Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (38 page)

      
After everyone had entered and sat down, and Ginger had closed the door, I asked everyone to hold hands and be quiet (only I was more diplomatic than that). This set the tone: mysterious and a little eerie.

      
No séance I've ever conducted has been silent. Somebody always coughs or sneezes, chairs scrape, sometimes people giggle, groan or cry. I even had a woman faint on me once. I strove for silence, however, and usually achieved a fairly decent facsimile thereof.

      
A few moments after I went into my trance, Rolly showed up (figuratively), speaking with a Scottish burr in a voice an octave lower than my natural tone. He always spoke in affectionate accents, mostly because I enjoyed pretending that a man, even a fictitious one, liked me enough to be nice to me.

      
Before tackling the Wagner dilemma,
I had to dispense with the main purpose of the séance, the reason Mrs. Bissel had hired me to conduct it in the first place. She wanted me to get in touch with--of all things--a deceased dachshund breeder from New York City.

      
It was lucky for me that I'd learned all about dachshunds from Mrs. Bissel. Rolly was able to communicate with the dead breeder, one Mrs. Wilfred Hartland Rice, who assured Mrs. Bissel that her dogs were the
crème de la crème
of the dachshund world, and that if dog-judging politics didn't interfere with the natural order of things, one of her hounds would certainly be represented at Westminster one of these years. Believe it or not, vague predictions like that almost always satisfy my customers. You figure it out; it's beyond me.

      
Also (and I
really
hate to admit this) I was able to give Rolly's contact on the Other Side a fairly good New York accent, thanks in part to Mrs. Barrow, our party-line snoop, but mainly due to my association with Sam Rotondo. I'm sure it was the first time I'd ever been glad I'd met the man.

      
After the hooey concerning Mrs. Bissel and the dogs was over, I took a detour into what I considered the truly important part of the evening. I made sure everyone was primed for it by sinking more deeply into my trance (I'd explain how I do that, but it would take too long) and creating a series of eerie raps and moans.

      
When I was sure all the séance participants were on pins and needles wondering which spirit, out of all the people in the world who had lived and died in however long mankind had inhabited the earth, would pop up next, I held another conversation with Rolly.

      
“Rolly,” I said in my most spooky of mediumistic voices, “I want to ask you about a girl whose spirit might have crossed over to your side. The girl has disappeared on this plane, and we don't know what has become of her. Her mother is extremely worried about her.”

      
Mrs. Wagner choked out a sob. I knew it was she because the sound had come from her end of the table. Besides, nobody else at the table had a crying interest in a vanished child at that moment, if you understand what I mean.

      
“Aye, lass,” said Rolly (well, it was really me, but it was supposed to be Rolly), “I understand. What is the wee lassie's name?”

      
“Marianne Wagner.”

      
Another sob from Mrs. Wagner's end of the table. I felt truly terrible for her, and had a sudden and--thank God--transitory urge to leap to my feet and confess everything. I couldn't do that without betraying my entire family, and I'd rather betray hers than mine. Does that make me a bad person? I have no idea, but I know what Billy would say. In any case, I carried on in true Gumm fashion.

      
“Och, her poor mither,” Rolly said, genuinely sorrowful--and for good reason, as noted in the above paragraphs. “Let me see now.”

      
By this time, there were snuffles coming from all around the table, and I was afraid people would break their hold on each other and start reaching for handkerchiefs. As I was supposed to be in a trance, I couldn't very well ask everyone to stay put and be still, but I prayed they'd not break the circle. I know what you're thinking: Why would God listen to a fraud like me? And I have no answer. They kept holding hands, though, in spite of their emotional reactions and my equivocal position with God.

      
At last Rolly spoke again. Or I did. Nuts. I only know that I sensed the appropriate time for an answer. I'd become an expert at timing by then. “Tell the lassie's mither that Marianne Wagner still walks on the mortal plane, love. She's not crossed over to this side yet.”

