“Yeah, you’re right. That has to be it,” Dad replied.
Mark was anxious to poke around for those prints later to judge for himself. However, it’d be a lot simpler if he’d just forget about it. Especially if getting his hands on those pictures meant he’d have to brave visiting the deepest part of the basement. Salem or no Salem by his side, he got the shivers considering it. But all basements were spooky by definition, weren’t they? Mere tricks of the mind, fueled by their symbolic correlation to our subconscious. Introduce Plato’s theory of mimesis, of which Mark was familiar. He was just a mirror of reality. His father’s picture was another step removed.
Whatever the truth was, it didn’t always set you free. The more knowledge Mark obtained, the more weight stacked on his shoulders. Choosing to restrict his current informational intake to his book on Jackson, he carried it with him to the staircase.
While climbing, he turned to order Tausha to stop following him, but she wasn’t behind him. Thinking it merely a faulty prediction on his part, Mark continued his ascension. His sister was always lurking somewhere nearby. He’d just miscalculated for once.
He sniffed, registering a momentary odor of a clove cigarette…probably just absorption from the carpet and curtains. Ancient buildings, man. Gotta love ‘em.
August 1862
Emma passed through the music room, tarrying to swipe the film of dust from atop the piano.
“Come with me,” Hugh said, his eyes stringed with red.
Brushing the grit from her fingers, she followed him out back and into the carriage house, where Hugh lifted the canvas at the rear of a wagon. Inside lay a dark-haired woman who appeared to be barely breathing. The beaded fringe of her dress splayed around her like a burst of sunlight. A matching bracelet of tiny woven beads encircled her wrist. “Jiminy, Hugh. Is she—?”
“Dakota. War with them broke a few weeks ago.”
“Why’d you bring her here? You know Papa.”
“You’ve got to help her. She’s the only one I could save. The rest were killed, taken away, or ran off.” The look in Hugh’s eyes was more intense than she’d seen before. He took Emma’s hands. “You don’t know how awful it is, sis.”
“I’ve heard some of it.” At the saloon, the patrons spouted off how the Dakotas had been losing their land, including the quarry at Pipestone. The settlers interrupted the lives of these people, their farming, hunting fishing, and gathering of wild rice. What’s worse is the bison, elk, deer, and bear were being depleted, reducing the Dakota’s ability to trade furs. Once the Civil War started, the American government broke its treaties while the Indians starved. “Is it true that Myrick refused to sell them food on credit? What did he say—?” Emma took a deep breath. “‘Let them eat grass or their own dung?’”
“That’s why the Dakotas killed him on the first day of the war—stuffed grass in his mouth.” Hugh shut his eyes tight for a moment. “You can’t imagine the horrors I’ve seen.”
Embracing her brother, she said, “Let’s get her inside. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Where’s Papa?”
Emma climbed onto the wagon bed and started to lift the girl. “He’s at the college. What’s left of the help are at their chores.” Only a couple of the slaves stayed on as employees. The others had gone off in search of their families or other work in places like Boston or New York.
Sick beds for injured soldiers filled the living room and Hugh’s downstairs bedroom. There’d be no way to hide the girl’s identity from Emma’s father. “We’ll have to take her up to my room.”
They lugged the patient up into the kitchen and up the rear staircase. With one hand, she peeled the covers back so they could tuck the girl in. Only then did Emma notice the grime and dried blood on the Dakota’s face and neck. What had this poor girl been through?
“I’ll go get some rope,” Hugh said.
“I thought you wanted me to nurse her back to health, not treat her like a prisoner.”
“But what if she gets up?”
“I’ll have Sasha keep an eye on her when I can’t be here. We’ll keep the door locked. Stay here a spell. I’ll be right back.” Emma traipsed off to gather clean water, a rag, and a few medical contrivances.
Later she’d brief the trusted maid, Sasha, about the extra house guest. What would become of the patient when she’d recover, if she’d recover? What would she remember? Where would she go? All Emma knew was this girl had been brought here for a reason.
