How It Happened in Peach Hill (15 page)

I was taken aback. I’d never met anyone so frank. I wasn’t used to operating that way, saying what I actually thought.

“So your mother won’t let you go to school. I’d have sworn my parents were the only crazies. Where’s your father? Is he against school too?”

“He’s dead,” I said.

“Oh, the war?”

“Maybe,” I said. “It’s a bit of a mystery.”

“My father is a raving lunatic,” said Helen, as if she’d said “He likes jam with his toast.” She added, “He brings the Lord into the living room in a frenzy of exultation twice each Sunday—well, you saw him—but he treats his family like worms under his boots.”

“Why do you go along with it?” I asked. If she’d asked me the same question, how would I have answered?

“He’s my daddy,” she said. She picked at a scab on her elbow. “He frightens me. And what if he’s right? What if Jesus Christ is watching our every move and our only chance to escape eternal damnation is to get saved every week? Like having a bath to scrub off the dirt?”

“That’s a chilling idea.” What if there really were an Other Side? What if the spirits were actually hovering nearby and ready to communicate? Not through my mother, of
course, but through real sensitives, with true clairvoyant powers? Wouldn’t they be watching Mama and me with gathering scorn and perhaps even a plan for vengeance?

“One of these days, though,” mused Helen, “I’ll be gone and you won’t see me anymore.”

“I left a bundle of clothing under my chair,” I told her, blurting it out. “I thought you were the poor.”

“That was you?” said Helen.

“You didn’t have shoes. What did you do with Mrs. Newman’s shoes?”

“I liked those,” said Helen. “My mother snatched them. But I kept yours.” She waggled her feet in the air above the desk. “Dunno what she needs shoes for, she hardly gets out of bed most days.”

“Is she ill?”

“I’ll say this much,” said Helen, “she drinks her medicine every day. You’ve probably heard of the tonic my father makes? Wilky’s Silk Revitalizing Elixir?”

“Oh, Wilky’s Silky. Of course. Most popular drink in town.”

“My mother is our best customer.”

“But it’s alcohol, isn’t it?”

“Of course, what else would sell like that?”

“So—I don’t mean to be rude, but if he sells so much tonic, then why … well … it’s just that … what does he do with the money?”

“You mean why do we look like the poor?”

“I suppose that’s what I mean. My mama thinks if you smell of success, people will be more inclined to trust you.”

“My daddy’s got all his money hid, stacks of it, someplace I haven’t found yet.”

“That’s just like Mama!” I said. “Rolls of money, rolls and rolls. Only hers isn’t hidden, it’s tucked in every corner.”

Helen stared. “Why don’tcha take it, then? Take it and go?”

“Never occurred to me,” I said slowly, while I let it occur to me at last. “Would you really leave your family if you found the money? Where would you go?”

“I’d get on a train,” said Helen. “I’ve watched trains lots, and thought about them flying through a hundred places in an afternoon. I’d wait till I saw a world where I wanted to live, and that’s where I’d get off.”

“And then what?”

“I’d find a room somewhere, where I’d be alone, nobody bothering me. Or maybe I’d have a dog. We had a dog, but he run off and got hisself killed.”

“I used to know a dog,” I said. “Trixie, in the carnival where we lived when I was little. Tricks by Trixie, right after the fire-eater. A dog is nice. But what about money? How would you live?”

“I’d just take stuff. I don’t need much.”

“But don’t you want, well, to do something?”

“I … can’t really do anything. Except, maybe, well, I can sing all right. Even my daddy says I sing like an angel. Maybe I could sing,” she mumbled. “I just know what I don’t want to do. No people and no God.”

We heard the key grating in the lock. I stood up so that Mrs. Newman could open the door to come in. She stared
without moving until Helen dragged her feet off the desk and stood up next to me.

“I hope your hour down here has reminded you both that time avoiding the classroom is wasted time indeed.”

“Mmmm,” said Helen.

“You don’t have to convince me, Mrs. Newman,” I said. Helen rolled her eyes and made a sucking noise.

Mrs. Newman did not bat an eye. “Every day that you’re not in school,” she said, “is another day that I track you down. Until you turn sixteen, the law insists that you attend school. For you, Miss Grackle, this is only a few days away. Miss Wilky, you have another year, and I will pursue you without rest. You are free to go. Good day.”

