The sidewalks were slick from the flurries, and Opal hopped on the streetcar heading toward the market. When she’d first ridden the streetcar, the jerky mechanical brakes knocked her over, and she’d cried after that—that a simple ride could cause her such distress. She was learning to be alone in the world, to take care of herself. Now, she braced her legs and held tight to the strap above her, wrapping it around her wrist like a horse’s rein. She thought of the stories Jagr had told her, of women who’d ridden on bare horsebacks to self-terminate pregnancies. Or of women who soaked in turpentine baths or used common household items like candles or curling irons.
Everywhere she still sensed Jagr. How to excise him from her mind? At cafés she’d study the menu, certain of what he’d choose. The bank teller had the same habit of licking the tip of his pen before dipping it into the inkpot. A stranger walked ahead of her on the sidewalk withthe same long, loping strides. She feared the stranger would turn and itwouldbe him, in the flesh, a ghost incarnate.
Impossible.
With her first paycheck, Opal had bought a new coat, a new dress, too, trimmed with black fringe and wide lapels that resembled the wings of a bat.Widow’s weeds, the shop owner had called them. She wore these clothes now, swapped out for her uniform on her day off from the factory. The dark flowing fabric obscured her gravid form, made her appear, instead, like a woman who wrapped herself in her husband’s absence. Invisible except for her sorrow. When she got off at her stop, a man tipped his hat toward her as though to say,I’m sorry for your loss.
Yet, in his absence she could think so much more clearly. Jagr’s elixirs had muddied her mind. He’d always insisted she wear her hair drawn back, and sometimes he’d gather it in his hands and yank it when he had his way with her, pull it this way and that, as though her head were a planet meant to orbit him at will. She wore her hair short now; she’d cut it herself. When she caught a glimpse of her reflection in storefront glass, she hardly recognized the woman. Dare she admit she was beautiful? Some women grew more youthful when expecting, their features softening. But Opal’s face was tight and angular, masculine if not for her otherwise feminine form, her large, rounded bosoms that ached as they were, pressed into her dress.
It was early yet, and the snow stopped, and Opal could hear the sounds of the city still waking: the café owners unlocking their gates, the rumbling of vendor carts, the streetcar squealing away in the distance. She, too, was waking. Unthawing, she liked to think. Reaching for spring. These days she found herself marveling at the golden outlines of the clouds or rubbing the fabric of her dress just for the pleasure of it. At night, she traced her body with her fingertips and lingered in the warmth of skin on skin, the possibility of it. Above her now, electrical lines crisscrossed like a cat’s cradle. She stopped to buy a paper, and she admired the newsboy’s hat,the color of marigolds gone brown. Then she walked on through Fountain Square.
The stone woman at the center of the fountain stood with her arms outstretched, water pouring from her hands. Her face was placid, on the verge of sadness, like she wished she could reveal something vital, like she reluctantly drained herself of water. The placard called herThe Genius of Water, which suggested, at least, a certain self-awareness.
The reek of livestock and manure slid through the air as Opal reached Washington Park, and even that held a certain aliveness. Certain scents could trigger one of her episodes, but she did not hold her breath.See?she wanted to tell Jagr. She wasn’t as helpless as he’d convinced her she was.See? I’m taking in the world, and I’m fine. I’m just fine.
At the entrance to the Court Street Market, notices directed farmers to the tunnels that ran beneath it, narrow pens that led the hogs toward the slaughterhouse. She made her way inside, through the crowd. Chickens hung one-legged from hooks. Sausages were strung from nails like holly. The stiffened trotters of quartered hogs pointed toward the ground. Opal hadn’t the stomach for meat these days or the thought of cutting muscle with teeth. It amazed her how much the baby could make its preferences known, though she hadn’t felt a quickening yet, not even when she stilled herself completely. Not even when she begged the baby for a sign, then felt foolish for doing so.
She continued on, past the stalls of cut flowers and spices and spooled fabric and wooden trinkets, until she found what she was looking for: a storefront on the other end of the market. The entry bell dinged as she opened the door.
Dowd’s Drugs.
The pharmacy had a Grecian aesthetic. The counter that encircled the perimeter of the store was supported by large white columns, which reminded her of pictures she’d seen in a travel book. At the center of the pharmacy was another counter, lined with stools where Clara Dowd sat, taking stock in her ledger book.
