In the Shadow of Blackbirds(44)
“And I affect a compass. The needle follows me around the room, like I’m a ghost. Unless Stephen is there. Then it follows him.”
He stared at me without saying a word.
I pulled at the edges of my gauze mask, which rubbed against my chin. “It sounds insane, I know. I never believed in spirits before this happened, and I’d love to find a scientific explanation. I’m planning to go to the library today.”
“Would you show me the compass phenomenon?”
“Yes.” I sighed in relief. “Yes, definitely—that would be really nice, actually. I’d love to get a professional’s opinion.”
“May I come over this weekend?”
“Hmm …” I rubbed my forehead and tried to remember what day of the week it was. “Oh, today’s Halloween, isn’t it? A strange day to be discussing spirits. That means tomorrow’s Friday. Aunt Eva will be home by five thirty. I suppose you could come over any time after six. You could stay for supper, if you’d like—although Aunt Eva mainly prepares onion dishes that incinerate taste buds and stomach linings.”
He laughed. “No, no, I don’t want to impose. I’d just take a look at you and the compass and be on my way.”
“That would be fine.”
“Well, this is indeed intriguing.” He rested his hand on the top of his camera. “Shall we take your photograph, then? See what happens?”
I nodded. “I’m ready.”
He showed me the entire process as we went along, demonstrating the prepackaged glass plates he purchased directly from Kodak, which he tucked into a protective wooden holder in the darkroom before sliding the holder into the slot behind the bellows. “This is the stage where the phonies typically cheat,” he said. “A trickster’s plate will contain a previously photographed image, and that image will look like a transparent ghost when the picture is developed.”
“A double exposure.”
He nodded. “That’s correct. Now, I don’t guarantee anything will come of this photograph. I make no claims to possess mediumistic skills.”
“I know. But let’s just try it and see what happens. For the sake of science.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled in a way that told me he was smiling behind his mask. “For the sake of science.”
He positioned me in front of the gray backdrop with my arms folded behind my back. I gave a weak smile while he prepared the shot with his head ducked beneath a black cloth, and he took my photograph with nothing but the kindest display of professionalism.
Yet, in the aftermath of the violent flash, an empty feeling pestered me.
Stephen doesn’t want to use his energy to show up for a casual picture, you idiot, I realized as stinging tendrils of smoke crept over my hair and skin. Why would he pose for a photograph when he’s suffering? You’re wasting your time trying to satisfy your own curiosity.
Stop playing.
Go help him figure out what’s wrong.
ON THE CORNER OF EIGHTH AND E STOOD A GORGEOUS white mansion with Grecian pillars flanking the entrance. A trim green lawn lined with rustling, feathery palms led to castle-sized wooden doors that promised knowledge, adventure, and hope. This was San Diego’s library.
Inside, the same surreal sulfur smoke as at Stephen’s funeral emerged from burning buckets of coal and blurred the view of the central desk and the pale green walls. Sunshine tried to stream through long windows, but the blue clouds blocked the light and cast drifting shadows across the solid oak furniture. I choked on a sulfuric stench that reminded me of rotten eggs, even with the gauze covering my face.
A masked brunette with a soft splay of wrinkles at the edges of her eyes walked toward me through the burning haze. “May I help you?” she asked in that eager way of speaking all librarians possess.
“I need to look up quite a few subjects.”
She noticed my black bag. “You’re not a physician, are you?”
“No, I just brought this to hold my notes. It used to be my mother’s bag.”
“Ah, I thought you looked a little too young to be saving lives. You made me feel better for a moment, thinking you’d be able to help if anyone falls ill. Quite frankly”—she peered over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone—“I’m surprised the city hasn’t shut us down entirely. Only the reading rooms are closed.”
“Oh … they’re closed?” My posture wilted. “I was really hoping to do some studying here this morning. I need to read through too many books to carry home.”
“What subjects did you need to find?”
I ran through my mental list of categories. “Well, I’d like to find books on modern war poetry, trench warfare, German military practices, prisoners of war, blackbirds, birds in mythology …” I stopped for a moment to take stock of everything else. “Lightning injuries, electricity, magnetic fields, spirit photography, Spiritualism, and true experiences of life after death.”
Her eyes stopped blinking. She looked like a mouse that had been cornered by a cat. “Are you familiar with card catalogs and the Dewey decimal system?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“We allow our patrons to find their own books from the stacks. You seem an ambitious girl. Why don’t you try looking up these subjects on your own? I’ll even sneak you into the women’s reading room to make up for your troubles.”