by Howe, A. E.
As Alice started to seat everyone around the table, François gently took control. He guided each guest to a chair he chose for them. Josephine felt him touch her arm lightly and indicate the seat to his right. Once the table was arranged to his satisfaction, he sat down beside her.
“Tonight we will ask our astral guides to bring us word from our loved ones who have crossed over and gone beyond the veil.” François paused and looked around the table. “The power that we use should not be squandered or misused for gain or revenge. You may ask questions, but it should be done in the spirit of bonhomie.”
Josephine refrained from rolling her eyes, barely.
François turned to her and put his hand out, just short of touching hers. “I understand you recently lost your father. We won’t reach out to him. He’s been on the other side for a relatively short time. Occasionally, when you call a spirit back too soon, they can become disoriented, even angry. So no fears, Mademoiselle Josephine.” He paused and looked around the table at the eager faces.
Josephine found herself being drawn in against her will, not to the ritual itself but to the theatrics. She’d read about séances. Would there be beating drums and blowing trumpets? Would she be able to see through whatever conjuring tricks he used to fool the others?
“Do you want me to blow out the candles?” Mr. MacDonnell asked.
“Yes, but bring one candlestick over to the table,” François told him. “I will warn you, this is not a theatrical performance. Those of you who were with me last night know that I am not an entertainer like so many spiritualists. There will be no drums, levitating tables or rapping on the walls.”
Josephine had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d read her mind.
MacDonnell snuffed out two dozen candles before he carefully carried the remaining candlestick over to the table.
“Now we begin,” François said, reaching out to Josephine on his right and Alice on his left. Everyone joined hands.
François’s head drooped down to his chest and his breathing became heavy. Josephine could feel him swaying rhythmically as his hand tugged back and forth on hers.
“Spirits, you know me. You trust me. I ask you to reveal yourselves to me. We have visitors tonight who wish to speak with you,” he intoned.
To Josephine, he sounded like he was talking to beings he could actually see. A good actor, her skeptical side concluded.
He continued to call on the spirits for several minutes until a chill descended over Josephine. She glanced around the table and saw that the others looked uncomfortably cold.
“Eva! My Eileen!” came a strange female voice from Josephine’s left. Her head whipped around and what she saw almost caused her to drop François’s hand. He was looking up now with a smile on his face, but for a minute she’d thought he’d changed into a woman. She quickly decided that it was just the effect of the feminine voice coming from his mouth. It was uncanny in that it didn’t seem to be coming from him at all. It was more like it was coming out of him. It was unnerving.
“It’s your mama. Don’t you know me?” the voice asked. Eva and Eileen were staring at François, open-mouthed.
“Mama?” Eva asked slowly.
“Yes, I’m here. I’ve missed you both so much. I remember the sound of your voices around the kitchen table when we snapped peas in the summer. I’m happy on this side, but I miss those days with the two of you.”
“We miss you too, Mama,” Eva said, sounding just like the young girl who’d seen her mother come home in an oak box.
“Eileen, has the cat got your tongue?” the voice asked.
Eileen looked puzzled and suspicious in equal measures. “Maybe it has.”
“You doubt that I’m your mother. Do you remember the spring day when you were ten and wanted to wear your church dress to school?”
“I… do,” Eileen said cautiously.
“But I wouldn’t let you so you cried and begged until I got it out of you that you were sweet on Ethan Tibbets.”
At this, Eileen’s jaw slowly went slack. She looked at her sister, who was staring at François with a mesmerized expression on her face.
“It can’t really be you,” Eileen said. Her voice carried more wonder than accusation.
“Yes, my dear little flower, it really is me.” And with those words, Josephine watched as Eileen became a believer. Tears started to stream down both women’s cheeks.
“I can’t believe this. I didn’t dream…” Eileen said.
“What about Father?” Eva burst out.
“Yes, your father is with me.”
“Can I speak to him?” Eva asked.
“What’s up, puddin’ head?” A deep male voice floated from François’s mouth. Josephine felt like she had been transported to some strange world that she didn’t understand.
“Oh, Papa!” Eva said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She dropped Mr. MacDonnell’s hand and reached toward François.
“We must go,” the man’s voice said.
“No!” Eva and Eileen said together.
“We came hoping to bring you comfort. We’re happy, and the only thing that will make that happiness complete is when you join us. But there is nothing more we can do now. We love you.” The words seemed to fade as if down a long tunnel.
Both women were openly crying now, but Josephine thought they were tears of happiness. Whatever that was, it has brought these two women a peace they haven’t known since they were young, Josephine thought.
“Josie?” Like before, the words came out of François’s mouth, but not from him. Josephine’s head snapped toward him. The voice was familiar.
“You don’t remember Petey?”
“Uncle Petey?” Josephine couldn’t believe she was being pulled into this, but the voice had taken her by surprise. She hadn’t thought of her father’s brother in years. Uncle Petey had been a gangly man who’d seemed to her like a human-size marionette. Later she’d learned that he was the black sheep of the family, accused of jilting a woman he’d promised to marry. Her father had always called him a rogue. She knew he’d died young, but couldn’t recall how.
