While at night Phantasm was the epitome of Mauch Chunk's north star, during the day it looked like a sleepy little town, those who were tied to its orbit busily preparing for the evening. Christine found she preferred the outskirts of the carnival city where the workers clustered together in matchbox houses.
It became quickly apparent that the stranger people and more unique acts of Phantasm did not leave the park grounds. Many other men and women worked away from the amusement park and came home for supper. Herbert did. Mol did. It was as through Phantasma was part of Mauch Chunk, yet not. It was its own little refuge city – a place for people who could not stand the glaring of other people in the daylight.
She even saw where Meg lived – in her own matchbox house painted a soft buttery yellow. Try as she might, Christine had not been able to find Meg since the library. The interaction had made Christine uneasy, and the more she thought about the reality of Meg living and working for Erik, the more uneasy she became.
Meg had known Christine was coming. She must have. And yet, Meg had not sought her out. They had parted as friends, as family, in Paris. While Raoul had whisked her away from the Opera House and Paris life had become very different, she had sent letters, they had history. Meg was avoiding her.
A dangerous thought blossomed in her mind. It was clear from the town's talk and the Phantasma billboards that Meg was a main feature on the amusement park's playbill. Erik had favored her, clearly, over the years to help him realize Phantasma's all-encompassing vision. Christine's arrival and her history with the illusive Mr. Y challenged that centrality.
And the fact remained that Meg was in some type of relationship with Porter Cummings, who, upon more meetings, had little to recommend himself for. His angry talk at Mary's dinner parties continued to sour towards the unwholesome discussion of strikes and lazy workers and how his poor dear Meg worked tirelessly for Mr. Y.
Much like in working Paris, strike talk was often whispered in ale houses and in the evening meetings of men. Christine was no stranger to the talk. Goodness, she remembered vividly the day Carlotta and all the other Opera principals had threatened a strike. This type of talk, however, possessed a wild sense of venom from both sides that began etch itself on the faces of anyone who spoke if it.
It was lucky, then, that most of the Opera House patrons were travelers through town on holiday.
Christine made her way toward the rectangular building, just west of Meg's home. It was Phantasma's very own school. Sam had told her all about his lessons and how Mrs. Schuyler – the stout red head from church – was a dragon of teacher. But she could tell a good bedtime story and was always sure to bake a cake their birthdays.
The school acted as a kind of orphanage for the local children whose parents had died. There were twenty students in all at the little school, ten of which were under her care. One of those ten was Sam. She entered the little square building with a renewed sense of purpose. In exchange for French lessons, Mrs. Schuyler had allowed Christine to stay and practice her reading with the other children.
She was unsure how helpful she could be with teaching French, but the children enjoyed hearing her speak in the lyrical tongue and did quite well mimicking her words.
It was in these afternoons that she saw the good Erik had done in America. In Paris, he had been a selfish tyrant, unbothered by the plights of others. Yet here, in this world he had carved from nothing, he'd created his own type of haven, with schools and rules and order.
Christine listened to the melody of the children reading. Careful to note their inflection on the verbs. She was not being the best student today.
How do you reconcile one man's actions when they are so universally disparate? Indeed, it seemed as though he'd done so much good that the monster he once was and the man he now is could not be the same.
Thinking of Mr. Y often conjured him, and her ruminations this afternoon were no exception. Just as she tried again to remind herself that appearances were never what they seem, Mr. Y appeared in the doorway, hands behind his back. The children's eyes went wide and smiles filled their faces.
Unlike nearly every other person she has ever known, the people of Phantasma were always delighted to see Erik. At a stark minimum, respectful. And the dower façade in his eyes told her he was still not accustomed to it.
"Mr. Y, it is not the first of the month," Mrs. Schuyler welcomed when she saw him at the open door, "What is the special occasion?"
His gaze lingered on Christine's face for a quiet moment, and then turned to the children, "I thought today would be a lovely day for some music. And should we not, Mrs. Schuyler take advantage of a beautiful day?"
What instrument, the children demanded with wild abandon. Mrs. Schuyler's own voice went quiet, her face a bit paler at the question, "Yes, Mr. Y, what instrument?"
"Get your coats. Today will be about the violin."
The school mistress was downright green at the statement. At Christine's searching eyes, the woman asked, "Please go with them. Watch over them for the rest of the day."
"But what's going on?" Christine whispered.
"Something's gone wrong at the railyard. You're watching the children so I can go help."
"I don't un—"
"Miss Daaé, the melody waits for no man – or woman!" Mr. Y hollered from outside the door. She had no choice but to follow.
Off into the woods they went, Erik's fine fingers dancing along the violin as he spun musical tales about the children. When she knew the song, she would join her voice to the melody. The children were unafraid of their adventure and unrelenting in their demands on Mr. Y's music.
