“Yes. Something about a fire. Or two.”
“Word has a way of getting around.” Especially when Mrs. Vasquez carries it.
“No one was hurt, I trust?”
“No. The fires were small and harmless. But they were strange,” I admitted. “And I know what people think. I know what they say.”
“About the fires?”
“About me.”
He shook his head to dispel that line of concern. “Everyone knows you’ve had your troubles. No one speaks ill.”
“Yes, it’s all loving concern, I’m certain.” It came out with more bitter bite than I meant to give it. But I know how easily loving concern can disguise salacious curiosity.
The padre is a Jesuit and therefore no fool. He didn’t argue with my tone. “Yes, yes. Loving concern, and the other sort of concern, too. That’s not why you’re here.”
Well, what could it hurt?
I took a deep breath and flattened my hands on the tops of my knees, smoothing the creases I’d pressed into my slacks. I rubbed them with my thumbs. “No, that’s not why I’m here. But I do want to talk about the fires. The first ones were strange because I could find no source—but they were not dangerous, and I thought little of them. Only later did I wonder if I’d missed something, some clue or hint that I’d scrubbed away when I washed the ashes down the drain.”
“A clue or hint . . . of what?”
I didn’t answer him right away. “Of design. Purpose. Intent, you might even say. If I had looked closer, I might have seen signs that the fires were not accidental, and not ordinary. As in the case of the most recent fire.”
His eyebrows rose. His fingers templed. He sat back in his chair, and it squeaked. “There’s been another?”
“You didn’t hear about yesterday?”
“The congregational grapevine has failed me.”
“Well then, yesterday,” I began, almost annoyed and not sure why. It isn’t his fault that Mrs. Vasquez has a big mouth but slow feet and no telephone. “Yesterday there was a bigger fire, and there’s been some slight damage to the house. This one occurred outside, against the back wall. It began in a palmetto, or so the fireman told me.”
“A palmetto? Caught fire?”
“It’s been very dry as of late, and it went up like a torch. It went up like a witch on a stake.”
• • •
I don’t know why I said that. I hated the words as soon as they were out of my mouth, but I could hardly cram them back in.
Evelyn was no witch. Evelyn did not burn then, and she does not burn now.
• • •
“WAS there a cigarette? A match?”
“None that I know of, though that’s not the matter for concern. I wish I had a camera,” I said, and he thought I was changing the subject, but I wasn’t. Quickly, I added, “If I had a camera, I could’ve taken a photograph. Then I could simply show you what I mean—without asking you to rely upon my memory and my opinion. And Mrs. Vasquez’s opinion, a bit,” I added. “She saw it, too, and she agreed with me.” It was an exaggeration, but she would likely go along with it. It would make her story more sensational when she inevitably passed it along.
“She saw what, Tomás?”
“The face.” I quit fiddling with my clothes and folded my hands. Then I squeezed them together, like Emilio had when he was worried for me.
“The . . . face?”
Slowly, and with much trepidation, I said, “A woman’s face, in three-quarters profile like an artist’s sketch. It was left behind in the soot, where the fire had scarred the stucco. Mrs. Vasquez said it made her think of Picasso.” I referenced my best and most likely witness again and summed up her assessment. “She was right—it was a thing of broad strokes and vague lines. But it was a face. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
“Did you think it was Evelyn’s face?”
Her name felt like a blow to the chest. I gasped, softly enough that Padre Valero might not have noticed it. I could muster nothing louder than a whisper, a staggering breath with a few syllables to prop it up. It was a feeble response. “The face . . . belonged to a woman. It could have been Evelyn.”
“But do you think it was?”
My throat closed up. There were no more words, no more vague grunts of possibility. I nodded. That was all.
Valero nodded, too, but more thoughtfully. He stared at me, and past me—undoubtedly wondering how shell-shocked a man could become yet still be permitted to roam the city at large. He untempled his fingers and selected a freshly sharpened pencil from a cup. He tapped it against the desk’s edge. “You know, this reminds me of something.”
“It does?”
“Mm-hmm. Several somethings.” He pushed the chair back and climbed to his feet, strolling to a bookcase that spanned the full length of his office wall. He used the pencil as a pointer, tapping this spine, then that tome, with its blunted end. “There was a Frenchman, a priest . . . He died a few years ago. In a fire, I think.”
I was confused. “I’m sorry, come again?”
“He was very interested in fires and the images they leave behind.” He settled on a book, picked it from the shelf, and dropped it onto the desk—then began flipping through the pages. “Victor somebody. There’s a museum in Rome dedicated to his findings. The Vatican . . .” He stopped at a chapter heading. The page flipping slowed. “Acknowledged his research, and his relics.”
“Relics? There are relics?”
The pencil settled on a paragraph. Valero turned it over so the leaded point could underline a sentence and then circle a segment. (I was oddly surprised by his willingness to scribble in his books, but said nothing about it.)
He continued without looking up at me. “Yes, there are relics. He collected them from all over Europe,” he partly read and partly paraphrased. “Victor Jouet; that was his name. It all began when a fire broke out at the Chiesa del Sacro Cuore del Suffragio, in 1897. In the wake of this fire, Victor found the scorched image of a face left behind.”
