Read Online Cottonwood by Scott Phillips - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Scott Phillips
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a moment Maggie’s presence and the task at hand chased all thoughts of Hattie from my mind.
In five minutes the first plate was ready, and I mounted the plate holder and made my exposure of Marc and Maggie sitting side by side. They were stiff and glum, the result of my injunction to remain very still, and I knew in advance the picture would have none of their personalities in it. When Gleason brought out the second plate holder, Katie insisted on playing a part in the composition, a suggestion which Maggie enthusiastically seconded. The three of them were at least livelier than the Levals by themselves, though it was difficult to make Katie understand the necessity of keeping her head still for the exposure.
When it was done, I retreated to the dark tent for the final treatment of the plates. Once they were finished I examined them and found their densities were acceptable and their images sharp. I then demonstrated to Gleason the proper technique of varnishing, after which I sent him on his way to open the saloon wagon; I would return the equipment to the forge’s loft later with Marc’s help.
“Can we see them?” Maggie asked.
“These are negatives,” I said, delaying their disappointment by a day. “I’ll print them out tomorrow.”
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” she said. She parked her silken bustle on one of four chairs surrounding a table, and after closing the door to the hallway and drawing the curtains Katie sat in its opposite.
“Wait until you hear about the entertainment they’ve got in store for us, Bill.” Marc looked to me like he’d rather go have his front teeth pulled.
“We’re going to speak with the other world,” Katie piped up enthusiastically. Maggie looked slightly embarrassed, but I sensed it was directed at her husband’s skepticism rather than at the ludicrous nature of the activity itself.
I was directed to sit between Katie and Maggie. At that close range I detected a whiff of eau de rose rising from Katie’s considerable bosom, a scent which mingled uneasily with the musky odor that emanated from her normally and which I might have found uncomfortably arousing were I not sitting across from a woman who made Katie look like a hairy-knuckled muleskinner. I surmised that the eau de rose was Maggie’s gift to her as well.
Marc spoke up as he took his seat opposite me. “You think we might get to talk to Abe Lincoln?” Maggie gave him a sharp look, and he raised his hands before him in a protestation of innocence. “I’m not making light.”
“You’d be well advised not to, Marc,” Kate said, her eyes wide and serious. “The spirits despise mockery, and skepticism, too.” She sounded like a bad actress playing a part on a stage, her voice deep and sepulchral like that of an old dowager rather than a young woman of twenty-three or twenty-four. Her accent had something vaguely English about it; she reminded me a little of a ham actor I’d seen once in Philadelphia playing the ghost in Hamlet , all quavering moans and groans and upraised, waving arms.
I noted that on the center table a single candle awaited lighting. Kate ordered us to lay our hands on the table as she lit it.
“Now, we must be silent for a moment and join hands as I attempt to make the crossing,” Kate said. She closed her eyes, and we sat there in silence, holding hands and gazing at the candle’s flame in the center of the table. I became aware, as Kate began to moan to my left, of the gentle rubbing of my palm by Maggie’s thumb on my right.
“Yes, I hear you, spirit. Make me your earthly lips, tongue, and teeth, I pray,” Kate said, her groaning even huskier than before, her head swaying left and right, forward and backward until she snapped upright, perfectly still.
“I’m here among you now,” she said in a flat, masculine voice that was quite convincing.
“Identify yourself, spirit, and tell us why you have returned,” she said in her own persona, or at any rate the one she
In five minutes the first plate was ready, and I mounted the plate holder and made my exposure of Marc and Maggie sitting side by side. They were stiff and glum, the result of my injunction to remain very still, and I knew in advance the picture would have none of their personalities in it. When Gleason brought out the second plate holder, Katie insisted on playing a part in the composition, a suggestion which Maggie enthusiastically seconded. The three of them were at least livelier than the Levals by themselves, though it was difficult to make Katie understand the necessity of keeping her head still for the exposure.
When it was done, I retreated to the dark tent for the final treatment of the plates. Once they were finished I examined them and found their densities were acceptable and their images sharp. I then demonstrated to Gleason the proper technique of varnishing, after which I sent him on his way to open the saloon wagon; I would return the equipment to the forge’s loft later with Marc’s help.
“Can we see them?” Maggie asked.
“These are negatives,” I said, delaying their disappointment by a day. “I’ll print them out tomorrow.”
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” she said. She parked her silken bustle on one of four chairs surrounding a table, and after closing the door to the hallway and drawing the curtains Katie sat in its opposite.
“Wait until you hear about the entertainment they’ve got in store for us, Bill.” Marc looked to me like he’d rather go have his front teeth pulled.
“We’re going to speak with the other world,” Katie piped up enthusiastically. Maggie looked slightly embarrassed, but I sensed it was directed at her husband’s skepticism rather than at the ludicrous nature of the activity itself.
I was directed to sit between Katie and Maggie. At that close range I detected a whiff of eau de rose rising from Katie’s considerable bosom, a scent which mingled uneasily with the musky odor that emanated from her normally and which I might have found uncomfortably arousing were I not sitting across from a woman who made Katie look like a hairy-knuckled muleskinner. I surmised that the eau de rose was Maggie’s gift to her as well.
Marc spoke up as he took his seat opposite me. “You think we might get to talk to Abe Lincoln?” Maggie gave him a sharp look, and he raised his hands before him in a protestation of innocence. “I’m not making light.”
“You’d be well advised not to, Marc,” Kate said, her eyes wide and serious. “The spirits despise mockery, and skepticism, too.” She sounded like a bad actress playing a part on a stage, her voice deep and sepulchral like that of an old dowager rather than a young woman of twenty-three or twenty-four. Her accent had something vaguely English about it; she reminded me a little of a ham actor I’d seen once in Philadelphia playing the ghost in Hamlet , all quavering moans and groans and upraised, waving arms.
I noted that on the center table a single candle awaited lighting. Kate ordered us to lay our hands on the table as she lit it.
“Now, we must be silent for a moment and join hands as I attempt to make the crossing,” Kate said. She closed her eyes, and we sat there in silence, holding hands and gazing at the candle’s flame in the center of the table. I became aware, as Kate began to moan to my left, of the gentle rubbing of my palm by Maggie’s thumb on my right.
“Yes, I hear you, spirit. Make me your earthly lips, tongue, and teeth, I pray,” Kate said, her groaning even huskier than before, her head swaying left and right, forward and backward until she snapped upright, perfectly still.
“I’m here among you now,” she said in a flat, masculine voice that was quite convincing.
“Identify yourself, spirit, and tell us why you have returned,” she said in her own persona, or at any rate the one she
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