Swan's Way

by Weyrich, Becky Lee

  “It’s a shame, but the subjects in these old pictures are almost never identified. We can only guess at the date by the clothes they’re wearing.”

  Ginna pointed to the clock. “At least we know what time it was.”

  “Nope! ’Fraid not. That clock was just a prop. It was always set at eleven-fifty. I’ve seen dozens of photos with that same clock, showing the same time.”

  Ginna continued studying the photo. The man and woman must have been husband and wife. They appeared to be in their forties, both with dark hair, both looking proper, serious, and stiff.

  “Do try to relax, won’t you? You look as if you’re staring into a hangman’s noose.”

  The voice out of nowhere made Ginna jump. She glanced about, but there was no one nearby other than the bearded vendor, and he was once more talking to her about Brady’s large camera obscura.

  She listened for a moment or two before her mind began to wander again. Suddenly, all manner of unexpected and seemingly unrelated bits of information flitted through her mind. Broadway and Tenth streets. 859 Broadway, to be exact, over Thompson’s Saloon. Chandeliers like stars. Gold-and-silver walls. Brady’s Famous National Portrait Gallery.

  Just as that thought crossed her mind, the man holding the camera said, “Mathew Brady had a large studio in New York City, back before the Civil War. It was something of a tourist attraction in its day. People used to come in to see his collection of portraits of famous people, then, more often than not, they’d decide to have their own pictures taken. He set up a studio in Washington so he’d be closer to the action during the war. When he went bankrupt in 1873, most of his photographic equipment was sold to cover his debts. Would you believe that his glass negatives were even auctioned off as plain old plate glass? One glass negative of Ulysses S. Grant was found in a barn in Upstate New York a few years ago, wrapped in newspaper and forgotten for over a century.”

  Ginna eyed the man curiously. “Plate glass. You mean like windowpanes or the glass in greenhouses?”

  The man chuckled and winked. “You know your history, sure enough, ma’am. Yep, the Victorians all went crazy building greenhouses. And though I’ve never seen one for myself, I’ve heard tell that some faces Mathew Brady captured over a hundred years ago on his glass plate negatives still shine down like silver ghosts from the walls of a few greenhouses hereabouts.”

  The greenhouse! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She had to get to Swan’s Quarter right away.

  “How much for this battle scene?” she asked quickly.

  “Oh, let’s see.” The man stroked his beard and squinted his eyes, as if trying to measure its worth. “I could probably get more from a collector, but seeing as how you’re such a history buff and all, I reckon I could let you have it for six dollars.”

  Normally, Ginna would have haggled with the man, even though she knew his price was fair. Instead, she fished into her pocket, then counted out the money from her morning’s tips. He handed over her picture with a broad smile.

  “Thank you! Thank you very much!” Ginna said, excitedly. Then she whirled away and headed for the bus stop. She had her picture and her answer. The greenhouse behind Swan’s Quarter. That was where she had seen Neal Frazier before—his face shining down from high up on the glass wall.

  Neal strolled aimlessly about the grounds of Swan’s Quarter. He had felt restless all week since Ginna’s visit, but especially so today. He had opted not to attend the Sunday morning church service, even though Elspeth, Pansy, and Sister had begged him to come along. He could hear the singing now—a dozen or more age-cracked voices wrestling valiantly with “Rock of Ages.” He thought how he used to love to sing in church when he was a kid. That seemed a lifetime ago—back before his parents split up. Then both died far too early, back before his older brother stepped on a land mine in Vietnam. Before Nancy. Before flight 1862.

  “Before Ginna,” he said, noticing for the first time the greenhouse behind Swan’s Quarter.

  He wandered over, curious suddenly. Hadn’t Ginna mentioned the greenhouse? Yes. She had promised to show it to him on her next visit. Tomorrow she would come again. He was counting the hours.

  A dark face popped around the doorframe and grinned at Neal. “Come right on in, sir. I’d be obliged for the company. You’d be Mr. Frazier, I reckon.”

  Neal stared at the grizzled old black man and nodded. “That’s right. And who might you be?”