“On a wall?” Like the fire at my own house?
“This does not say. He found it somewhere, and he never doubted that it was a face. Furthermore, he believed that it was a message from a departed soul.” He leaned back in his seat, away from the open book that was splayed across his desk. “Victor theorized that the face was that of someone who’d died in a fire—so it’s funny that you’d mention burning witches. At any rate, he traveled for many years, collecting his charred images—mostly handprints, fingerprints, and the like. He brought them back to Rome and put them in a little museum.”
“Do you mean . . . it isn’t utter madness, to see a face in the ashes?”
“Listen, my friend: I can’t say whether or not there is a face on your wall, much less whether or not it’s Evelyn. She was lost to the influenza, wasn’t she? Not to fire, if that ever made a difference.”
“And if it didn’t?”
“Then it didn’t. My friend, if you believe there’s a message drawn in soot on the side of your house, the church grants the possibility that you’re right. Who am I to argue with the church?”
My eyes welled with tears, and I dabbed at each corner with the back of my hand. “This is such a relief, you have no idea. I was afraid . . . I was so afraid . . .” I hunted for the words to match what I meant. I stumbled and came up empty-handed, empty-mouthed.
“Afraid of the signs in the fire? That’s a reasonable thing. But do not forget, fear is a gift from God. Like all of His gifts, we should respect it, and examine it. Do not be ashamed of your fear, and do not hide from it. You must address it with your prayers. Confront it and see what it can teach you.”
• • •
MY elation wavered.
Address it? Confront it? See what it could teach me?
I’ve had too many dreams of fire being flung from a
nozzle, too many restless nights of tossing and turning and waking in a cold sweat, remembering the trenches. Some fear might be a gift, and some might come loaded with helpful lessons. But I know from hard experience that some is pure cruelty, and nothing more.
My elation wobbled, but I nurtured it. I needed it.
• • •
MY hands trembled. I touched my eyes again and wiped the dampness on the top of my pants. “For too long, I’ve been afraid of fire.”
“You’ve known the flames too closely.” He smiled at me, all glorious compassion without pity. He fiddled with the pencil. With a jaunty little toss, he restored it to its cup. “So remember Isaiah, the forty-first chapter. Remember that you passed through hell on earth, and you came out the other side for a purpose.”
As if I needed reminding. “I will.” I nodded, though I didn’t know what verse he was urging me to recall. I swallowed and cleared my throat. “But what do I do if there is someone in some place beyond my reach . . . reaching out for me?”
He did not wish to appear stumped, because it would not do for a man of God—so he opted instead to appear mysterious. I appreciated the effort, if not the substitution. “That is a question you must answer for yourself, with help from the Divine. For to tell the truth, neither you nor I can know the true nature of these images. They could be the result of a tremendous coincidence; or they could be a heaven-sent message.”
“Or elsewhere-sent, which is more my concern.”
“There is no hell without heaven, and no purgatory without heaven’s mercy. Do not let your fear overcome your curiosity or close your heart to the possibilities.”
• • •
I left his office and left his church, and returned to the shop. This time, I found Silvio at the counter.
The younger Casales brother is short and lean like the elder—though he wears his hair with a different part, and his hazel eyes are handsome but weak. He wears spectacles with lenses so thick they distort the lines of his face.
Mind you, he is still a good-looking man with a fine sense of style, but his head for business is sharper than his brother’s, much to my personal gain—for Silvio would rather keep the books than sketch patterns any day of the week. His preferences suit my needs nicely, for I would rather do almost anything than calculate lines of numbers.
Numbers were never my strong suit, even before the headaches and the dreams. Without my two able-bodied and strong-minded companions, Cordero’s would surely close in a month.
• • •
I asked Silvio how he was doing this fine afternoon. My hands weren’t shaking anymore, and my eyes were dry (I’m fairly certain). He greeted me in return, and said, “I’m glad you’re back.”
“You are?”
“Emilio said you might be gone for the day, but I wanted to tell you: December was an excellent month, Tomás. Your best yet!” He stopped himself and retreated. “Since . . . since you’ve opened again, you understand my meaning.”
“I do,” I assured him. I approached the oversized book, and he turned it around so I could see the figures. I looked only at the bottom line, which showed a slim but respectable profit for the previous month. Back before the war, I would’ve considered it a weak holiday season, but since my return, sales have been slow to pick up. Not all of my customers have returned to me.
• • •
MANY of my customers went to war, like me. Some of them didn’t come back. Some of them returned from the front and found difficulties like mine: loved ones deceased, businesses failed or closed, families fractured. Money is uncertain for many, and suits like mine have always been a luxury. My customers’ pennies have come in dribs and drabs since the bombs and the influenza.
• • •
OR, perhaps, my customers died and were buried in my suits, so no one else might ever see them again. I, perhaps, was flattered. Their children, perhaps, found my wares a little old-fashioned, and shopped elsewhere. Perhaps I have a good reason to let Emilio experiment with my fabrics while he is on my payroll. I am not old, but I have lost touch. With something? With someone? With the tastes of the upper crust?
