The Expeditions by Karl Iagnemma Page A

move, like draperies ruffled by a breeze. Reverend Stone leaned out over the wooden railing. On the lower river, a miniature steamer churned toward the falls’ base then vanished into the mist.
    He stepped back from the prospect feeling vaguely disappointed. One of creation’s great marvels, he thought, and I’m unhappy it is not greater. He dismissed the notion but a haze of displeasure remained. Beside him, young couples stood arm in arm, grinning at the falls or whispering in each other’s ears or giggling with delight. For a moment Reverend Stone wished he could follow Jonah Crawley’s blithe advice and temper his expectations. It seemed a simple enough route to happiness.
    Back at the pier, he boarded the
Lake Zephyr
and found standing room against the steerage deck railing. The steamer was crowded with peddlers and soldiers and wary-looking immigrants, families hauling saddlebags and gunnysacks and rope-bound trunks, sailors lying drunk against the engine house. A child with tangled black ringlets stamped like a sentry around a rickety bureau. A Methodist preacher bawled above the din. Reverend Stone thought, I am now one of these itinerant sorts. The idea held sharp, illicit appeal. Just then Jonah Crawley and his daughter Adele passed, the man hauling a trunk’s fore while the girl struggled with the rear, a stick of peppermint clamped between her teeth. Reverend Stone called the man’s name and raised a hand.
    “Reverend Stone!” Crawley dropped the trunk with a startled grin. “Are you quitting Buffalo? You’ve just arrived!”
    The minister smiled at Adele. She took the candy from her mouth and curtsied expressionlessly. He said, “I’m headed on to Detroit. I suppose I would have passed Buffalo altogether, if I could have—though then I would have missed my viewing of the falls.”
    Jonah Crawley’s grin blossomed into a smile. He was a difficult man to gauge, Reverend Stone thought. He might be a schemer or simply a harmless fool. Crawley said, “I trust you found your accommodation comfortable enough.”
    Reverend Stone offered a placid nod. “Do you frequent that establishment yourself?”
    “You said you were searching for cheap accommodation, Reverend. You must admit, the room was dog cheap. If you like, I can make similar arrangements for you in Detroit. I can offer several hotels of my highest approval.”
    “I think I shall rely on providence in Detroit.”
    Crawley’s expression betrayed a note of hurt. “You should come to one of my daughter’s performances while you’re in the city. We’ll be set up somewhere in the Irish quarter. I’ll let you in half fare.”
    “What sort of performance?”
    “My daughter is a spiritualist medium.” He laid a hand on the girl’s bony shoulder. “She has a talent to converse with those who’ve passed.”
    Reverend Stone leaned toward the girl. Her eyes possessed a weary, womanly quality, and her cheeks and brow were marked by a scatter of pockmarks, tiny seeds flung by the wind. He said, “Tell me, young lady. What is the mood of those who’ve passed? Are they happy to be disturbed from rest?”
    Adele shrugged. “It depends on the folks. Most seem to enjoy the occasion—my sense is that purgatory ain’t the most sociable place. Though some are plain rude.”
    “What about those who are not in purgatory? Can you contact them?”
    “Indeed. I can contact anyone who’s passed.”
    Reverend Stone nodded. A rash of heat crawled over his skin.
    Jonah Crawley said, “You’re not angry that Adele thinks heaven isn’t sociable, are you, Reverend? That’s not what she means to suggest.”
    “With all respect, I have trouble allowing that the contact is genuine.”
    “Reverend Stone! You don’t believe the deceased want to be heard?”
    The minster’s gaze moved past the pair. A boil of anger had risen in his chest. He said, “The dead have passed to a place that is unreachable to the living, Mr. Crawley. They desire nothing this