The Medium

by Noëlle Sickels

  There were always extra kids in the neighborhood on Thanksgiving, and unless it was raining, they all made it outside some time in the late afternoon. This year, when Helen and the twins went out, the Mackeys, minus seventeen-year-old Barbara, were already in front tossing a football with their three cousins. Within fifteen minutes, eight other kids assembled from both ends of the block. Helen was glad not to find Mary Steltman among them.

  A game of ring-a-levio was quickly organized. Helen and Teresa were on Billy’s team, Terence on Lloyd’s team. As a rule, the twins liked to stick together, but Lloyd had insisted they split up.

  “If we call Terry, see, we won’t know which one if you’re on the same team,” he explained, brushing aside their objection that neither of them used the nickname Terry.

  They didn’t protest very strongly. Lloyd’s head was covered with longish stubble by now, but his formidable scar was still visible, and coupled with his charisma, it rendered him an irreproachable leader. It was he who chose the center of Dohrmann’s corn patch at the street’s dead end as base. With the tall, dried stalks surrounding prisoners, it would be more difficult, and more thrilling, for their teammates to secure their release by running in, tagging the central plant, and yelling “ring-a-levio, caw, caw, caw.” Lloyd talked little Linda out of one of her red hair ribbons and tied it to the corn stalk that had to be tagged.

  The game was wild, requiring almost constant running. Soon sweaters were unbuttoned and caps cast aside. If someone tripped, they scrambled to their feet without a whimper and ran on. Helen gloried in it. At last, the tightness in her chest from last night’s interaction with Mary was gone, unlocked by the force of her pounding heart and swelling lungs.

  As the afternoon crawled into twilight, some children had to leave, but the game continued. With fewer players, it was harder to catch people, and it took longer to be freed once you were caught. At one point, with the light nearly too dim to make out the racing, dodging figures, Helen and Billy found themselves prisoners together at the corn plant with the red ribbon. A breeze rasped through the stalks. The shouts of their companions reached them from different directions. Billy kept turning his head from side to side, watching for a teammate to crash through the stalks to free them.

  “Be ready to go,” he said to Helen. “It’s gonna be hard to see anyone coming.”

  Helen nodded, pulling up her anklets, which had slid down into her shoes at the heels.

  “Lloyd’s running pretty good,” she said. “Guess his leg’s all better.”

  “Yeah, it’s jake.” Billy stopped scanning the rows to bestow a teasing smile. “’Course, it don’t take much to catch a girl.”

  “You think so, Billy Mackey?” she answered, playfully shoving his shoulder so that he stumbled a bit over a broken corn stalk on the ground behind him.

  In response, he shoved her gently, but she had braced her feet apart and didn’t budge a step. Seemingly satisfied with the uneven exchange, Billy hunched down like a sprinter and resumed watching for a rescuer.

  “You do sorta run okay,” he admitted, peering through the stalks.

  “Well, thanks,” she said sarcastically.

  He straightened up and looked at her. She smiled to show there weren’t really any hard feelings. He kept looking at her, and she began to feel embarrassed.

  “Good thing we’re on the same team,” he said. “’Cause I could catch you easy any time. Any time at all.”

  Helen felt the need to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.

  “Maybe you could, and maybe you couldn’t,” she answered. “Leastways, not every time.”

  “What if you decided to slow down?”

  Helen couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. She bent to tighten her shoelaces.

  “What if I did?”

  She stood up. Maybe it was a trick of the twilight, but his familiar face looked slightly different to her. She noticed for the first time a strong resemblance to his absent father, in the line of his jaw and the spacing of his eyes.

  “What if I did?” she dared to repeat.

  “Well, then, I guess I would—”

  “Ring-a-levio, caw, caw, caw!” screamed Teresa as she burst through the corn stalks and tagged the one with the red ribbon.