• • •
“THESE are good numbers,” Silvio assured me, taking my silence for disappointment. “They are better every month. Before long, we’ll need to hire a new tailor to help with the overflowing orders.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself.” On second thought, I asked, “Aren’t you? Or has your workload become unreasonable?”
“Oh no, not yet. But by June? If the trend continues, absolutely. I shall require an assistant.”
“All right, then. Six months until you can have an assistant. Let’s see if we can hang on for that long.”
“You’re too modest, and I have the utmost faith.”
“Do you?”
Vigorously he nodded. “I do. And so does Emilio.”
“I thank you for the confidence. Speaking of your brother . . . ?”
“Oh! Yes, he left twenty minutes ago. Devereaux sent a boy around to say he’d somehow come by two bolts of that flannel you asked about in October.”
“The ivory, with blue flecks?”
“Exactly that.” He grinned.
“What grand summer suits the stuff could make,” I mused afresh. “I thought the manufacturer discontinued it.”
“Then the Frenchman either lied or misjudged his own negotiating skills. Two bolts, he said, if one of us could come collect them.”
“On credit? Or did you take his fee from the petty cash?”
“A combination of the two,” he said lightly, as if this were not an embarrassment. “I’ve made a note here, and—since I didn’t know when you’d be back—there’s also a note on your office door making mention of it.”
“That will be fine. I trust Emilio will bring a receipt.”
“I’ll take it off his hands when he gets back and send it directly to the magic envelope,” he promised. The envelope is magic because slips of paper go inside, and rent, paychecks, and supplies come out—courtesy of Silvio’s skills. “Everything is fine.” He made another promise that was partly spun from fantasy. “We will be fine. You will be fine. And the clothes will be finer than that.”
• • •
I hoped and I prayed, and in my head I lit a thousand candles.
Let him be right. Dear God, if you hear me—sweet Mother Mary, if you are listening—let him be right. He has to be right.
I have nothing else.
7
ALICE DARTLE
Cassadaga, Florida
LUNCH WITH DR. Floyd and Mabel Dimmick occurred around one o’clock at the Conservatory—the little restaurant in the hotel. I had scallops in a citrus drizzle and a rich chicken salad with grapes and walnuts that tasted almost like candy, with a glass of orange juice on the side. Then I had some macaroons for dessert, but I shared those with my companions so I wouldn’t look too greedy. If I could’ve topped it all off with a bit of bourbon it would’ve been one of the more perfect meals of my life, but I learned (with a touch of embarrassment and awkwardness) that most of the spiritualists are teetotalers who do not partake of any spirits.
I made a poor joke about this being ironic. It received strained, polite chuckles. I was mortified. I apologized. I turned pink.
My companions were gentle in response. Mabel said she could take me to town—to nearby DeLand, that is—and there were places there where I could find wine and other such necessities. I mean luxuries. For me, personally.
“But I certainly can’t. I shouldn’t. It’s illegal, anyway,” I said, hoping this was the end of my mortifying foray into humor. “I should obey the law, and I should formally join the church—and obey its tenets, too.”
Dr. Floyd laughed lightly. “Darling, Volstead is weak in places like these. There’s less ‘prohibition’ than ‘idle dissuasion.
’ We’re too close to the islands for that, and the rum flows too freely. In some places, it’s easier to find alcohol than freshwater.”
Mabel nodded. “Or drinking water that doesn’t smell like boiled eggs.”
I’d heard of the rumrunners, and in my head they looked like pirates—with gold rings and parrots and peg legs to boot. “I’ve never been too interested in rum. Virginia is bourbon country. Bourbon and sometimes brandy. Or gin. But . . . Never mind. I can live without it, for the sake of the community.”
Mabel leaned forward and put her hand on top of mine. “It’s sweet of you to say that, but if you prefer a nip before bedtime, there’s nothing in the church that would stop you. In fact, when Oscar’s son returns from his trip to Gainesville, he’ll probably initiate you into all the town’s real secrets.”
“The real ones?”
“Not so much spirits and tarot cards, but liquor and playing cards,” Mabel supplied. “Popular pursuits among the younger folks, and frowned upon quite sternly by the older ones—which only means that Cassadaga isn’t remarkably different from anyplace else. You can drink if you want to, and you can play cards or read cards, too, if you like. No one in the church will stop you.”
“No?” I was suddenly quite aware that I knew very little about the church, except that it was graciously accepting of odd birds like me.
“Not as such,” Dr. Floyd confirmed. “They’ll gossip like old men on a dime-store porch, and someone will probably suggest that you show some restraint, but you can take that advice or leave it.”
“There are no . . . commandments?”
“Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you. But we borrowed that one.”
After a long pause, during which I stared wide-eyed and expectant, Mabel added, “That’s it: Do unto others. Everything else follows from that. Keep an open heart and mind. Appeal to the Highest Good. Elevate yourself with love. Only use any gifts you possess for good. Respect the beliefs and autonomy of others.”
Dr. Floyd explained, “We aren’t very keen on rules, or organization, either. We prefer to leave people to their own consciences.”