They exchange a glance, affronted.
“The choice is yours, of course. I’m given to understand that some families are delighted to have a remnant of the deceased take up residence in their mirrors. They enjoy the sensation of being watched constantly. It makes them feel not so alone.” I smile as if I am kind. “And the dead seem to like it, especially the unexpectedly dead. Without time to prepare themselves, they tend to cling to the ones they loved. Did you suspect your husband’s heart was weak or was it a terrible surprise?”
Madame D’Aguillar hands her black shawl to Lucette, who covers the mirror with it, then rejoins her mother.
“You have kept the body wrapped?” I ask, and they nod. I nod in return to tell them they’ve done only just enough. That they are foolish, vain women who put their own reflections ahead of keeping a soul in a body. “Good. Now how may I be of assistance?”
This puts them on the back foot once again, makes them my supplicants. They must ask for what they want. Both look put out, and it gives me the meanest little thrill to see them thus. I smile again: Let me help you.
“A coffin is what we need. Why else would you be here?” snipes Madame. Lucette puts a hand on the woman’s arm.
“We need your services, Hepsibah.” My heart skips to hear my name on her lips. “We need your help.”
Yes, they do. They need a coffin-maker. They need a deathbed to keep the deceased in, to make sure he doesn’t haunt the lives they want to live from this point on. They need my art.
“I would recommend an ebony-wood coffin lined with the finest silk padding stuffed with lavender to help the soul to rest. Gold fittings will ensure strength of binding. And I would affix three golden locks on the casket to make sure. Three is safest, strongest.” Then I name a price—down to the quarter-gold to make the sum seem considered—one that would cause honest women to baulk, to shout, to accuse me of the extortion I’m committing.
Madame D’Aguillar simply says, “Lucette, take Miss Ballantyne to the study and give her the down payment.”
Oh, how they must want him kept under!
I rise and make a slight curtsy before I follow Lucette’s gracefully swaying skirts to the back of the house.
I politely look away as she fumbles with the lockbox in the third drawer of the enormous oak desk her father recently occupied. When she hands me the small leather pouch of gold pieces, her fingers touch my palm and I think I see a spark in her eyes. I believe she feels it, too, and I colour to be so naked before her. I slide my eyes to the portrait of her dearly departed, but she grasps my hand and holds it tight.
Oh!
“Please, Hepsibah, please make his coffin well. Keep him beneath. Keep us—keep me—safe.” She presses her lips to my palm; they are damp, slightly parted, and ever-so-soft! My breath escapes me, my lungs feel bereft. She trails her slim, pink cat’s tongue along my lifeline down to my wrist where the pulse beats blue and hard and gives me away. There is a noise outside in the hall, the scuttling of a servant. Lucette smiles and steps back, dropping my hand reluctantly.
I remember to breathe, dip my head, made subservient by my desire. Hector has been silent all this time. I see him standing behind her, gnarled fingers trying desperately to caress her swan’s neck but failing, passing through her. I feel a rage shake me but control myself. I nod again, forcing confidence into my motions, meeting her eyes, bold as brass, reading a promise there.
“I need to see the body, take my measurements, make preparations. I must do this alone.”
“Stupid, little harlot.” Hector has more than broken his silence again and again since we returned to the workshop. I have not answered him because I sense in his tone envy.
“How hard for you, Father, to have no more strength than a fart, all noise and wind.”
If he were able, he would throw anything he could find around the space, chisels and planes and whetstones, with no thought for the damage to implements expensive to replace. The tools of our trade inherited from forefathers too many to number. The pieces of wood purchased at great expense and treated with eldritch care to keep the dead below.
I ignore his huffing and puffing and continue with Master D’Aguillar’s casket. It is now the required shape and dimensions, held together with sturdy iron nails and the stinking adhesive made of human marrow and boiled bones I’m carefully applying to the place where one plank meets another to ensure there are no gaps through which something ephemeral might escape. On the farthest bench, far enough away to keep it safe from the stains and paints and tints, lies the pale lilac silk sack that I’ve stuffed with goose down and lavender flowers. This evening, I will quilt it with tiny, precise stitches, then fit it into the casket, this time using a sweet smelling glue to hold it in place and cover the stink of the marrow sealant.
