Among the Wonderful (28 page)

“The ladies are in the ballroom,” the servant told me, gesturing up the stairs with one gloved hand. “Would you like an escort?”

“I’ll find my way, thank you.”

But the ballroom was empty. It had a small domed ceiling and scenes of the country life painted above the moldings. Several settees and armchairs were strewn about the periphery, and I found evidence, in the form of sets of gloves and crystal punch glasses, that the party had, at one point, occupied the room. I sat briefly on the edge of one of the couches, prepared to wait for the party to return from wherever it had gone to. Was there a terrace? A garden of some kind? I went to the French doors on the far side of the room only to find that they were not real, just an adornment. Perhaps I should go home. I could not even attend a party correctly. I arrive, and the party vanishes. I walked back to the hallway, and it was from there that I finally heard the sound of voices farther down the hall.

A thickly curtained study was stuffed with the tightly corseted taffeta and silk-clad bodies of thirty women, all chanting a hymn in muted but impassioned voices:
“Come, Holy Ghost, who ever One, art with the Father and the Son; Come, Holy Ghost, our souls possess, with Thy full flood of holiness.”
The words were not sung; some women spoke them out, others whispered. “In
will and deed, by heart and tongue. With all our powers,
Thy praise be sung; And love light up our mortal frame, Till others catch the living flame. Till others catch the living flame.”
Their eyes were closed, all except Miss Crawford’s, whom I spotted on the other side of the room, and who gave me an encouraging smile. She pointed to a stack of hymnals near the door. It wasn’t until I saw the mesmerist herself, tied to a chair in the middle of the room, that I realized what was in progress.
“Almighty Father, hear our cry, Through Jesus Christ our Lord most high. Who with the Holy Ghost and Thee, Doth live and reign eternally. Doth live and reign eter-na-lee.”
I opened the hymnal to the page marked by its silk ribbon as the women began another round.

Of course I have encountered all manner of augurers: brain-cartographers, clairvoyants, biblical prophets, mind readers, ecstatics, ornithomancers, card and tea-leaf interpreters, even one optimistic boy who claimed to see the outline of a life in the shape of your biggest toe. The show business was no stranger to the public’s desire to glimpse its own fate. But the business of communing with the dead had landed strangely in the realm of the church. In Cooper’s Medicine Show there had been a short-lived experiment with a trance-lecturer, but her repeated omens in which famine destroyed the American republic were so unpopular (with audiences as well as her fellow performers) that she was asked to leave after only three shows.

“
In will and deed, by heart and tongue, With all our powers, Thy praise be sung.”
The mesmerist was a very young girl. She had a silk band tied over her eyes and a heavy cross around her neck.

The women intensified their efforts. They repeated the hymn. I did not join them, but when I closed my eyes the words closed over me like deep, black water.
“Almighty Father, hear our cry. Come, Holy Ghost, our souls possess.”
The voices went around and around. On the fourth or fifth repetition one voice began singing in a high soprano, managing a strange harmony with the more guttural sounds of the rest. Little by little, other voices began to sing, until after two or three more repetitions we had erupted into a triumphant,
though somewhat cacophonous, anthem. I heard wails, especially from one deep voice somewhere to my right. The knot in my chest that had formed upon entering the room had loosened, and amid the roar I finally managed to whisper a few lines. We went on and on, I cannot even guess how long, before the sound of a bell called us back.

They were surprised to see me when they opened their eyes, but Miss Crawford called our attention to the matter at hand.

“We will now focus our attention on Miss Thibodaux and give her the benefit of our clearest thoughts and prayers. If she is ready, we will now proceed.”

Miss Thibodaux bowed her head slightly, and Miss Crawford brought a small table to her side. A large sheet of paper covered the tabletop, and Miss Thibodaux’s hand sought out a pencil resting in the middle. She nodded again.

“Now, please send Miss Thibodaux the name of your loved one, the one with whom you would like to speak from beyond the great divide.”

There was a collective intake of breath. The faces of the women, all immaculately painted and coifed, focused with pretty intensity on the blindfolded girl. Almost immediately the mesmerist began to scrawl. The women fluttered and let out tiny gasps. The girl’s hand shook, and a bead of sweat dripped from her forehead into the kerchief. She was good. I wondered if Miss Crawford was paying her. The girl’s hand jerked across the paper.

