In the Shadow of Blackbirds
Cat Winters
? Portland, Oregon—October 16, 1918 ?
I STEPPED INSIDE THE RAILROAD CAR, AND THREE DOZEN pairs of eyes peered my way. Gauze masks concealed the passengers’ mouths and noses. The train smelled of my own mask’s cotton, boiling onions, and a whiff of something clammy and sour I took to be fear.
Keep moving, I told myself.
My legs shook and threatened to buckle, but I managed to clomp down the aisle in the brown Boy Scout boots I wore in case I ever needed to run at a moment’s notice. The heavy tread drew unwanted glances and at least one raised eyebrow, but nobody uttered a word.
“Good morning,” I said to a woman with a puff of black poodle curls crowning her head.
“Morning,” the woman grunted into her gauze.
As I had hoped, all eyes soon lost interest in me and drifted back to their own concerns. I was merely a healthy-sounding sixteen-year-old girl in a navy-blue dress. I didn’t talk like a foreign spy, and I wasn’t sick with the flu. No harm there.
Coal-colored traveling suits paired with fresh cotton masks gave the compartment a surreal black-and-white appearance, blurred slightly by the onion scent snaking in from the dining car. I imagined the cooks dicing up the pungent bulbs in a mad scramble to keep the flu from overtaking the train, their eyes watering, their foreheads dripping with sweat. I blinked away the sting of the air and took the sole empty seat, beside a woman of middle age and stout build, with thick arms and thicker eyebrows. An anti-influenza pouch reeking of medicine dangled from her neck, overpowering even the onions.
“Hello.” She rubbed the pouch and looked me over. “I’m Mrs. Peters.”
“I’m …” I hoisted my black leather bag onto my lap and answered with a shortened version of my name: “Mary.” The newspapers rustling around me more than likely carried an article about my father, and I envisioned a mention of me: Also present at the house during the arrest last night was Mr. Black’s daughter, Mary Shelley. The girl seems to have been named after the author of a certain horror novel with an extremely German-sounding title: Frankenstein.
“Is that a doctor’s bag?” asked Mrs. Peters.
“Yes.” I squeezed the handles tighter. “It was my mother’s.”
“Your mother was a doctor?”
“The best one around.”
“I’m sorry she’s not on this train with us.” Mrs. Peters eyeballed the other passengers. “I don’t know what will happen if anyone collapses while we’re en route. No one will be able to save us.”
“If we get sick, we’ll probably just get dumped off at the next stop.”
She wrinkled her forehead and gasped. “What a highly unpleasant thing to say.”
I shifted my knees away from her. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about the flu.”
Mrs. Peters gasped again. “How can you not talk about it? We’re speaking through gauze masks, for heaven’s sake. We’re crammed together like helpless—”
“Ma’am, please—stop talking about it. I’ve got enough other worries.”
She scooted an inch away. “I hope you aren’t riddled with germs.”
“I hope you aren’t, either.” I leaned back against the wood and tried to get comfortable, despite my surroundings and the nausea that had been haunting me ever since my father’s arrest. Images of government officials punching Dad in the gut and calling him a traitor flickered though my head like grotesque scenes on a movie screen.
Steam hissed from all sides of the car. The floor vibrated against my boots. My hands and knees trembled, and my teeth chattered with the frantic intensity of a Morse code distress signal: tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP tap tap tap.
To escape, I undid my satchel’s metal clasp and pulled out a bundle of letters six inches thick, bound together by a blue hair ribbon with fraying edges. I slid a crisp cream-colored envelope out from the top of the pile, opened the flap, and lost myself in the letter.
June 29, 1918
My Dearest Mary Shelley,
I arrived overseas four days ago. Our letters are censored, so I need to keep this message uneventful. The army will black out any phrases that indicate where I am, which makes me sound like an operative in a Sherlock Holmes novel. For example: I am in and soon we’ll be going to . Mysterious, no?
I received your letter, and as much as seeing your words on paper sent my heart racing, I hated reading that my package never reached you. It should have arrived at your house nearly two months ago. I blame my brother. But I’ll write to my mother and see if she knows when and if it was sent.
I also received your photograph. Thank you so much, Shell. That picture means the world to me. I look at your face all the time and still find it hard to believe that little Mary Shelley Black, my funny childhood friend and devoted letter-writing companion, grew up to be such a beauty. I would give anything to travel back in time to your visit in April and still be with you. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste your lips and feel your long brown hair brushing against my skin. I want so badly to hold you close again.
Sometimes I can’t help imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t moved away at fourteen. What if my grandfather hadn’t died and my parents hadn’t rushed us down to live in his house on the island? Would you and I still be as close? Would we have grown more intimate … or drifted apart? Whatever the case, I feel robbed of your presence every day of my life.