How It Happened in Peach Hill (8 page)

“Have you been to a séance before?” I asked as Mama ushered everyone into the front room. The young ladies shook their heads.

“We never know who will be waiting on the Other Side to greet my mother,” I explained. “She sends the message through and hopes to reach the callers’ departed loved ones, but the connection is fragile and occasionally broken.” I had to tell them this in case there was a perilous moment or an awkward question and Mama had to end the séance abruptly.

“How did you first know you had the second sight, Madame?” Miss Weather asked.

“Oh, even as a child,” said Mama, “I heard voices and saw what I now know were visions. I was eleven or twelve before I discovered that not everyone was able to see beyond the place and time where their earthbound bodies dwelt. My cousin, Timothy, died of diphtheria, but he still spent his
evenings in my room, playing Hide the Button and begging for ghost stories.” She always gave a melancholy laugh at this point in the recollection. “Poor little mite didn’t know he
was
a ghost.”

I wouldn’t want to read the book where Mama found that muck, but it often inspired wet eyes. Mr. Poole’s niece and her friend were likely softies. Mrs. Newman, however, looked as tough as a cowboy’s backside.

I lit the candles, set in sconces on the walls and in crystal saucers on the windowsill. The only electric illumination was a standing lamp, which Mama kept draped with a pink scarf so it cast a glow of sunset in one corner. Most mediums preferred to perform in complete darkness, but to us that screamed of tricks. Mama said “Seeing is believing,” so we kept the lights turned on, a little.

The seating arrangement was a delicate matter. Mama had her chair and I had mine, already rigged as needed. But it had to seem to the customers that I simply slid into the last empty seat. Once everyone was sitting down, I slipped off my shoes and looped the transparent fishing line around my ankle as I pretended to scrape my chair into position. That was the official opening of our routine. Mama admonished me, as she always did: “Annie, you’ll scare off the spirits. Be careful, dear heart!”

One of the ladies giggled, Miss Weather, I think. A nervous laugh is common at the beginning of a calling. We try to have them crying by the end. I was nervous that day, with Mrs. Newman sitting there looking downright leery.

“We must warm the connection,” Mama began. “Please place your hands on the table.…” All hands were obediently
laid on the gleaming walnut surface. We gave a minute to let people settle, to sit quietly in the flickering light, to wonder what would happen next.

Mrs. Torn sat beside me with her fingers spread wide, showing off ragged nails. She must chew them like toast. Mrs. Newman seemed to be gripping the table, the sinews taut on her long fingers. Mama’s hands were elegant, with beautifully shaped nails. The tips of her fingers drummed gently on the wood; she was impatient to get started. Miss Weather, across the table, had pulled off her gloves as we sat down, revealing a wart near the tip of her ring finger. Mr. Poole sat next to his niece. His hands were large, with a light crop of dark hair below each knuckle. How could Mama consider marrying him? He had hairy fingers! He sat bolt upright, perhaps more excited than anyone else.

“Take the hands of your neighbors to form a circle,” said Mama. Mama did a lovely séance, I must say. The candles were placed just so, to keep a golden gleam on her face, highlighting her cheekbones and catching auburn flecks in her dark hair.

“Let us hum together,” she said. “It will improve our chances of entry into the spirit world.”

Most people were self-conscious and needed to be shown. Mama began, as always leading the way. Of course I joined right in with her, my hum soft and steady, on a higher note than hers. Mr. Poole started up, deep and rolling. He likely sang bass in the church choir. Miss Weather and Mrs. Torn were a bit meek with their contribution, and Mrs. Newman made no sound at all. Her eyes stayed intently on Mama, which was certainly best for me. The candles wavered, not by
my doing but just because of air currents. The flicker made the two young women gasp and Mrs. Newman roll her eyes.

It worked best to keep the hum going strong until people stopped twitching, until they were nearly bored. Mama’s voice got subtly higher and began to falter, as if she were deciding which note to continue. Her eyes closed halfway. That was my signal.

Crack!
Ladies always jumped at the sharp snap below us, or was it coming from the corner of the room? Squeals were stifled. Another
crack!
Mrs. Newman leaned over slowly to look under the table. There was nothing for her to see except legs and boots and my stockinged feet, playing with my shoes. I waited until she was upright and then
crack!
I knew she was puzzled, but she held her face blank. Mama jerked abruptly, as if she had collided with some force invisible to the rest of us. She recovered quickly but remained slumped and began to speak in a husky voice, completely unlike her own.

