by Ami McKay
Remembering she was still slightly sore over the matter, Adelaide glowered at Eleanor. “So where is this Beatrice now?”
Pointing to the ceiling, Eleanor whispered, “She’s asleep.”
“Asleep?” Adelaide exclaimed, hoping to make enough noise to rouse the girl. She didn’t appreciate having to tiptoe around someone she’d never met.
“Hush,” Eleanor scolded. “She won’t be any good to me if she’s under the weather. I told you of the state she was in…don’t you remember?”
“Right, right,” Adelaide said, not wanting their discussion to turn to the state she’d been in last night. Better that Beatrice be on the receiving end of Eleanor’s bedside manner. A vague memory of Eleanor slipping into bed beside her sometime in the night led her to ask, “Were you up late?”
“Not too late.” Eleanor clutched a key that was hanging around her neck then slipped it under the collar of her dress. Adelaide didn’t think to make anything of it. Eleanor had any number of amulets she wore to assist her with her magic—a bone trinket carved in the shape of a hand, a locket containing the whiskers of a black cat. Adelaide had stopped keeping track of them all. “Let’s hope Sleeping Beauty wakes up soon or I’m afraid you’ll regret giving her your bed.”
Eleanor shook her head. “Did anyone ever tell you that you talk in your sleep?”
“I do not,” Adelaide replied.
“Yes, you do.”
“Tell me then, what did I say? Anything good? Did any burning confessions fall from my lips?”
“Nothing worth repeating.”
The ghost of Adelaide’s mother looked on while the two women bickered. She remembered what it had been like to share a bed with her daughter, how the child’s wiry little legs had kicked about under the thin covers, and how, yes indeed, she’d had a tendency to blather in her sleep. I was “Mama” then, she thought. And you were my little “Moth.” Who am I now? What have we become?
She didn’t like this business of Moth calling herself “Adelaide,” which sounded snobbish to her ears. But who was she to judge? She hadn’t held her child enough, she knew that now. She’d never been able to give the girl a decent life. She hadn’t wanted to raise her with things that would make her weak—hugs, lullabies, kisses, hope, dreams, love—so she’d replaced comfort with disinterest and hard knocks. She’d only done what she’d thought was best. How could she have known that she wouldn’t be able to protect her—not in life, not in death?
It haunted her still. That’s why she was chasing after Adelaide. She wanted to tell her daughter everything she’d left unsaid, and more importantly, of the things she’d witnessed since she’d gone beyond the veil. If only she hadn’t spent all her time with her daughter feeding her sorrow! She might’ve saved them both from so many terrible things. Now she was being punished for it, bound by chains of regret—for how she’d lived and how she’d died—sentenced to stand at her daughter’s side during every bad thing that’d happened to the girl since. She’d watched helplessly on that terrible day when her dear girl had been attacked, her screams of warning unable to reach Adelaide’s ears.
“Moth!” the spirit cried. “Do you hear me? Listen to me, Moth!”
Upstairs, the bottle in Adelaide’s desk rolled from side to side.
Scowling, Adelaide waved her hand in the air. “Damn flies. Always buzzing in my ear.”
The spirit gave up her pestering and hid between two teapots. She’ll hear me soon enough, she thought. That damned know-it-all fairy promised me as much. The scheming pixie had brokered a deal with her, allowing her to slip through a crack unprotected by Eleanor’s spells in exchange for her agreeing to do the fairy’s bidding—break a teapot, move a key, show herself to the girl.
Oh, maybe it hadn’t gone the way the fairy had instructed, but she was only having a bit of fun. She hadn’t meant to scare the poor child. How was she to know she’d be so delicate? In the end she’d done as she was told. She’d enticed the girl to come into the shop and the girl had stayed. In the dark of night as the pixie had fluttered near the girl’s bed, the cranky spirit had tipped her over, wing over ass, and asked, “Why can she see me when my own daughter can’t?”
“She’s special,” the fairy had answered before turning her back.
Humph, the spirit thought. We’ll see about that.