It was a strange trail. The trees were bare before them and they could see for hundreds of yards in all directions, the scene eerie and white with the first lingering snow. Erik was careful to point out special features in the landscape and shape them into tails about firebirds and unicorns, the children eagerly hanging on every word. Sam was the only one somewhat unimpressed, as though he knew the trail by heart and found Erik's metaphors useless. The boy stayed near Christine, watchful to help her over a log or around a slippery rock. She caught his surprised look when Erik took them left at a small bubbling creek instead of over it.
It took the entire late evening into moonrise for them to return. And in his own turn, Erik humored and entertained. Christine couldn't quite place the change in him until she realized – he was carefree. Happy? Enjoying himself with the company around him.
What magnificence acceptance could wield. Finally, their walk in the woods returned them to the little schoolhouse. Nothing looked out of place, though fewer people filled the outdoor area than before.
Hanna Schuyler waited at the open door, her arms tight against her waist. "Supper's ready for the lot of you and then you can go home." She nodded to Mr. Y, "Thank Mr. Y and Miss Daaé for your adventure today." The children repeated her kindness in unison and Erik carefully motioned Christine away with the placement of his hand on her low back.
When they were a safe distance from the matchbox houses, Christine ventured to ask, "What was this all about today, Erik?"
"Nothing to concern you with." At her glare, he adjusted his answer, "The likelihood of a strike continues to mount. I don't want to burden you with these local politics."
"What happens if they do strike?"
"Nothing good."
"What are Mrs. Schuyler's particular skills that they needed her more than you today?"
Erik smirked at her thinly veiled attempt to snoop, "We all have our parts to play. You've seen how Hanna can be as a dragon protecting her young." They stopped at the back of the Phantasma train station. "She can be a very good voice of reason."
"All this talk, and yet the show will go on."
"It will. Your first proper performance at Phantasma is quickly approaching."
"And you will be in attendance, I presume."
"Of course. It is my own little opera house, after all."
"No tricks, Mr. Y."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Daaé." She heard the smile in his voice and delighted in it. It was a shame the train horn blew in interruption, echoing throughout the canyon.
"It was wonderful. Today, I mean. It was wonderful to see you happy." Erik's hands rose to touch her arms, but stopped, hovering lost in the air.
"I suppose I was happy today."
"The children admire you."
"I provide them a diversion. That is hardly admiration."
"And yet, they were so excited when you came to fetch them today. They didn't tire of their adventure, and they were sad to see you leave them tonight."
Silence followed her words. The muscles in his jaw worked, casting a strange shadow in the moonlight. Finally, he was able to form his words, "It is nice to no longer see revulsion in people's eyes." Christine's heart lurched. Her hand reached out to touch his chin, pulling his face toward her own. In the cold night, he was almost warm.
"You deserve only good things, Erik."
He leaned into her touch, sighing, "It is a testament to your goodness, Christine, that you believe that."
Looking into his mismatched eyes, she wanted to tell him he was wrong. She had little real goodness left in her. But he, truly, did have goodness within him. While he did deserve justice for the evils he had done, he deserved good things too. She couldn't help but wonder which one she would be.
The next week in Mauch Chunk got progressively colder. How that was possible, Christine could not fathom. The newspaper began to predict on-coming snow, and much of the town had rallied for the wave of winter tourists bent on visiting "Little Switzerland". Though Christine had been very young the last time she'd viewed the Alps, she remembered they did not look anything like Mauch Chunk's hills. Still, the town was excited, and it was a lighter conversation than that of striking.
After her discussion with Erik, her awareness of the town had shifted. Before she'd only seen tourists. Now she recognized the locals winding through the throngs, their hard-set eyes and tight shoulders telling a story all their own.
Daily practice continued, and she did not see or hear from Erik again; however, she was not ignorant of his actions and planning. A drawing of her graced the new Phantasma posters. She was to perform on the coming Friday night. There was no doubt that he would be in attendance.
Famous Opera Diva to grace us with new selections. Songs never heard on American shores!
Letters began to arrive with an alarming regularity. Letters from fans, letters from friends in New York. Word had finally taken hold that Christine had not disappeared into the night back to France. The letters from Rousseau she did not open. What use could those words be anymore?
Each time one would arrive though, she would steel her nerves with a small glass of whiskey. What did the Americans call it? Oh yes, liquid courage. It always did seem to live up to its moniker.
The week went quickly, though the nights were long. Mol had pulled her from the bill to increase anticipation at Phantasma. And soon she found herself rehearsing with Herbert for another opening night. Not for long, he warned. Mr. Y wanted her voice perfect for tonight. She was to get on the dinner train and get ready there.
"Are there mirrors in the dressing rooms?" She asked at the conclusion of their practice.
Herbert chuckled. "Actually, no. I saw men removing all mirrors from your room this morning."