Summer 1988
On the mattress in Mark’s room an open book rested. Encyclopedia-sized, it definitely wasn’t one of his. Flipping to inspect the cover, he verified it to be one of his mother’s references on world cultures. The bold heading on one of the exposed pages read Native American Two-Spirit Belief and the name George Catlin popped out, but he snapped the book shut and tossed it aside in favor of the biography he hadn’t finished yet.
Avoiding whatever message one of his parents tried to cram down his throat, a tactic they’d employed previously, he escaped into the realm of Jackson’s problems for several chapters.
What sounded like nails scratched the shingles. This wasn’t the first time Mark’s concentration, or sleep, was ravaged while he lazed in his bed. Stupid tree branch or rodent. Their old apartment always had bats. Was his mind fabricating familiar comforts, if you could call them that? Other than the irritating noise, he’d considered his room assignment a blessing.
It had an open, airy feel. In the daytime, the natural light brightened the walls and wood floor. There were two tall windows overlooking the lot. Right now he’d propped himself up on pillows, staring outside, lost in a daydream. His room felt safe. And it wasn’t because he was flanked by the front and back staircases. He hadn’t had the urge to flee. A particular comforting energy here was more soothing than the intoxicating mood in the living room.
As the nails continued to scratch above, Mark decided to take it as a cue to stretch his legs and rest his brain. He climbed from his mattress, Mom’s book in hand.
Passing Tausha’s room, he heard her chattering.
He paused, his feet planting into the hall carpet. At first he couldn’t make out any words.
“No, I don’t want to go into the safe. It’s too dark down there,” she said.
Huh? Who’s she talking to?
Mark shook his head, thinking maybe he misheard her, and descended the spiral steps. Salem darted from his sister’s room and followed him.
Once he wedged the book into an empty spot on the living room shelf, Mark decided to take a leak while downstairs. Man’s best friend decided to watch.
In the room with the notorious mirror, he didn’t get antsy or experience anything abnormal. Nothing.
Mark schlepped to the pantry and helped himself to a Pop-Tart. Munching it, he considered his degree of interest regarding the mysterious picture. He tossed the wrapper in the trash as his father stepped into the kitchen.
A pencil stuck behind Dad’s ear usually meant he’d sequestered himself in the study, underlining passages in his anatomy books. He’d proclaimed to everyone how much preparation needed to go into building his new courses. There was a whole new line of progressive textbooks. Apparently, the human body had some uncharted territory.
It was the chartered territory Mark had wished to God he hadn’t seen. Like the full color images of actual patients with STDs in the encyclopedia planted on his nightstand out of the blue. “Oh, that’s where it went,” Dad had said, passing through the room with a playful sneer. Nothing like a dick riddled with sores or blistered labia oozing with puss. Mark guessed that was the intention. Clever maneuver indeed. His sexy thoughts had dried up for over a month after that. And every time he took a piss he’d inspected himself, just to make sure nothing festered on his junk.
“Get my photos off the line, will you?” his father asked, reaching for a soda.
“But, Dad,” Mark replied, immediately set on concocting an excuse. Through the window over
the sink, the sun had started to set, creating eerie blobs along the walls and linoleum. “I was go—”
“Come on. There’s nothing down there—except maybe Dr. Durley.”
Mark wasn’t amused by the irreverent jokes about the original owner. He rolled his eyes and scoffed. His mind was blank. An excuse hadn’t rescued him. It was his turn to survive his own personal manly dare. Or, maybe it wasn’t a dare if your father made you do it.
Mark whistled at Salem, who sprawled on the floor. “Come on, girl.” Whistling again, she remained inert. Mark tugged gently at her collar. Reluctantly, she got to her paws and let him pull her to the door. Once he let go, she retreated with a whimper. “Come on, Salem. Please.”
She goes with Dad. What’s the deal?
He sighed, too exasperated to battle his dog any longer.
This was going to be boy versus an irrational fear.