“I am standing at the Gate to Beyond,” she said. “There is quite a crowd to greet us here today. There is a fellow in uniform, wanting to speak to Sylvia Torn.”

Mrs. Torn shrieked. She dropped my hand and Mrs. Newman’s. Her fingers flew to her mouth.

“He’s waiting, Sylvia Torn. Are you ready to hear him?”

“Yes!” she bleated. “Yes, I am!”

I waggled my foot, tugging the fishing line to make the pink kerchief hanging over the lamp flutter wildly for a moment. Rosy shafts of light flew across the ceiling, and the candle flames danced. Mama’s voice altered pitch and took on a faint Southern twang.

“Sylvie?” she said, guessing.

Mrs. Torn nodded urgently and moved her hands from her lips long enough to whisper, “Buddy?”

“Who else?”

“Buddy!”

“How’s my girl?”

“Oh, Buddy! I miss you!”

“Don’t you worry about me anymore. I’m doing just fine over here. But it’s time for you to buck up, my girl. Time to move on.”

“Oh, Buddy! I can’t live without you!”

“Sure you can! You’re my girl, aren’t you? Tell you what I think. You need a job,” said Buddy.

Mrs. Newman made a sound, but Mama kept going.

“In a shop, maybe, or a café? Get out and meet some new people, maybe even a fella, eh, Sylvie? You’re too pretty to mope about all day, biting your fingernails!”

“What?” Mrs. Torn curled her fingertips into fists.

“I love you, Sylvie.” Very faint.

I cracked my toe joint again quickly, hoping to limit the sobs.

“Buddy’s gone,” said Mama’s husky voice. “Handsome fellow, wants the best for you.”

“Yes,” breathed Mrs. Torn.

“But there’s someone else here who won’t wait a moment longer. She insists on speaking to Gregory Poole.”

“Christine?” said Mr. Poole.

“Gregory? Gregory? Is that you?” Mama’s voice was high and querulous, the same one she’d used in his fancy dining room.

“It has been a quiet week,” said Mr. Poole. “Thank you, Christine.”

I had a sudden vision of her bracelet nestled on velvet in Laraby’s window. I hadn’t told Mama, but now I looked at Mr. Poole more closely. Was he really thanking her for her jewelry?

“I’ve been resting,” said Mrs. Poole. “Watching you. I’m trying to decide what I think of your new friend.”

“Oh, well, ah …” Mr. Poole was embarrassed and confused. His wife was speaking through the mouth of the very friend she was being rude to!

“And I’ve noticed that you haven’t been to visit my grave, Gregory.” Mr. Poole squirmed as Miss Weather looked up sharply. Good guess, Mama! “It could use some attention. What will people say?”

“Ah, well, you’re right, Christine. I’ll order fresh flowers tomorrow.”

“No woman alive will feel affection for a man who doesn’t honor his deceased wife.”

“Ah, thank you, Christine. Is there anything you’d like to say about the business?”

“Watch carefully for signs, Gregory,” said Mrs. Poole. “You haven’t heard the last from me.”

Mama loved to tack that on with wealthy clients. Even if they loathed their dear departed, they could never resist hearing more as promised. Mama started to hum, ever so quietly, so I knew to crack my toe again.

Suddenly there came a thud, and it wasn’t me this time. I was the only one who jumped, because the others didn’t
know we were at the end, didn’t realize we were waiting for Mama’s “fall” out of trance.

Instead we heard her husky voice again. “There’s quite a vision here now. She’s an ancient soul indeed and seems to be wearing—is it called a wimple? She’s here for Annie.”

“Wha—?” One syllable escaped before I gathered my wits. I settled my hands back to the table. All eyes were on me.

“This is Annie,” I called out.

There was silence, then a thump.

“She cannot speak,” said Mama. “She wants parchment and ink.”

“Parchment?” said Mr. Poole.

I looked around wildly. Peg had been distracted by the guests’ arrival and had not brought the paper. We couldn’t call her in the middle of a séance!

Mrs. Newman removed her hands from the circle and groped beneath her seat. She dragged her bag onto her lap and pulled out a notebook, which she laid flat on the table. She riffled through it, past columns and lists to a blank page toward the back. Mama was back to humming all the while. Mrs. Newman produced a sharpened pencil and placed it in the center of the book.