  “Folks calls me Zee, ’cause that’s the last of the alphabet and I’s the last of my line. I been gardener here at Swan’s Quarter these past fifty-odd years and my pappy before me. Come right on in and meet my chillun, sir.”

  Old Zee ushered Neal inside with a sweeping bow and a wide, gape-toothed grin. The glass greenhouse felt close and humid, warm even on this cool autumn morning. The place was a veritable jungle of exotic greenery, dominated by a gnarled wisteria vine as thick as a man’s body. Amazingly, it was blooming out of season, its clusters of lavender and purple blossoms delicately scenting the air. Neal reached up and touched the silky green leaves.

  “She a beauty, ain’t she?” Zee grinned and nodded. “Been here longer than any of us at Swan’s Quarter, longer than the greenhouse, even. Some say she was planted for love. If that be so, then I reckon love must last forever ’cause this old wisteria shore do.”

  Neal wandered about, admiring Zee’s “chillun,” as the old man called the plants. There were ferns of every sort, miniature palms, orchids, and even a banana tree.

  “This is amazing,” Neal said. “How long has the greenhouse been here?”

  Zee scratched his nappy head. “My memory ain’t what it used to be, but seems like Miz Melora Swan had it built sometime after the war. She wanted things always alive around her, a tribute to her poor boys that died in the war.”

  “A fine tribute,” Neal said, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. He felt suddenly as if someone were watching him, even though he and Zee were alone in the place. He gave a visible shudder.

  Zee laughed. “Don’t let it bother you, sir. The greenhouse haints won’t do you no harm.”

  Neal stared at the man. “Haints? You mean ghosts?”

  “Yessir. But they’s friendly enough. Keeps to theyselves, most often. They only shows up now and again. Sunny days, ’bout noon.”

  Neal glanced at his watch. It was quarter to twelve and the sun was shining brightly. “What kind of ghosts?”

  Zee cackled, tickled by the question. “Why, dead ones, of course!”

  The moment of the airplane crash flashed through Neal’s mind—the impact, the flames, the screams. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to block out the memory of that scene. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “Ghosts don’t mind if you do or don’t believe in ’em.”

  Unnerved by the crazy old man’s tales, Neal decided to leave. When he turned to go, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There, standing in the doorway was Ginna.

  “Neal!” she cried. “Zee told you? I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  The gardener nodded to Ginna, then slipped outside, leaving the two of them alone in the “haunted” greenhouse.

  “That crazy old coot!” Neal blustered. “All he told me was that a ghost would be showing up soon. I have to admit, I’m glad you came, instead.” He went to her and took her hand. “I’ve missed you, Ginna.”

  Seeming to ignore his greeting, she tugged him back toward the wisteria vine. “Come see for yourself,” she said.

  “See what?”

  “Zee’s ghosts. They’ll show themselves any minute now. Look up there, the third pane from the top, in the center over the door. What time do you have?”

  “Eleven forty-eight.”

  “I got here just in time.” She pointed up. “Look! You can see them coming.”

  “Hey, I don’t want to see any ghosts!”

  “Trust me,” Ginna whispered, clutching Neal’s arm. “You’ll want to see
these, and they aren’t really ghosts.”

  As the sun inched higher, it flashed on the paned glass wall of the greenhouse, blinding Neal for an instant. He shaded his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “There! Look!” Ginna whispered.

  Neal gazed up in the direction she was pointing. He wanted to say something, but his throat closed against any sound. All he could do was stare in disbelief at the silvery images above. Ginna had been right; they weren’t ghosts. He could see, though, how the superstitious old gardener might have thought so. Within the coppery blaze of sunlight, two figures appeared—a man seated with a woman standing behind him, her hand resting gently on the shoulder of his uniform.

  “You see,” Ginna said. “I told you I’d seen you before. Neal, that’s you in that old glass negative.”

  Neal wasn’t looking at the man’s image. His gaze was focused on the lovely woman, instead. How could Ginna not see it? If the man looked liked him, the woman was a mirror image of Ginna. The tilt of the nose, the light hair and eyes, the soft fullness of her lips.

