High Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “Don’t worry.” There was a sneer in his voice, although it was too dark by that time to see the sneer on his face. “According to my sources, he’s keen on getting you back again. He really wants to get in touch with that dead criminal uncle of his.”

  “Oh, joy. Oh, rapture,” I said, paraphrasing the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta Billy, Ma, Pa, Vi and I had seen last year at the Pasadena Presbyterian Church. Those Presbyterians have a lot of fun.

  “Yeah,” Sam snarled. “Both of those things. When they do call, I want you to tell us exactly when and where the séance will be held. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, I understand. For Pete’s sake, Sam, I’m not an idiot.”

  He said, “Huh,” in a tone that let me know he disagreed with my assessment of myself.

  So that capped my evening. At least dinner had been good.

  * * * * *

  The next morning before I left the house to meet Flossie, a trip I wasn’t exactly looking forward to, I suggested that Billy and I take Spike for a walk. In truth, this meant that I’d hold onto Spike’s leash while Billy tried to remain upright at my side, using my arm and shoulder as a prop. These outings were rather painful for both of us, although Spike loved them. He’d have loved them more, of course, if I’d allowed him to dash around off the leash. However, I didn’t want him to get smashed by the occasional motor vehicle that tootled down Marengo, and I really didn’t want him to poop on any of our neighbors’ lawns. Most of our neighbors were swell folks, but I didn’t want to push it, if you know what I mean.

  It was slow going. I knew Billy had taken his morphine, but I also knew the drug didn’t kill all the pain in his legs. And then there was the problem with his lungs, which were never going to recover from that blasted mustard gas. And whoever invented that noxious stuff ought to be forced to enter a room full of it and then sent straight to hell where he belongs. Taking the Kaiser with him. If ever a totally evil weapon was made, that cursed mustard gas was it.

  On that particular February morning, the air was nippy, and it worried me a bit. “Are you sure you want to do this, Billy? It’s cold out there.”

  “Aw, hell, Daisy, every year has cold days and hot days. If I don’t learn how to live through them all, I might as well not live at all.”

  I really hated to hear him say things like that. Rather than take him to task or attempt to buck him up, which never worked and generally ended up with a snarling Billy and a weeping me, I said, “Okey-dokey, let me roll your chair down the ramp, and then you can stand up.” I didn’t want him to attempt to negotiate the porch steps.

  So, with a frolicking Spike’s leash over my arm, I maneuvered Billy’s chair down the ramp, and stood with a then-leaping Spike while Billy struggled out of his chair. I didn’t help him because he hated it when I did that.

  It was during those times, when Billy tried so hard to regain even a fraction of the strength he’d had before he went to war, that I pitied him the most. And if Billy knew that, he’d resent me even more than he already did. He didn’t want to be pitied. He wanted to be whole. And I wanted him to be whole so much. But he never would be whole. And I felt like crying.

  Naturally, since I’d been blessed with a strong character, no matter what Sam Rotondo thinks, and since I loved my husband even if he wasn’t the man I’d married, I only smiled and let Spike romp until Billy had managed to catch what little breath he could and had stopped panting.

  “All set,” he rasped, and I knew the chilly air was bothering him already.

  With a suppressed sigh and a bright smile, I went to him, he draped an arm over my shoulder, and we set off down the street.

  Oh, here’s another thing I suppose I might explain here. Pudge Wilson, who lived next door to us on the north, was a zealous Junior Cub Scout. He’d have positively loved to help Billy walk—all darned day, if he could. I’d had to take him aside one day several months ago and explain to him that, while Pudge’s heart was in the right place, it wouldn’t be a good idea to offer his services. Poor Billy had enough to deal with without a ten-year-old kid helping him walk. Pudge had understood, I guess, although I’m not sure. Whether he understood or not, he never offered to assist Billy, and I was grateful for it. In fact, I sometimes wondered if Pudge’s self-restraint might count as one of his good deeds, but I never pursued the matter.

  That morning, we headed south on Marengo. We lived on a hill, although it’s more of a slope than anything, but even that much of an angle could play havoc with Billy’s legs and lungs. We got as far as the Matthews’ house to the south before Billy hacked out, “Better turn around now. I’m about done in.”

