy.
Responding to a reporter’s questions, Axton said he did not believe trading with the South was aiding the enemy and keeping slavery afloat.
Axton buys cotton for ten cents a pound in Mississippi, reselling it in the North for seventy cents a pound.
“We can’t ignore the wealth the cotton trade is bringing to our community,” Axton said. “Wealth is strength and strength will win the war. I’m not aiding any enemy.”
But many disagree with Axton, pointing out that Confederate General Kirby Smith has bragged of using cotton money from the North to turn back two Union campaigns.
“The more cotton the North buys, the more our boys die,” said Governor Horatio Seymour.
Dear James,
I agree. The irony is awful. I know you feel strange using the money from Axton Cotton to build the church. And yes, I agree with everything you have written. But think of the people we have helped. Without your parents’ money—without the transports coming out of Georgia—we’d never have been able to bring Jack and his family here to safety. We are fighting great powers and at the moment must do it by any means necessary!
My parents of course see something else in the church. The other night when I came into the parlor after I’d finished my sewing my mother said, “That would be a lovely, simple church for you to get married in.” I let her words pass over me.
I wanted to tell you: When I saw George last week he looked tousled and sullen and was not quite himself. We sat for a long time on the porch. I believe it is hard for him sometimes, especially now that he’s taken on nearly all of the management of Axton Cotton. He is rich indeed but I think he still sees himself standing in your shadow.
There was another fire, outside the town in Honeoye. And there have been gatherings of the WCP. People say it’s because Honeoye is such a backward place, so full of racists, and it’s true, but I know those evil sentiments are everywhere. Just as sentiments like ours are everywhere.
I have heard the WCP riding and have gone out on the porch to see them. Awful cowards so full of hate. Like ignorant children out of control. It strikes fear in my heart—and also rage. I try to keep the anger back but sometimes it is overwhelming. Valerie said every time it happens she expects them to ride right up to her house.
Later I was talking of these things with George. He took me on a walk to the church and we looked at the site and talked to the men who were building it. He knew them all of course, and they were so friendly, and amusing.
On the way home we talked about the fires in the town and in Honeoye and he asked me, How can you know what’s really going on? How can you tell, Fidelia? How can you tell from the outside what a person believes, or the kinds of things they’ve done?
Yours,
Fidelia