Albion bestirred himself. “But she's right,” he protested. “You are a ghost."
"Two cases of lunacy on the same day!” exclaimed Dr. Welch. “I wonder if it's catching. Could it be some sort of toxin? Hm. Have either of you eaten any moldy rye bread lately? Open your mouth and say ah. Take off your shirt, sir—I'll need to palpate your abdomen. Are you, by any chance, seeing double? This is turning out to be an uncommonly interesting day."
Albion was getting angry, something that his peaceable temperament seldom allowed him to do. But he found Dr. Welch's impenetrable wrong-headedness hard to take. "YOU ... ARE ... A ... GHOST!" he almost shouted.
"Now, now, now. We can't have any violence. You're clearly in need of a sedative. Belle, my dear, ask Jim to stop weeding the garden and give me a hand. I need him to hold somebody down."
But they never got to meet Jim, for the two mediums had had enough. After some mumbling and heavy breathing, Gordon awoke from his trance. Shortly afterward Cyrene came to as well with a burp that caused her to beg everyone's pardon. While Albion turned up the lights and served coffee, she and Gordon listened closely to Na'teesha's account of what had gone on while they were “under."
Cyrene thought that “Jim” might be Jim Joe Johnston, a notorious black gigolo of a few generations back, who'd worked at gardening whenever the supply of women willing to support him temporarily gave out. “Belle” was a poser. Maybe a long-forgotten nurse? “The doctor, I don't think he had him a wife. Mama said he'd been disappointed in love, being left at the altar by some gal had a fit of common sense just before it was too late."
Albion still hadn't gotten over the impact of Dr. Welch's antipathetic personality. “Can you imagine a man who's been dead for eighty years insisting that he's still alive?” he demanded.
Cyrene agreed that eighty years was a long time to go on fooling yourself. “But you know, Mr. Alby, ghosts do tend to cling to the past, being kind of leftovers themselves."
"Look at little D'White,” Na'teesha offered. “He won't never move on and enter the Light until Cyrene passes over and takes him by the hand."
"He always was a clingy child,” Cyrene agreed.
"And,” said Gordon, speaking for a change in his own voice, which resembled a tuba solo, “look at all them sperrits been running round Cottonwood for a hundred and some odd years. Miz Sissy stays on because she was a sociable climber, and that was where she clumb the highest. Mr. Dick and Captain Jack stays around for the same reason dogs follow bitches. Why old Powderhorn stays, I'm not sure. Ain't no real bitches there I know of."
"It was good coon hunting round Cottonwood at one time,” said Cyrene. “Before they built that new condo development out back, and the Wal-Mart moved in."
As the triad was leaving, Cyrene—carefully folding Albion's check—gave him a last bit of counsel.
"I'm afraid you got you a problem, Mr. Alby,” she said. “You gonna have a hard time getting Doctor Welch to see sense and move along. He got a good side, like I told you, but at bottom he's a strong man and he's a wrong man, and that's a bad combination. Strong and wrong,” she repeated, shaking her head. “That's tough to deal with."
* * * *
Albion was still brooding over the results of the séance when he had a telephone call from a neighbor. Placenta had applied for a cleaning job to Mrs. Lucy Jeter, who lived down the street, and Mrs. Jeter was checking her references. He had no problem saying that she was a good worker and honest and trustworthy. Since Mrs. J didn't ask about excessive familiarity or modernity, he didn't bring up the negatives.
A few days later he saw Placenta on the street, and she hailed him like an old friend. “Baby, that was so good of you, telling Lucy all those nice things about me,” she said warmly. “Especially after we had that little run-in between us."
After that, they exchanged chummy greetings whenever their paths happened to cross. One day she told him her son Antwon was coming for a visit and asked if she could bring him by. ("And I'll leave the smokes at home,” she promised.) Albion had no particular urge to meet a computer nerd who, he felt, was likely to be as big a bore as such people usually were. But in line with his basic essential laziness, he said, “Certainly,” because that was easier than saying, “No."
