“I got to find her.”
And somehow, the wiry man, whose hair was growing whiter by the day, knew Hemp was talking about Madge, not Annie.
“Ain’t God something? She due back any day.”
“Due back?”
All this time, the path of righteousness had lain right in front of him. Past houses, down streets, past the firehouse, the bordellos, Gambler’s Row, across a patch of dirt, over a washtub, into a one-room house with three sunken beds, rusted pots, a tub with a slow leak, and an alley that never quieted, God had found him. Hemp walked the streets, his vision clearer than it had been in months. Something flew toward him and he batted it down. A bird. He reached for it to see if it was hurt, but it flew away, its wings fluttering ecstatically. He felt for Annie’s comb in his pocket.
Mr. Heil had tried to find Annie, had failed, and Hemp had resigned himself to the fact that if white men couldn’t work a miracle, no one could. But Madge was headed back, and he had a feeling this was it—a miracle of his own making. It was about time, too, because he was finally ready to take off his walking shoes and climb into his chariot.
27
THE FALL HAPPENED BEFORE SHE COULD REACH HIM. She rushed down after him, lifted his head, took a moment to figure out it was not the leg or the knee, but the foot. She held him in her arms and yelled for help. Richard called out to her. She struggled to lift him, pleading for caution, but her coachman mumbled something like “Step back. I got him, Mrs. Walker,” as he carried the old man inside.
Sadie unlaced the boot, pulled off the shoe and sock. A spear of bloody bone protruded through the skin. She propped the foot onto a pillow while the coachman hurried off to fetch Dr. Heil.
“Wake up, wake up,” she said, shaking him. His head fell back into the crook of her arm. She placed a pillow beneath him and touched his cheek. Too warm.
She wheeled. An empty basin sat on the sideboard, and she carried it to the kitchen to fill it with water from the jug. Back in the drawing room, she dabbed water onto his face. He did not awaken. She moved to the end of the sofa and rolled the pants to the knee, moving him as little as possible. She dipped a piece of linen into the water and squeezed it over the wound. The blood pinked as it rolled down the heel of his foot. A flap of flesh hung perilously.
She pulled a chair up beside him and sat. Belts of gray light stretched across the carpet. On the table, his glasses rested atop a stack of books. In the corner, more books perched on the chair. He had been borrowing generously from the library, and although she was curious to know what he read, she did not have the presence of mind to read the spines. She rose and looked out the window for the carriage, but all was silent. She sat back down. His jaw moved.
“Open the window. It’s warm in here.”
His voice startled her. “Of course, Father.”
She poured water into a glass from the ceramic pitcher and placed it to his lips. He lifted his head and drank.
He began to speak softly, his voice breaking. “I took the money from Samuel. I’m sorry.”
She had always known, but now she did not know how to respond to his confession.
“Did you ask for it?” she whispered.
“No, no. He offered, but I took it. We would have been ruined.”
She returned the glass to the table and opened a second window. The fog was beginning to rise. She stuck her head out. The air cooled her face. His confession did little to unseat her anger. As her father he had always held the rod of morality, and she would not pry it from him, not now. She pressed a hand to her mouth. She would remain the silenced daughter. If they were to move forward, they would have to do it with the rift intact. Although she could not fathom how one carried on a relationship in which both people stubbornly remained at an impasse, she could not stomach the torment of battle any longer.
“HE NEEDS TO GO to a hospital.”
“Can you set it?”
“He will need surgery, and I couldn’t possibly—”
Michael finished wrapping the foot, pulling the strip of cloth around the bottom of the heel.
The old man opened his eyes. His stare was sharp.
“Is he actually a real doctor?”
“Dr. Heil trained at Rush Medical College.”
“He wants to saw off my foot.”
“If you get proper care, you will not lose your foot, sir,” said Michael.
Michael moved to touch the man’s head, feeling through the hair. “Does this hurt?”
“Tender, yes.”
“How about here?”
“Yes.” He winced.
Michael coughed, and Sadie followed him into the hall.
“You realize I could have called anyone. I called you because I believe in you, Michael. Can you heal him?” Sadie asked.
“He needs a surgeon.”
“You are a surgeon.”
“You know I haven’t had patients in a long time. Do you want him to live?”
“Of course, I want him to live.”
“Well, there is something else.”
“Something else?”
“Yes. It isn’t just the foot.”
“What is it?”
“Did your father hit his head when he fell?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see.”
“His forehead looks a little swollen. He says it is tender. I can’t be sure. I urge you to take him to the hospital. They will take good care of him there.”
“Come with us. I’ll feel better if you’re there.”
He hesitated. “Very well. Sadie? About your proposition. We have to talk about it.”
“I was being foolish. You know that.”
He was silent.
“Michael, I’m just not the marrying kind. It’s what my father wants for me, but I don’t want marriage. I don’t want children. I don’t want any of that.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to travel. Yes, I want to travel.”
He nodded. “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have kissed you like that.”
“That’s in the past.”
“Is anything really in the past?”
