Picture the Dead

One woodcut flower blooms below the elegant letters that spell out the tavern’s name. I read it over and over. Until tonight, I have misheard the shorthand slang for it.

The Black Eye, the Black I, The Black Iris. In my hand is the newspaper that I’d stolen from the hired man’s satchel, with its back-page advertisement that I’d seen printed a hundred times before. Not a black eye, but a flower.

I push through the door into a room wreathed in smoke from the brick hearth that blazes at the far end. A teakwood bar, twice as large but half as nice as Uncle Henry’s, is captained by a pip of a man who stands behind it.

“Good evening,” I muster.

“Who you here for?” A dog with a bite.

In addition to Mrs. Sullivan’s rubber boots, I’d borrowed Mavis’s cloak and bonnet. I’d hoped that entering The Black Iris disguised as a servant would be less conspicuous than a young lady in heeled boots and a trimmed hat.

Dressed as a servant, unfortunately, also means being treated as one.

“Oh… I…” I take quick peeks all around. A spy must absorb every thing and reveal nothing.

It’s men here, mostly. I recognize the roofers seated at the far corner, and I’m thankful to be faced with their backsides instead of their scrutiny. At the wall, younger fellows play darts. Around a more raucous table, mixed sexes cluster. The only face I know is Peg O’Leary’s, who Aunt Clara engages twice a year to help with changing over the household linen. Tonight, with her plumped cle**age on show, Peg is more temptress than laundress.

It’s a welcome space against the chapping cold, but doesn’t feel entirely friendly. Nor does the barkeep’s face, with his mouth now down-bent like a brook trout’s.

“I’m… I’m…” How to explain myself?

His own conclusions startle me. “I know who you are. You’re his Frances. We’d begun to think you’d given him the slip. But you came ’round, after all. He’s been waiting for you, then.”

Confused as I am, I decide to nod knowledgeably.

The barkeep jabs his thumb toward a walled set of stairs behind him. “Well, get on up. Sue’s not here, if you’re wondering. Not at this hour. Got her own home and family when she’s not tending orphans. Takes after her mother that way. Up the stairs and turn the corner. You’d be his first visitor in two weeks.”

“Thank you, sir.” It seems safe, for now, to pretend to be Frances.

“Sir’s my father. Now, scat. He’s waiting.”

My mind is manic as I go. Have I been directed here through some otherworldly connection to find Will? Has he been injured, traumatized to a point where he has possibly mistaken me for a young woman named Frances?

Yes, yes, yes. It all makes perfect sense. Will is here, right here at the Black Iris, and he’s been here all along, waiting for me.

I am so ready to believe in something good as I hurry up the steps and around the corner to yank open the closed door that I’m not at all prepared for what lies behind it.

13.

He sits in the dark, in a chair pulled up against the night window, smoking. I try not to cough, but fail.

It’s not William. Of course not. But I am light-headed nonetheless from the ether of hope as I fix a purposeful smile to my face. “I’m sorry.” I squint to see him. “Am I… interrupting you?”

“Sue props me up,” he says in a quarrelsome tone, “and then forgets about me. Poor old Sue, I’d wager she’s got a lot to remember. Good of her to send you, though.”

“She didn’t send me. I don’t know Sue. And I’m not Frances,” I say awkwardly.

“Well, I can see you’re not Frances blindness ain’t my problem.” He taps his pipe and scowls at me through the shadows. “I’m Private Nathaniel Dearborn. Before that, back in Pittsfield, I was Nate.”

“Should I call you Nate?”

“Huh. If you want.”

“May I light the candle?”

“If you want.”

I’ve already struck a match. Lit, the bedside candle stub illuminates the face of this round, freckled boy who is no more than my age, though his gaze is world-weary. “Pittsfield? That’s forty miles away.”

“I told ’em home was Brookline it’s not as if they check those things. Dump you off, and no questions asked. That’s how it’s done. Sue found me like a drownded puppy in the hospital, and she gave me some dignity when she brought me here. For which I am grateful. But I need a favor, Miss not-Frances,” says Nate in a voice that wishes he didn’t. “Will you put me to bed?”

It’s an unusual request, but as I move closer I understand. Beneath the blanket piled on his lap, Nate is missing both of his legs.

I set my teeth to hold any disgust from my face. “I can try.” As he tamps out his pipe, I place the candle on the sill, drop the hood of my cloak, and tie back its sleeves to free my arms. He is heavy, but once I tug the chair closer to the bed, Nate can do the rest. He hauls up the weight of his body on the sinewy strength of his arms. Then swings himself over and onto the mattress as I hold the chair steady.

Positioned, Nate leans back and groans. “Thought I’d be up at that window all night.”

“It sounds as if this Frances should be here tending to you. Is she your sister?”

He looks at me with eyes that are two hostile, scorched marks in his face. “Frances Paddle, that’s my girl,” he tells me. “She’s a ladies’ maid to a smart couple down in New York City. It’s not your business why she ain’t collected me yet.”

“I’m sorry.” But I press on. “Does she know what happened to you?”

“Doubtful.” He exhales. “That’s the thing about Fran. She ain’t really here. Back when we were crossing South Mountain, I made her up inside my head. I could imagine her face so clear, ’specially when there weren’t enough rations and I had to fill up on something. Every night I held her in my dreams. Now I’m so used to her, I can’t give her up. She’s real as my legs.”

I can only nod. Dumbfounded.

“Don’t pity me.” Nate throws me a scathing look. “You don’t know how you’d want to spend your days and nights if it’d happened to you. Who are you, anyhow, if Sue din’t send you? Why’re you here?”

“My name is Jennie Lovell. And I’m not sure why I’ve come, except ”