We may inflate the charge for our services, certainly, but the Ballantynes never offer anything but their finest work.
I make the holes for the handles and hinges, boring them with a hand drill engraved with Hector’s initials—not long before his death, the drill that had been passed down for nearly one hundred years broke, the turning handle shearing off in his hand and tearing open his palm. He had another made at great expense. It is almost new; I can pretend the initials are mine, that the shiny thing is mine alone.
“Did you get it?” asks Hector, tired of his sulk.
I nod, screwing the first hinge into place; the dull golden glow looks almost dirty in the dim light of the workshop. Soon I will light the lamps, so I can work through the night; that way I will be able to see Lucette again tomorrow without appearing too eager, without having to manufacture some excuse to cross her threshold once more.
“Show me.”
I straighten with ill grace and stretch. In the pocket of my skirt next to a compact set of pliers is a small tin once used for Hector’s cheap snuff. It rattles as I open it. Inside: a tooth, black and rotten at its centre and stinking more than it should. There is a sizable chunk of flesh still attached to the root and underneath the scent of decay is a telltale hint of foxglove. Master D’Aguillar shall enter the earth before his time, and I have something to add to our collection of contagions that will not be recognised or questioned.
“Ah, lovely!” says Hector. “Subtle. You could have learned something from them. Cold in a teacup—it wasn’t very inventive, was it? I expected a better death, y’know.”
“It wasn’t a cold in a teacup, Father.” I hold up the new hand drill. “It was the old drill. The handle was impregnated with apple seed poison, and I filed away the pinion to weaken everything. All it needed was a tiny open wound. Inventive enough for you, Hector?”
He looks put out, circles back to his new favourite torment. “That girl, she doesn’t want you.”
I breathe deeply. “Events say otherwise.”
“Fool. Desperate, sad, little fool. How did I raise such an idiot child? Didn’t I teach you to look through people? Anyone could see you’re not good enough for the likes of Miss Lucette D’Aguillar.” He laughs. “Will you dream of her, Hepsibah?”
I throw the hand drill at him; it passes through his lean outline and hits the wall with an almighty metallic sound.
“I kept you wrapped! I covered the mirrors! I made your casket myself and sealed it tight—how can you still be here?” I yell.
Hector smiles. “Perhaps I’m not. Perhaps you’re so lonely, daughter, that you thought me back.”
“If I were lonely, I can think of better company to conjure.” But there may be something in what he says, though it makes me hurt.
“Ah, there’s none like your own family, your dear old Da who loves your very skin.”
“When I have her,” I say quietly, “I won’t need you.”
Ghost or fervid imagining, it stops him—he sees his true end—and he has no reply but spite, “Why would anyone want you?”
“You did, Father, or has death dimmed your memory?”
Shame will silence even the dead, and he dissolves
, leaving me alone for a while at least.
I breathe deeply to steady my hands and begin to measure for the placement of the locks.
“The casket is ready,” I say, keeping the disappointment from my voice as best I can. Lucette is nowhere in evidence. An upstairs maid answered my knock and brought me to the parlour once more where the widow receives me reluctantly. The door angel did not even open its eyes.
Madame nods. “I shall send grooms with a dray this afternoon if that will suffice.” But she does not frame it as a question.
“That is acceptable. My payment?”
“Will be made on the day of the funeral—which will be tomorrow. Will you call again?” She smiles with all the charm of the rictus of the dead. “I would not wish to waste your time.”
I return her smile. “My customers have no choice but to wait upon my convenience.” I rise. “I will see myself out. Until tomorrow.”
Outside in the mid-morning sun I make my way down the stone front steps that are set a little too far apart. This morning I combed my hair, pinched colour into my cheeks, and stained my lips with a tinted wax that had once belonged to my mother; all for nought. I am about to set foot on the neatly swept path when a hand snakes out from the bushes to the right and I’m pulled under hanging branches behind a screen of sickly strong jasmine.