  “Who could they be?” Neal asked quietly, gripping Ginna’s hand.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. But whoever they were, they must have been in love. She’s not looking directly into the camera. See how her eyes are focused downward? And that slight smile. It’s clear she adores him.”

  “I wonder what became of them.”

  Drawing closer to Neal, Ginna whispered, “I guess, we’ll never know.”

  Ginna was wrong about that. Before the words were well out of her mouth, a brilliant flash illuminated the greenhouse. The wisteria and all the other plants vanished, along with everything else that was of this time and place.

  “Neal!” Ginna cried, clinging to him, blinded by the light.

  For a long time, he refused to answer her. She could feel him close, so close that the heat of his body suffused hers. Yet she felt all alone, lost in the brilliance of the light.

  “Neal, can you hear me? Answer me! You’re scaring me. What’s wrong? What’s happening to us?”

  At long last, she heard his voice. It sounded different somehow and seemed to come from far away.

  “I’m here, Virginia,” he answered, his voice softened by a deep southern drawl. “It’s Channing, darling. Don’t be afraid.”

  When she felt his lips on hers, the fear vanished. She remembered now—everything. Each moment they had shared, each joyous laugh, each sweet caress, each bitter tear, each sad farewell.

  “You’ve come home,” she whispered against his lips. “Oh, Channing, you’ve come home at last, my dearest.”

  Chapter Four

  The flash disappeared almost instantly. However, it left Ginna feeling stunned, her vision blurred. Out of the dense silence she heard a man’s voice. “Thank you very much for coming. I will have your portrait ready by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “It was our pleasure, Mr. Brady.” Ginna recognized this as Neal’s voice, but then again it didn’t quite sound like him. Suddenly, he had a Southern drawl as thick and smooth as buttered grits.

  “I look forward to seeing the two of you become Mr. and Mrs. Channing McNeal.” Brady smiled, and removed his blue-tinted spectacles. “June the first, you say. I’ll write that date in my appointment book this minute.”

  Ginna shook her head, trying to clear it. Mrs. and Mrs. Channing McNeal? June the first? What could the man be talking about?

  She was still mulling over these questions, when the taller and more handsome of the two men took her arm. “Are you ready to go, Virginia?”

  She started to correct him, but thought better of it. All this was so strange. What could have happened? She recalled standing in the greenhouse at Swan’s Quarter with Neal Frazier. She had meant to show him old Zee’s ghosts and point out the resemblance between Neal and the uniformed stranger from the past.

  Her vision and her mind clearing, again she glanced up at the man beside her. This time she did a double take. “Channing McNeal,” the photographer had called him. Well, that must be his name because he certainly wasn’t Neal Frazier any longer. This man—this stranger—was not quite as tall as Neal, yet they were remarkably alike in build and feature, although Channing’s dark hair was a bit longer than Neal’s. She noticed, too, that the expression of pain she always saw in Neal’s eyes was replaced by a warm gleam in Channing’s.

  She glanced around the room, trying to get her bearings. A gasp escaped her when she caught a glimpse of herself—Ginna Jones—in one of the large reflectors set up to catch the light and brighten the studio. She found herself staring at the very image of the woman in the greenhouse wall. She wore an old-fashioned, silvery-blue gown over a bell-shaped hoop. The dress was trimmed at the neck and sleeves in white lace, accented with pink velvet ribbons. Her dark gold hair was dressed in an antiquated style that was really quite becoming, but like nothing Ginna would ever have dreamed of wearing.

  I’m not myself any longer, she thought. But who am I? The gentleman named Channing had called her Virginia. Virginia what? she wondered.

  What sort of place was this? Her gaze encompassed the studio, as she searched for some clue. There was a metal stand that reminded her of the racks used in hospitals to hang IV bottles. But she knew it had a very different purpose. Vaguely, she remembered that the arms at the top had held her head firmly stationary, while she posed for a portrait. A little scrap of distant memory told her that Channing had sat in the velvet-covered chair in front of her. And there on the marble-topped table sat an antique ormolu clock, its hands frozen on the twelve and the ten, 11:50. The magic hour. The time when Zee’s ghosts appeared in the greenhouse wall.