“Little Josie, I want you to know that I’m sorry for not being a better uncle and brother. I know I was a disappointment to Andre and our parents.”
“He always smiled when he spoke of you,” Josephine said, barely realizing that she was accepting the voice as the spirit of her uncle.
“I feel him on this side. I will see him soon. That makes me glad. Our parents are here. All together again. All the strife ends in peace.”
“That’s good, Uncle Petey. I’m glad,” Josephine said, feeling slightly foolish. The surprise of hearing his voice was wearing off and some of her skepticism was resurfacing.
“Oh, I left something for you,” the voice said. “In your father’s library. I put a note in a book, a collection of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories. You’ll find a letter there. I must go now.” The voice ended abruptly.
François’s body shook in what looked like a cross between a convulsion and someone shaking off a nap.
“He needs a break,” Alice said. “François, would you like something to drink?”
“A brandy would be divine,” he said, opening his eyes. Everyone relaxed and Mr. MacDonnell stood up.
“I’ve got some excellent brandy that I saved from the revenuers,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Orders all around?” he asked, looking at those seated at the table.
“Yes, something please,” Eileen said, sounding as tired as François. Eva, on the other hand, shook her head. Her face still wore a wide grin while her eyes looked happily into the distance.
“I’ll help you, and you can make me something that will warm me up. I’m chilled to the bone,” Alice said. Her excitement hadn’t dimmed at all. She got up and followed Mr. MacDonnell over to a large mahogany cabinet.
François looked less fatigued as he turned to Josephine. “Not what you were expecting?”
“I can’t believe that I
spoke to my Uncle Petey.” But even as she said it, she knew she’d be going straight to the library when she got home to pull down that volume of Poe’s works.
“It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not.”
“How do you find our relatives?” Josephine asked, half curious and half unconvinced.
“I don’t find them. You all draw them here. I am just a conduit. Like a telephone.”
“You’re saying that they sense us?”
“Exactly. Your family is always with you. I open the gateway and they come forward with their messages.”
“You ever run into angry spirits?”
“Yes,” he said with a look on his face that didn’t encourage further inquiry. “Again, it depends on the people around the table.”
“How long have you had this… talent?”
“Since I was a small child. My mother used to have me open the gateway for people when I was only nine years old.”
“Where are you from?”
“France. Many years ago.”
Josephine wanted to ask him how he made a living. As far as she could tell, he didn’t charge for these sessions. There hadn’t even been a pitch for a tip or donation. But she couldn’t quite compose the right question. Even she couldn’t bring herself to just blurt out: Where do you get your money?
“You were shocked when your uncle spoke to you,” François said.
“I hadn’t thought of him in a long while,” she said, wondering if that was part of the trick. By conjuring up relatives who were long dead, it was less likely that the participants in the séance would remember what they had really been like and call his bluff. That sounded like a good explanation, but even so, how could François have learned that she even had an uncle, let alone any details about his life and personality? Josephine doubted there were more than half a dozen people in town who would remember Petey.
“You find it hard to believe in my power.”
“I’m skeptical.”
“There are many things that are beyond our understanding,” François said.
Reflecting on the past year and her experiences since meeting Blasko, Josephine couldn’t argue with that statement. “Skeptical doesn’t mean closed-minded,” she said amicably.
“Caution is seldom a fault.”
Josephine saw Eileen walk toward the kitchen, looking upset. She excused herself and got up to follow her. On the way to the kitchen, she passed Eva, who was talking excitedly with Alice.
Eileen wandered through the kitchen to the back door and Josephine followed her onto a small porch. The air was cool, but mild for winter.
“Mind if I join you?” Josephine asked.
Eileen hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t mind if you join me if you don’t mind if I have a cigarette,” she said, flashing the unlit cigarette in her hand.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I’m the bad sister,” she said, rooting around in her black sequined purse for a lighter. With the cigarette burning, she inhaled deeply. “That sounds bitter. I’m not really. Eva is so sweet; I just look bad in comparison.” There was both melancholy and affection in her words.
“You’re the strong one,” Josephine observed.
“I almost got married ten years ago, but I kept thinking what Eva would do without me. Silly, really. Once in a while I see beneath all her naiveté to the strong little fortress she has built. Still…” She took a few more drags on the cigarette. “Do you think he’s for real?” She nodded back toward the house.
“A year ago, I would have said no. But now…” Josephine tilted her head to the side. “I don’t know.”
“I’m just worried that Eva will get too caught up in all of this. Hell’s bells, he had me going for a while. My mother… I can’t be sure which are real memories and which are ones that we’ve dreamed up or embellished over the years.”
“By channeling people who’ve been dead for decades, he’s making it more difficult to call him out as a fraud,” Josephine agreed. “But then again, it’s hard to imagine how he could have dredged up so much information about events that took place so long ago.”
“The voices… They were… eerie, like echoes of our parents’ voices,” Eileen said, taking another deep drag on the cigarette and reducing it to a stub which she put out and dropped in a pot by the door.
