In the Shadow of Blackbirds(42)
The mayor’s words gave me chills. They echoed those of my father in his letter: Sometimes our strength of spirit forces us to choose truth and integrity over comfort and security.
A burst of light exploded around the corner, and a child screamed.
I peeked around the partition.
Deep in the middle of a dense haze of smoke, a woman and a boy of about two or three posed on a wicker chair in front of a canvas backdrop painted to look like a lush springtime garden. Both mother and child wore flu masks, and the boy choked on tears and flashlamp smoke as he fought to pull off his gauze.
“I think that should do it, Mrs. Irvine,” said Mr. Darning, waving the thick white cloud away with a piece of heavy paper. “You’re all done, Billy. You were such a good boy, I’m going to give you a stick of candy.”
I seated myself in one of the lobby chairs and kicked my black bag under my skirt so no one would ask why I was lugging a doctor’s bag around town in the middle of a flu pandemic. For the first time it struck me as being a strange thing to do, and I didn’t want Mr. Darning thinking me strange.
The little boy waddled out of the studio first, wiping his red, runny eyes and shoving a purple candy stick under his flu mask. He smelled like a sticky grape mess. The copper-haired photographer, dressed in a black coat and tie and, of course, a gauze mask, escorted the mother out on his arm. Her blue cotton dress hung off her thin body like an empty sack of flour.
“Thank you, Mr. Darning,” she said, taking her little boy’s hand. “I hope my William appreciates the photograph. His letters have turned so somber since he fought at Belleau Wood.”
“I’m sure he’ll adore the photograph. And I’m sure he’s fine over there. I wish I could be there myself, but I’m prone to asthma.”
“I know I look a fright after the flu, so I’m not sure I’ll be much comfort to him.”
“Nonsense—you’re enchanting. Your husband will love seeing the two of you alive and well.” Mr. Darning opened the door for the pair. “I’ll have the photograph ready in two days, and then you can put a wonderful little package in the mail to raise his spirits.”
“Thank you.”
They said their good-byes, and Mr. Darning closed the door and swiveled toward me. “Miss Black. How are you?”
I pushed myself out of the chair. “I’m all right.”
His blue eyes warmed with compassion. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I—” I remembered that the last time Mr. Darning had seen me, Julius and Grant were dragging me away from Stephen’s casket while I kicked and screamed about Stephen’s whispers. “Um … you offered me a free photograph when you visited my aunt’s house, and I would like to take you up on that opportunity.”
“Certainly. But didn’t your aunt want to come along, too?”
“She’s at work, so I’m here on my own. If you don’t mind, I also have some questions I’d like to ask you about spirit photography.”
“Ah, I see. Well, I’d be happy to answer them.” He waved for me to join him in the studio. “Come on back and you can ask me whatever you’d like while we set up your portrait.”
I followed him around the corner, and the familiar atmosphere in that main room knocked me off balance. I had to hold on to the back of a nearby armchair to recover from a painful wave of nostalgia for Stephen’s father’s old studio up in Portland. The assortment of props piled next to the staging area—fake boulders, parasols, teddy bears, Parisian fans with long white feathers—summoned memories of rainy Oregon weekends spent inside Mr. Embers’s workplace. Stephen and I would wear grown-up-size costume hats and read books or play games while lounging on the studio’s velvet-upholstered chairs and settees. I remembered the scents of darkroom chemicals and smoke and the lingering sweetness of customers’ perfumes, as well as the sacred silence of Stephen’s father developing his photographs.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Black?” asked Mr. Darning.
I nodded. “I’m fine.”
He slid a rectangular wooden holder containing the used photographic plate out of the back of his boxy camera. “Let me go put this glass plate in my darkroom. I’ll be right with you.” He strolled through a doorway to the left, but he was back in less than a minute, rubbing his hands, ready to jump into work. “Now,” he began as he scooted the wicker chair he had been using for the previous portrait to an empty spot at the side of the studio, “what did you want to know about spirit photography?”
“Well …” I picked at a navy string dangling off my right cuff and tried to figure out where to start. “My aunt said you’ve been exposing fake spirit photographers across the country.”
“That’s right.” He rolled up the backdrop with the painted garden. “I traveled during the summer mostly, before the flu started shutting down cities. Far too many photographers have added spirit images to their repertoire, I’m afraid. The wave of grief sweeping across the land has resulted in desperation and gullibility.”
“‘Like rummies chasing bottles.’”
He peeked over his shoulder. “What was that?”
“That’s how Stephen Embers described the desperation when he talked about his brother’s customers. He said he’d hear them crying downstairs and it broke his heart. It’s sickening to think of people preying upon grief.”