“It looks like an
N
. Yes,
N,”
Miss Crawford whispered. “Then
O, R
, and
A
. Nora. She has written Nora.” The women looked around with their hands over their hearts. Some shook their heads. “Who sent prayers and a request to speak with Nora?”

No one responded. After thirty seconds, Miss Thibodaux’s fist banged on the tabletop.

“Nora,” Miss Crawford repeated, but no one claimed Nora.

The next name, John, elicited a response from the deep-voiced
woman on my right, who turned out to be wild-haired and elderly. “My brother,” she whispered.

“He is here with us. What would you like to ask him?” Miss Crawford said.

“John, my dear, where did you leave the deed to Mother’s house? We haven’t been able to find it anywhere!”
The deed to a house?
But Miss Thibodaux’s hand responded quickly to the question.

“Ask my neighbors,” Miss Crawford read from the paper.

We waited for further messages from beyond the divide, but after several minutes of silence, Miss Thibodaux indicated that the spirits had left us. We all joined hands, then, and sang another few rounds of the hymn. At the end, a rosy-cheeked Miss Crawford untied Miss Thibodaux from the chair and removed the bandanna.

The mesmerist couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and she looked straight at me. “I need water,” she said.

“Let us all now retire to the ballroom, ladies, please.” Miss Crawford put her arm protectively around Miss Thibodaux. I filed out with the rest, vowing to give no indication, now or ever, that the young mesmerist had written the name of my mother.

“Welcome to the fourth meeting of the Second Chapter of the Women’s Empowerment League!” Miss Crawford stood in the center of the ballroom. We gathered around, dutifully raising our tiny glasses of punch. “We are dedicated to raising female civic, social, and spiritual consciousness!” The group gave out a tidy
huzzah!
“Through these meetings, our collective feminine powers are strengthened, for the betterment of our lives and our society!” The rest of the league responded with a decidedly feminine round of applause.

“I would like to introduce two very special women with us tonight for the first time. You’ve already met Miss Thibodaux. She visits us from the town of Savannah, Georgia. The other is Miss Ana Swift.” Miss Crawford gestured to me. I smiled, politely, I hoped. “Who is currently employed in Barnum’s American Museum. I ask everyone to please make
these two ladies very welcome tonight, as you enjoy your drinks and the dessert that will soon be served. I believe our own Miss Evelyn Wilcox will now pleasure us on the pianola.”

It really was a lovely room, filled with candlelight and the many-hued forms of the ladies, who now broke into small groups. Miss Crawford came to me, confirming that I had some punch, that I was comfortable.

“You didn’t tell me this would be a political soiree, Miss Crawford. You should have given me fair warning,” I chided her, glad for her attention.

“Oh, nonsense. It’s just my closest friends. We formed the league six months ago, when we began the children’s improvement plans and our efforts with the impoverished mothers of the ports.”

“Mothers of the ports?”

“Prostitutes. With children.” Miss Crawford’s eyes flitted among her guests. “Oh, you really must meet Gloria. Gloria!” She waved her friend over, a sharp-featured woman with an unfortunate overbite, who eagerly reached out her hand to me.

“What a pleasure. How did you ever get her to come, Miss Crawford?”

“Oh, just the usual,” she said with a wink. “I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.”

I looked down upon the impeccably straight middle part running the length of Gloria’s skull, and the very minor cleavage she had tried to create at the top of her dress.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve been interested in the American Museum for some time.”

“Really. Have you attended any of the theater performances?”

“Oh, no.” Another woman approached us. “Hello, Miss White. Have you met Miss Swift?”

“It’s a pleasure to have you in the league.” Miss White was a tiny blond woman in a bronze gown.

“Oh, I’m not a member.”

“You are now!” laughed Gloria.

I felt more like its pet.

“We were just discussing the museum,” Gloria continued. “My interest is more of a critical one, I’m afraid. You see, as chairwoman of the Association for the Improvement of the Condition of the Poor, I’m a sponsor at the Bethany Hospital for Orphans. It came to my attention recently that two orphans, a brother and a sister, had been
purchased
from Bethany Hospital. When I investigated further, I discovered that Mr. Barnum’s American Museum was responsible. An agent from that institution had visited the orphanage and purchased them.”