Thus, one evening his doorbell chimed again, and he greeted the duo of Placenta and Antwon Wilson. Antwon was thirtyish, as skinny as his mother but lighter in hue, and while she was neatly attired in skirt and blouse, he dressed like a true academic sloven. A triangle of torn T-shirt showed beneath his prominent Adam's apple, and a duo of unmatched socks peeped between the cuffs of his baggy tweeds and his battered L.L. Bean loafers.
"I knew a guy named Merkel in Providence,” was Antwon's opener. “He was a Communist and I used to sleep with his sister. Would they be relatives of yours?"
This did nothing to get things off to a good start. After denying any relationship whatever with the Rhode Island Red and his sluttish sister, Albion served wine, crackers, and cheese—a domestic Brie, the best available in Bonaparte. Antwon ate it in big, expensive gulps, commenting as he did so that he never bothered to taste what he was eating because “it's just fuel."
Searching rather desperately for a topic of conversation, Albion mentioned that he'd discovered the library of a doctor previously in residence at Smith's Haven. This brought a double-barreled putdown from Antwon, first of Dr. Welch ("Oh, an old horse and buggy doc, eh?"), and then of books in general.
"Can't see why anybody reads ‘em any more. I don't. Good Lord, it's like communicating by snail mail."
Forced to defend his obnoxious ghost against his equally obnoxious guest, Albion pointed out that opportunities to get on the internet had been rather limited in 1928, when the doctor died. Antwon conceded the point: “Good Lord, 1928. That was back in the Nixon Administration, wasn't it?"
Placenta, who was no fool, saw how things were going and hastily brought up Albion's family history, of which he was inordinately proud. With little cries of interest and delight, she nudged him into admitting that the Merkels had long been pillars of the Gulf Coast—back when there was a Gulf Coast, that is. He could have discoursed very happily for a couple of hours on his exact place in the vast web of southern cousinage, except that Antwon's face had taken on a zombielike thousand-yard stare. So, sighing inwardly, Albion did his duty as a host and asked about the Wilson family tree.
It turned out to be complex. Like most southern families, the Wilsons counted both black and white relations. Placenta claimed DeFlores blood—from Captain Jack the Confederate, not from Mr. Dick the Scalawag, who unlike his brother had been a deadly foe of interracial coupling. She referred to the current Mrs. DeFlores as “the Yank.” Placenta's own Mama, Felice, had been the result of further mixing. After her birth, Placenta's grammaw Isobel had been visited by the Klan demanding the name of the father, which she refused to give, even under threat of death.
At this point, noting that Antwon was again imitating a zombie, Placenta broke off her genealogical lecture.
"You don't like to hear this kind of stuff, do you, Baby?” she asked, at last bestowing the term where it was appropriate.
He shook his head. “There's a lot I don't know about where we came from. And there's a lot I don't want to know."
This sentiment depressed Albion more than anything else the young man had said. How could anybody be uninterested in his origins? After the Wilsons left, he was stacking cups and plates in the dishwasher when the phone rang. It was Mrs. DeFlores, inviting him for tea and banana bread. Of course he accepted, reminding himself to buy another blue flask of Mylanta at the Wal-Mart on his way to Cottonwood.
Making chitchat, “the Yank” then asked him in her best gracious-lady voice what he'd been up to lately.
"Getting a look at the future,” he said somberly, thinking of Antwon.
"Oh, so now it's crystal balls?” she chortled. “My, you do get around. What did you see in the future, Mr. Merkel?"
"A blank pa
ge,” he answered. “A brick wall."
* * * *
All night he wrestled with the Dr. Welch problem, but without reaching any useful conclusions. He needed an exorcist, yet doubted that even the Jesuits in the movie could accomplish much in this case. Expelling Beelzebub from Georgetown was one thing. How would they get rid of a ghost who denied even being a ghost?
For lack of alternatives he returned to the attic and the armoire. He'd already gone through every book but one, the last volume on the lowest shelf, whose technical subject and off-putting title (Parasitic Worms) had caused him to avoid it. Picking it up now, he noticed at once that it felt too light. He opened it and discovered that the book had been carefully hollowed out and turned into a hiding place for three string-tied bundles of fading letters.
Feeling the kind of excitement that long ago had made Peeping Tom put his eye to a crack in his shutter, Albion untied the first bundle. The top letter, postmarked Aug. 16, 1923, was on faded blue stationery embossed with the name of Miss Juliette Grinder in fancy script.