She stepped aside. Helen darted out ahead of me and up the stairs like a lizard seeking sunshine.

“One more thing.”

I looked back at Mrs. Newman.

“You’ll have a difficult decision to make on your birthday, Annie. I urge you to speak with me if you need guidance. But I can’t help you if you don’t ask.”

A train whistle echoed like an owl as I walked slowly toward Needle Street. Was this the world where I wanted to live? All these years of following Mama and never thinking about a life that might be different. Would it be braver to leave or to stay?

The streetlamps were illuminated by the time I went inside, and the smell of gingerbread filled the air.

“I hope you whipped some cream, Peg!” I hollered.

But it was Mama who presided over the mixing bowl, wearing an apron and holding a bottle of vanilla in her right hand as she whisked the cream with her left. Mama claimed the nuns used to smack her left hand—they called it the Devil’s Claw—if she tried to use it for writing. But I wasn’t so sure she didn’t train herself to favor the left, just to be contrary.

“Hello, dear heart,” said Mama. Where was the morning’s exasperation? “Peg has not bothered to appear today, so I am forced to make our supper.”

“That doesn’t seem like Peg. Maybe she’s sick.”

“You give her too much credit. It seems exactly like Peg. She does the least amount of work she can get away with, and now she has simply faded away.”

“That’s not fair, Mama.”

“How was your afternoon in the halls of mediocrity?”

“Just fine.” Why give her the satisfaction of hearing I’d had a detention? And why was I speaking to her at all? “Are we celebrating something?”

“Does it have to be a celebration for me to make my daughter’s favorite cake?”

“Or a bribe,” I said. “You imprisoned me this morning, so I don’t trust you one bit.”

Mama
tsk
ed at me. “So young and yet so jaded.”

A knock on the door.

Bradley Barker’s spotted face was entirely screened by an unwieldy cone of yellow lilies surrounded by baby’s breath and ferns.

“More flowers?” I said.

“Could be the last ones,” said Bradley, pushing the bouquet into my hands. “If the fella don’t pay his bill, my uncle says.”

“Thanks, Bradley.” This time I found a quarter in my pocket and handed it over.

Why wasn’t Mr. Poole paying his bill at the florist? My mind’s eye skipped to the gold-link bracelet in the window at the jeweler. Was there a connection?

A little envelope was tucked between the leaves, and Mama showed me the card:

She tapped the whisk on the edge of the bowl. “Here, you have the extra.”

She handed the whisk to me like an ice cream cone. I took it warily, waiting for her to say what she was up to. Mama did not bake, even on birthdays, so this was going to be a lulu.

“I have some news,” said Mama.

“Uh-huh,” I said, licking.

“Mr. Poole has arranged our first performance.”

“What?”

“Don’t bleat, Annie. I do not respond to ‘What?’ ”

“I beg your pardon, Mama, but aren’t we moving a little quickly?”

“As you know, Mr. Poole is most eager to promote my talents. He has generously offered to begin with a soirée in his own home. Naturally, he knows all the prominent families in Peach Hill. It will be an important showcase for me.”

“What happened to being discreet?” I asked. “Aren’t we supposed to be steering clear of public danger instead of seeking it out?”

“We couldn’t ask for a better debut.”

“Debut, Mama? We’ve been doing this all my life. Why are you making it sound as though we need Mr. Poole? It seems to me that maybe he needs us for some reason. And what kind of act are you thinking of, exactly?”

“I will connect people with their lost ones on the Other Side. Let some spirits make guest appearances. We’ll use the Envelope. It’s so effective for a big crowd.”

My heart sank. So much preparation, and so much left to chance.

“This is not a good idea, Mama.”

“I have already agreed to perform on Saturday evening.”

“Next Saturday? Four days away? I won’t do it, Mama. I just won’t. I don’t want Mr. Poole to be our manager, and I’m shocked that you do. We’ve never let anyone do anything for us. You’ve been the one in charge. I won’t work for him. You’ll have to do the evening by yourself.”

“Nonsense,” she said. She tilted her head, softening, trying to win me over. “Mr. Poole has buckets of money, Annie. He knows about investments and savings bonds. Maybe I’m tired of being in charge. Maybe I want to be looked after too.”