  For approximately the billionth time since Billy came home from that damned war, I suppressed my tears. “Right-o.” Spike nearly pulled my arm out of its socket when he spotted Mrs. Killebrew’s cat, but through the grace of God and my very strong shoulder muscles, I somehow managed not to joggle Billy. I did roar, “Spike!” which did about as much good as it ever did.

  After barking hysterically for a few seconds, Spike decided he’d done his dogly duty and came to heel, his tail held high, his ears perky, and with, I swear, a grin on his face.

  I think Billy would have laughed if he’d had strength enough. As for me, I expected to have an achy arm for a few days to go with my football-player’s shoulders. Stupid dog.

  Anyhow, when we got back to the house, Billy pretty much collapsed into his wheelchair. I felt awful for him—but I always did, so that was nothing new.

  After I’d rolled him into the house, he said, “What are you going to do today, Daisy?”

  “I’m meeting a friend for shopping and then we’re going to take lunch, probably at the Tea Cup Inn.” Although Billy hated it when I left him for work, he hated it even more when I left him for play. One more thing to feel guilty about.

  He frowned. “Who’re you meeting?”

  “A girl named Florence Mosser.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  And I prayed he’d never hear of her again. Almost wishing I’d lied and said I was meeting an old chum from school, I tried to explain. “I met her through Mrs. Kincaid.” Which was true, in a way. “The poor kid’s had a rough life, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to hang out with her a little bit and try to cheer her up.”

  Billy said, “Huh,” and I knew he was thinking it was my duty to try to cheer him up, and I should forget the lonely women of the world.

  Naturally, I couldn’t tell him the truth, but I really did try not to lie to him—most of the time. Feeling browbeaten, I said, “Honest, Billy, she really needs a friend right now. She’s been through a very hard time.”

  “Yeah,” he said, sneering, “there’s a lot of that going around.”

  I knew what he meant. “At least you have a family. Flos-Florence doesn’t have any family at all, and she’s alone in Pasadena.” Almost true.

  His eyes narrowed, and I knew he’d spotted my blunder. Billy was definitely not stupid. “Wait a darned minute. Are you meeting this kid called Flossie? Is that who you’re deserting me for?”

  Nuts. I gave up. “Yes! Yes, that’s exactly who I’m deserting you for, Billy Majesty! If you could meet her, you’d understand. She grew up in the very worst part of New York City, and she’s with a goon who beats her up for fun, and she has nowhere to turn! She showed up at our door yesterday morning, battered and bruised, and I felt sorry for her! I didn’t want to upset you, so I didn’t let her in the house, but darn it, I’m trying to be a friend to her. Maybe even help her! Is that so wrong?”

  His eyes were extremely narrow, and his mouth was set into a grim line. “She showed up at our door?”

  “Yes.” Uh-oh. I sensed I’d created another trap for myself and fallen right, smack into it.

  “How’d you meet her?”

  I sighed deeply. “Through Stacy Kincaid.”

  That made his eyes open up. “Stacy?”

  “Yes. Flossie is one of the people Mrs. Kincaid is so afraid is
going to influence Stacy for the bad.”

  “I doubt it’s possible to make that girl any worse.”

  “You and me both. I think it’s the other way around, actually.”

  “How’d she know where you live?”

  I was really trying not to lie. “Through Pudge Wilson. I guess somehow she knew approximately where I lived, and she asked Pudge. It was Pudge who led her to our door.”

  And then, to my utter astonishment, Billy said, “Well, then, no. I guess it’s not so wrong for you to try to help her.”

  I’m sure my eyes bulged. “It’s not?”

  “Naw. Go on. You’re right. She probably does need a friend, and Stacy Kincaid isn’t the kind of friend she needs.” And then, darned if he didn’t positively dumbfound me by trying to laugh. It came out more like a hack, and I winced. “Hell, why don’t you introduce her to Johnny Buckingham?”

  My bulging eyes stopped popping and widened like soup plates, I’m sure. “Johnny Buckingham?”