Mark opened the rickety door and trudged down the steps, avoiding the walk-in safe on his right. He tried not to picture Tausha sitting in there in the dark, playing with her dolls. His skin crawled enough at the idea that she liked to chop all the hair off and dress them in Ken’s clothes. Her being down here with her toys was downright demonic. Instead, he fabricated another imaginary scene. Following his father’s spinning of the combination lock wheel, the door swung open. The family crowded inside to watch Dad fan out wads of Monopoly money, tossing it in the air like confetti. Then Mark corrected the vision, realizing he needed to dream bigger. Wads of real hundred dollar bills rained on them. He grinned to himself.
Mark tramped further into the pit of the basement, past the water heater, furnace, and a maze of pipes. It was like one of the space stations in the movie Alien. The back room sent chills through him. He refused to acknowledge the red spray-painted skull and crossbones on the outer wall. Its drippy appearance made it more sinister. Apparently, it’d been there when they moved in, and no one had any plans to cover it, himself included.
Past the door was a windowless prison cell, perfect for solitary confinement. The plain cement walls were a sign no one loved this space enough to finish it. Mark wasn’t an architectural expert, but he realized the cement was a modern addition. The anachronism was off-putting. He wondered how his father could come down here by himself for long periods. Alone.
Mark counted the seconds.
After tugging on the light, the bulb flickered and swayed on the dangling cord. He snatched the photos from the clips on the crisscrossing strings. He sensed eyes on him, but figured it was his imagination. Only a few more 8x10s to free up and he’d be on his way back upstairs. He pressed the pile against his chest and reached for the light cord.
A stack of prints lay on the corner of the table. Instinct drove him to rifle through it. What was a few more seconds? He was weighing coming down here of his own accord, but he was here now. Flipping with one hand through the photos, he identified the few of the bathroom mirror. He crammed them into his waistband and extinguished the light.
He sped along the rest of the basement, the passage blurring by him.
In his peripheral vision, outside the vault, he perceived someone sitting on the floor, leaning against the door. It was an impression, drenching him like a shower and then drying up. Just like the whiff of a chemical smell that dissolved along with it.
He focused on his escape route. Treading so fast, his feet missed a step and he tripped. He put his hands out to brace his fall. The photos had escaped his grasp, skiing to the bottom of the staircase. Probably would’ve pissed himself, but his bladder was empty. Thank God for small favors.
He scrambled back to his feet, considered abandoning the pictures to save himself, but an ensuing interrogation of his father danced in his mind. Chastisement for being a wuss. If his mother caught wind of this, she’d say they should’ve sent Tausha. Comically, his sister’s tomboy nature was occasionally a convenient weapon. What a crock of shit.
He had to get this over with now.
Tottering down, Mark gathered the prints, backtracking to the ground step. Heart jackhammering, he forced the paper images into a submissive bunch and brought them to the flooding light at the top of the landing. Before closing the door, he glimpsed the tomblike stairway.
To his relief, not a soul was there.
I’m really losing it. But at least I’m not a wuss.
At least that’s what he told himself.
—
His father had barely noticed when Mark left the photos on a ledge of one of the bookshelves in the study. Dad grumbled a “thank you” around the pen between his teeth.
Mark’s mission accomplished, it was time to take the metaphorical needle off the record and skip to a more upbeat track. Brushing the hair out of his eyes, it dawned on him that he hadn’t unpacked his keyboard. Cranking out notes seemed the perfect way to relieve some angst.
Back upstairs, he rummaged through his closet. After clutching the case by the handle, he flopped it onto the bed. As the case grazed his waistband, he felt a crumple.
Oh, yeah. Duh.
As he plucked the stash from his pants, he singled out the print in question. Bringing it close to his face, he studied the filmy splotch at the corner of the mirror. Not many people would think twice about what was there, but it possessed just enough definition of faint eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Perception is a fascinating thing. You can often see what you want to see. Whether or not there was a skull there, Mark couldn’t be certain.
