I pictured a rolling, boiling blackness that smelled like a charnel house.
I jerked my head up and looked around. The smell went away, and there was never any darkness to begin with.
Even so.
I quickly made for the exit, and soon I was standing on the porch in front of the bookstore—which frankly didn’t look much different from the porch at the hotel. It’s Florida. Everybody’s got a porch. Everybody’s got at least one or two rocking chairs. At the hotel, you sit there and rock and drink tea or coffee while you watch the trains come and go (or the cleanup of the theater, across the tracks); at the bookstore you sit there and rock and read whatever helpful book you were moved to purchase, or whatever pamphlet had been pressed into your hand by the visiting ministers.
But I was standing there, not rocking, not drinking or reading anything. I had stopped at the top of the steps like some kind of dummy because I was running away, and something had stopped me. I’d thought I smelled something awful, and sensed something worse. But there was nothing to smell, and nothing to flee. I felt ridiculous.
Imogene Cook appeared at my side.
Her glasses were askew, and her dark bobbed hair blew softly in the wind. I thought she looked too old to have bobbed hair, but that was none of my business. Maybe when I’m fifty I’ll shave it all off and wear pants. If the suffragettes get their way (and it looks like they will), women will be voting before long—so I guess anything is possible.
“Is something wrong?” she asked me. “You’ve been standing there a minute.”
“No, I . . . I was planning to . . . I was going to pick something up, and I forgot what it was.”
“A book?” she suggested, straight-faced. “From the bookstore?”
“It might’ve been a book,” I replied, with more shortness than was probably warranted.
“I heard you were caught up in the theater yesterday. Is that how you hurt your arm?”
“Yes.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “I thought so. It’s a strange wound, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Like the devil himself held your hand and signed his name. Or it would look like that, if the devil’s name began with an ‘H.’”
My breath caught in my throat. I backed away from her, one step, two steps. Until I reached the column at the edge of the steps, where the handrail goes. “Why would you say something like that? You haven’t even seen it.”
“I didn’t say it, I only repeated it. You thought it first,” she argued.
“That’s . . . that isn’t polite, to go around reading people’s thoughts.”
“I can’t help it. That’s what I’m here for. People always think it’d be useful to learn how to know what other folks are thinking—but I’d like to learn how not to do it. So hop down off your high horse, honey; you’re not so special that I’m nosy about what’s going on between your ears.” In a huff, she turned and stomped past me, down the steps.
“Don’t mind her.” The voice was practically in my ear, whispered there.
I jumped half out of my skin, but it was only David—so I didn’t die, but I blushed. “Oh, I don’t. She’s . . .”
“Quite a character, as my father likes to say.” He grinned down at me with a touch of worry in his eyes. “But you, Miss Dartle.”
“Alice.”
“Alice, I know. We’ve done that dance already. You caught that showing of Zorro with the little nun.”
I started to answer him, but I opened my mouth and it filled up with that smell again—burning bones and broiled skin. (No one’s skin had broiled in the theater, except maybe mine. Everyone got out alive. This was something different. It came from somewhere else.) It gagged me. I put a hand to my throat and turned away from him. I coughed and coughed, and my eyes flickered with those tiny silver stars you see when you hit your head or when you can’t breathe.
He said my name again. I heard it just fine, but the world was going dark, and I was gasping. “A moment,” I wheezed. He thrust a handkerchief into my hands and I held it over my mouth while I coughed. “It’s only the smoke,” I choked out. “From yesterday.”
“You breathed too much of it, I’m sure. Let me get you some water,” he offered. “Here, take a seat.”
A man who’d occupied the nearest rocker leaped up and offered his place, and I nodded to David like that’s where I’d be when he returned with water—but the minute he ducked inside the store, I took off.
I tripped down the stairs, almost landing facedown at the bottom; I caught myself and coughed again, and hid my face with the stolen handkerchief; I stood on the sidewalk, and then I went to the middle of the street. I stared this way and that—from one end of Stevens Street to the far side of the tracks, past the cremated remains of the Calliope and into the trees, over the rolling hills.
The Calliope. That must be the smell. The warm, lazy air currents must be carrying it back, sending it up my nostrils. “That’s all it is,” I told myself, or I told the handkerchief, anyway. “Just the Calliope.”
I am a terrible pretender. I didn’t believe myself for a second.
The clanging bell at the train crossing gonged and gonged and gonged again, warning pedestrians off the tracks. Maybe that was it: a combination of the Calliope and the train coming, both of them stinking like burned, blackened things and making such a terrible racket.
(Oh, I will hear it in my nightmares forever—the deafening roar of the fire and the sizzling ashes, and the timbers breaking and falling. Fire is a noisy feeder.)
But that sense of dread and darkness, boiled together down to some viscous sludge, it wasn’t going away. Usually if I make up a good enough story, or find a good enough excuse to explain my fears away, they ease themselves off my chest. They let me breathe.
Not this one.