  “Why not? Isn’t he a captain in the Salvation Army? And aren’t they always trying to save lost souls? This Flossie kid sounds pretty lost to me.”

  I stared at my husband in awe. “Billy,” I said after a moment or two of pure wonder, “if you’re not the most magnificent man in the whole world, I don’t know who is.” And I bent and kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

  He was still grinning when I left the house.

  * * * * *

  I saw Flossie before I parked the Chevrolet in front of Nash’s Department Store on the corner of Colorado and Fair Oaks. Couldn’t miss her. If her improbably blond hair didn’t draw the eye, her bright yellow polka-dotted dress might have done the trick. But the real clue was the bright yellow hat with the black veil. I’m pretty sure I sighed.

  I truly appreciated Flossie’s problems, and I honestly hoped (I’d even prayed about her the night before, which goes to show I’m not a totally selfish person) that she’d learn to get along in the world without bums like Jinx making her life miserable, but I also honestly didn’t much want to be seen with her. Anyone looking at us would know that she and I came from different worlds. And if any of my customers saw us, I was in big trouble because my business depended on folks considering my behavior above reproach.

  Silently cursing Sam Rotondo, I parked the motor, got out, sucked in a deep breath of still-chilly air, and moved toward Flossie, who was staring off in the other direction. When gently I touched her arm, she jumped like a spooked cat and let out a muffled shriek. I was glad for the muffled part, although I know I sighed again.

  “It’s only me,” I said ungrammatically. I was pretty certain Flossie wouldn’t mind.

  “Oh, my,” she said, slamming a hand over her heart. “I didn’t see ya coming.”

  I think she was going to say more, but she didn’t. She only looked at me. “Oh, you look swell,” she whispered in an awed-sounding voice.

  Glancing down at myself, I said stupidly, “I do?”

  “Oh, yeah.” The hand she’d slammed over her heart now clutched its partner over her breast. “I want to look like that.”

  “Um ... like what?”

  “Like that.” She swept one of said hands in an arc meant, I suppose, to encompass my overall self.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure we can do something about that.” I attempted a bracing tone.

  Really, I suppose the poor woman had a point. I always made sure I looked like a well-bred, well-dressed Pasadena matron. Mind you, I could never pass for one of the fabulously wealthy ones, but I was always neat and trim and wearing my best, most fashionable duds when in public.

  That day I had on a suit I’d made myself—I couldn’t afford to dress well if I didn’t sew—of blue-gray worsted with an unfitted jacket, decorated around the collar and hip-level pockets with black braid. The sleeves were three-quarter length, and the skirt ended at a modest mid-calf, which—my calves, I mean, along with the rest of my legs—were sheathed in black stockings. My hat, which I’d also created myself, matched the gray-blue of the suit, and was decorated with the same black braid. Under the suit jacket, I wore a white shirt and a little narrow tie. Before I’d left the house, I’d actually thought myself that I looked pretty swell.

  However, that’s not the point. The point was that I always did my best to look subdued and natty, and I was sure I’d be able to help Flossie achieve a reasonable facsimile of the same idea. We could tackle her poorly dyed hair once we got her clothing under control, and her bruises would fade with time.

  “Did you have anything special in mind?” I asked, taking her arm and guiding her through the front door of the best department store in Pasadena.

  “Only that I wanna look like you do. You know, classy.”

  Classy, eh? Well, we’d see. “Very well. Come along.” A thought occurred to me. “Um, do you have any money?” I sure didn’t bring any cash with which to dress Flossie Mosser. Heck, I didn’t even buy ready-made stuff for myself. I definitely couldn’t afford to clothe a strumpet.

  I didn’t mean that. It was unkind of me, and I’m sorry.

  However, I truly couldn’t afford to buy anything for poor Flossie.

  “Oh, yeah. Jinx give me some money. He’s always sorry after he roughs me up. He’s real generous.”

  Generous, was he? How kind of him.

  “All right, then,” I said, opting not to comment on Jinx’s magnanimity, “why don’t we go to the ladies’ wear section.”

  “Is that where you get your dresses and stuff?”

