How It Happened in Peach Hill (16 page)

“Oh, no, ma’am,” said Peg, straightening up and wiping her face with her sleeve. “I wouldn’t leave you without help. And I need the wages, ma’am. I need the money to bury him.” The tears streamed down her cheeks.

I could see Mama didn’t think we’d be getting much good labor anyway. “Annie needs exercise, Peg. She’ll help you scrub the floors. Won’t you, dear? As she’s feeling so low?”

She floated back to the front room to continue her day of
feeding promises and consolation to strangers. Why couldn’t she do that for the people nearest to her? I stuck out my tongue at her back.

We scrubbed the floor, all right, and the counters and the stovetop, and inside the darn oven.

“Peg,” I said when we’d finally rinsed the buckets and put the kettle on. “Let’s sit down. I want to read your palm. Your fortune is especially clear when you’ve just suffered a loss, did you know that?”

“Really?” said Peg. “I never heard that before.”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Your emotions are churning, so your connection to the Other Side is heightened and of course your own path becomes more visible.” Mama’s gobbledegook.

Our hands were red and swollen from the morning’s labors. I laid mine flat upon hers for a moment before I began.

“You have a long life ahead, Peg.” I traced her Life Line, which was indeed a long one. “You’ve had much conflict under your roof, but it is now resolved.”

“That’s my dad gone,” whispered Peg.

“Yes. But with him, I believe, went the obstacle on your Heart Line.…” I pointed to a tiny, meaningless crease. “After this, you see? The way is clear for romance, and you will find your true love.”

“I will?”

“And it’s possible you will not travel to find him.”

“I won’t?”

“You may know him already,” I said, “but you have not yet recognized his special place in your life.”

She giggled.

“You’re a prize, Peg,” I said. “You deserve some happiness.”

“You do have the Gift, don’t you, Annie?”

“Well, my mother taught me most things,” I said.

Mama invited Peg to eat supper with us, knowing she wouldn’t stay but making the gesture. We sent her home with a piece of ham. I tried not to think about her sitting at a lonely table staring at her father’s slippers by the door.

It was after I’d done the washing up that I reached for the broom and disturbed the sugar sack that served as a bank. It was specially constructed, this bag of heavy muslin, to appear unopened, with a liner of real sugar to give the right feel, should Peg, or anyone, need to heft it out of the way. It usually held several hundred dollars. But the top was folded over, and when I picked it up, it weighed considerably less than it should.

“Mama?” I called, but then, “Never mind,” when she answered me. A dreadful suspicion had seized me; all Mama’s confident chatter about Mr. Poole’s clever investments and doubling our money finally crackled in my ears with unnerving clarity. Had she given him a portion of our cash?

The supper on Saturday was a buffet, thank goodness. If I’d had to sit at a table next to one of those glittering matrons I would have choked. All that nonsense about salad forks and cheese knives that Mama thought I should know in case we ever entertained the President’s wife, well, what did it really matter? A buffet was ideal, since I had no appetite anyway. I wished I wanted dessert; I watched one gentleman cram a chocolate cupcake into his mouth and look around for somewhere to hide the stem of the maraschino cherry. He flicked it onto the floor.

I perched in a corner, watching the dresses swish by.

Mr. Poole’s niece, Miss Weather, wore a flapper dress the color of emeralds. I saw her flirting with Sally Carlaw’s uncle Travis as if she’d invented eyelashes. Lexie’s father was wearing a cummerbund the same silky crimson as his wife’s corsage. Mr. Fletcher, principal of the high school, looked as though he’d last worn his tuxedo on his wedding day, a hundred years ago. Sally Carlaw had come with her uncle and
brought along Delia, whose father was on duty at the police station. The de Groots likely weren’t considered a better Peach Hill family, so Delia was lucky to be there. Her dress was gorgeous, I’ll admit; a silvery gray shift, hemmed with a silky fringe. I wore black, as always, for the stage.

I never liked to perform in front of a scoffer, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. The difference was that Delia was a scoffer I knew.

When supper ended, we were ushered into the ballroom, where a small jazz ensemble sat in one corner making sounds to set the mood, whatever mood that might be.

