Once recently, when Papa had taken off for several days, she and Clara had no secret information about their seekers. Since Papa’s secret source of knowledge was only known to him, Izzie got Billy to ask questions about the seekers at his job at Maxwell’s Nursery. “Be as casual as you can,” she’d told Billy. “Act like you are interested in knowing people around town since you’re new here.” He came home with just a tidbit but it was enough for them to entertain their seekers.
But this evening, Papa was here and prepared. Earlier in the day, he had come back to Mrs. Purcell’s and given them information about Mr. Isaac Camp who would be with them. Only two months ago, Camp had become a widower and his deceased wife was Jane. She had died in childbirth and the baby, a son, had lived. “That’ll make it as easy as cherry pie,” Papa had said.
A knock rattled the door and Clara swept over to open it. Sam Weston, dressed in a pale gray knee-length frock coat and a broad-brimmed Quakerish hat, came in holding a small paper-wrapped package. Smiling down at Clara, he removed the silly hat and presented the package to her sister.
“This is for you, my dear, to wish you luck tonight with your spirit communications and trance. You may open it later.” He glanced at the table where everyone watched him and Clara. “I see I am late.”
Smiling, Clara accepted the offering and led him to his seat next to hers. Then she put the parcel over on the bookcase and returned to the table. Izzie tapped her foot nervously. Why hadn’t he brought something for her too? By mistake, she hit the knocker under the rug. It whacked twice.
“Oh, no.” She covered her mouth.
“Well now, the spirits want to start right away.” Papa began striding around the outside of the table. As he passed each seeker, he introduced them, even though some of them knew each other. There was Sam Weston, the latecomer, next to Clara, and Isaac Camp on her other side. There was Izzie, then an Edward Barnes and a Mrs. Mullen. Since the seekers had arrived, their banter had been cheerful and light, almost inane. They were brimming with anticipation, especially young Mrs. Mullen, with her thin lips and auburn hair braids wrapped in big loops around her ears. Mrs. Mullen looked to be about twenty and was observing every movement with the keen eye of a hawk.
This evening’s sense of expectation seemed more heightened than usual. Papa had told her and Clara that the word was beginning to spread throughout Geneva. The Benton Sisters were truly gifted, but it was all making Izzie weary. The more excited people were, the more she felt trapped.
As Papa spoke and spun his made-up stories about how the Benton Sisters were talented since birth, Izzie, feeling tired, was glad to rest quietly. Izzie noticed how Clara was taking the moment to stare at Isaac Camp, who sat between them. Camp was fair and young and handsome, but not handsome in a rough way. He had a lightness about him. Unaware of Clara’s intense stare, Camp kept his attention on Papa. She’d have to remember to let Clara know she must be more discreet.
“Is everyone comfortable? Let me put another log on the fire before we begin.” Papa took a log, knelt down, and lodged it onto the flames. Then he stood and faced the group. “We may be in for something surprising tonight.”
“My goodness, what is it?” Mrs. Mullen, in her handsome black wool jacket, lifted her shoulders and shook her head a little, feigning a shiver of exhilaration.
“Yes. Tell us,” Edward Barnes said.
This was the already familiar, drawn-out monotone of the skeptic in the group. There was always at least one, one who was eager to find a fallacy. Tonight it looked like it would be old Edward Barnes.
“Well. We can’t promise anythin’ and it ain’t right to get your hopes up.” Papa nudged his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
“Yes? Well, what is it?”
If he held back another second, people would be irked, and now even Clara herself dropped her study of Camp and turned to Papa in expectation.
“Shall I tell them, Clara?”
Beaming at Papa, the firelight making her pretty face glow, Clara nodded eagerly.
“Clara had her first speaking trance just the other day and we’re hopeful she’ll have another.” Taking his lapels, Papa showed his crooked teeth in a sweeping smile.
Though Clara shined, as everyone turned toward her and made soft sounds of exclamation, there was a little surprise in her eyes. She had probably not expected such a grand introduction.
