Part 11 (1/2)

”Spiritualism has three principles: the survival of the spirit after death, the ongoing concern of the deceased for the living, and the ability of those spirits to communicate with the living through a medium. But we also embrace the teachings of Christ and seek the light wherever we may find it.”

Approving nods and scattered ”amens.”

”But the candle grows short,” I said. ”Our time here is almost spent. In the few minutes we have left, I will endeavor to answer whatever final questions you may have.”

”Can you ask the spirits to tell us what numbers are going to fall from the keno goose tomorrow night at the Sarasota?”

Laughter.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”Spirit communication aimed at foretelling the future for personal gain is forbidden by the Book.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

”But surely you have other questions,” I suggested. ”In the past, I have established spirit communication with figures such as Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and even George Was.h.i.+ngton. Is there nothing you would ask of these sages?”

A soldier of perhaps twenty put his hand in the air.

”Yes, Corporal.”

”Can you talk to General Custer?”

George Armstrong Custer and more than two hundred men in his command had died in June the year before at the Battle of the Little Bighorn in Montana Territory. His death had become a national obsession and had renewed fear of Indian attacks across the West.

”I don't know,” I said. ”What would you like to ask him?”

”What it was like-you know-at the end? n.o.body knows what happened.”

n.o.body but a couple thousand Indians, I thought.

”All right, then,” I said. ”Let us try.”

I put my palms down, motioning for silence; then I crossed my arms. I closed my eyes and threw my head back. My head tilted from side to side as my eyelids fluttered. I had to decide what voice to use.

Typically, a trance medium will pretend to speak through a spirit guide. For Victoria Woodhull, it was the ancient Greek orator Demosthenes. For many lesser mediums-including me-it had often been a Native American spirit, and mine was an Indian princess, Prairie Flower. This played well east of the Mississippi; but in the West, there was still such a fear of Indian attack that I thought better of using the Native American voice. Also, it seemed ludicrous for an Indian princess-or any Indian-to interrogate Custer.

So I decided just to be myself.

”George Armstrong Custer,” I said. ”Are you there, General Custer?”

A pause.

”General Custer! It is The Reverend Professor Ophelia Wylde.”

Another long pause.

”Yes! Go on.”

I struck a pose of listening intently.

”General, I understand. Safe travels.”

I opened my eyes.

”I'm sorry, Corporal,” I said. ”It has been less than a year since the general heroically crossed over. His spirit is not yet ready to communicate with the living. But he bids that you ask again in a year's time.”

The corporal nodded his thanks.

”Anyone else?”

The cowboy with the tidy beard and auburn curls raised his hand.

”Yes?”

”Are you Kate Bender?”

The candle guttered and died.

”I'm sorry,” I said. ”Our time is spent.”

16.

The take from the opera house, after expenses, was a little over one hundred dollars. Even after the split with Potete, I had more than fifty dollars in cash money. It wasn't the best I'd ever done, but it was not bad. Most laborers worked a full month for a single twenty-dollar gold piece.

But it wasn't enough. I wasn't most people, and I didn't work for laborer's wages. I needed enough money to get Eddie and me to Colorado, and to see us through for a few months in a fas.h.i.+on that wouldn't prove too distasteful.

Before I saw the dead girl from the train, and was then kidnapped by Sutton, my plan had been to go by rail as far as Pueblo. Then I could either amble north to Denver, where there were friends and a reliable Blue Book to consult, or I could keep going west. I'd heard that San Francisco was wide open.

There are precious few choices for a woman on her own, and I didn't want to end up hustling drinks in the saloons or was.h.i.+ng clothes behind the Dodge House or occupying a crib along South Front. I still carried the horror of those few weeks of poverty after I'd left Paschal in New Orleans, and they were weeks I did not want to relive.

Now, I don't want to give the impression that the performance wasn't work. By the time I left the stage, I was exhausted, dripping with sweat, and in a kind of mental fog. I had taken another pull from Potete's bottle of mezcal. Then I had taken Eddie directly back to our rooms at the Dodge House, where I fell into bed, still wearing half my clothes.

I emerged from the Dodge House about noon on Friday, ate a meal of chipped beef at Beatty & Kelley's, finding only a little sand in it, and then made my way down to the Saratoga Saloon.

The Saratoga was owned by William Harris and Chalkley Beeson. Since Beeson was a member of the city council, I thought it was as good a place as any to rent a table. Beeson was a large man with good features and large eyes, which had sleepy lids. When you were talking to him, it seemed as if he were about to fall asleep, but he heard every word. After a short meeting, in which I did most of the talking, Beeson agreed to me keeping a table in the back, near the billiard tables, for ten dollars a day, as long as I kept my visitors drinking. I needed a public place to meet clients and schedule readings.

Just days before, I would never have dreamed of doing the low con on average folks to get by. Bankers? Sure. Senators? Bingo. Millionaires? Of any stripe. I saw it as a kind of public service-revenge for all of the ordinary people they'd stepped on or stepped over to grab power and money. In Chicago, the target had been pompous Potter Palmer, owner of the Palmer House.

The first Palmer House had burned during the Great Chicago Fire in 1871, just thirteen days after its completion. However, before the fire reached the hotel, its architect carried the blueprints to the hotel bas.e.m.e.nt, dug a pit, and covered them with two feet of sand and damp clay. Old Potter Palmer secured a $1.7 million loan on his signature-the largest private loan in history-to rebuild the hotel, using new clay tile building techniques, just across the street. Potter claimed it was the first ”fireproof” hotel in history. He even challenged guests to start a fire in their hotel rooms to see if it would spread to other rooms; the catch was that if the fire failed to spread, the guest had to pay for the night-and the damages. n.o.body had ever tried, but even if they had succeeded, old Potter could afford it. He owned more than a mile of State Street, both sides, and was one of the wealthiest men in the country. And he was a gambler, loving to bet on the horses. I've never met a hobby gambler who wasn't a superst.i.tious fool.

How could I resist such a challenge?

By and by, I left Cincinnati, where I had become bored after teasing a few thousand dollars out of a pork baron, who was foolishly obsessed with the spirit of Cleopatra. I had moved to Chicago, and my new address was the Palmer House. It was an easy matter to buy an introduction to Chicago society.

Potter Palmer had just turned fifty when I met him, a grandfatherly man with a crop of white hair. He was married to a woman half his age. Bertha, the wife, was a blond beauty. He had given her the first hotel as a wedding present (some wedding-I'd like to have seen the cake). She had given him a couple of kids, so there was no family tragedy to exploit. But the way I saw it, he was just as married to that hotel, and the specter of fire must haunt him still.