  Billy bolted at once. When Helen hesitated, Teresa pulled on her arm, and the two of them took off. When they emerged from the stalks and paused on tiptoes to locate the other runners, they spotted Walter standing out on the sidewalk in conversation with a neighbor, Ted Robertson. Terence stood waiting beside them. He beckoned to the girls, and they ambled over, calling out general good-byes.

  Helen spotted Billy on the other side of the lot, where Linda was leaning against a tree sucking her thumb. He waved before squatting to pick up his sister, and Helen waved back. The Mackey crew was going home, too, but Helen didn’t expect them to walk with her group. Billy would hold them back, within sight perhaps, but out of speaking range. It’s what she’d do in his place. It was the only way to keep that confusing private moment private. It was the only way to protect its possibilities.

  “So that young Robertson was in a Lincoln Brigade, was he?” Helen’s uncle Franz asked her father.

  They were in the car on the way to Brooklyn, the two men up front, Helen, her aunt and cousins in back. The twins were asleep, Terence leaning on Teresa and snoring softly, Teresa slumped heavily against Helen.

  “That’s right,” Walter answered. “Just back from Spain this week because of a bad chest wound. Been gone close to a year.”

  “What’s he got to say for himself?”

  “Seems just as fired up against General Franco as when he left, but I got the impression he won’t be going back.”

  “Had his bellyful of fighting, eh?” Franz said.

  “The boy’s not a coward, if that’s what you mean. More like discouraged. He said Hitler and Mussolini are giving Franco so much help, the Loyalists don’t stand a chance. Stalin gave them some support early on, but it hasn’t amounted to much.”

  They were crossing the George Washington Bridge. Helen pressed her forehead against the cold window glass to watch the black gleam of the Hudson River far below.

  “Is this Ted Robertson a Communist?” Helen’s aunt asked in a horrified whisper.

  “No, Marie,” replied Walter. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then why’d he volunteer to fight in Spain? It’s a civil war. It’s nothing to do with him.”

  “He’s young, idealistic. He sees fascism gaining footholds everywhere in Europe. He wants to stop it. That’s how he explains it, anyway.”

  “And he has no worry about Communists?” Marie said incredulously.

  “Young men,” Franz said, shaking his head. “They’re always drawn to the glory of the fight.”

  “Pooh,” exclaimed Marie. “He should know better than to go against someone who has got the German air force on his side.”

  Terence moaned and twisted about in his sleep. His mother stroked his hair. It was quiet in the car for some minutes. When the adults began speaking again, it was of family matters.

  After the Thanksgiving guests had been let out in Brooklyn, and thank-you’s, good-bye kisses, and handshakes had been exchanged, Helen stretched out in the backseat and dozed. Her father roused her when they were on the bridge again because he knew how much she enjoyed crossing it.

  She propped herself up for a good look all around, then flopped down when they reached the Jersey side and were cruising down Route 4. As she lay curled up with her hands tucked under her cheek, she began to wonder about Billy’s odd question and about what else he might have said if Teresa hadn’t interrupted. Worry over Mary was snaking in once more, too, with the added anxiety that her defamation might reach Billy’s ears.

  It wasn’t fair. She’d only been trying to help that bonehead Mary. Helen slid slightly as the car, off the highway now, met a sharp curve in the road. They’d be home in minutes, but home didn’t feel like a refuge tonight. Home was a
place in which to wait for the sky to fall. Helen felt trapped and helpless, like a captive no one would risk rescuing.

  CHAPTER 12

  Mary was not on the playground Monday morning. She wasn’t there when they formed up lines to go inside. Was she going to be absent, or was she just tardy?

  Helen’s heart jumped each time the classroom door opened, once for a girl delivering mimeograph stencils, once for the safety patrols coming in from their posts, once for a hall monitor with a note from the office. After Miss Thompson read the note, she stood up and turned to the blackboard. Helen was amazed to see her teacher’s neat handwriting spell out Mary Steltman’s name and address.