His spine prickled.
He turned to catch Tausha watching him.
Jumping, he shoved the photos inside the lining of the case. “What’re you doing here?”
Since overhearing her talking to herself earlier, he was apprehensive about her response.
“Bored. You gonna play?” She ogled the keyboard.
“You think?”
His sarcasm made her fold into herself. “I like when you play.”
He blew out air. The compliment warmed his insides, but he didn’t admit it. Instead, he decided she deserved a reward for acting normal. “All right. I’m gonna pretend you aren’t here.”
She sprawled with her belly on the area rug, resting her head in her hands. There was a dreamy sparkle in her eyes, as well as a faraway look. A penny might not have been enough for her thoughts. Perhaps she had the hots for one of the rock stars hanging on the wall behind him. He got it. Once or twice he’d stared too long. Groupies drooled at those leather pants and shredded shirts, so why not his sister? Why not anyone, for that matter?
Mark smelled something floral and figured it must’ve drifted in through the open window.
After giving it a few minutes, Mark noticed Tausha studying him, her eyes roving over his body, then lingering on his face. She drank in his features. Hadn’t she seen enough of him every day of her life? Doing his best to focus on the notes he couldn’t help but think her enjoyment level was a few notches too high. If he didn’t know better, it resembled the way girls seem love struck in the movies. Like practically swooning right off their feet. He’d never had anyone in real life gaze at him in that way. At least as far as he was aware.
His sister wigged him out.
Mark forced himself to key another song or two before prodding her out and closing the door.
Sheesh, so much for acting normal.
He shrugged off the heebie jeebies.
October 1862
Emma paused before the saloon door, fastening the coat buttons across her chest. Although she’d been here dozens of times, her nervous sweat dampened her brother’s clothes again. The wrapping around her breasts constricted her breathing. The fake mustache she’d made with her own hair clippings and some glue from the general store itched her upper lip. She pressed on it. Thankfully, it hadn’t yet flown off onto the card table or ended up in her mouth. Her throat tickled thinking about it.
Emma pushed the hat onto her piled-up hair, which was a feat in itself to get right. Fashioning her regular pinning got in the way of the fit, and
any coils at the nape of her neck would be a dead give-away. Inhaling deeply, she sauntered into the establishment, controlling the sway of her hips.
There was available seating at the usual table. The familiarity suited her, so she took a spot without permission, which went against her gentlewomanly inclinations. Men never asked permission. They just did things. She had to keep reminding herself to heed to such alterations in her behavior.
One player chewed on his cigar, while another stroked his beard. All of them studied their fanned cards before revealing their hands. A gambler Emma hadn’t seen before hooted as he scooped up the pool of money. Then he slapped the table, ordering a round of drinks for everyone. His honey-colored eyes met Emma’s as she sized him up. She quickly averted her gaze, even though she wanted to linger on his attributes. His hair was longer than most of the men in town and his skin more bronzed, but the rest of him fell in line—average looking shirt and trousers. His hat flaunted just the right amount of wear. But something seemed unusual about him, though she couldn’t quite nail it down.
Preliminary bets of the new game accumulated front and center. Emma dislodged a few bills from her vest pocket and tossed them in, mindful that all her bets were budgeted equally. If she hit it big today, she’d have enough to lay off this whole sham for a couple of months. That notion quelled the butterflies in her stomach while she watched the incoming wave of card distribution.
She reached for the mug of ale in front of her, throwing back a wide-mouthed swig in the same manner she’d observed the others perform. Resisting the urge to wipe her lips with the back of her hand, she slid the cards one by one from the table and narrowed her eyes at them. Already familiar with a couple of the players, Emma knew the man to her right grew more and more careless in guarding his cards as he drank. The player to her left tended to wax aggressive or impatient, depending on what he held close to his vest. By now, Hugh’s tips had served her well. Treating her weak and strong hands the same when she threw down sent her opponents frequently folding in resentment, just like he’d promised.
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