At ten o’clock, Beatrice came downstairs with Perdu hopping at her heels. “Good morning, Miss St. Clair,” she said. “I hope I’m not too late.”
“You’re right on time,” Eleanor said, pouring a cup of tea for her. Offering her a plate filled with sliced cheese and sugared pastries, she asked, “How are you faring this morning? I trust you had a good sleep?” Pulling a saucer of raw stew meat from behind the counter, she set it on the floor for Perdu.
The bird sank his clawed foot into the largest chunk to hold it steady. Tugging it into stringy bits with his beak, one by one he flipped each morsel into the air, then gobbled it down.
Adelaide stared at Beatrice over the rim of her teacup.
“I’m feeling much better, thank you,” Beatrice replied. “It was awfully generous of you to lend me your bed.” Then reaching for a piece of cheese she said, “I hope you’ll see fit to put me to work today. Otherwise I’ll feel awfully spoiled.”
Adelaide smiled and said, “Perhaps Miss St. Clair’s only fattening you up so she can boil you like a ham hock and eat you with a side of cabbage.”
Beatrice let out a nervous laugh.
“Adelaide!” Eleanor scolded. “Behave yourself.” Turning to Beatrice she said, “Beatrice Dunn, meet Adelaide Thom.”
Grinning, Adelaide looked to Beatrice. Lifting her veil away from her face she said, “You know I’m teasing, don’t you, dear?”
Beatrice’s eyes went wide. “Yes, of course, Miss Thom,” she stammered, offering Adelaide her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Adelaide gave the girl’s hand a firm squeeze. We’ll see about that, she thought. “So lovely to meet you too, Beatrice.”
Perdu chortled, then tapped at his plate. All that was left was a runny puddle of blood.
“Here,” Eleanor said, setting a bowl of water in its place. “Drink up.”
Dipping his beak, the raven slurped the liquid into his mouth, then tipped it down his throat.
Adelaide nicked a pastry from Beatrice’s plate, tore a sizable chunk from it and stuck it in her mouth. Returning the remainder of the sweet, she said, “You don’t mind, do you? I couldn’t resist.”
Beatrice gave Adelaide a kind smile. “Not at all,” she said. “Help yourself to the rest of it if you like. I’m not really one for sweets. My aunt Lydia says they make the senses sluggish.”
Licking the sugar off her fingers Adelaide said, “How sad.”
Eleanor squinted at Adelaide. A warning-shot across the bow. Adelaide kept her sights fixed on Beatrice. “How old are you?” She reached for the wounded pastry. (And why shouldn’t she? The girl didn’t want it.)
“Seventeen, this past summer.”
“Seventeen!” Adelaide exclaimed. “I can barely remember it.”
“Ha!” Perdu squawked, with a violent shake of his head.
Eleanor smiled at her pet.
Ignoring the bird, Adelaide studied Beatrice—the sweet timbre of her voice, the casual confidence in her posture, the sincere interest in her dewy eyes. Eleanor hadn’t bothered to mention she was a beauty. Save for the small scrape on her forehead (which the poor girl had tried to hide with one of her shiny curls), everything about her was measured and neat, near perfect. Even the bright blue ribbon tied at the end of her braid was crisp and clean. The girl’s face was much the same—not a trace of ill will or disappointment was discernible on it. And oh, what a searching gaze! She’s waiting for me to like her. How frustratingly endearing! If she expects my approval today, she’ll have to wait. Spying the clock on the shelf behind the counter, Adelaide turned to Eleanor and said, “Oh my, look at the time. I must fly. I’m off to breakf
ast with Judith at the Fifth.”
“When will you be back?” Eleanor asked, wiping the powdery trail of sugar Adelaide had left on the counter. “What am I to tell your sitters?”
“Tell them they should’ve made an appointment,” Adelaide said with an indifferent shrug. Walking to her table in the back of the shop, she hung an elegantly lettered sign on her chair: THE SEER IS OUT.
“Wait,” her mother’s ghost called, flying out from her hiding spot. She desperately wanted to follow her daughter but was afraid to leave the shop in case she might not be able to get back in.