My Darlingest Poo-poo, it began. A flapper you call me, in your darling pompous way! Did anyone ever tell you you're a young fuddy-duddy? Yes dear Heart I am a flapper, even if not “five foot two, eyes of blue” as in that song you hate so much. But I am as loyal and true to you as the other Juliette was to what's-his-name in that play you made me read. I dream every single night of you—dreams that leave me faint yet tingling with an ardent warmth that previously I had only read about in books by French authors.
This kind of thing went on for quite a while. The letter was signed For Ever and Ever, Your Joo-joo.
This hinted at a Peter Paul Welch, M.D., of whom Albion had known nothing. Hands trembling, he unfolded letter after letter. The romance had begun when Dr. Welch was in his final year at Tulane Medical School. Papa says you must have your Degree and a Situation as well, before we can be wed. Well, hurry on and get the dam’ degree then! I can't wait forever and neither can you, if I can judge by the tendency of your trousers to form a tent when we are necking together! (Aren't I a bad girl, though?) And don't worry so much about money, my dear one. Papa is a mean man in some ways, yet I have been wrapping him around my finger since I was a little girl, and I know he will help us out.
Apparently she was right, for Welch's graduation had been followed by the purchase of a small but lucrative practice in Bonaparte from an elderly doctor who was retiring. (Presumably the one who'd never seen a germ.) Welch took up his duties, but the wedding was again put off. Joo-joo's Papa wanted to be sure his prospective son-in-law would make a success of his chosen career, and packed off his daughter to Europe on the SS Carnatic for a luxurious tour to delay things a while longer.
The result was disaster. The last letter was typewritten on legal letterhead and signed in a bold, slashing hand. The writer was Julie's Papa, and the letterhead proclaimed him to be Alfred M. Grinder, Attorney-at-Law.
"I had thought, Welch, that my generosity in loaning you the money to obtain a practice might open the way to a marriage between yourself and my daughter. Needless to say, the infamous conduct of which you stand accused has rendered that forever impossible. My daughter, sir, will not enter a bed only just vacated by a Negress—worse, a Negress whose bastard brat you are accused of siring. Who do you think you are, young man—Thomas Jefferson?"
Much more followed, and it was no kinder than the opening. Grinder made threats of exposure and legal action and even a possible lynching. “The laws against miscegenation are not the only thing you have to fear, though the mere accusation would ruin you professionally. Good old fashioned frontier justice has not died out in the community where you reside. Suppose you were publicly accused of being a traitor to your race, what might happen to you then? Reflect upon it, Welch! I want my money back! And I intend to receive it, together with such interest as I may choose to demand of you. You will, sir, pay for your conduct—pay through the nose."
My ducats and my daughter, thought Albion. Who said that, anyway? Shylock?
Exactly at this moment—sitting in the brown shadows of the attic, inhaling the dust of a bygone scandal—two names he'd recently heard popped out of nowhere into his mind, fused and became one. Belle! Isobel! Placenta's mother Felice had been Welch's daughter by his black housekeeper, Isobel (alias Belle) Wilson!
* * * *
The second séance held at Smith's Haven was not quite a duplicate of the first. Albion had communicated with Placenta, and the information he could now give her about her own ancestry was enough to insure that she would be present.
Antwon was another matter. “I'll see if I can twist his arm,” was the best she could promise. The twisting must have succeeded, for the two Wilsons—one looking determined, the other sullen—turned up that Sunday evening in time for the festivities.
Cyrene greeted them with marked reserve. Apparently Antwon had done no better job of endearing himself to black Bonapartians than white. Albion knew that Placenta wasn't too popular either, on account of her California airs. (Once in his presence Cyrene had referred to her as “the Sunset Stripper.")
A larger table was needed, so this time they sat in the dining room, Cyrene remarking that “It ain't Ground Zero, but it'll have to do.” Antwon was placed between his mother and Na'teesha, Albion as before between Na'teesha and Gordon, while Cyrene clasped hands with Gordon and the Sunset Stripper.
