In the Shadow of Blackbirds(34)
“Then why have séances? Why have spirit photography? If you think what I’m doing is wrong, why do you support Julius Embers?”
Aunt Eva pursed her lips until she looked far older than her twenty-six years. She resembled photographs of her own late mother, who always puckered her face at cameras like she was sucking on lemons. “It’s just … different. Julius is a professional.” She went back to the onions—chop, chop, chop, chop, chop.
I grumbled and put the screwdriver back inside Uncle Wilfred’s toolbox, which sat near my feet.
“What time are we supposed to be there?” asked Aunt Eva.
“He’s picking us up at eight thirty.”
She lifted her head. “In his car?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s a Cadillac. I’ve seen it in the garage behind the house.” Chop, chop, chop, chop, chop. “A Cadillac ride and a downtown séance.” She whistled and shook her head. “And here I thought onion soup was going to be the highlight of my night.” She rubbed her damp forehead with the back of her hand. “You need to go pick out something nice to wear. I don’t know about Spiritualism in Oregon, but séances are formal events here in San Diego. Or so I hear.”
“Why don’t you let me make the soup, and you go get ready. You’re the one who’s worked in the shipyard all day.” It was my roundabout way of telling her she stank too much to attend a formal social event, but she agreed without offense and hurried off to bathe.
AFTER SUPPER, WHEN THE SUN HAD LONG SINCE SET AND our gas lamps illuminated the house, I sifted through my wardrobe, pushing aside the nicest dress I owned—the black silk taffeta one I’d worn to Stephen’s funeral. My second best, a navy-and-white plaid wool dress with a lace-trimmed collar, ended up being the garment I wiggled over my shoulders and buttoned into place. A belt made of the same fabric cinched my waist, and the hem fell mid-calf. I’d have to wear my black Mary Janes instead of my dingy Boy Scout boots. A pair of kid gloves would hide the scaly lightning-burn remnants on my fingertips. I dug around in my doctor’s bag for a little beaded coin purse that had belonged to my mother and stocked it with a portion of the money my father had made me pack before I fled Portland.
In the kitchen, where we could heat the curling rod on the stove, my aunt fluffed, knotted, and swirled my long locks into an elaborate style she called a turban coiffure. To be specific, she made me look like I was wearing a fuzzy turban made out of my own chestnut-brown hair. My reflection in her hand mirror didn’t even look like me.
“I really regret chopping off all my curls.” She nitpicked over the last few pins at the back of my head, jabbing my scalp until I winced. “I feel so ugly these days with my short hair and my red, calloused hands.”
“You’re not ugly. Your hair is modern and chic, and your job in the shipyard is admirable, both for the country and the women’s movement.”
Someone rapped on the front door with the metal knocker.
“It’s him!” She grabbed her mask and flew down the hall, contradicting everything I’d just said about her being an admirable symbol of the women’s movement.
Julius stood on our front porch in a chalk-stripe suit and a charcoal-gray fedora—and again no flu mask, which I found to be arrogant. His face looked pale, and the skin beneath his eyes bulged with bruise-colored bags, as if he hadn’t slept the night before. Taking advantage of one of my new peculiarities, I inhaled a deep breath through my mask and tried to detect the emotions rolling off him.
My tongue went numb.
“Good evening, ladies.” He took off his hat and revealed slicked-down black hair, stiff and shiny with pomade that smelled like a barbershop. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, we are indeed.” Aunt Eva grabbed her handbag and led us out the door. “Thank you so much for inviting us, Julius. How is your mother?”
“Not well. Let’s not talk about that.”
He placed his hat on his head, and we followed him down the front path to a blue two-door Cadillac roadster convertible with a hood that stretched for miles and a wooden steering wheel as large as a ship’s helm. He had parked the car underneath the electric streetlamp in front of the house, and the light shining down through the bulbous globes made the vehicle’s paint glisten as bright as sapphires.
“What type of engine does it have?” I asked.
He opened the passenger-side door for us. “Why don’t you just try looking pretty for a change?”
I was just about to give him a tart reply when a screaming black police department ambulance sailed around the corner and came to an abrupt stop in front of a house across the street.
Aunt Eva froze. “Oh, dear God. The flu has reached our block.” Her feet skidded on the sidewalk like she was trying to run away on ice, and then she took running leaps back to the porch. “The flu has reached our block!”
“Eva, stop!” called Julius in a voice deep and authoritative enough to keep her from escaping inside the house. “The flu is everywhere. It’s not some big, bad monster coming down the street, knocking at each door. It’s random, and you and your niece smell enough of onions and camphor mothballs to fight off any germ that gets within ten feet of the two of you.”
I watched policemen in high-buttoned green uniforms hustle to the neighbors’ front door while maneuvering a beige stretcher. Their clothing reminded me of army tunics. Soldiers engaging in battle against an enemy they couldn’t even see.