How It Happened in Peach Hill (4 page)

“Christine planted those,” said Mr. Poole.

“I hoped so,” said Mama. “That is where we must dig.
Annie?” She spoke slowly and clearly. “Go to the garden, dear, and gather the earth.”

Obediently, I unwrapped the silver sugar bowl and stepped into the twilit garden. I could hear the burbling of a fountain, though I couldn’t see it. There was a smell of summer, of blossoms, even in September. As I crouched to dig, the bell slipped out of its pouch and jingled under my skirt. I crept behind the veranda post to adjust my rigging before going back inside. The way that bell sometimes misbehaved made me nervous.

“Have you a trusted servant who could join us?” Mama was asking as I came in. I held the sugar bowl reverently, like a chalice full of holy water. “Spirits feel more welcome,” she said, “if there is more than one familiar face. I like to fill the table for a calling.” There was nothing Mama loved more than an audience.

Mr. Poole pressed a button embedded in the mantelpiece. “I’ll have my man, Douglas, come up, with his wife.”

Douglas was the one who had answered the door. He inclined his head toward each of us in turn and then waited quietly for instructions. His wife, Norah, seemed fretful, as if she expected to be carried off by a ghost.

“Is there a piece of linen that your mistress might have handled?” Mama asked Norah. The maid went to a chest and lifted out a lace runner.

“No lace,” said Mama quickly. “No holes. We need to contain the spirit.”

Another cloth was produced and spread over the table. Mama had the lights dimmed and the candles lit. She placed the bell in its glass dome in the center of the table. She
tipped it as she reached over to put it down, making it tinkle faintly. If everyone heard it ring ahead of the séance, they’d know it worked just fine. And sitting on the table, encased in glass, they’d expect it to be muted.

I perched on a stool at one end of the table, and Mama sat herself at the other. Mr. Poole sat beside her, and the servants sat across from them. No one but my mother was looking at me. I slid off my shoes. I blinked at Mama, signaling her to begin.

“Mr. Poole, do you have one of your wife’s personal possessions with you, as I requested?”

“Ah, yes.” He handed over a gold-link bracelet, medium weight, a gleaming rose gold that was pricier than the regular yellow variety. One perfect ruby dangled like a pomegranate seed, an opulent crimson drop. I watched Mama’s face as she held it and saw her glow of pleasure.

“Let us all touch what Christine has touched.”

Mama motioned to the “callers” to place their hands, palms up, on the table. She blew on the gold and passed it on, telling each of us to add our own breath. At my turn, I blew softly, clouding the ruby, as if I were sending a kiss. As eyes followed the bracelet, I gently released the bell from its inside pocket and held the clapper through the fabric of my skirt. When the bracelet came back to her, Mama dropped it into the sugar bowl, which she lifted above her head. With a sudden flick of her wrist, she tipped the bowl and sprayed dirt all over the table. The bracelet glimmered like a snake.

Norah gasped and struggled up, offended by the mess.

“Don’t touch it,” whispered Mama, and Douglas patted his wife back into her seat. Mama and I hummed quietly
together until the room seemed to quiver. Then,
crack!
A sharp snapping sound made everyone jolt upright. I nearly giggled and flexed my other big toe.
Crack!

“Christine? Christine Poole?” said Mama. “Are you with us?”

Without even a shiver above the surface, I jiggled my legs under the table. We heard the muffled ring and everyone stared at the glass dome, tickled by the hovering spirits.

“Oh, my!” said Norah.

With my feet tucked now on the rung of the stool, my knees were perfectly placed to make the table tilt, ever so slightly.

“Ahhh!” They were thrilled!

Mama’s voice came again, but not her own voice this time. It was high and clipped, like the voice of a woman in a hurry. Choosing a voice is one of the trickier aspects of greeting a spirit. We have to guess, from what we know of a person’s character, how she, or he, might sound.

“I want to speak with Gregory,” said Mama. “Gregory, are you listening? I have something to say to you.”

“Oh, my!” said Norah. “It’s the mistress.”

“You’re haunting me, Christine,” said Mr. Poole. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“I am not at rest, Gregory. I wasn’t ready to go. I didn’t want to leave all my lovely possessions! You’ve now got everything my father worked so hard to give me.”