David would be back with the water any minute. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want any water. I wanted to run, as far and as fast as I could get—away from this bleak, black cloud that wasn’t creeping so much as billowing. I couldn’t see it (don’t ask how I knew it was black) and I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, but I believed in it with all my heart.
It was coming for me, looking for me. Homing in on me like a pigeon.
Or was that too conceited? What if it was closing in on something else, something bigger than me? I tested the theory, turned it over in my head, and set it aside. It might be true, or it might be wrong. But something about it didn’t fit.
The train was coming.
It rolled into town with a blast of warm air and steam, and with enough clatter to drown out every other sound (except for the crinkling pop of ashes, bursting around my face). It drew to a stop with a ferocious squeal, and finally the alarm bells at the crossing quit ringing.
David would be along any minute.
Water wouldn’t help me. I didn’t want to explain myself.
I darted back to the hotel, up the steps, past the rocking chairs, and into the lobby, where it was dark—much darker than it was outside, for all the windows with their gauzy curtains. I blinked to let my eyes adjust, and let the light flooding in through the windows catch up to me.
No, it wasn’t that dark inside. It was never that dark inside.
The door burst open and there was David, having followed me from one woozy scene to another. “There you are!” he cried, a glass of water in hand, as promised. It sloshed over his fingers. His knuckles were very white.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but I did not specify for what. “I think maybe I need to lie down.”
“Let’s start by having you sit down. Should I send for Dr. Holligoss?”
“No, don’t do that.”
This time, I let him put me into a tufted chaise, right there in the lobby. People were watching us and I was embarrassed, but I honestly did not think I co
uld stand for even another moment. It was crowding me, at the edges of my vision—the smell, the pressure, like a headache swelling behind my eyes.
I coughed into the handkerchief again and I heard David tell someone, “It’s the smoke. She was in the Calliope. Give her space, please. Everyone—give her room.”
I accepted the glass when he pushed it into my hand, and I sipped it politely, not really tasting it or even needing it. Whatever was wrong, it could not be fixed with a bit of the yellow-smelling liquid that passed for drinking water in central Florida.
Whatever was wrong, it was very close now. It was pushing its way forward, coming right toward me, demanding to see me. It was hot and thick, and I swear to God, I think it was laughing softly—just beyond the farthest edge of my hearing.
The lobby doors opened again, admitting the new arrivals from the train.
Through gummy eyes I saw ladies in hats and men with suitcases. I saw an older couple with a porter carrying a trunk. I saw a man who was shrouded in heat and darkness. No, not shrouded in it. Haunted by it. Followed by it. Dragging it in his wake.
He looked this way and that way, around the lobby. He ought to follow the small crowd to the front desk, where he could find a room—or find directions to a room elsewhere. But he was looking for something. For someone.
For me.
• • •
I knew it was him, the same way I knew which horse to pick, and which stocks from the Saturday morning paper. I knew him like I knew my own face in the mirror, even though I hadn’t expected to see him so soon.
• • •
TOMÁS Cordero wasn’t carrying much—just a single small trunk and a small white dog. He was of average height and slender build, and probably about thirty years old. My momma would’ve called him “swarthy” but she said that about everybody with dark hair and eyes, especially if English wasn’t their mother tongue. I thought he was handsome, though he was almost frail in appearance. His hands shook, and his satchel and his little dog shook, too. He wore a brown suit that might have been made for him when he was a little heavier, or a little stronger.
I sat up straight and set the glass on the round table beside the chaise. “Mr. Cordero!” I called out.
He caught my eye, and his face lit up like the Fourth of July.
He knew me, as surely as I knew him. He must have recognized me from his dreams.
16
TOMÁS CORDERO
Cassadaga, Florida
ALICE DARTLE IS a pretty woman, curvaceous and wavy haired, with kind eyes and graceful hands. She is perhaps twenty years old. I knew her immediately—the very second my eyes caught hers. I had seen her before; somehow I knew this. (I believed this.) It was déjà vu—that’s what they call it. The moment I saw her, that’s what it was.
She was seated on a chaise in the hotel lobby, surrounded by concerned and curious people. Someone had brought her a glass of water. She wanted them all to leave her alone; she was distracted and coughing, but they meant well and she was too polite to shoo them away.
Then she saw me.
She called my name. She knew me, too. I think she used me as an excuse to gain some breathing room, for she climbed to her feet and came to meet me. Such a sturdy little creature, never mind the cough and the bloodshot eyes. I saw strength in her, and conviction.
I saw power.
This was a woman who could help.
• • •
THERE was a bandage on her arm, partially concealed by a sweater the shade of periwinkles. Her forehead was damp with sweat, but she was smiling. “Mr. Cordero,” she said again. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, but I did not know you were coming. Or . . . I thought you might come, but not right away. I was writing you a letter in return, and I’m so sorry that I haven’t done it yet—I meant to finish and send it yesterday, but . . . here you are, arriving unexpected. But you’re certainly not unwelcome!” she added quickly.
She spoke in a fast, rolling patter, with an accent that I couldn’t quite place. She wasn’t from Florida; of that I was certain.