      
The reason Rolly called me “love,” is that he was supposed to be a long-lost flame of mine from the eleventh century. By the time I held Mrs. Bissel's séance, I'd had the story straight for a decade, so I never forgot any of the particulars: Rolly and I were wed in what's now Scotland in 1050-ish. We'd produced five sons together, and Rolly had been a soldier.

      
The most important part of the whole story, as far as I was concerned, was that Rolly and I were soul mates. We'd shared a deathless love; the kind of love every woman dreams about and most of us never achieve. I'd wanted to, with Billy, but it didn't work out that way.

      
But enough of that. I'm sure I conceived the Scottish angle for my spiritual control because I'd been reading
Rob Roy
at the time. At least Rolly was different from your run-of-the-mill spirit guide. Most spiritualists back then used red Indians or Egyptian pharaohs or Hindu princesses for their controls.

      
That, however, is neither here nor there. I thanked Rolly for the information he'd imparted to Mrs. Bissel's guests, and especially Mrs. Wagner.

      
“Och, love, a mither needs to know her child's safe.” I hoped Mrs. Wagner believed in my skills more than I did.

      
What she did then was break down completely. As badly as I felt for her, I couldn't comfort her since I was supposed to be in a trance. I slumped dramatically to let everyone else know that they were free to take over the job for me. And they did, bless them.

      
By the time I uttered a few moans and groans, blinked vaguely several times, and pretended to have difficulty lifting my body into an upright position, Mrs. Bissel and several other compassionate ladies were tending to Mrs. Wagner. I passed a pathetically trembling hand across my brow, and smoothed my skirt (I was wearing a lovely, deep green silk evening suit that night that went swell with my dark red hair and pale-as-a-ghost complexion. I worked on that pallor, believe me, and lived in fear of developing more freckles).

      
As soon as she saw that I was out of my “trance,” Mrs. Wagner got up from her chair and staggered shakily to the head of the table, where I sat. Once she got there she shocked the heck out of me by falling on her knees before me, as her daughter had done a couple of weeks earlier. I concluded they'd learned the behavior from Dr. Wagner, who probably demanded they worship him. Personally, I absolutely
hate
when people do that.

      
“Oh, Mrs. Majesty,” she whispered through her tears. “I can't thank you enough for what you've done tonight.”

      
I know it sounds petty, but I hoped her salty tears wouldn't make stains on my silk skirt. In fairness to me, I must say that wasn't my first worry; I was mainly concerned for her.

      
“Please,” I said, “I did nothing. It was the spirits, speaking through me.” Leaning over, I put a hand under her elbow and exerted gentle pressure in an effort to get her to stand up again.

      
She resisted. “No, no. You did it. It was you who gave me the comfort of knowing my little girl is alive.”

      
I'd make a lousy god. When people kneel in adoration before me, I only get embarrassed.

      
That being the case, I rose from my own chair, bringing her up from the floor with me. “Come along, please, Mrs. Wagner. I think you could use a cup of strong tea.”

      
The other ladies were fluttering (or lumbering, in the case of Mrs. Bissel) around us by that time. Mrs. Bissel, whose heart was as big as she was, said, “Yes, yes. Oh, my, yes, Diane (Diane being Mrs. Wagner's first name). Let me get Mrs. Browning to rush the tea to you. And a chocolate éclair. I'm sure an éclair will work wonders.”

      
Éclairs always worked wonders for me. I hoped they'd do as well for Mrs. Wagner, so I smiled and nodded at Mrs. Bissel.

      
She thundered out of the room, aiming for the kitchen. I guided Mrs. Wagner to the huge front parlor where Mrs. Bissel always had her guests take sustenance after my séances. The woman was generous to a fault, always feeding folks. I adored her for it, too, because I liked to eat almost as much as a dachshund. That's why my body didn't fit the slim, boyish shape in fashion at the time.

      
That had never stopped me from enjoying a meal or a snack, however. I sewed all my clothes. If I got fat, I'd just sew bigger ones.

