The Virgin Cure (28 page)

And so I turned towards the screen once again. I kept my eyes straight ahead and removed my clothing down to my undergarments. Then I stood there.

When the song from the music box finally came to an end, Miss Everett closed the curtain, and ushered me from the room.

“Let your dress go slowly next time, my dear,” she said. “And lower your eyes as well. I dare say that determined gaze of yours may have frightened the lot of them.”

Putting a dressing gown around my shoulders, she added, “I’ve got wonderful plans for you, Ada. If all goes well, you might turn out just like Rose.”

All that night I cried in my pillow.

Alice came to the side of my bed and whispered, “You should pray. That’s what I do. Ask God to take your pain away.”

Alice believed that when she got down on her knees, put her hands together and spoke to the air, angels came and took her worries straight to heaven. “I wouldn’t lie about something like this,” she said.

I’d spent my whole life longing for someone to want me—for Mama to say she loved me, or for my father to reappear at the door. It seemed unfair that what went on in Miss Everett’s parlour was the kind of wanting I’d get instead. I doubted that I’d be any better off letting God know I was here.

The body of an unknown woman was found yesterday floating in the East River off the docks at the old William H. Webb shipyards. By the Coroner’s observations, the deceased met with an accident and expired by drowning. Foul play is not suspected. Guessed to be between forty and fifty years of age, the woman was wearing a simple dress with a silk scarf still tied around her head. The deceased could not be identified, and, upon the Coroner holding an inquest, the body was sent to Potter’s Field for interment.

—
The Evening Star
, November 5, 1871

F
rom the time I was old enough to remember the number on our door, Mama had left me alone at night. She said she had things to do that she couldn’t do in the day and that it was just the way things had to be. Before she’d go out, she’d put me to bed and tell me to stay there. I’d sit in the dark, dreaming up a Good Mother to come care for me until Mama returned.

My Good Mother wasn’t anything like Mama. She was fat and happy, with her flesh all round in rolls underneath her dress. When she put her arms around me I could hardly breathe for the warmth of her embrace. She wasn’t bothered by anything and her teeth shone white when she smiled, except for the hole where one was missing, right in the front. She’d whistle and hoot silly tunes through that little hole just to make me laugh. At the end of my pretending, my Good Mother would put me to bed, tucking Miss Sweet under the blanket with me. She’d wait with us, wondering, as I did, if this was the night Mama wouldn’t come home.

Now she came to me, pushing at my shoulder while I was asleep.

“Wake up, Moth.”

But it was Miss Everett calling my name, wanting me to get out of bed. “Just wrap yourself in a quilt, dear. There’s someone waiting for you downstairs. It’s urgent.”

I got up as she asked and followed her to the parlour, wiping sleep from my eyes.

Mrs. Riordan was sitting on the couch, her lips set in a grim line. Clothes dingy and mismatched as ever, she made for quite a sight next to Miss Everett’s perfect, upholstered furniture. I greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. The last time I’d seen her was the day before Mr. Cowan cornered me in the alley. Mr. Bartz wouldn’t have told her where I was without good reason, so I knew that something must be terribly wrong.

“I trust you’re well?” I asked.

“Well enough,” she replied. Giving me a strained smile she said, “Mr. Bartz sends his apologies.”

Miss Everett looked at me with sympathetic eyes from where she stood in the doorway. “Mrs. Coyne is in bed for the night,” she said. “But I’m happy to make a pot of tea for the two of you if you like.”

“That would be much appreciated,” Mrs. Riordan said, answering for the both of us.

Miss Everett nodded to her and then went off to the kitchen to fetch the tea.

“My dear child,” Mrs. Riordan began, her voice weaker than I remembered it to be. “I have news of your mother.” Reaching out, she took my hand in hers and squeezed it tight. “She’s passed on, Moth,” she announced, her eyes watery and sad. “They found her drowned in the river not three nights ago. A gang of boys fished her out from under the docks.”