“Ta-ta,” Adelaide said, as she headed out the door. Bells jangled in her wake.
“I don’t think she likes me,” Beatrice whispered to Eleanor.
“Give it time,” Eleanor said. “She’ll come around.”
Clearing away the dishes, Beatrice glanced at the mirror behind the counter and caught sight of Adelaide’s mother’s ghost. She stifled a scream.
Silver hoops glinting in the looking glass, the Gypsy woman put her finger to her lips.
Flapping to the counter, Perdu stared sideways at the mirror. “Ta-ta,” he squawked. “Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta!”
“Ta-ta,” the ghost whispered as she faded from sight.
A Preponderance of Marys.
THE FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL stood on a bed of bones—lacy, worm-etched remains of the poor, finding their way to dust. Skull by jaw by rib by spine, they were nestled as tight as cordwood in a maze of pauper’s pits that stretched out from below the building, under the streets of Madison Square and beneath the walkways of its pleasant, manicured park. Time and progress had caused these unfortunate souls to be forgotten, but their restless echoes had lived on, rising up through the cobblestones and pavers, acting as ghostly ether, provoking fear and dark thoughts. This is what happens when the dead don’t get their due. This is what happens when the past is ignored.
In the hotel’s grand, marble-tiled lobby, the ghost of Mr. Paran Stevens sat waiting for his wife, Marietta. The impatient spirit’s preferred seat was neither comfortable nor fancy, just a well-worn spot at the end of the long wooden bench nearest the Twenty-Third Street entrance. Above the doorway was a large sign that read LADIES ONLY, marking it as a special entrance for unaccompanied women who wished to be discreet on their visits here. It was a change Marietta had insisted they make when they’d first taken over the lease, just one of the many savvy schemes she’d hatched in the early days of their May–December marriage. Back then, everything Marietta had done had seemed (at least in Paran’s eyes) to be inspired by some greater, all-knowing force of fiscal intuition. Who could’ve guessed that placing a single square of chocolate on a patron’s pillow would stir such feelings of goodwill? Or that offering late supper to both the patrons and the public would result in the dining hall being filled to the rafters every night? Oh, what a terrific team they’d been! He’d never have been half so successful if he hadn’t married his darling wife.
The ladies of Mrs. Astor’s 400 had relished making a scandal of their union—“She’s a chiseller.” “She’s a grubber.” “She’s a climber.” “She’s his daughter’s age, for heaven’s sake!” In the end, his dear Marietta had risen above all the chatter, proving herself equal to (in his eyes, better than) the lot. Best of all, she’d forced New York society to accept her on her own terms. No, she hadn’t come from money or the upper crust; and yes, her words sometimes could be cutting, hurtful and rough, but anyone fortunate enough to find themselves in her good graces knew the truth—there never was a truer friend than his wife.
Paran had quietly expired in his own bed one bright April day in 1872. For a short time, he’d haunted the parlour of their home on Marble Row, but he’d soon grown tired of listening to the laments and platitudes of those who came to pay their respects. “How can we go on without him?” they’d cried. “What a tragic loss,” they’d said. The words were nothing but hollow kindnesses, meant to fill the uncomfortable silences of mourning—the daylight hours when the company of others is inescapable, the days between death and burial, the parade of firsts without the deceased marked by holidays, anniversaries, birthdays and so on. He’d hovered near his family for as long as he could stand it, hardly able to bear the disparity between Marietta’s sorrow and the brave face she put on for their two children. Each night, after she’d fallen asleep, he’d kissed her weary brow and blessed her dreams. Soon, he’d decamped to the hotel, feeling it was the best place for him to be.
Tapping a foot, Paran watched out the window, on the lookout for his wife. Forty-six was far too young for her to be a widow, to be draped head to toe in Henrietta cloth. Why did she insist on continuing to wear the dreadful uniform of mourning, day after day? He wished he could tell her, “Enough already.” He also wished he knew when she was going to arrive! What day was it again? Spotting a gentleman with a copy of Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, Paran guessed it must be Saturday. He hated the way time moved on the other side—there was no sensible ebb and flow to it. Days dragged on at a snail’s pace or flew past like a hawk diving after its prey. In a blink, a whole month could be gone and he’d be left wondering what he’d been doing while it’d passed. Eight years into it and he still hadn’t mastered the best way to go about the business of being dead.