“Mama, I’m not so sure about those buckets. Seems pretty likely that they’re not so full as he’s letting you think.”

“Why do you say that?”

“From odd remarks. I’m getting the picture of a man who may be in debt.”

Mama laughed, relieved, it seemed. “Rich people are always in debt,” she said. “That’s how they get richer. They take risks. Gregory has explained all that. I may have been too careful to be clever with our finances.”

“Are you planning something, Mama? Is this part of a bigger scheme? You’re not still thinking of getting married, are you?”

She made a point of not answering, looking as innocent as the gingerbread she was scooping into bowls. Mama’s idea of supper.

“I’m worried about Peg,” I said.

“You’ll have to get used to being without her,” said Mama. “I’ve been considering a change, anyway.”

“What do you mean? She only missed one afternoon, Mama. And she must have a good reason.”

“This incident has only hastened the inevitable. We won’t be needing her much longer.” She smirked at me. “We’ll be touring. We’ll be leaving Peach Hill entirely. Unless we return someday to a house on the hill with a trained staff.”

“No,” I said.

“So I don’t mind letting her go now.”

“No,” I said, stomping my boot.

“Oh, don’t get huffy and storm about like a child,” said Mama. “I’ve had enough of your histrionics. We can certainly come to an agreement, don’t you think?”

I glared.

“I will permit Peg to remain in our employ, and you will perform with me at Mr. Poole’s home on Saturday.”

She had me. She’d tricked me and lied to me and she’d likely never even meant to fire Peg. But the trap had been laid and I’d fallen in.

“How much is he paying you?” I said.

She licked some whipped cream off her finger. “More than we’ve ever been paid for anything before.”

Mama decided we would begin our rehearsals directly after supper. “We’ll use the Envelope.”

“But Mama, for the Envelope we need a Lurker.”

A plant in the audience was what Mama called a Lurker. We used this trick only rarely, because a trustworthy Lurker was hard to find. Instead, we occasionally used people without their knowing it—Blind Lurkers.

“Maybe it’s time to tell the truth to Mr. Poole,” I said. “You could train him to be your partner, since you’re so eager to have him look after things.”

Mama lifted an eyebrow, considering my suggestion, it seemed to me. But then she patted my hand. “Don’t be silly. A sweet-faced girl has much more audience appeal.”

“I won’t be sweet-faced much longer,” I muttered. But I buckled down and practiced our code phrases and rehearsed the most common variations on spirit visitation.

As I did, I kept thinking, What is wrong with me? Why did I cooperate with Mama? Because … because … I’d always done it. Hadn’t I been trained to be the perfect little partner? To do my bit to make the show better, to help Mama’s star shine more brightly. Always in the wings, never expecting to take center stage.

I’d spent my life as a Blind Lurker.

By the end of our practice session, Mama was delighted with my precision.

“We’ll set them on fire,” she said. “Poor Peach Hill. They get the vaudeville players two weeks of the year, and a brass band on the Fourth of July. They’ll be all agog for what we can offer. What else is there for entertainment? I can’t imagine that Sunday morning with Monsignor O’Reilly at St. Alphonse counts as a rollicking good time.”

I had to laugh.

Mama cocked her head. “I’ve always wanted to summon Jesus Christ from the Other Side,” she said. “But it would have to be a very special occasion.…”

I didn’t like to think about it, but Mama’s high spirits
came from somewhere. Was it all because of the cash Mr. Poole promised, or did she actually like his grizzled cheeks and his coconutty hair? Did she get the same dizzy thrill from kissing him that I felt with Sammy?

Peg finally arrived late the next afternoon, with her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She wore a shapeless black dress, and even her curls drooped.

“We’re not on the telephone,” she reported to Mama, “so I couldn’t call to tell you. My father passed away yesterday, just after breakfast.”

“Oh, Peg!” I flung my arms around her. Her shoulders heaved as she hugged me back.

“You’re a dear one, Annie,” she sniffed. “I know I’ve complained about him something terrible, the way he bossed me and worked me, but only a few hours gone and the silence over there is full of spooks, ringing in my ears.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mama. She’d been all set to give Peg a tongue-lashing, but now she had to swallow it and cough up gracious instead. “It’s a very busy time for us, but I suppose you’d like a day or two off?”