In the Shadow of Blackbirds(60)

Stephen loses his life.



(Grant just mentioned executions of soldiers suffering psychological trauma. Did that happen to Stephen?)





Saturday, October 19



Restless sounds heard above Julius’s studio during my sitting.



Julius says that may have been Stephen’s ghost.





Monday, October 21



We pick up my photograph in Coronado; the picture includes Stephen’s “spirit.”



Julius tells us Stephen died a hero’s death.



My lightning accident.





Tuesday, October 29



Stephen’s funeral.




Seeing all the dates and pertinent information laid out on paper helped my brain feel a little more organized. Yet so many questions jumped out from the gaping holes in the diagram. The unexplained pieces remained just as unexplained as before.

A siren howled outside, blaring loud and close enough for me to abandon my notes and look out a front window in Aunt Eva’s bedroom. A black ambulance stopped in front of the house next door, and the neighbors’ yard exploded into a scramble of stretchers, officers, and hysterical family members who rushed about in the fading daylight.

Out of the chaos charged my running and screaming aunt.

“The flu is next door!” came her muffled yell from behind the closed pane. “Oh, dear Lord, the flu is next door. Mary Shelley!”

I hurried to meet her downstairs.

“The flu is next door!”

“I know.”

“What are we going to do?” She pushed the door closed and locked it tight, as if she were able to barricade us against germs with a dead bolt.

“Don’t panic, Aunt Eva.”

“It’s next door!”

“I’ll start boiling onions for supper. Why don’t you change out of your uniform and get comfortable?”

“We’ll wash ourselves in the onion water.” Her eyes bulged. “I want to smell the onion fumes in my hair.”

“That sounds fine.” I patted her shoulder. “Go get changed.”

She clambered upstairs and climbed out of her grubby work clothes while I lit the gaslights and cookstove with more matches that smelled like Stephen’s funeral.

When my aunt tromped back downstairs, she wore an apron and carried a sponge, and she insisted we scrub the insides of all the windows with hot water. I stuffed salt up my nose at her urging and wiped down the kitchen windowpanes while the scent of boiling onions overpowered the air. My stomach cramped and groaned.

Someone knocked on the front door, and only then did I remember my invitation to Mr. Darning to come over and view the compass phenomenon. I thundered down the main hall to get to him before my aunt, but she was already opening the door.

“Who’s there?” asked Oberon. “Hello. Hello.”

“Oh. Mr. Darning.” Aunt Eva wiped her hands on her apron. “This is a surprise. Please, come in—quickly.” She grabbed the photographer’s arm and yanked him across the threshold. “The flu just hit next door. I don’t want to leave the house open.” She slammed the door closed and locked it tight again. “Oh, good heavens, I just washed my mask and won’t be able to wear it.”

“Is this a bad time?” he asked.

“Hello. Who’s there?” said the blasted magpie.

I sidled up next to Aunt Eva. “I’m sorry, Mr. Darning. I forgot to tell her I invited you over.”

“You invited him over?” asked my aunt.

Mr. Darning removed his hat. “She was going to show me the compass phenomenon.”

Aunt Eva raised her brows. “The compass phenomenon?”

“I haven’t yet mentioned my compass experiences to Aunt Eva.” I backed up the stairs. “Again, I’m sorry—I’ve been preoccupied. I’ll go get it and bring it to the living room.” My feet sounded like an elephant stampede as I scrambled up to fetch Uncle Wilfred’s mahogany case with the weighted brass compass mounted inside.

“Did she call you on the telephone to invite you over?” I heard Aunt Eva ask when I returned to the top steps.

“No,” said Mr. Darning.

I came to a halt.

“She invited me when she came to my studio for her portrait yesterday.”

Oh no.

“What?” squawked my aunt, as loud as Oberon. “She left this house?”

“Was she not supposed to?”

“No. I thought she was at home all day. Mary Shelley Black! Get down here this instant.”

“I’m coming, Aunt Eva.” I squeezed the compass to my chest.

She and the photographer stood together in the living room, and the glare she shot my way could have frozen the Sahara. “What were you thinking? Why don’t you just go to the hospital and let flu patients cough in your mouth, get it over with? Is that what you want?”

“I’ll go crazy if I just bury myself in onions at home all day. I have to get out.”

“I’m going to write your father.”

“Fine—write him. He’d be proud of me. I’ve been helping convalescing veterans at the Red Cross House.”