“There,” she said. “The parchment of 1924.”

Mama’s eyes stayed half lowered, and she kept humming for a bit before speaking. “She wants Annie to hold the writing implement.”

“Tell her it’s called a pencil,” said Mrs. Newman, sounding peevish. The notebook was passed to me and I picked up the pencil, awaiting inspiration.

I took a breath and threw my head back and then forward
as if someone were throttling me. I shuddered a tremendous shudder and began to write.

My name is Gwendalen of Stone House
, I scrawled.
I am daughter to Arne the Vast and Elbecca of Tune
.

“What’s she writing?” whispered Miss Weather. “What does it say?”

“I can’t quite see,” said Mrs. Torn.

“Well, lean over! Read it aloud!”

I kept going.

My oldest brother, Horehound, has gone to be trained for the wars. The next brother, Matts, is gone to a monastery. I reached the age of fourteen and could not be married easily as I am homely and tall. I angered my father in many ways. I was sent away from my home, nine days’ journey with a mule, to join the convent at Craighn, the order of Saint Lucy, patroness of blind people and writers.…

Mrs. Torn began to read aloud over my shoulder, which made me falter for a moment, but I quickly resumed my masterpiece. She caught up to me and then had to wait for every word.

Although it is not usual for a damsel to be a scholar, the sisters recognized my gift and permitted me to read the Holy Book and to compose odes of a dramatic nature. Until my father, Arne the Vast, had occasion to visit the convent. He was displeased with my occupation and this led to my grim death
.

Mrs. Torn stopped reading. “Oh! Poor thing!”

I kept writing.

Now I wander the heavens seeking outlet for my verses, until today, when I am joyous to enter my spirit into the willing vessel of young Annie, newly healed and an open soul
.

I stopped. Mrs. Torn stopped. The candle flames quivered. I threw my head back and then forward, steeling myself for the thwack of pain as my forehead smacked the walnut tabletop.

Miss Weather sighed. Mr. Poole stood up and came around the table to pat my shoulder.

“Ooh, I was hoping we’d hear how she died,” said Mrs. Torn.

Mama went into her crooning song while I shivered and twitched, my hand still gripping the pencil and outstretched across the page. The customers, normally afraid to move for some time at the end of a calling, clustered around me where I sat, my head still pressed to the polished wood.

My mother spoke in her own voice.

“What has happened here? Annie? Is Annie all right? Peg?” She flung open the door. “Peg? Come here at once! Bring a damp cloth!”

I shuddered once more and sat up, rubbing the bump on my forehead.

“Oh, thank goodness!” breathed Mrs. Torn.

“Caterina.” Mr. Poole followed Mama to the hallway. “Your daughter is awake.”

Peg scurried in. I was blotted with a dripping tea towel, and the customers clucked with relief. Only Mrs. Newman hadn’t prodded me or expressed concern for me. From the corner of my eye, I saw her retrieve the accounting book holding the pages dictated by Gwendalen.

Peg bundled the ladies into their jackets. Mr. Poole put a hand on Mama’s arm. “Thank you, my dear. That was extraordinary.” He handed her an envelope, which she tucked neatly away. “Was it everything you hoped for, Sylvia?”

Mrs. Torn clasped her hands. “Oh, Madame! I have dreamt of Buddy every night for five years, and he never spoke to me so nice as he did tonight. Thank you with all my heart!” She followed her friend outside.

Mr. Poole leaned in closer to Mama. “I have a proposition to make, my dear. I would very much like to offer my services as a manager for your talents, and those that your daughter is now displaying. May I take you out for dinner very soon to discuss the possibilities?”

Mama smiled at him, tossing her hair ever so slightly. “Gregory, you’ve made two tempting offers!”

Manager? We didn’t need a manager!

He kissed her hand and bowed his way out the door. She turned her attention to the remaining guest.

“Thank you for joining us this evening, Mrs. Newman.” Mama swept her arm wide as she held the door open.

“It was …” Mrs. Newman paused, her notebook held against her chest under folded arms. “It was eventful,” she said. “And most gratifying to know that young Annie has quickly mastered her letters so well. I feel confident that she could succeed, even in the tenth grade. Let’s see how that works, when she comes back to school in the morning.”