  “Good Lord, no. I make my clothes. Couldn’t afford to dress like I do if I had to buy everything.”

  “Honest?”

  I realized she’d stopped walking when I felt a tug on my arm and turned to discover her rooted to the spot. Another sigh tried to force its way out, but I firmly held it inside. “What’s the matter?”

  “You mean that?”

  “What?”

  “You make all your clothes?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Didja make that?” She nodded in my direction, and I presumed she meant the suit I had on.

  “Sure. Sewing’s about the only thing I’m any good at.” With a little laugh, I confessed, “At Christmas time I made matching shirts for the whole family. Including the dog. My husband thought it was stupid, but I thought we all looked swell.”

  I stopped babbling when I saw Flossie start to shake her head.

  “What’s the matter?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  “I prolly ought to go home now.”

  “What?” My tone, I confess, was rather sharp. Darn it, she’d come to my door, for pity’s sake. If she didn’t want my help, why’d she ask for it?

  “I-I mean, I shouldn’t ought to be bothering you. I knew it yesterday. You got better things to do than waste time on me. I’ll just go along now.” She pulled her arm from mine, turned around, and began to hotfoot it toward Nash’s front door.

  Naturally, guilt took a big bite out of my heart. “Wait!” cried I, hurrying after her. I caught her arm again and another wallop of guilt smacked me when she yelped in pain. I’d forgotten about her bruises. “I’m really sorry, Flossie.”

  “It’s nothing.” She wouldn’t look at me, which led me to believe she was probably crying.

  Blast me! What’s the matter with me?

  Very well, this wasn’t actually a job I faced with much enthusiasm, but I’d still more or less volunteered to help the woman, and I truly didn’t mean to make her feel worse than she already did. Never mind that I didn’t know how I’d managed to do it; I knew I had.

  “Please, Flossie, what’s the matter? I thought we were going to have some fun shopping for new clothes for you. Don’t you want to do that?”

  I heard a fairly loud sniffle and glanced around to see if any sales clerks were watching. Luckily for us, we hadn’t hit the ladies’ wear department yet. That was upstairs. But I knew a couple of the clerks who worked there, not to mention one of the elevator operators b
ecause we’d all gone to school together. I really didn’t want to lead a weeping woman around a fairly grand department store.

  Another sniffle. “Naw. You don’t have to do that for me. I was just being silly. You have better things to do.”

  “I do not!” My stout declaration might not have been especially heartfelt, but I didn’t want Flossie to know that. “I set aside this whole morning so we could have a nice time shopping and having lunch and stuff.”

  She finally turned around. I was right. She was crying. I let her arm go so she could dig in her handbag for a hankie. As she mopped her face under her veil, she said thickly, “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I don’t think she believed me, but at last she said, “Okay, then. Thanks, Mrs. Majesty.”

  “Daisy,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. Flossie Mosser genuinely did need some friends. Jinx had her believing she wasn’t even worth a morning out with the girls, for heaven’s sake! Well, a morning out with me, which amounted to the same thing.

  “Daisy,” she said, coming across as a dutiful student.

  “Good.” Relief flooded me.

  “But sewing’s not the only thing you’re good at. You’re a good person,” she said, still sounding a trifle thick. “And you’re pretty, and you dress good, and you can talk to dead people, and all that stuff. You’re ... you’re ... you’re the best.”

  Oh, brother. “Thanks. But I’m far from the best.”

  “You are, too.”

  We’d made it to the elevators, and I pressed the button. Deciding not to argue my merits with Flossie—she should talk to Billy for a minute or two, and she’d change her mind in a hurry—I said, “Do you need mainly day wear, stuff to wear around the house, or evening wear?”

  The elevator stopped, and for once I was grateful for Flossie’s veil. Vivian Blake, one of my least favorite people, was womanning the elevator that day. Not that there was anything really wrong with Vivian, but I’d known her since first grade as one of the biggest tattlers and storytellers in Pasadena. I didn’t want her to get a glimpse of Flossie’s black eyes, or she’d surely tell the tale all day long to anybody who got on her elevator.