“But you’re dead, Christine! You’re supposed to be at peace.”

“My money is there! My house, my jewels, my dishes, my dresses.”

“None of it can go where you are, Christine. I’m surprised you still care about such things. Aren’t you beyond it all?”

“There’s nothing to do here! I’m still waiting to learn where I’m going next.”

“I don’t understand.”

“They can’t send me to the Other Side until I’ve let go of Earth. You must help me, Gregory.”

“But what can I do?”

“You have found the person to help. Give her whatever she needs.…” Her voice slowed and faded. “Caterina will guide you.…”

Mama’s head slumped forward. I wobbled my knees to ring the bell again. Mr. Poole sat in a daze, his palms still flat on the table.

“Oh, my,” announced Norah. “I’m coming over all strange.” She half stood and then crumpled sideways and slumped to the ground in a heap.

“She’s fainted!”

Douglas knelt beside his wife, fanning her face. I dove for our supply case, forgetting the bell, which jangled merrily under my skirt. I froze and looked around, catching Mama’s glare. But Norah remained in her swoon, Douglas stayed on his knees, and Mr. Poole had jumped up to pour water from a carafe on the sideboard. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

I grabbed the bell through my skirt and used my other hand to dig in the case for the smelling salts. Of course I had to look clumsy, but for the lady’s sake I made it swift, accompanied by several grunts. One whiff of the salts and Norah started up like a kitten under a tap. She
tsked
to find herself
on the floor, and let Douglas lead her quickly out of the room.

The tender good-night between Mr. Poole and my mother took too much time and required my monumental patience. He was utterly indebted, as Mama had predicted, and ready to sign up for endless sessions: cards, palms, tea leaves, crystals, callings; all to banish the spirit—and, no doubt, the memory—of his dear late wife.

The knocker was clacking before Peg had arrived, so I scurried to open the door, crossing my eye on the way. It seemed early for anyone to be thinking about fortunes, but there were occasional emergencies when only a psychic would do.

It wasn’t a customer. It was an enormous bouquet of yellow roses; twenty-four, because I counted. The delivery boy was Bradley Barker from the tenth grade, whose uncle owned Garden’s Best, the florist shop. Poor Bradley had nasty pimples all over his face and neck. In my opinion, he was nearly as much an outcast as I was.

“They’re the most expensive flowers we have,” he said, handing them over with a small envelope. “And, no surprise, they’re not for you. They’re for your mother.”

“Thank you,” I slurred. I did not give him a tip.

“Aren’t they lovely!” cried Mama when she appeared.
She inhaled the scent of the fresh roses with her eyes closed.

She read the card and passed it to me.

I’d seen that cunning look in Mama’s eyes before, as she thought about where she might lead a romance. With Mama, it was part of the game.

It had never occurred to me that I might lose my sense over a boy. Mama didn’t lose her sense. Except maybe the once that had resulted in me being here in the first place. Mama dealt the cards and always came out the winner. But I couldn’t look at Sammy Sloane without my heartbeat getting the hiccups.

I began to get up early just to watch him walk past our door on his way to school. I’d figured out we were on the path from his house near the rail yards to the school at the bottom of the hill. I knew where he lived because I’d followed him home. Twice. As the days ticked by, I got bolder with my spying. One morning—with my breath coming out my ears, I was so on edge—I left the spot behind the lace curtain and moved to sit on the doorstep. I put on my new brimmed hat and tossed my hair. I was cheating on being daft, and Mama would strangle me if she knew.

I licked my lips and let them form a fetching smile.
Sammy Sloane wheeled along on his scooter and hopped off just as he came to the cracked sidewalk in front of our house.

“Hey,” he said, eyebrows up, and smiling for a second before he realized it was me. He gave me a wave and took two steps. Then
whoosh
, back on the scooter and he was gone. I about swooned. He’d spoken to me.

I jumped to my feet for an ecstatic twirl. Then my spirits crashed and I kicked the door. There was no wonderful, black-haired boy on earth who wanted a wonky-eyed, chapped-lipped moron for a sweetheart.

The truth landed like a conker on my head. I would never have Sammy for a boyfriend. This boy who listened to his friends with his head tilted, and laughed at their jokes with bright, dark eyes; this boy who made my breath stop and my neck heat up as if his arm were already draped around it would never give me a moment’s consideration, except as the loony girl.