At least he’d figured out this—just as a child learns reading, writing and arithmetic, the dead had to tackle their three Rs as well: revenge, regret and reconciliation. Luckily, he’d lived his life in such a way that there was little revenge to exact, especially since the other two Rs kept him working round the clock. Currently he was involved with a task of the heart, getting Marietta to reconcile her differences with their dear son, Harry, over the matter of Miss Edith Jones. Time was of the essence. He’d seen the Reaper hovering over Harry, on account of a sickness settled in the boy’s lungs that had no cure. The reprieve Harry had gotten this past summer from breathing the fresh air along the shores of Bar Harbor wasn’t going to last. Was Marietta aware of their son’s ill health? If she was, she wasn’t letting it show. Let him be happy, my dear, Paran thought. He isn’t long for this world. Let him have at least a taste of what we once had!
He’d been diligently trying to communicate with the living—getting up the nerve to pass through a body, rather than simply brushing near; knocking over progressively heavier objects, a hat, a wine glass, a coat rack—in hopes of getting through to Marietta. Last week he’d pestered a beggar woman who liked to feed birds in the park because he’d been told by another spirit that she’d been known (on rare occasion) to speak the words of the dead. The woman hadn’t entered into a conversation with him, or even looked as if she’d known he was there, but he’d felt a great sense of accomplishment when she’d flapped her arms and yelled, “Paran Stevens is here!”
“Good morning, Mr. Stevens,” a spirit said to him now as she passed by. (The same spirit who’d told him of the woman in the park.)
“Good morning, Mary,” he replied, with a tip of his hat.
He’d been sitting in this same spot near the Ladies’ Entrance eight months after he’d passed on the fateful cold December night when she’d met her death, horribly, in this very hotel. He watched the little spectre as she glided through walls and wafted past patrons on her way to scrub the marble steps of the hotel’s grand staircase. He wondered why, in his ghostly form, he still bothered to wear a hat, and why the girl held fast to the handle of her bucket as it sloshed with the memory of hot, sudsy water. Why were they still here? Was this all there was to death? Had St. Peter become so choosy he wouldn’t grant them entrance into Heaven? That might be true for me, Paran Stevens thought, but surely not for this spectre and the ten other hard-working, kind-hearted girls who’d died with her in the fire. They were the girls who’d scrubbed the hotel floors, the woodwork, the dishes, the laundry. None of them had done anything to deserve such a terrible lot.
They’d been young, hopeful immigrants, mostly of Irish descent, who’d never seemed bothered
by the fact that their pretty, freckled cheeks were covered with smudges by day’s end. He hadn’t paid much attention to them while they’d been alive, something he regretted in his present state. They’d all known him by sight, addressed him by name, but he’d not taken the time to learn theirs. Whenever Marietta had scolded him for his lack of interest in the staff, he’d complained that there were too many Marys among the help, from the chambermaids to the scrubbing girls, from the cooks to the calligraphers. How was he supposed to remember who was who?
After the girls had died, though, he’d come across their spirits circled around the smouldering ashes of the fire. Hands clasped, they’d been reciting the rosary, calling for Mother Mary to bless them in their time of need. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. In the years that’d passed since then, he’d tried asking them their names, but they’d always refused to answer. At first, he’d thought it might be a small punishment for his indifference to them when he’d been alive, but over time they’d kept refusing, all the while growing more alike than different in movement and appearance. Eventually he’d stopped asking.
Sometimes late at night he saw them floating about in the corridors, wailing like banshees as they made their way to the attic. They’d changed in the afterlife, their sweet natures now prone to turn spiteful and angry at the slightest provocation. Afraid of what they might become when there was no one among the living who remembered who they once had been, Paran Stevens prayed for them, fervently and often. “God bless the Marys,” he whispered, before resuming his wait for his wife. “Keep them whole. Give them peace.”