  “Class,” Miss Thompson said. “I’ve just learned that your friend Mary’s mother passed away yesterday. Take out your grammar books and look up the guidelines for a condolence letter. I expect proper form and proper punctuation. The salutation may be to Mary or to Mary and her family.”

  She sat down, nodding to Susan Edelman, whose job it was to pass out the good white paper. Susan went to the storage cabinet and began counting out sheets. Three students got up to sharpen their pencils. There was a low buzz among the rows of children.

  “If you’re not sure what to say,” Miss Thompson instructed, “do a rough draft first. I don’t want any erasures on the final letters.”

  Helen’s fingers felt numb as she paged through her grammar book. She didn’t notice Susan go by, but she must have, because when Helen looked down at her desktop, a smooth sheet of lined white paper was lying on it. Uncapping her fountain pen, she carefully wrote the date in the top right corner, just as the sample in the grammar book showed.

  The book said a condolence letter should be brief and should focus on memories of the deceased, sympathy for the survivors, and an offer of help to the survivors. Helen decided she would omit that last one, but with a sinking heart, she realized that her mother would be sure to make offers of help to Mr. Steltman and that she might even make promises that Helen would spend time with Mary. Helen would tackle that problem later. Now she had to concentrate on the tricky task of the letter. She would tell Mary, first, she was sorry her mother had passed away. That was true, however Mary might doubt it. And she could also honestly say that Mrs. Steltman had always been nice to her. Helen was trying to recall some specific instance of Mrs. Steltman’s niceness to mention when Miss Thompson called her to her desk.

  “Helen,” Miss Thompson said, “you and Mary are neighbors, aren’t you?”

  “She lives across the street.”

  “Good. Then we can put all the letters in one big envelope, and you can hand deliver them.”

  “Me?” Helen said, panicked.

  “It would be much more personal than mailing them. And I’m sure Mary would appreciate your stopping by.”

  “Are you going to visit her, Miss Thompson?”

  “I expect so, in a few days.”

  “Then can’t you take the letters?”

  Miss Thompson’s expression showed exasperation competing with self-control.

  “Helen, there’s no need to feel nervous about this. Such sad events are part of life, and you are old enough to respond in a polite, grown-up manner. Now, take your seat.”

  Before Helen had reached her seat, Miss Thompson called her back.

  “Helen,” she said in a low tone that even the first row of students would not be able to make out, “are you frightened by the illness that Mrs. Steltman had?”

  “No, ma’am,” Helen said, not adding that she didn’t know what Mrs. Steltman had had, except that the lights had shown there was something very wrong in the area of her stomach.

  “Because it’s only ignorance and superstition that make people shun people who have cancer.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Miss Thompson seemed to be searching Helen’s face for signs of fear or false beliefs.

  “Why don’t you choose someone to go with you? Two students would make a fuller representation of the class, and you can be company for each other. I know it’s not an easy job I’ve set you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thompson.”

  “But why’d you pick me?” Rosie asked again on their way to the Steltman house. “If you remember, last time I saw Mary, we were kind of mad at each other, so I don’t think she’s gonna be too happy to find me at her door now.”

  “Look, Rosie, I picked you for me, not for Mary. Because you’re my best friend, and I didn’t want to go alone, and I thought you’d want to help me out. But if it’s so hard, then just forget it.”

  “Forget it? What about the letters?”

  “I’ll pick somebody else and take them tomorrow.”

  “Miss Thompson won’t like it.”

  “I won’t like it, either.”

  “Oh, all right. Anyway, I don’t really care what Mary Steltman thinks about me.”

  They walked on in silence. The sky was thick with gray clouds threatening the first snow. The resulting light washed the color out of everything. Dark objects, like tree trunks and brick walls, looked darker, while brighter objects, like shop signs, appeared faded and tired. There was an indifferent flatness to everything.

  A black-ribboned floral wreath was hanging over the knocker on the Steltmans’ front door. It hadn’t been there when Helen left for school that morning. She remembered how much Mrs. Steltman had liked flowers. Her roses had won prizes.