“Eva is smart and clever. She’ll be okay,” Josephine assured her.
Eileen nodded and opened the door.
When they returned to the parlor, everyone else had finished their drinks and were taking their seats around the table for the second half of the séance. Again, François called to the spirits.
“Alice, what are you doing back here? You are such a bother,” said a female voice.
“Mother! You don’t mean that,” Alice said, sounding even more giddy than usual.
“No, I don’t, honey bee. You were a wonderful child. Even now, I can see you playing in in the front yard with your puppy. What was his name? Speedy!”
“That’s right. He was the fastest dog I’ve ever seen. I still haven’t met a dog that can run faster than him,” Alice said.
They talked for a few more minutes about Alice’s childhood and several of the milestones of her early life before her mother said she had a favor to ask.
“Anything, Mother,” Alice replied.
“I want you to give my bible to your sister.” The voice sounded very earnest.
“Which bible?” Alice asked, sounding puzzled.
“My communion bible. It’s in the chest up in the attic of your house.”
“Oh, yes, it might be. I think my wedding dress is in that old trunk too,” Alice said, sounding surprised.
“Take the bible to your sister as soon as you can.”
“Why?”
“It is important, little one.” Then the voice was gone. Josephine and the others watched as François’s head nodded down to his chest like a curtain going down to end a show.
“Hey, Dad!” A voice suddenly boomed out of François’s mouth and his eyes shot open, unfocused. The loud cry made everyone around the table jump. Several dropped the hand of the person next to them, but they quickly regained their composure and grasped hands again.
“Son?” Mr. MacDonnell said timidly. Josephine remembered that Alice had told her how disappointed the MacDonnells had been that their son hadn’t made an appearance at the séance the night before.
“You got it on the first try,” the voice joked. The joy in his voice was uplifting.
“I… We…” Mr. MacDonnell was clearly stunned.
“It’s okay. I know I died. I’m so sorry that I left you both. I… In the last moments, I thought of you and Mom. I just couldn’t hold on.”
“When we got the telegram, our hearts were broken,” Mr. MacDonnell said as though he and the voice were the only ones in the room.
“I did my best, just like you taught me. The sounds are what I remember most. The artillery was like all the gods of ancient Rome and Greece having the final battle of the world. Terrifying and electrifying all at once. The ground shook, the air pulsed and the noise… everything else was drowned out. Time seemed to stand still while the artillery barrage of the German trenches went on. Then, in an instant, the world went silent. No noise at all. The men in my regiment were sure that no German could have survived. But as soon as the thought was formed, the whistles sounded. All up and down the trenches, the officers blew their whistles. When no one moved, the sergeants started shouting and shoving us toward the ladders. The Germans weren’t dead.
“The first man up my ladder fell back on us with a rifle bullet through his neck. Blood flew in my face and, I think as much to get away from that dying man as to obey any orders, I climbed up and out of the trench. Then I saw hell. Surely men had never faced such carnage. We moved forward as one chaotic mass. I’d say we moved toward the German trenches, but I couldn’t see anything but smoke and blood and dirt and men. Dead men, running men, falling
men, struggling men, screaming men and men who were out of their minds with terror.
“I stumbled forward. One of my mates was next to me. I wrote to you about him—Albert. A second after I recognized him, he turned toward me. I thought it was odd that he had changed into a red shirt, but then I saw the pieces of flesh hanging from his chest just before he collapsed to the ground. I ran. I don’t even know if I still had my rifle in my hand, but I ran away from Albert. I tripped over some barbed wire and fell to the ground. I thought, Good. I’ll lay here on the ground and wait for all of this to be over. Then I felt something hit my helmet and fall beside me. A potato masher. That’s what the guys called the wooden-handled German grenades. I tried to scuttle away, but the barbed wire snagged my clothes and then the grenade exploded. There was no pain, just the realization that I was going to die. The moment stretched out and that’s when I thought of you and Mom. I thought of warm summer days and the smell of your library. All I wanted was to come back to you.”
The voice had mesmerized everyone around the table. When it faded away, they were left speechless. François’s head sank down to his chest again.
“Wait!” Mrs. MacDonnell yelled. She half rose out of her chair, but her husband’s hand on her arm kept her from reaching out to François.
“Is that all?” Mr. MacDonnell said, his voice cracking with emotion.
“I want to talk to him,” his wife said. “Please.”
François opened his eyes and looked at her. Then he said, his voice weak, “Sometimes the spirits only want to have their say.”
“No, no, please,” she cried, looking more like a woman who’d just lost her child than one mourning the loss of a son who died sixteen years earlier.
“Madam, it is no use. He wished to share his last moments on this earth with you and that is what he did,” François said, his voice calm and soothing. “We cannot command them. I know that hearing them speak can cause us to forget they are no longer of this world.”
Mrs. MacDonnell began to weep. Her husband pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly as tears rolled down his cheeks and fell upon his wife’s shoulders.
“I regret the pain this has caused you. However, you have to remember that you’ve helped your son to rest easier,” François said, then stood up.