“My two girls have been developin’ their gifts, but Clara’s made a sort of jump deep into the spirit world.”
Succumbing to a little dizzy spell, Izzie grasped the edge of the table. As she steadied herself she noticed that Weston, with an odd smirk, was watching Clara intently. He never seemed to entirely believe the Benton Sisters, but he never challenged them either. With the oil lamp and firelight behind him, Weston’s narrow face was in shadow. His tired eyes looked like entries to black caves and he appeared to sway ever so slightly.
“Let’s begin,” Papa said.
Papa walked away from them to the dim side of the room near his bell. All six at the table put their hands flat out and made a circle, little fingers touching, eyes closed. They sat in silence for a long time. Occasionally, outside on the street, horse hooves clomped, harnesses jangled, wagons rattled. In between, there was nothing to listen to but the fire burning and Edward Barnes breathing laboriously next to her. If Izzie had been producing the trance, she would have been spelling away by now, but Clara had to make her own choices. Izzie felt another spell of dizziness, this one stronger and longer. Wondering if she was becoming ill with something, she took a deep breath and blinked hard a few times. She wouldn’t ruin the circle or the mood before Clara had her chance.
After a while, Izzie felt Edward Barnes’s fingers twitching slightly on the table and heard him shifting about in his chair. It had better be now, little sister.
“There’s a spirit here. She wants to speak to Isaac.”
Finally. If Clara had waited another minute, they would have lost all the enthusiasm at the table.
Izzie opened her eyes. Pushing her chair back, Clara stood and crossed her hands over the dark green stripes of her dress bodice.
“It’s a female spirit.”
Clara left her seat and walked smoothly and quickly past the fireplace, past everyone at the table. Izzie twisted around to watch. What in tarnation was Clara doing? She wandered to the far corner of the room, near Papa. She stood a moment in the corner, her back to the room. Arms crossed, Papa smiled and kept still a moment, but as soon as Clara was on the move again and all eyes were on her, the bell tinkled from behind the patched-on wallpaper.
Eyes turned toward Papa. To show he had nothing in his hands or attached to them, he held his hands up over his head. Clara suddenly dashed across the room to the opposite corner by the windows. She spun and faced everyone. The bell jingled. Every which way, the seekers darted glances, at Papa, at each other, at Clara, Izzie.
“I am hearing a name with a “J” sound. Is that someone you know, Mr. Camp?” Clara said.
“It could be my wife.”
“Jane. Is that her name?”
Clara’s timing was excellent. He had nearly given it to her.
“Yes.” Camp’s eyes narrowed and his mouth crimped.
“Just a minute.” Clara returned to her ladder-back chair, but rather than sitting on it, she climbed onto the flat seat and stood towering over all. Surprised, Izzie gulped, which left an odd burn in her throat.
Clara swayed slightly from side to side. What the dickens was she going to do next? Whatever it was, Izzie decided to join in. Digging her heel into the lever, Izzie rapped off eight or nine knocks in a random sequence. The clunking wrenched everyone’s attention to the area where the knocker was buried under the floor.
“She is here. She is a strong spirit. Wait.” Clara leaned sideways and cupped a hand over her ear. “She is telling me to go to sleep so she can speak directly to you.”
Shutting her eyes, Clara loomed motionless high above them
. Weston and Camp arched their necks to watch her as though she were an angel. She seemed only to be missing the halo, the white gown and the little harp. Slowly, Clara elevated her arms part way and reached out toward the table.
Izzie struck the lever a few more times with her heel, the first strike thumping solidly, the others lighter. Young Mrs. Mullen flinched. Swiveling toward Izzie, Barnes glared at her rather than dwell on Clara the angel. Had he sensed her effort making the knocking? If she wanted to flex her heel again, she’d need to hold her upper body as still as a tombstone and keep her hands steady on the table.
Now Clara extended her arms straight up over her head and began to twirl gradually on the chair seat. Like a little child, she was almost silly, but she had everyone, even Barnes, gawking at her as though she were a death-defying act in the circus.