  Rosie pushed the bell. A woman looking like a plump version of Mrs. Steltman in better days answered the door. Helen guessed she must be Mrs. Steltman’s sister.

  “We’re from Mary’s class,” Helen said. “We brought her some letters.”

  “I’m afraid Mary’s not up to receiving visitors yet,” the woman said, taking the proffered envelope, “but I’m sure she’ll see you for a moment.”

  Before the girls could protest, the woman had gone inside, leaving the door ajar. In a few minutes, Mary appeared, looking as if she’d just woken up, though it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Her eyes were puffy and red. She held around her the same afghan that had been draped over Mrs. Steltman’s shoulders the night before Thanksgiving.

  “Hey, Mary,” Rosie said gently, reaching out to pat the girl’s arm. Helen envied her poise. “We’re awful sorry about your mom.”

  “Miss Thompson told us this morning,” Helen added. “We all wrote letters. That lady has them.” She pointed to the interior of the house.

  “She’s my aunt,” Mary replied.

  “When will you be back to school, do you think?” Rosie asked.

  “Next week, I guess.”

  “Well, we’ll see you then.”

  Rosie turned to go, and Helen, grateful for the lead, also turned. But feeling she hadn’t really said the right things, she glanced back at Mary, unmoving in the doorway, and said, “I really am very sorry, Mary.”

  Mary made no answer, not even a nod. Helen and Rosie had reached the street when Mary called out.

  “Helen! Wait up!”

  Rosie continued on, telling Helen she’d see her tomorrow. Helen took a deep breath and faced Mary, who was coming down the walkway. The unkind light of the gloomy day made her look even more miserable.

  “I decided not to tell,” she said, as bitterly as if she were uttering a curse.

  Helen supposed she ought to thank her, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate.

  “I don’t want people thinking about you whenever they remember my mother. I don’t want any more whispering about her. She was good, and you’re … well, you’re like a kind of witch.”

  “Mary, I only—”

  Mary put up her hand to stop Helen. The afghan slipped from one shoulder.

  “I don’t want to hear anything from you. It’s like it didn’t happen, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Except …”

  “Except what?”

  “If you ever do anything like that again, not just to me, but to anybody, I will tell. I’ll tell and tell. I’ll put it in the n
ewspapers if I can. And I won’t stop until you haven’t got a friend left, until even the milkman is afraid to come to your house.”

  That night, Helen waited an hour after the rest of the household had gone to bed, and then she summoned Iris.

  She pulled her desk chair into the center of her bedroom and sat doing the deep breathing her grandmother had taught her as seance preparation. She tried to keep herself “open,” as Iris had advised, driving out thoughts that strayed into her mind by listening to the ins and outs of her breaths. Finally, just as she was beginning to think she should give up and try again the next night, she felt an elating lightness infuse her body. Opening her eyes, she found Iris standing before her, the signature flower held loosely between long, slender fingers.

  Helen didn’t know how to begin. Iris gave Helen to understand she’d wait patiently for as long as it took Helen to collect her thoughts.

  “I didn’t get to say, but thanks for helping me out with the man with the pain around his neck,” Helen said at last.

  “Sammy is grateful, too,” Iris said, in her usual nonspeaking way. The smiling lips did not move. Instead, her voice slipped into Helen’s mind like mercury. “You helped him comfort his mother. He couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Helen was surprised. She had known that mediums could be helpful to living people, but she’d never considered that they could be of service to the dead as well. Or that the dead might have desires as piercing as those of the living.

  “Well, I couldn’t have done it without you, Iris.”

  “One day you will do such things and more without me. Somewhere these things are already coming to pass.”

  Helen squirmed in her seat. Could Iris read her mind? She had come painfully close to the reason Helen had summoned her.

  “I won’t be … calling you anymore.”

  Iris gave no reaction.

  “I don’t want to hear things or see things other people can’t. I want to be a regular person.”

  “Deaf and blind?”