Lucette darts her tongue between my lips, giving me a taste of her but pulling back when I try to explore the honeyed cave of her mouth in turn. She giggles breathlessly, chest rising and falling as if this is nothing more than an adventure. She does not quake as I do, she is a silly little girl playing at lust. I know this; I know this, but it does not make me hesitate. It does not make my hope die.
I reach out and grasp her forearms, drawing her roughly in. She falls against me, and I show her what a kiss is. I show her what longing is. I let my yearning burn into her, hoping that she will be branded by the tip of my tongue, the tips of my fingers, the tips of my breasts. I will have her here under the parlour window where her mother sits and waits. I will tumble her and bury my mouth where it will make her moan and shake, here on the grass where we might be found at any moment. And I will make her mine if through no other means than shame; her shame will bind us, and make her mine.
“Whore,” says Hector in my ear, making his first appearance since yesterday. Timed perfectly, it stops me cold, and in that moment when I hesitate, Lucette remembers herself and struggles. She steps away again, breathing hard, laughing through a fractured, uncertain smile.
“When he is beneath,” she tells me. A promise, a vow, a hint, a tease. “When he is beneath,” I repeat, mouthing it like a prayer, then make my unsteady way home.
I stood in the churchyard this morning, hidden away, and watched them bury Master D’Aguillar. Professional pride for the most part. Hector stood beside me, nodding with more approval than he’d ever shown in life, a truce mutually agreed for the moment.
“Hepsibah, you’ve done us proud. It’s beautiful work.”
And it was. The ebony-wood and the gold caught the sun and shone as if surrounded by a halo of light. No one could have complained about the effect the theatrics added to the interment. I noticed the admiring glances of the family’s friends, neighbours, and acquaintances as the entrance to the D’Aguillar crypt was opened and four husky men of the household carried the casket down into the darkness.
And I watched Lucette. Watched her weep and support her mother; watched them both perform their grief like mummers. When the crowds thinned and there was just the two of them and their retainers to make their way to the black coach and four plumed horses, Lucette seemed to sense herself watched. Her eyes found me standing beside a white stone cross that tilted where the earth had sunk. She gave a strange little smile and inclined her head just-so.
“Beautiful girl,” said Hector, his tone rueful.
“Yes,” I answered, tensing for a new battle, but nothing came. We waited in the shade until the funeral party dispersed.
“When will you go to collect?” he asked.
“This afternoon when the wake is done.”
He nodded and kept his thoughts to himself.
Lucette brings a black lacquered tray, balancing a teapot, two cups and saucers, a creamer, sugar boat, and silver cutlery. There are two delicate almond biscuits perched on a ridiculously small plate. The servants have been given the afternoon off. Her mother is upstairs resting.
“The house has been so full of people,” she says, placing the tray on the parquetry table between us. I want to grab at her, bury my fingers in her hair, and kiss her breath away, but broken china might not be the ideal start. I hold my hands in my lap. I wonder if she notices that I filed back my nails, made them neat? That the stains on my skin are lighter than they were, after hours of scrubbing with lye soap?
She reaches into the pocket of her black dress and pulls forth a leather pouch, twin to the one she gave me barely two days ago. She holds it out and smiles. As soon as my hand touches it, she relinquishes the strings so our fingers do not meet.
“There! Our business is at an end.” She turns the teapot five times clockwise with one hand and arranges the spoons on the saucers to her satisfaction.
“At an end?” I ask.
Her look is pitying, then she laughs. “I thought for a while there I might actually have to let you tumble me! Still and all, it would have been worth it, to have him safely away.” She sighs. “You did such beautiful work, Hepsibah, I am grateful for that. Don’t ever think I’m not.”
I am not stupid enough to protest, to weep, to beg, to ask if she is joking, playing with my heart. But when she passes me a cup, my hand shakes so badly that the tea shudders over the rim. Some pools in the saucer, more splashes onto my hand and scalds me. I manage to put the mess down as she fusses, calling for a maid, then realises no one will come.
“I won’t be a moment,” she says and leaves to make her way to the kitchen and cleaning cloths.