She handed him his hat.
After Michael left, Sadie went back into the drawing room. Her father’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be resting. Her resolve strengthened. She would do whatever was necessary, say whatever he needed to hear in order to reconcile. She would be the one to end this.
SADIE SAT ON A WOODEN BENCH in the hospital ward waiting for Michael to deliver a report on her father. She had hastily pinned on a hat, and no one stopped to look long enough to recognize her beneath it. She was grateful for the quiet.
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is James Heil and I was a soldier in the Fourth Illinois Cavalry of the United States Army. I died during a victorious battle at Shiloh led by General Grant.
She shook her head, trying to rid her thoughts of him. She was tired of this spirit. His grief drained her, and she wished he would leave her alone. She did not know what it would take to shake him from her mind permanently, but she was prepared to do anything. She couldn’t move forward with him in tow. She drifted into a light sleep.
Each one of us must bear the burden of our time. My time called upon me to shoulder a great duty.
Do not despair. Every family has their trials.
Mama, you must cast off that dust of misery.
Your old bones shall turn to dust, too, and your grief shall end as all things end.
On all sides, the cost of battle has been borne.
“Sadie?”
She woke with a start.
“He’s not awake, but you can see him if you’d like.”
Sadie followed Michael through the corridor. Her father lay on a cot, his foot bandaged, head wrapped. She touched his forehead.
“We gave him something to sleep.”
She nodded.
“Sadie, the foot will heal. However, as I guessed, he also injured his head.”
“
Injured?”
“We just don’t know how it will affect him, if at all. He has quite a large lump on his cranium. I believe he may have been unconscious immediately following the fall.”
“Unconscious?” So the broken foot was just the visible injury. The real wound, the lasting one, remained unseen.
After the bindery failed, the creditor had given her father barely a year to repay his debts. She’d overhead the conversation between her parents. Four visits, two on the porch, two in the parlor, and the deal with Samuel was done. Her parents had taken the money, but did it matter anymore? Although it was clear they had committed the misdeed, she had to forgive and move on.
So why did she feel this overwhelming shame? And why should she feel shame when nothing was her fault?
She needed to tell her father that she did not need James. She was the medium. She’d found a stage through the spirit because his was a man’s voice, his presence allowing her to speak. But the words and that small, high-pitched vocal were her own. She knew something of botany, Latin, even politics. She had read enough to understand the substance of her lectures. If there was an act, it was of her own making. She was not a woman possessed by a spirit. She was a woman.
“He will be fine. You’ll see. Everything will be the same as before,” Michael whispered.
Sadie shook her head. She knew this was not true. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth.
He took her by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Michael walked slowly, still thrilling from how the hospital’s doctors had accepted him. No one inquired of his wartime service, and no one assumed he was a veteran. He led Sadie out into the street, the two of them walking aimlessly. They did not call Richard or the carriage, deciding to walk instead. The duo neared Bryan Hall where so many of the enlistment rallies had been held and Michael stopped to peer into the doorway. He could hear an organ and the harmony of a men’s chorus singing inside. He strained to make out the words, recognizing the German sounds. On impulse, he entered, taking Sadie with him. She did not protest as they walked through the wide hall. He peeked inside a room. The men were seated closely together, and there were at least a hundred of them. Old men. Young. Men in suits and worker’s clothes, all holding music sheets. Two women stood beside a table, ready to serve the meal.
The director stopped, gave a few notes in a mix of English and German.
“Sie sind zu spät,” the director said.
“I apologize,” Michael said. An empty chair screeched across the floor. He started toward it, pushing Sadie gently toward the women standing beside the table. They spoke rapidly to her in German and tied an apron around her waist. Michael took a seat and leaned over to squint at a sheet of music. The organ started, and he was glad he could barely hear his own voice, certain he sang off-key. He could not remember the last time he sang. He sight-read the music, focused on pronouncing the correct sounds in his triangle of tongue and lips and teeth. The words formed in his mouth.
When Michael opened his mouth to sing, the room expanded: the smooth stone ceiling curved into a womb, the carved stone columns buttressed his spirits. His fellow choristers with their wrinkled necks, wide shoulders, sun-chapped cheeks, delighted. He did not know anyone there. The director wore a wig, and it tickled Michael, a fitting stroke to the scene. He had never been one to sing. Not even a whistle. This awakened love stunned him, like admiring for the first time the beauty of a pear tree he had walked past since boyhood. Out of the box in his throat came a miraculous sound. Whose sweet tenor was this? This warming of the throat, bellowing of the diaphragm, framing of lips, fluttering tongue, trilling uvula.
At first, he thought: religion has found me. And the more he thought about it, the more confident he was of the idea. But there was something more. Singing hymn after hymn was nothing less than a healing. The act of singing mended. A suturing closed of his heart, a snuffing of his self-doubt. He dawdled in a space where both history and future vanished and he did not know the next note coming from his lips.