I could feel my heart shriveling. I would never have a friend of any kind while we stayed in Peach Hill, where I was a joke and an imbecile. Mama and I would have to leave right away so we could start again somewhere else. We’d think of another ploy, and I could be myself instead of stupid. We must be nearly rich enough by now. We could find a little cottage in a different town, by the ocean, with a boardwalk and a concert in the bandstand on Sunday afternoons. Mama could stick to tarot cards, or retire, even, and—what would she do? We’d think of something. I’d go to school with clean hair and rosy lips and have friends. I’d meet another boy and someday, after a few tragic years of walking beside
the white-capped sea, I’d recover from my heartbreak and forget about Sammy Sloane. But we’d have to go soon, before I was mortified more than I could bear.

I would tell Mama as soon as the customers were fed their fortunes and gone for the day.

Peg had roasted a chicken and hurried out to buy rice to go with it. While Mama read one last palm, I made some ginger tea and buttered slices of toast.

“Mama,” I began when she came into the kitchen. “I have an idea.”

“I’ve made a decision,” said Mama at the same moment. She was so merry she was just about singing. “I like Peach Hill,” she announced. “What do you think of moving into a house with a pagoda and a pond?”

“Mama, no!” I gaped at her. “Do you mean with Mr. Poole? Actually live with him? No! I was just going to tell you. We’ve made a mistake, and I think we should leave.”

“Nonsense! We’ve only just arrived! This place is tingling with promise. I can feel it in my bones. Even the spirits are lively.”

“Mama, you’re talking about the spirits as if you believe they exist. We can’t stay here. I don’t want to be an idiot anymore.”

“It won’t be forever,” Mama coaxed. “I have thought of a plan to make our fortune, once and for all. Mr. Gregory Sebastian Poole is a very rich man, Annie. I’m still a young woman. If I marry him—”

“Marry him?”

“Only for about five years.”

“What?” I shouted. “Five years? No, Mama! You think I want to be an idiot for five years?” How could she suggest such a thing?

“I’ll not be hollered at by my own child,” snapped Mama.

“You won’t listen if I don’t holler!” I hollered. “You only ever think about you! What about me for a change?” I was mad as a trapped wasp.

Mama scraped back her chair and stood up, her hands clenched. “You hush at once.” Her voice had an edge like a cleaver. But I couldn’t stop myself.

“Is
Mrs
. Poole going to help your little plan? I suppose she’s going to tell her husband to marry you and give you all her money? Why should you get to have a romance while I’m the ugly duckling with no hope of ever being kissed? I’ll be drooling and stammering at your wedding. Is that what you want?”

Mama narrowed her cold, gray eyes, but I ducked past her and slammed out the door. I was bursting, I needed to scream.

“Grrrack! Arrggerrack! Aarrrroooeeeeww!”

I stomped along Needle Street, down Picker’s Lane and around the square a dozen times, tears gushing. Maybe I was crazy after all. People hopped aside to let me pass, turning their faces away. I’d have grinned if I hadn’t been so mad. Nothing like a loony on a rampage to clear the path.

It was the busiest time of day in Peach Hill. The two factories were changing shifts, the shops had just closed, kids were hurrying home not to miss the supper bell. The opportunity for chaos was enormous.

“Rraaarrrgghh!”
I swung my arms like a windmill, not really caring what I hit. Most people sidestepped, but I collided with a woman struggling with a large market bag. She cursed me as vegetables bounced across the pavement. That pulled me up short, made me stop huffing long enough to inhale. I tried to help pick up the onions, but I was shooed away with an angry hiss.

Too late I noticed a band of high schoolers gathered outside the five-and-dime store, laughing and pointing at me. Not Sammy, thank goodness, but Delia, and a girl named Lexie, and Sally Carlaw, and Frankie Romero and Howie and another couple of boys. Howie jumped into step beside me, making ape noises, imitating the way I loped along. I wanted to evaporate!

I spun on my toes and aimed to whap him one upside the head. He dodged my palm, laughing, and then darted forward and tripped me! Tripped a retarded girl! I crashed to the ground, wrenching my ankle, my eyes and cheeks burning.