“My task here is not to communicate with spirits, although I sense a number about us.” She paused as another hum passed through the hall. “Rather, I will tell you something of their nature and dwelling conditions. Those of you who might wish me to communicate with a particular spirit may so arrange with my agent at the conclusion of this lecture.”
I leaned toward Cait and whispered, “What does she charge?”
“Shh, I’ve paid.”
Clara Antonia spoke for ninety minutes. In no-nonsense phrases she asserted that the spirit world was a better world than this, that guests in that world were of a higher order than in this material life. Just as geology showed the original mass at the center of the earth to improve in high qualities as it approached the surface, she argued, so too was humankind elevated and refined through a process of decomposition. That part got a little hazy, but my interest rose when she described her work with dying soldiers in Union hospitals.
Time after time she had witnessed the departure of spirits from their corporeal bodies. First a dark, leaden vapor arose over the chest. Lights shone from the brain, dim as gas jets seen through a glass. As the patient grew feebler, emanations from his body made the vapor denser, while the brain light stretched upward to it, as if trying to extract nourishment. In two to three hours the vapor gradually assumed human form. If interrupted during that time—for example, if the body was about to be carted off to the dead room—then other similar forms looking on came down and took the emergent form tenderly and bore it away.
Toward the end she answered questions. Yes, she had seen manifestations of dogs and cats and birds and flowers in the spirit world. No, the spirits of former humans didn’t run around naked, but gathered a shadowy sort of raiment about themselves, according to taste and character. The clairvoyant could generally tell from this what they had been in life; indeed, she thought it very possible that spirits appeared in that way so as to be recognized. Those with unfinished business were those, obviously, who went to greatest lengths to be recognized.
Cait sat very still beside me. I knew she was fixated on the photos. What was Colm’s unfinished business? I wondered.
I was startled when somebody asked, “Can a spirit be photographed?”
“Only if it so desires,” Clara Antonia replied, drawing a laugh, and added that she had heard of it, but it lay outside her direct experience. It would require enormous effort for a spirit to make itself visible to a camera.
“Are spirit photographers charlatans, in your opinion?” the questioner persisted.
“There are those in every human activity,” she replied calmly. “Just as there are those guided by the truth. To test what is true, you must listen to your heart, your inner voice, for that is where the spiritual world is usually manifested.”
She bowed and walked from the stage to enthusiastic applause. When the hall emptied, Cait and I were ushered backstage by a sallow-skinned youth who turned out to be Clara Antonia’s son. We entered a plain dressing room, where she sat facing us. Up close she looked much older, her face creased with wrinkles and her hair streaked with gray. The strange pale eyes fixed on Cait as she beckoned us to sit.
“Hello, child,” she said gently. “Your mother’s spirit is reunited with your father’s. Her crossing over was eased by returning to her homeland.”
“She knew, then,” Cait said. “You’ve talked with her?”
“You might phrase it so,” she replied. “She is most thankful.”
“Samuel made it possible.”
Clara Antonia’s eyes found me. Seconds passed. I experienced a queer vibrating sensation.
“Are you all right?” Cait said anxiously.
“I . . . I think so.”
There was a puzzled expression on Clara Antonia’s face. Her eyes bored into me. She brought her hand up to where the beard covered my wound, not quite touching me. I felt a pleasant warmth there. She closed her eyes finally, and it was as if I had been released.
“You’ve come a very long distance, haven’t you?”
I did not answer.
“God in Heaven!” said Cait. “What are you saying?”
Clara Antonia seemed to be formulating a complicated question in her mind. She looked at Cait and appeared to reach a decision. “Child, you are afflicted by painful questions,” she said. “What is their nature?”
“You remember, Colm . . . returned . . .” Cait said.
“When you first came to me,” she said with a nod. “The dove spirit departed, assured that you were safe.”
“Yes, but now he’s returned.” Cait described our portrait sitting and produced the prints.
Clara Antonia gazed at them for a long moment, passing her hand over Colm’s image in one of the prints. “So,” she mused, “that is why that photography question was asked tonight.”
“Someone had the same experience?” I said.
She shook her head. “Sometimes when no questions arise my assistants provide them. Often what come to them are emanations from audience members.”
There was a pause while we digested that. I was quickly losing the last shreds of skepticism. I was willing to believe—hell, I wanted to believe—that she could provide some answers.
“You wish to communicate with Colm?” she asked. “I sense his presence strongly.”
Cait’s hands twisted nervously. “I . . . don’t know,” she said, surprising me.
“Yes, we do,” I said.
“Yes,” she echoed.
“Very well.” Clara Antonia nodded to her son standing quietly in one corner. He dimmed the gas jets until the room was nearly dark. I thought I saw a subtle luminosity around Cait.
“He is here,” Clara Antonia said softly.
A chill ascended my back, and goose bumps stippled my skin. I couldn’t make out Clara Antonia’s face. She sat very still, a black bulk in the dimness. Beside me Cait was trembling. I reached for her, then hesitated with Colm on the scene.
“Yes, take his hand,” said Clara Antonia, her voice strange and even higher pitched than before. For an instant I thought she was talking to me. Then I