“Isaac. Isaac.” Clara stopped spinning and lowered her arms.
That was a relief. The twirling was making Izzie lightheaded again. Clara went rigid and sat down. Then she began to breathe heavily, caving in, blowing up, caving in, blowing up. Izzie carefully pressed the knocking lever, but only once before Barnes could tear himself away from Clara’s theatrics. The bell jingled.
“Is she all right?” Mrs. Mullen leaned toward Sam Weston.
“She seems fine.”
Her brown eyes fixed in the air, Clara settled, then said, “Everyone, hold hands, please. It will help me speak to my beloved husband.”
Splendid. Clever. My beloved husband. Everyone’s hands came quickly back up on the table and clasped all round, Izzie taking Barnes and Camp.
“I was in pain when I left earth, but I am not in pain now, dear Isaac. It is beautiful here. I am in an advanced sphere, a place close to perfection.” By deepening her voice, Clara sounded older.
Camp looked at Izzie. “How can I know it is really her?”
“I assure you. Clara is momentarily gone. This is your wife. Ask her a question,” Izzie said.
Grinning ear to ear, Papa suddenly appeared by the fire behind Barnes and Mrs. Mullen.
“Yes, ask her a question,” Barnes said.
Barnes’s hand was cool and dry, whereas Camp’s was growing hot and damp.
“Are you with your father over there?” Camp asked.
“Not a question like that, Camp. Ask something to test Miss Benton.” Barnes bent forward.
“Let him speak to the spirit like he wants,” Papa said.
Izzie was stunned. Papa had never come to the table before and he rarely spoke during a spirit circle. It was better that all attention be on the famous Benton Sisters, he’d always said.
Clara was tranquil. That was best, but now Camp’s gaze was fixated on the table as though his head was stuck between the spokes of a wagon wheel. Perhaps it was all too painful for him. If he didn’t want to speak to his wife, the séance would come to a dead end. Izzie rammed her heel into the foot lever as hard as she could. Bang. Through the rug, the floorboard vibrated under Izzie’s foot.
Tick, tick, tick. Izzie looked over at the mantel. The broken clock had started up. The old clock that Clara had found and put there on the mantel, which had never worked, even though they had wound it and cleaned it and begged it, now suddenly tick-tocked off the seconds.
“The clock.” Weston, who knew it was stuck at eleven o’clock since his first spirit circle, studied Papa.
“Oh, husband.” With Camp’s hand in hers, Clara shoved aside the alphabet sheet in front of her.
Then she drew their clasped hands towards her and dropped her head to rest her face on the back of his hand. Camp did not withdraw, but gazed down at Clara’s brown hair collected in a knot just above the back of her neck. There was so much anguish in his eyes that Izzie could scarcely look at him herself.
“Dear husband, you are afraid you will not raise a strong son without me.” Clara’s voice quavered softly.
Camp waited a few ticks of the clock. “Yes.”
“You will. He will be a fine man, a kind capable man, like you are.”
A tear escaped his eye and disappeared into his long sideburn. Clara lifted her head a moment, kissed his hand gently, then pressed her face to his hand again. Now Clara’s other hand, still held by Weston, was visibly shaking, but it didn’t appear to be Clara’s doing. It seemed to be Weston’s. Izzie looked over at Weston’s other hand held by Mrs. Mullen. It too was shaking. He was overcome by Clara’s daring. Her little sister had better finish up here. This was too much. She had one man trembling, and the other crying. It was brilliant, but terribly risky. These antics could end badly. Izzie glanced over at Papa. He was swaying and looked like he was half in heaven and half in shock.
It was extraordinary that Clara didn’t lose her concentration on Camp. She didn’t look at Weston or his shaking hand. Without letting go of Camp’s or Weston’s hands, she stood up again and at that very moment, ding dong ding. The clock. Lawk-a-mercy. The clock chimed. Mrs. Mullen gasped. Barnes chuckled.