  Bits and pieces of two scenarios were coming back to her, fitting together like a child’s jigsaw puzzle. She had, indeed, come to this place—Mathew Brady’s New York studio—a short time earlier to have her portrait made with Channing McNeal. That was not all she had done today, however. She had also been at work at the Rebel Yell Cafe this morning, and at a flea market, and on a bus. She had been excited, eager to show Neal his plate glass twin in the greenhouse. For years, she had been fascinated by the silvery images of the two nameless people, since the first time Zee showed her his secret, his “ghosts.” But nothing like this had ever happened to her before. Not in the greenhouse. Not anywhere!

  “It’s time we were on our way now, darling,” Channing said.

  When he went into the adjacent dressing room to retrieve their cloaks, Ginna sidled over to the window and looked out. If this place was truly Mathew Brady’s New York City studio and her hoop skirt wasn’t some trick of her imagination and they had just posed for an ambrotype portrait, as she surmised, she should be able to see the street—Broadway—below as it had appeared over a century ago. Curiosity more than anything else drew her to the window. Heights had always made her lightheaded. But she had never been to New York before and, even if this was some sort of weird dream, she was eager to glimpse a world long vanished.

  What Ginna saw instead all but took her breath away. She found herself looking down on the interior of the greenhouse. Empty now and silent. There was the wisteria vine in all its green-and-purple glory. The ferns and orchids looked the same. She could even make out her own footprints in the soft earth along with those of Neal and Zee.

  She was still staring in amazement, when Channing took her arm and drew her gently to his side. “You had better not look down, darling. You know how heights make you dizzy.”

  “I might be dizzy, but it’s not from the height. Take a look out the window. Tell me what you see,” she demanded.

  He chuckled as he placed her cape around her shoulders. “Is this some sort of parlor game, Virginia? I Spy,’ perhaps? What am I supposed to see? There’s a ragged boy hawking newspapers on the corner of Broadway and Tenth, a slightly tipsy gentleman in a top hat coming out of Thompson’s Saloon, a fancy cabriolet passing by. Have I guessed yet what you want me to see?”

 
Stunned speechless, Ginna took another look. Channing was right; she saw all that he had mentioned and more. But how could that be? Only a moment before …

  “Come along now, Virginia. We have to see a man about a ring. Remember?”

  Ginna nodded silently and took Channing’s arm. They walked down the stairs to the gallery below and soon they were out on busy, bustling Broadway. Somewhere in the back of Ginna’s mind, the thought registered that the first elevator would not be installed in New York City for several years. She wondered vaguely if the elevator had even been invented yet. Most of all, she wondered how she could have descended four flights of stairs without pausing to catch her breath. The old, weak-hearted Ginna Jones would have had to stop several times on the way down. Perhaps being in this new person’s body had more advantages than she had realized.

  Outside in the bright March sun, Ginna shaded her eyes to look up at the five-story building they had just exited. She saw Mathew Brady at the window of his studio. He waved and Channing returned his salute.

  Channing had been talking all the while since they left the studio about the kind of ring she should have, her visit with her parents to West Point, and plans for after his upcoming graduation and their wedding. Ginna made no comment, afraid she might say the wrong thing. She listened closely to his every word, piecing together her life as Channing McNeal’s betrothed.

  “What’s the matter, Virginia? You seem so distracted and nervous suddenly.”

  “I don’t know.” She had to say something and this seemed the least likely to give her away. “All this is so new and strange to me.”

  He laughed and squeezed her hand. “Don’t tell me you’re worrying about what your grandmother said.”

  Once again, Ginna had no idea what he was talking about. In fact, she had no idea who her grandmother was, or even that she had one.

  “What do you mean, Channing?” she ventured.

  “About photographers stealing your soul. That’s just the older generation’s mistrust of modern miracles. I’ve heard red Indians had the same reaction when they were first introduced to mirrors.”