“It is quite illegal to
buy
children!” Miss White gaped.

“It is in
deed,”
Gloria confirmed.

We each took an outraged sip of punch on behalf of purchased children. “Well, when I found out, I went straight to the museum and demanded to speak with someone.”

I almost smiled. “Let me guess. Barnum was not available.”

“Yes. I was quite insulted. I spoke with a naturalist of some kind.”

“A taxidermist, I would imagine.”

“He knew nothing. He suggested I speak with the theater manager, Mr. Forsythe. I waited two hours, and then Forsythe wouldn’t say anything! He wouldn’t even let me into the area of the museum where apparently many of these so-called
performers
live! Can you imagine? The children were probably somewhere in that building, but they wouldn’t let me in, even to confirm their safety.”

The women did not appear to realize that I, too, lived in the museum, or that I might have some knowledge of the children they sought. I was trying to think of who they might be.

“It’s an abomination,” said Miss White, “that children have no protection from those who would abuse them.”

“I have written a letter to Mr. Barnum,” Gloria continued, “requesting full access to the children. But unfortunately he is abroad and will not be back for several weeks.”

“Where is he?” I inquired. After Barnum’s latest disappearance,
I had been only mildly interested in his whereabouts. The museum seemed to function just fine without him. But after hearing of Olrick’s higher salary, I wanted a meeting.

“Haven’t you been following the paper? He’s in London, at the Royal Exhibition there.”

“Miss Swift, perhaps you could investigate the matter of these siblings for us!” Gloria clapped her hands.

“Well, I don’t have anything to do with other contracts or —”

“Oh, Bitsy! Bitsy, come here for a moment.” Gloria called our hostess over, who seemed mildly annoyed to be pulled from her conversation across the room. “We’ve just had a wonderful idea. Miss Swift can look into this matter of the children from Bethany Hospital!”

“Oh?” Miss Crawford colored slightly.

“I won’t be able to do anything more than you could,” I protested.

“Well, I don’t believe that at all,” Gloria scolded.

“Just try,” Miss White added dolefully.

“But if you can’t, Miss Swift, then don’t feel obligated,” Miss Crawford said.

“Well, I certainly don’t know that anything will come of it.”

“Oh!” Miss Crawford blurted. “Good! Here comes dessert. Priscilla has made us a beautiful almond cream cake.”

I managed to stay at the party for almost an hour, and toward the end I realized I was enjoying it. Miss Crawford drifted back and forth with ladies whom “you really must meet, Miss Swift.” My favorite was Miss Pregler, who dispensed with small talk after politely introducing herself.

“You must have a terrible time with hats, Miss Swift. How do you ever find them in your size?”

As she escorted me to the door, Miss Crawford insisted I come to the next meeting.

“The ladies
adored
you.”

As soon as I went looking for the children I found Beebe pacing in front of the theater doors. I had avoided him quite successfully since my hellish visit to Saint Paul’s Chapel, despite the fact that he’d left several reconciliatory gifts at my booth. The first was a small cake in a pink paper cup. When I saw it I thought an absentminded museum patron had left it on my counter and threw it away, but the next day, as I returned to my gallery, I saw Beebe scurrying away with his head down. Tucked behind the Giant’s Rings was a tiny yellow-green elephant carved from soapstone. I kept it because it reminded me of a creature I’d loved in Methuselah Jones’ menagerie. Since the elephant, he’d left a tin of peppermints and a tiny cut-glass bauble, but I hadn’t sought him out. When I saw him I felt a curious lurch in the gut; my rage over our botched liaison had cooled to a simmering annoyance over the fact that he apparently did not have the courage to face me again.

He froze mid-stride when he saw me, and then, astonishingly, he smiled shyly. “Miss Swift, do you hate me quite thoroughly?”

“I —”

“Wait! Do not answer! I’ve been so confused as to whether to leave you entirely alone or pursue a further explanation of my ill-received but, you must know, benignly spoken words that night. You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me.” His voice became rather mournful.