Mama called me to her side. I had barely been able to look at her that week, since my notion of distrust had taken hold. Though she didn’t know the reason, she had not been pleased with my manner. We’d been testy with each other on every occasion.

Her eyes now were wide and fond, her public devotion at odds with the quiet threat in her words.

“You will make this work, Annie. We are a team. Do not forget that.”

No one watching would notice anything amiss. Mama licked her fingertips and smoothed my hair. She pinched my cheeks to make them rosy. “Be a good girl,” she said. “Be a doll.”

Mr. Poole had set up a little platform, decorated with a fringed carpet and a potted palm taller than Mama.

She perched on a stool with the toes of her beaded slippers dangling. She wanted to stay alert and upright. She was flushed and pretty, eager to start. It took an age for everyone
to find a place, and then Mr. Poole tapped a spoon against a wineglass and cleared his throat.

“It has been my great pleasure these past few weeks,” he said, “to make the acquaintance of our newest Peach Hill resident.” The smattering of applause muffled a remark from the back that I suspect was lewd.

“And my delight has only increased,” Mr. Poole went on, a little more loudly, “as I have come to admire her extraordinary gift.”

There was a flutter of curiosity. The invitation had not been precise, saying only that guests would never forget what they were to see here tonight.

“We live in remarkable times!” Mr. Poole was booming now, all warmed up. “The human mind has invented and explained so many things. Who would have imagined, when I was a boy, that man would fly in airplanes, let alone fight a great war from the sky? Who would have thought that a message could be telegraphed or a conversation spoken through wires across the Atlantic Ocean? The very fact that it is night and we sit in a room illuminated by electric lights is reason enough to believe in miracles. So why do we suspect that the brain might falter in the face of mere death?

“This has been a matter under serious study by many leading scientists. Even Thomas Edison spent his later years developing a machine to receive spirit messages. If only he had been so fortunate as we are, to know a trance medium who would undergo observation upon request …”

Mr. Poole gestured toward Mama, full of pride. “You will be astonished, as I have been, at the ease and accuracy with
which Madame Caterina displays her talent. I urge each of you to seek her guidance on any matter that requires discretion.

“This evening, we will witness a demonstration of her remarkable ability to read minds and to contact those of our loved ones who have left us and now dwell on the Other Side.”

His introduction had caused a breathless hush of anticipation. Mama was beaming. Even I felt quite pink, as if we really were about to contact spirits from beyond. I would never have guessed that beating under Mr. Poole’s well-cut coat was the heart of a carnival barker.

The basket that held our supplies sat beside the doorway. I scooped it up and made my way amongst the chairs, distributing paper, envelopes and small pencils as Mr. Poole continued.

“To assist with the demonstration, we request that you write down a question, or the name of a person you have lost, and then seal your paper into an envelope. Madame Caterina’s lovely assistant”—he smiled at me—“her daughter, Annie, will come around and collect the sealed envelopes.”

Mama and I had discussed it a hundred times—should we engage a Lurker or not? I’d finally convinced her that it wasn’t worth the risk, but now the pressure was all on me. It was up to my sharp eyes to find the one word we needed to begin.

I shuffled between the rows and collected envelopes. The audience was beginning to chatter again, intrigued and
suspicious and merry with the fun of Mr. Poole’s inventive game. Mama’s gaze met mine across the room of scribbling guests. My stomach began to tighten. The prickles I felt before any performance raced up and down my arms as I circled close to the “stage.”

“Have you got me a name?” said Mama between smiling teeth.

I scurried into the audience to fetch the last few envelopes. I caught sight of the letter “E” just as a woman folded her paper, with probably a “d” and then some other letters. As I handed the brimming basket back to Mama, I whispered, “Ed.”

Mama handed her silky flame-colored scarf to Mr. Poole to tie around her eyes.

“I am honored indeed,” he announced, “to introduce to you Madame Caterina!”

The applause burst out like firecrackers all over the room. Mr. Poole stepped off the platform and left us to it.

My mother sat blindfolded and perfectly still until the racket settled down. She was as cool as a lake breeze. I couldn’t bear it if something went wrong, but in the same minute, I prayed for that to happen. Why should things always go her way?