Tears burned my eyes. My heart hurt. I couldn’t help but think perhaps Mama was hiding somewhere, looking on to see if I still cared for her.

“You’re … certain it was her?”

She gave a solemn nod. “Yes.”

Eight to twelve hours after death, post-mortem staining occurs. Skin forms new shapes, accentuating the body’s most prominent bones. Rigor mortis spreads over the body, muscle by muscle, and then retreats. Hence the saying “after the rigor, before the rats.”

Word of Mama’s death had travelled mouth to ear, wharf to street, alley to stoop, by way of several different people, including Mrs. Kunkel and Mr. Bartz, to get to Mrs. Riordan. I could only imagine what they’d said.

“Did you hear about the woman who got pulled from the river last night? They say she was a Gypsy.”

“I know for a fact it was that fortune teller who sold away her daughter, the one who used to live on Chrystie Street.”

“She was nothing but a thief and a liar. My guess is she got what was coming to her.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t find you in time to claim her body at the morgue,” Mrs. Riordan lamented. “She’s gone to Potter’s Field already.”

I broke down, as visions of Mama’s sad, waterlogged body came to my mind. I’d been trying to forget her, wishing my memories away bit by bit, and now she was gone, almost as if I’d meant for her to die. All the love I’d had for her came back to me now, hand in hand with the sorrow of her sending me away. There could be no forgiveness between us and no goodbye.

Lachrymatories, or tear-catchers, were worn by brides during the war. The women were to fill the bottles with their tears as a sign of devotion to their husbands while they were away. Many men never returned from battle, and thus their wives were left to pour their tears of loneliness on their husbands’ graves.

Today the practice of tear catching is more widespread, and is performed during periods of celebration as well as mourning. There has even been one account of a woman carrying her tears to dispel her love for an unattainable man.

Reaching into her pocket, Mrs. Riordan brought out a balled-up handkerchief and laid it in her lap. She pulled at the corners of the cloth to reveal a small silver spoon and an oblong bottle the length of her finger, a chain attached to its neck. “Catch as many tears as you can this wretched night, and spoon them into the bottle, like this,” she said, showing me how. “Stopper the bottle when you’re through. As the days go by your tears will disappear along with your sorrow. Then you’ll know your mourning’s done.”

Handing the spoon and bottle to me she said, “These were mine when my Johnny died.”

“I can’t accept them,” I told her, trying to give the tear-catcher back.

“You must,” she insisted. “I won’t be happy until you do.”

Putting the bottle and spoon aside, I thanked her for her kindness. I’d missed her gummy smile and comforting presence. I only wished she’d found me for a happier reason.

“There’s something more I need to tell you,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper. “I have it on good authority that her eyes was open when they found her.”

She knew as well as I did that a corpse with open eyes was the sign of a curse. It meant the person’s soul was not at peace when they died and that they intended to haunt family and friends until they found another soul to drag down with them to the grave.

I’d sung the song of Mary O’Day enough times to know that a daughter was usually an unsettled mother ghost’s first choice for haunting.

Mary O’Day got carried away
The day her mother died
For you see, she couldn’t flee
Her Mama’s open eyes!

“Here,” Mrs. Riordan said, bringing out another gift. “I took the liberty of properly stuffing your poppet.”

“Thank you,” I said, clutching Miss Sweet to my chest.

Mrs. Riordan stayed with me the rest of the night, holding me in her arms while I rocked the doll in mine.

In the morning, Miss Everett had Mrs. Coyne fill a basket from the pantry and even called for a carriage so Mrs. Riordan didn’t have to walk back to Chrystie Street. The gracious way she treated the old woman, a complete stranger to her, meant more to me than I could say.

“Get some rest,” Mrs. Riordan advised, giving me a last hug. “You’ve had a long night, and there will be more to come. Don’t lose faith. Eventually your mama’s spirit will tire. Then she’ll slip away to wherever God sees fit to put her.”