I rub my shaking hands down my skirts and feel a hard lump. Buried deep in the right hand pocket is the tin. It makes a sad, promising sound as I tap on the lid before I open it. I tip the contents into her empty cup, then pour tea over it, letting the poisoned tooth steep until I hear her bustling back along the corridor. I fish it out with a spoon, careful not to touch it with my bare hands, and put it away. I add a little cream to her cup.
She wipes my red hot hand with a cool wet cloth, then wraps the limb kindly. Lucette sits opposite me, and I hand her the cup of tea and give a fond smile for her and for Hector, who has appeared at her shoulder.
“Thank you, Hepsibah.”
“You are most welcome, Miss D’Aguillar.”
I watch her lift the fine china to her pink, pink lips and drink deeply.
It will be enough, slow acting, but sufficient. This house will be bereft again.
When I am called upon to ply my trade a second time, I will bring a mirror with me. In the quiet room when we two are alone, I will unwrap Lucette and run my fingers across her skin and find all the secret places she denied me, and she will be mine and mine alone whether she wishes it or no.
I take my leave and wish her well.
“Repeat business,” says Father gleefully as he falls into step beside me. “Not too much, not enough to draw attention to us, but enough to keep bread on the table.”
In a day or two, I shall knock once more on the Widow D’Aguillar’s front door.
I Make People Do Bad Things
Chesya Burke
Old Sam was dying. He had been dying for approximately twenty-seven years, by Queenie’s account. Exactly the amount of time since hell had frozen over and God had relinquished the title on His throne, if the old man thought she was gonna let him slide by on another number without paying her proper due.
“Come on, Madam St. Clair, help out an old, dying man. I ain’t got long now, you know.”
“You old fool, if you think you’re getting anything else from me on credit, you’re all balled
up.”
The old man looked at her, seemed to want to respond, then thought better of it, and hung his head. Shit, the old bastard owed her more than a dollar for bets that he hadn’t been able to cover. Now he thought she would let him slide by again. No way in hell.
The door to her operation on 144th Street, between Lenox and Seventh Avenue, swung open. Bumpy Johnson, her head enforcer, pushed past Sam and dumped a large package on the floor. It wiggled. Bumpy kicked it, nodded to her. She walked over, unwrapped it. A bloody white man lay on the floor staring up at her.
“Mr. Johns. Comme c’est gentil à vous de faire notre connaissance.” Queenie would never admit it out loud, but she loved to use her knowledge of French to intimidate people. It made her feel smarter than these silly Americans, superior. In this case she had said nothing more than How nice of you to make our acquaintance, but the man cowered at her feet as if she had threatened to slice his throat and leave him sleeping with the fishes. That was certainly not outside of the realms of possibility.
Sam stared for only a moment, then rushed to the door and opened it.
“Old Sam?” The man stopped, looked at her. “That number was 216, right?”
He nodded.
“I’ll play you.”
The old man smiled, looked down at the man on the floor, and his smile faded. Then he quickly shuffled out the door.
Queenie turned slowly to the man at her feet. “Unfortunately for you, Mr. Johns, vous ne vous en tirez pas si facilement.”
The numbers racket was Madam St. Clair’s business. She ran everything in all of Harlem from Washington Heights to the Upper East Side, from the East River to the Hudson River—it all belonged to her. Ten thousand dollars from her own pocket had begun this business, and now it was her pocket into which all proceeds went. Less overhead, of course. Part of that overhead, and worth every thin dime that she paid them, was Bumpy and her gang of Forty Thieves. They were ruthless, and with her guidance, they ran the streets with strict precision that was almost surgical.
The numbers business was simple. One came into any of her many establishments—grocery markets, pool halls, restaurants, drugstores; if you owned a business in Harlem and you were willing to make a little extra dough, you took numbers—bet on any number between 0 and 999 and waited. Called the “poor man’s stock market,” it was bound to pay off. Where there was numbers running in Harlem, those uptown guys played the real thing and often lost big. Here, downtown, the odds paid out eight to one. Pretty good, and Madam St. Clair always paid. There was no business in undercutting your clientele. If you played long and often enough, you eventually won. So people played, and she got rich.
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