As the preparations went forward, Antwon's expression seemed to be progressing from sullen to rebellious. But Gordon gave him a grim, lowering glance and the teacher of computer science at least held his peace.
As before, lesser spirits had to have their say. Aunt Sally revealed that the Holy Trinity was as big a mystery to the dead as it was to the living. A Swiss ski instructor who'd just perished in an avalanche uttered a string of incoherent syllables from a mouth still full of snow and Germanic consonants. Either Edith Piaf or somebody who sounded remarkably like her sang a few bars of Non, je ne regrette rien. A Jacobean roisterer made the room tremble as he roared out denunciations of the Puritans as “slubberdegullion druggels,” whatever in the world that meant.
As before, Na'teesha disposed of these intruders briefly and decisively, until Dr. Welch's cold tones cut through the babble.
"You two not in straitjackets yet?” he demanded. “What can the authorities be thinking of?"
Na'teesha nodded significantly to Albion, who cleared his throat and nervously began the dialogue. “Dr. Welch,” he said, “I assume you remember Belle Wilson?"
This produced so long a silence that Albion was afraid that the line to the other side might have, so to speak, gone dead.
"Yes,” said Dr. Welch finally.
"Allow me to introduce you to Placenta, her granddaughter, and Antwon, her great-grandson. Your granddaughter and your great-grandson."
"My ... my what?"
"I believe,” said Albion, with a coolness he was far from feeling, “that you understand me perfectly well. I trust you won't compel me to read to this company from Julie Grinder's letters, nor from that particularly nasty letter written by a certain attorney-at-law—"
"No!” shouted the spirit. “Have you no shame?"
"Have you no shame? When in 1928 Klansmen visited Isobel Wilson—your Belle—to discover the name of her child's father, she refused to hand you over to them, even though they threatened her life. But others, including your white fiancée's rather dreadful Papa, had learned the secret, I suspect from Dick DeFlores, who had a nose for such things. Was that when you decided to take the easy way out, leaving a poor black woman to raise your daughter alone?"
Silence again. But Albion, after a lifetime of being nice, had finally located the anger button in his psyche, and pressed it.
"Speak up, man!” he commanded. “Speak up!"
"Yes,” said Dr. Welch. From the changed tone, Albion could almost feel the spirit metaphorically squaring his shoulders.
"That was what I did. I admit it. My whole life had suddenly come
apart and I acted out of fear for myself, and no thought for her. I thought death meant annihilation. I thought I'd never be called to account. I thought I'd escape from danger and shame into the void—into nothingness. Well, I was ... I was ... I was ... wrong."
At this crucial admission, Na'teesha, Placenta and Albion all exhaled. But the sigh of relief was interrupted when Antwon jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over backward.
"You son of a bitch!” he shouted. “You lousy pimp! You swine! You scum!"
"Now, Baby,” said Placenta, tugging at his sleeve. “It was all a long time ago."
Baby was having none of that. For a thirty-year-old man, Antwon managed to throw a tantrum that might have won respect from an ill-natured two-year-old. His language wasn't as inventive as the Jacobean roisterer's, but he did his best with the banal four-and-five-letter invective of modern times. Placenta kept trying to stop the flow of denunciation, but Albion preferred to let it run, feeling that it was doing Dr. Welch less harm than he deserved.
Finally Antwon burst into tears, probably tears of rage, and ran from Smith's Haven with Placenta in his wake. Na'teesha, having sat open-mouthed during the scene, turned to Albion and said, “I never thought little old Numb Nuts had it in him."
By this time the mediums were waking, stretching, returning to the world that is sometimes termed real. Feeling that something calming was in order, Albion opened a bottle of Cabernet that he particularly treasured because it had survived Katrina, and poured small glasses all around. When the events of the evening had been retold and digested, Cyrene suggested they bow their heads, join hands, and offer a prayer for the repose of Dr. Welch's soul.
"He had good in him, you know,” she said, almost apologetically. “He just never let it come out enough, is all."
As the guests were leaving, she hung back for a moment and whispered to Albion, “His soul is finally in flight, I hope toward his Redeemer. Your house is clean now, Mr. Alby, I mean spirit-wise. Otherwise it needs a good dusting. See you on Tuesday."
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