Seconds ticked by while the audience held its breath. Mama reached out her hand, and I passed her the first envelope. She displayed it in front of her, stroking it dramatically, humming softly at the same time.

“I am receiving a strong message from a person whose name begins with an ‘E,’ ” said Mama. “Please signal if this means something to you.” Thankfully, the woman whose
note I’d spied on lifted her arm. I went to her side and was engulfed in the scent of lily of the valley.

“The person is recognized, madame.” That was code for “It’s a woman.” If it had been a man, I would have said, “The person has been identified.”

“Ask her to stand for a moment,” said Mama, “to clear the air around her. I believe her caller will make an appearance.” Some people didn’t realize straightaway that Mama had divined the person as a woman, but the whisper went through the room pretty quickly, rustling like yellow leaves.

“The reception is not entirely clear,” said Mama. “Is it Edward?”

“Edmund!” called the lady with a shake in her voice. She already had a lace-bordered hankie at her lips; she was ready to crumble.

“He seems to be upset about something. Do you know what this might be?”

“Oh!” the lady cried. “He didn’t have a chance to tell me good-bye! He was taken sudden.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mama. “It was unexpected.” She so naturally repeated whatever the person told her that it sounded like psychic wisdom.

“He went one afternoon to buy a new trowel for his gardening. He had a seizure and passed on, right there at Murray’s Hardware, next to the nail bins.”

“Edmund has been waiting nearby,” said Mama. “He’s here tonight to say farewell. Do you have a message for him?”

The woman groped to support herself on the chair in front of her. “Edmund!” she hollered. “Ed! It’s me, Mildred.”

“He’s waving,” said Mama, “with a look of great fondness.”

“Good-bye, Ed. Forgive me—I nagged about your personal habits, but you were a kind man. Good-bye, dear.” She slumped back into her seat and blew her nose loudly. She dabbed her eyes and nodded at the onlookers. Whether they were amazed or skeptical, it didn’t matter. Mildred’s grief was clearly eased. And it was only the first act.

Mama pushed her blindfold up to her forehead and handed the envelope to me. I tore it neatly across one end, withdrew the paper and handed it back to her, but not before I’d glimpsed the written word “Michael.”

“
Edmund!
” My mother pretended to read, silently enlisting “Michael” as the next ghost.

“Oh!” the audience murmured.

Mama chose another envelope from the offered basket and slipped her blindfold back in place. She went through the trembling, stroking, humming routine again.

“Michael has come to visit,” said Mama after a respectful pause of several seconds. “Would anyone here be awaiting Michael?”

“That’s my boy,” said a man gruffly.

“That’s my father,” said a woman, jumping up.

“He seems to be quite a young man,” said Mama, always preferring the story more likely to twist their heartstrings.

“That’s my boy,” said the man again. “He was nineteen. Died in the war.”

“But he’s laughing,” said Mama. “Why is that?”

“Oh, he was a sunny boy, our Mike,” said the man. He reached down to pat the arm of someone sitting next to him, and I realized it must be Mike’s mother, with tears trickling down her face.

“Perhaps the medium can give you both some comfort,” I said, letting Mama know there were two of them.

“I feel that his good humor was a morale booster for his fellow soldiers,” said Mama. “And he wants you to know he did not suffer at the end.”

“But they told us he was left wounded on the battlefield,” said the man. “For two days with his leg shot off.”

Oh, cats! We couldn’t pay for a sadder story! The hush in the room was like the gulp before a sob.

My neck burned. We were despicable cheats, using people’s deepest sorrow for entertainment.

But … so good at it!

“He did not suffer,” Mama said, hurrying on, “because he knew your love was with him throughout the ordeal. His last earthly thoughts were of your home.”

Mike’s mother shook with sobs. Her husband sat down and put a bulky arm around her narrow shoulders. A good start, with two crying women.

Again the torn-open envelope, again the paper passed from me to Mama. It was a question this time, but I did not have a chance to read it.

“
Michael!
” announced Mama, and then replaced her blindfold. What next?

She held the envelope as before, but this time her hand shook, as if she trembled with emotion.