I took her hand—the one without the bandaged arm attached—and I kissed it in greeting. “I did not intend to surprise you. Things have become . . . my situation has . . .” I faltered, unsure of where to begin or what to tell her.
“It’s fine! It’s all fine!” She sounded desperate to convince us both. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Felipe leaned his head toward her, coming as close as he was able from my arms—in order to give her a sniff. I introduced him. “This is Felipe. He is gentle and harmless.”
She let him examine her fingers, then gave him a little scratch on the head. “What a handsome little fellow.” Then she looked at the hotel counter, where a smartly dressed colored man was manning the desk. “Here, let me take you to Mr. Rowe. We’ll get you a room.”
The hotel was nearly full, but as fortune would have it, a couple was trying to leave as I was trying to arrive. I assured Mr. Rowe that Felipe would make no messes, that I did not mind if the room had not been cleaned, and then I gave him my information and my money. I almost considered using someone else’s name, in case anyone came looking for me . . . but what would be the point? I had not hurt anyone or set any fires. I did not care what happened to my house anymore, and there was nothing to be done for my business.
Or Mrs. Vasquez. Or Emilio.
With a sudden pang I thought of Silvio. I’d left a note for him at my house. I said only that I was leaving and that the house belonged to him now—if he wanted it. I left the paperwork for the fire insurance, for I had coverage on Cordero’s, and I said that he should take the payout when it comes. I told him that I had done no wrong, but I would not return. I told him that I was a danger to everyone I love, and I would not put him in harm’s way. I left him three months’ salary in an envelope, to fill the gap until the insurance settlement.
I know, I know. It wasn’t enough and I am a coward.
But what else could I do?
• • •
MISS Dartle helped me to my room, carrying Felipe so that I could manage my own trunk more easily. (There was only one bellhop, a young man named Timothy who was being run ragged in the rush of new visitors, brought by the train that had brought me, too.) She tidied the room while I unpacked. I asked her not to, but she insisted. She was nervous. She wanted something to do with her hands.
Felipe sniffed here and sniffed there, then hopped up onto the bed and curled into a ball.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable here. I’m right down the hall, in room fourteen. If you need anything, all you have to do is ask, and if you can’t find me, ask Mr. Rowe. He’s a wonderful concierge, and he knows everything about everyone in town.”
“You live here? In the hotel?”
“Temporarily. An apartment is opening up in Harmony Hall later this month, when one of the seasonal clairvoyants heads back north. Then I can put down some proper roots. Housing is tricky in Cassadaga, with so many people coming and going all the time. But what about you? How long do you plan to stay?”
I dreaded the question, for I didn’t have a good answer. I made one up on the spot. “That depends on how long it takes for me to find answers.”
“About your wife.”
She remembered, from my letter. I was touched. “Yes, about my wife. I brought a few things to show you . . . but I don’t mean to impose. I arrived so abruptly and interrupted your day.”
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s good. I’m sure that everything will be all right. We should meet, and we should talk—openly and honestly. I do want to tell you . . . I have some concerns . . .” She rubbed her bandaged arm with her free hand. “But it’s just as well that you’ve come. Can I take you to lunch? It’s not too late for that, is it? Supper, then, perhaps?”
I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I ought to be . . . and Felipe must be, though h
e had such manners that he hadn’t become snippy about it. “No, it is not too late at all.”
“There’s a lunch counter across the tracks, and a small grocery right beside it. You can pick up some supplies, if you need any. Some food for Felipe, maybe?”
So far, he’d been eating whatever I had on my plate—but not much of it. We would waste away if we kept up like this. “That sounds delightful, but please, allow me to pay. I have come in search of your time and expertise. It is not your job to look after me.”
“You are my very first client,” she fussed. “I’m not actually . . . certified yet, and my name isn’t on the board, but you asked me for help, and I’m going to give it to you. I’ll start with a decent welcome and some food. Are you ready?”
“Yes, of course.”
Felipe seemed happy where he was, so I left him on the bed to nap—and I envied him only a little. I was exhausted but I had arrived, and I had found Alice Dartle. So far, nothing had burned down. We should get to work while we were still ahead, in whatever terrible game this turned out to be.
Outside the train was winding up, preparing to depart in a violent cacophony of noise and steam and smoke. Together, Alice and I stood on the porch to wait for it to finish leaving; when it was gone, it revealed the wreckage of a fire across the tracks. I gasped, and the sound caught in my throat.
She saw where I was staring. “Oh, that. It was a theater.”
“A theater?”
“Only one screen, but the popcorn was good. The Mark of Zorro was playing when the film reel caught fire, and the whole building went down. Apparently it happens from time to time. The film itself is terribly flammable.”
“Yes,” I breathed, hardly taking my eyes off the smoldering rubble. “From time to time.”
She took my arm and guided me over the tracks. “Everyone got out safely, so we thank Spirit for that.”
“Thank Spirit, yes.” I didn’t know what the expression meant; I was only parroting her. “Were you caught inside? Is that what happened to your arm?”
She nodded but didn’t offer any further information except, “It will heal. Here, look. This is Candy’s.”