Clara was a sparrow of a woman, somber clothing, soft, magneticeyes, hair swept back as though by accident of both hairpin and wind.She’s more worried about the bottom line than the hemline, Dixie Ellison had said of her.Well, the papers could be useful—give one a sense of things. Opal surveyed the cabinets filled with products: Dowd’s Facial Cold Crème, Dowd’s Tooth Powder, Dowd’s Monthly Perfume.
“I understand you sell Swirling Spray,” Opal said, leaning onto the counter. She felt for the formulary in her bag. Clara set down her pen. She looked toward the clock. It was half past eight. At that moment, a long-haired tabby cat jumped up on the counter and purred, and Opal let it nuzzle her hand.
“Canning!” Clara yelled toward the back. “Swirling Spray!” She pulled the cat down from the counter.
“Oh, I’m not looking to purchase any. I only saw the circular.”
“Never mind, Canning!” she hollered. She resumed writing in her ledger book as Opal took a seat. “Swirling Spray’s a useful product. An irrigation. Helps with uterine colic and nervous prostration, all sorts of feminine maladies.”
“Maladies—that’s why I’m here, in fact. I’m glad you mentioned it,” Opal said. She set her handbag on the countertop. She unfastened the latch and took out the formulary.
Opal didn’t know why she had taken Jagr’s formulary. When she’d pulled it from his cabinet, it had fallen to the floor with a startling smack, and her whole body shot through with something electric. Her fingertips felt prickly. A body knows things before the brain can register what it might be. As she’d crouched down to pick up the gray notebook bound with twine, she understood it had value, even if she didn’t know what that value might be. Now, out in the world, it could be worth something.
“I’ve a whole formulary of botanical medicines, American and foreign,” Opal said. Just saying those words aloud felt wrong, information she should not have revealed. “I’m looking to sell them. Seventy-five formulas in all that treat everything from gastritis to consumption to—”
Clara held up her hand. “No need to go on. I’m not interested.With everything the paper is saying about that comet, I have proposals coming out my ears. A cure for this. A remedy for that. Those scientists say the world is ending, and it’s never been better for business.” She walked to the back end of the store, swiped a finger along the tabletops to check for dust. Opal followed. Clara opened one of the cabinets and rearranged a few items on the shelf. She hollered again toward the back of the store: “Canning, please see to it that Mrs. Crandon’s order is filled by nine sharp. She’s sending her courier. Now,” she said, turning back to Opal. “I do appreciate you thinking of me. But, as you can see, I am busy.”
“Please,” said Opal. She heard the desperate sound in her voice, and she hated it, but shewasdesperate, wasn’t she? Her rent was due soon; her budget was tight; her weekly wages, which seemed sufficient at first, couldn’t get her to France soon enough, even if she went without eating.
“Where did you get this formulary?” Clara asked. She studied her with suspicion.
“My husband… passed away.” She’d never spoken this fact aloud, and now she wished she could take the words back, shove them back into her throat. She’d exposed herself so easily, and for what? For a silly book full of Jagr’s scribbles.
Clara took note of Opal’s dark clothing, and pity passed over her face. “I see.” She leaned forward and softened her expression. “Why don’t you leave your card with me. How does that sound? That’s the Dowd way: We listen to every customer.”
“I’m no customer,” said Opal. Her voice cracked as she spoke, and she despised this weakness, her inability to contain herself.
Clara opened a cabinet and pulled down a small glass bottle sprayer. She set it on the counter. “Everyone is a potential customer, dear. Here, a complimentary sample.”
“Swirling Spray?” Opal asked.
Clara shook her head. “Mourning perfume.” She slid the bottle across the counter. “It helps with grief.”
At home, Opal sprayed herself with the perfume. She smelled like grapefruit. She couldn’t say she grieved, exactly, though she did feel something akin to grief. In her parlor she held the most recent letter from Madame de Fleur. By now, they’d developed a regular correspondence. Every time Opal had written the woman, she’d written back—but how slowly these envelopes traveled. Someday they should invent a telephone that spanned the ocean. Opal imagined the woman’s voice traveling through the coils submerged in the dark of the sea.