The director ended rehearsal. This constant sewing of himself aroused his appetite, and Michael was one of the first to reach the tables of potato salad, bread, sausages, spaetzle. Sadie heaped the food on his plate, but neither of them spoke. He sat in a chair near the window eating his food, his back to her. Windowpanes squared off the light in blocks on the floor. He thought of Heinrich Heine, the poet his father used to read to him—Life’s made me tired enough to drop / I’d like to relax on a silken throne. Did his faith exist among these men?
The rehearsal went on for some time until the director dismissed them. The men shook hands, and no one asked Michael any questions, even though he was not quite German in the way of some of them. He put Sadie in a hack and began to walk toward his flat, holding fast to his jubilance. In that small interval of time he’d sung with the chorus, he’d felt heroic, his soul elevated, some dead part of him awakened. And as he moved through the city’s center, he was not thinking of his brother or Hemp or the widow or even the injured old man. He was busy translating the chorus into English:
That word above all earthly powers, no thanks to them, abideth;
The Spirit and the gifts are ours through Him Who with us sideth:
Let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also;
The body they may kill: God’s truth abideth still,
His kingdom is forever.
He wandered into a small apothecary, discovered a jar of ointment on a shelf, and brought it to the front for purchase. The clerk nodded courteously. Scales, mortars, and spoons covered the counter. Michael handed over a note, thinking of all that money could achieve. Feed orphans. Shelter the ill. He remembered the work the Sanitary Commission had done during the war. He placed the jar in his trouser pocket.
He walked outside. Someone held a sign that read: IGNES FATUI. He turned a corner, and a man gave him a bill advertising a gala to support the Soldiers’ Home. He read it over, remembering that the place had been home to convalescing soldiers. He rolled the bill up and stuck it in his pocket alongside the jar.
Michael continued walking, turning this corner and that, melodies churning in his head. He did not see Peter hurrying toward him until they had almost bumped into each other.
“Michael. Didn’t you hear me calling your name? I found her. God help us all, but I did it Michael. I found that colored man’s family.”
Michael held fast to Peter’s arm to make sure the man was real.
28
SADIE WAITED PATIENTLY WITH THE WOMEN, HER MOUTH dry. She longed to drink some water from the pitcher, but she dared not touch it. The organist was a shaggy-looking man whose fingers danced over the keys. She watched him, thinking of what it must take to coordinate such independence between the hands. She felt the music cut through her loneliness, and though these were not her people, she felt as though she were among family. Could family be sketched out of such uncommon elements? Ever since her mother’s death, she had felt the loneliness of an orphan. After the music ended, Sadie served the meal along with the other women. The men filed by, taking their plates as they chatted in German and English.
When she arrived home, she was in a lightened mood. She climbed the stairs to her father’s bedroom, going through his clothes, refolding and straightening. She smoothed the bedcovers and swiped a hand over the dusty bedside table before returning to her library.
She opened her drawer and spied unopened mail. On top was a letter addressed to her in a shaky handwriting. She opened it, her eyes scanning the single line of misshapen and incongruent letters. Someone must have written it for Madge. The woman planned to return to Chicago. The letter was dated weeks earlier and gave a date of her return. Madge had moved about the kitchen so easily as she mixed her strange potions. Finally, Sadie had come to understand the kinship between the two of them. Both trying to make a difference in their own way. Both searching for independence. In the beginning, Sadie had been drawn to the Tennessee woman because she had seen something sp
ecial in those hands. So she’d given the woman a job. But even the noblest intentions could be tinged with selfishness.
Had it been that long since she’d wandered her own house with pleasure? It struck her that, yes, this was her house, not Samuel’s. She thought she might remove his picture from the parlor. She opened the door to Madge’s old closet. It had been thoroughly cleaned, but a trace of the woman’s scent remained. Sadie had to admit: she missed her. She had only heard bits here and there of the strict aunts who ruled Madge’s home in Tennessee. How different Madge’s life down there must be. Sadie had never been south. What kind of place was it where men would rather die than release human beings to their own destiny?
When she closed the closet door, Olga met her with a worried frown. “Is something the matter, Mrs. Walker?”
“No, nothing.”
“Sit,” Olga commanded.
Olga placed a bowl of stew on the table. Sadie never ate in the kitchen, but the offer did not ruffle her. She calmly took her place. The beef stew was a little heavy for the time of day, but she was hungry. She picked up the spoon. She had not eaten at the choir rehearsal.
“This is all my fault, Mrs. Walker. Madge and I called your father here for a visit. We were worried about you.”
“What do you mean you called him?”
“We sent for him. Madge charged the ticket to your account. I’m so, so sorry.”
Sadie looked at the cook for a moment. Did it really matter? Was anyone to blame? Everything had happened the way it had to. She continued eating. When she was finished, she thanked the woman before moving on to the parlor. It had been several weeks since she’d accepted visitors in the home. The spirit had taken to appearing unexpectedly even when she had not summoned him, and she didn’t want to encourage this kind of contact. Madge had been right about being wary of his power, but Sadie did not know how to stop him. The dead man’s spirit was too strong.
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