“Isaac, I must leave.” Clara lured everyone back to her. “Clara isn’t strong enough to carry me to you any longer. Come back to the Spirit Room again.”
Camp looked like a poor lonely dog, longing to be patted on top of his head. Releasing the men’s hands, Clara hit her forehead on the table with a stiff bump.
“Clara is exhausted,” Papa finally said. “There won’t be any more communications tonight.”
That was her line, Izzie thought. Why had Papa taken her line? Suddenly, she felt there was a spoon stirring her mind like a big kettle of soup. Papa rocked from side to side. Everyone was looking over at Clara and swaying. The table, the windows, the walls, all swaying.
“The red rose on my pillow, Isaac.” The woman’s voice was clear, faraway and near at the same time.
Izzie looked around at the swaying seekers. Who spoke? It wasn’t Clara. It wasn’t Mrs. Mullen. Hands tingling, Izzie covered her ears as she felt herself slide from her chair towards the floor.
Nine
BILLY SPLASHED HIS WAY ACROSS THE CREEK and handed Izzie the wadded, soaked cloth. Water splattered onto the ground as she unfolded it. It was from the hem of Mamma’s everyday dress, from Mamma’s own homespun flax. Looking afraid, Billy pointed north along the lakeshore, “That way. There’s a capsized sailboat, but no sign of her.” He spun around and ran ahead to where he had just pointed. Izzie followed.
The shocking cold of wading across the freezing creek sent chills up through her legs, up into her chest and arms, then her head and neck. Drawing the cloth to her face, she breathed into it, but it wasn’t Mamma that she smelled—it was the lake, its fish, its murky underwater plants.
“Show me where! Show me where!” She tried to yell to Billy, but the words stayed locked in her throat.
She arrived at a cove just behind Billy. An overturned sailboat’s hull rocked and slapped in the lake’s waves. It’s broken mast and sail floated near the shore twenty feet beyond them. There was no sign of Mamma except that more of her dress, stuck to the rudder, drifted in the water.
Billy called out, “Mamma, are you here?”
Izzie forged into the lake toward the hull, reached into the icy water, grabbed the side of the boat and, with all her strength, hoisted the hull far enough to look underneath. Nothing. She let the boat crash back down into the water. Glancing north, she tried to see farther along the shore, but pine trees and shrubs blocked her view. She began to slosh and run through the shallow, chilling water.
She tried to call, “Mamma! Mamma!” but she could only eke out a whisper. She crawled through a tight opening in some shrubs and arrived at another small inlet. At the far end was Mamma’s shape in the shallow water, face down, in her gray dress. Her long hair floated around her head like a silver fan.
“Mamma!” Again, just a faint whisper.
Heart pounding, Izzie splashed her way to the body and knelt in the water. Grabbing Mamma’s dress near her shoulders, Izzie turned her mother over and propped her against some low rocks. Mamma’s face
was blue and white, swollen, empty.
“No, Mamma, no.”
Weeping, Izzie pulled her mother to her and embraced her. “Don’t be gone. Don’t be gone.”
Then Billy came and helped carry Mamma the short distance to the bank. They gently laid Mamma down on the oak leaves and pine needles, then both cried over her for a long, long time until all around them was quiet.
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IZZIE FELT SOMEONE FIRMLY GRIP HER WRIST and lift her arm away from Mamma. She jerked her hand back from the grasp and snapped open her eyes. A tall, slender man with wavy dark hair was sitting there, right there on the bed next to her. Who was he? Next to her, Euphora lay asleep struggling to breathe. At the foot of the bed, Mrs. Purcell stood watching them. A sad sense of seeing Mamma dead and swollen lingered in her heart as she looked around at everyone in the room. Her face was wet with tears and she was hot and sweating into her chemise, her throat agonizingly sore. Then she remembered being dizzy during the spirit circle and being carried home in Sam Weston’s carriage.
The Spirit Room Page 8