      
I spoke with Mrs. Wagner for quite a while after the séance concluded--until her husband's hired bully-boy called for her much sooner than she was ready to go. As you might expect, she didn't tell the man to wait until she felt like leaving the party, but ran out of the room like a scared rabbit so as not to “annoy Dr. Wagner. He's so busy, you know.”

      
Huh. I walked with her to Mrs. Bissel's back door, assuring her that the spirits don't lie, which was a lie itself but I didn't care by that time. I wondered if she'd told her husband she was going to attend a séance that evening. I doubted it. If he'd known a séance would eventuate, I'm sure Dr. Wagner wouldn't have allowed her to attend. He hadn't wanted to let her out of the house at all.

      
As I drove home, nearly freezing to death in the chilly December weather in spite of my black wool coat, I vowed that the next day I'd report what had happened at the séance to Marianne. And I was going to recount a vivid and detailed version of Mrs. Wagner's reaction to learning her daughter was alive. Darn the girl, how could she
do
that to her mother?

      
Then again, how could Mrs. Wagner allow her daughter to be abused in her own home--and by her own husband? The problem was a knotty one, and too convoluted for someone like me to evaluate and solve.

      
To be fair, in those days there weren't many women in Pasadena as independent as the ones in my family, and most of those were working stiffs like us. Most of the rich women I knew back then--and I knew a bunch of them--had never learned how to do anything useful. They were primarily decorative and served as their husbands' social secretaries, brood mares, and hostesses, with occasional ventures into charitable work and dog shows.

      
But, gee whiz, even a rich woman can leave her husband if he's a monster. Sure as anything, if a kid of mine was ever beaten (or worse) by her father, you can bet it would only happen once--and that the man would never be able to perpetrate such a villainy again.

      
Not that Billy would ever beat a child, especially not one of his own. Not that Billy could ever
have
a child, but . . . oh, never mind.

# # #

      
Billy wanted to go Christmas shopping the morning following Mrs. Bissel's séance. Wouldn't you know it? How often does your average husband want to go Christmas shopping? In case you don't know the answer to that one, I'll tell you: Never.

      
I'd actually have been pleased that he was taking an interest in something so mundane as Christmas shopping if I weren't champing at the bit to get to Marianne. I longed to spill my guts about her poor mother and shame the girl into doing something with herself; preferably either going home or leaving town. But I went along with Billy's wishes, willing if not eager to champ a little longer.

      
Between us, we got presents for Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi and Spike. Yes, indeed. We bought a bright red India rubber ball for the puppy. I got the impression the ball wouldn't last long enough in its pristine condition to be wrapped for Christmas, but would be put into play much earlier; probably that afternoon. But that was all right. We could get him another present to wrap and put under the tree. Preferably food; Spike was an amazing eater.

      
“Say, Daisy, let's go to the foothills after church tomorrow and chop down a tree for Christmas.”

      
Billy felt pretty good that day and was guiding his wheelchair under his own steam. I'd bundled him up well, with a tweed jacket, woolen scarf, hat, and a lap blanket, but the sharp wind kept lifting the edges of the blanket. I'd have put the packages in his lap to hold the blanket down, but the weight would have hurt his legs.

      
So I carried the packages and worried about my husband and his legs and lungs and possible drug addiction, and wanted to race to Grenville's books and either force George to marry Marianne or force Marianne to move somewhere else. I'd pretty much decided marriage would be the best solution to our pickle, although I had no idea how to get the idea out of my head and on to fruition.

      
“Sounds like a good idea to me. You and I can pick it out, and Pa and I can cut it down.”

      
“Sam can go with us. He can chop it down.”

      
Ah, yes. Sam. He would have to intrude on our weekend, wouldn't he? “Oh. Sure, that would be fine.”

      
“Damn, I hate being a cripple.”

      
Billy seldom growled right out loud and on a public street like that about the state of his health, and he seldom used profanity, either. It scared me. It made me think again of suicide, as if I didn't already have enough crises to contemplate. “I know, sweetheart. Life isn't fair. It's been downright cruel to you.”