Page 4 of My Darling Girls

A thunderous knock comes from the well and shatters the silence of the courtyard. Jo looks down, fully expecting something or someone to rise from its depths.

Another knock. Louder this time. The water ripples.

Jo feels it then. The draw of the real world is strong. She closes her eyes, listening to the outside noise. To the incessant pounding at her front door.

For heaven’s sake, who could it be at this ungodly hour?

She strains to stay here, in this odd place, but the mist is swirling faster, and suddenly the shadows are moving in, and her bedroom is coming into focus.

Jo lies on the bed, fully dressed in her worn brown shirtwaist and a skirt of black serge. In her rush to get to her bed, she had forgotten to remove her shoes. With a grunt she pulls herself out of the sheets and stumbles, crashing into her bedside table and knocking down the tray with her precious, now half-empty vial. She snatches the tray and the vial off the floor and carefully sets them on the side of the bed. The walls spin. In her clouded mind, sounds are muffled, objects are far away. The pounding at the front door is in cadence with her racing heartbeat.

She shuffles downstairs, and then, with one angry wrench, she opens the door.

A Lad with a Gun

If not for the opium, she would be more careful.

She would remember to get August’s gun. And she wouldn’t be opening the door of her studio at this dark hour in a city like Chicago where most people cower behind locked doors. Chicago’s crime seems to be at its highest lately. Anyone, and especially a woman, is in great danger of being robbed, raped, and murdered. Bands of thugs prowl the city at all hours of the night, looking for someone to assault. But because she’s half awake, half crazed, she doesn’t think about any of it until it is too late, and then, it doesn’t really matter anymore.

The air that rushes in is sharp and somehow malignant. It seeps through her clothes and settles in her bones. Her heart somersaults at the sight of the tall and broad-shouldered young man blocking the doorway. He’s wearing a striped, black wool suit. Quite fashionable and expensive. The vest underneath his jacket reveals a shirt in the same black-striped pattern. There are several rings on his fingers, and a gold watch chain dangles from his vest. He removes his bowler hat and presses it to his chest.

“Hello.” A slight bend in his waist as he greets her provides a hint of reassurance that he isn’t going to hit Jo on the head with a steel pipe. But maybe it’s just the opium dulling her senses. The lad’s dark-blond eyebrow curves in a silent question as he appraises Jo’s disheveled hair, ruffled shirtwaist, and wrinkled skirt. He leans forward a bit more, resting his arm on the doorframe. The sleeve of his jacket pulls with the motion, revealing a small snake tattoo on the back of his wrist. At the sight of it, Jo’s hair lifts on the nape of her neck.

“I’m looking for Jo.” This close, his eyes are silver blue, and they darken a shade when he smiles. He is handsome in a roguish and dangerous way and looks at least a few years younger than her. Must be in his late twenties.

Her stomach feels as hard as cobblestones in the courtyard. “Jo?” she asks, schooling her face. Why is a gangster knocking at the door of her studio at this hour? She quickly shuffles through the memories of her most recent clients, but no one raises any suspicions. No one she remembers could possibly be connected to the most notorious gang of Chicago, the Snakes. So why is he here? She can’t show this man her fear. She cannot acknowledge his tattoo. Because if she allows herself to think about it, she’ll scream. “Jo?” she repeats just to say something, to ground herself in a moment. Unexpectedly, her tone is matter of fact, as if the man standing at her door in the middle of the night doesn’t concern her one way or the other. Inside, she’s shaking. Where is that gun she’s supposed to always keep close? The man, who’s taking up space like he belongs, knows her name. This is so odd that for a moment she forgets how terrified she is.

He points at the sign above her front door. “It’s Jo’s Photography Studio. Ain’t it?” It’s been a year since Lisso’s Photographs became Jo’s Photography Studio, but the name still takes her by surprise sometimes. After August’s death, she moved the studio from a prestigious State Street location to South Chicago. It was impossible to maintain a photography studio in the heart of the city—the lack of customers and money being the main reasons. August’s regulars stopped coming as soon as rumors of his gruesome death spread, and any potential customers—and God as her witness, she tried to find them—didn’t want a woman telling them how to pose, how to smile, or how to look at the camera. All of it built up, slowly at first, accelerating with the passage of time, until a growing pile of bills on her desk turned into a long chain of problems to solve and memories of her previous life to erase.

Now, in South Chicago, instead of posh restaurants and department stores, she’s surrounded by small grocers, druggists, and hardware stores. But there’s a cable car around the corner and clothing stores that she hoped would bring foot traffic to her door. So she told herself she could make it on her own. She didn’t need a man by her side to run a business. August’s life insurance was substantial enough to finance her plan. Two thousand dollars. That’s what her husband’s life was worth. Josephine, her full name, was too feminine for a business name, and it would turn customers away. And so she used Jo. It was a much better alternative—gender neutral. Not threatening.

She pats her hair down. “Yes.” She starts smoothing her clothes but gives up halfway. He’s seen her already. So she just looks at him, at his handsome face and his steady hand on the door, and she doesn’t do anything. “It’s Jo’s Photography Studio.”

A heavy sigh. “Can I talk to Jo?”

“The studio’s closed,” she says, her voice taut. What possibly can she do for him? The fear in her bloodstream is primal. Raw. She clutches the edges of her skirt and tries to suppress it, push it away. She almost breaks free.

“Are you Jo?” His mind is quick as he connects clues he has barely had time to contemplate. “I reckon it’s a late hour, but I have a job for you. It’s quite a pressing matter.”

He must be joking. A job at this hour of the night? Do you want me to kill someone for you? she’s tempted to say, but of course she doesn’t. “Come back in the morning,” she says curtly and moves to close the door, but he doesn’t remove his hand. Instead, he moves closer, forcing her to retreat a few inches. “I open my studio at ten.” A gust of wind sweeps through the air, and Jo shudders.

With easy arrogance, he deposits his muddy foot in the doorway. “It’ll be too late in the morning.” He rubs his forehead, and suddenly Jo realizes there are tears in his eyes. “You must come tonight. It’s . . . it’s a delicate subject.” The lamplight from the street highlights his blond hair in golden hues and casts shadows under his eyes, making him look older than she initially thought. “I’m here on my sister’s behalf.” His words are weighted with sadness. “She asked me to bring a photographer.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It’s an unusual and sensitive assignment.” He leans his shoulder on the wall. “I appreciate you opening the door. I knocked at a few with no success.”

No one sane would open their front door to a stranger at this hour. Most businesses on Commercial Avenue closed their doors with sundown. Why did she open hers? Suddenly she is bone tired, completely worn out. She must be coming down from the opium. “What’s the job?” Standing takes a lot of effort: The opium still clouds her mind, and her body feels full of lead. She wants to go back to her bed.

He looks down at his feet. Runs his hand through his hair. Sighs. “My niece, Millie, just passed away.” His voice breaks as he pulls his gold watch out of his vest pocket, flips it open, and Jo forces herself to avert her gaze from the snake tattoo on his wrist. “A few hours ago. She was only fifteen.” Another heavy sigh. “My sister asked me to fetch a photographer before . . . before the decay sets in.” He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his shoulders hunching forward.

She looks at the man standing awash in the streetlight, his broad shoulders, the tears in his eyes, the jaw that trembles as he’s trying not to cry, and she doesn’t feel as terrified as a moment ago. She sees grief and softness, even vulnerability. “I’m sorry about your niece.”

He nods. “Will you come?”

“You want me to photograph your dead niece?” Jo’s voice rises sharply on the word dead. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Why not?”