The Ghost of Opalina

by Peggy Bacon

  “It isn’t really her birthday; it’s the birthday of her ghost, and there’s nothing in the world to give a spook.”

  “Then I’ll make her something spooky! I have an idea!” Ellen declared.

  She ran to the meadow behind the vegetable garden and returned with an armful of milkweed gone to seed. At the pointed end of a large unopened pod, she inked a tiny whiskered face and large oval ears. At the opposite end, she attached a tail of gray angora wool cut from a ball in her mother’s knitting bag. The milkweed pod had become a comical mouse.

  Splitting the rest of the pods, she emptied the silky white fluff into a berry basket, nested the mouse in it and tied on a tag: “To dear Opalina with fond memories of mice in the secret room. Love, Ellen.”

  Phil was greatly impressed by this creation. Unwilling to be outdone, he whittled two kittens from a block of balsa wood in his airplane kit. He smeared them with glue and coated them with a layer of absorbent cotton, tacked them on a shingle and printed on the wood in front of them: “Happy Birthday to Opalina from Pettijohn, Crackerjack and Phillip.”

  Then Jeb wanted to make Opalina a present. He drew a white chalk portrait of her on his slate with big round eyes of pink, green and violet chalk; and underneath, he printed JEB, the only letters he knew.

  After supper, they decked the dining-room table for the feast to be held later in the evening. There were favors and paper crackers for every place; there were mounds of fruit on beds of autumn leaves, pitchers of sweet cider, platters of sandwiches, bowls of nuts and popcorn, cookies and fudge.

  By the time they had lighted the candles up in the playroom and placed their gifts on the hearth in front of the pumpkin, it was half-past seven, and the guests arrived on the dot.

  John, Bill and Bertha, Phillip, Ellen and Jeb entered the playroom together. The room was transformed into a colorful bower. The sleek paneling on the walls glowed in the creamy radiance of candlelight, and the visitors were suitably impressed.

  “Please sit down on the carpet, everybody,” Phil said; and as the others obeyed, he stepped to the mantelpiece.

  “No candles, Phil,” Jeb protested.

  “Okay, Jeb. First you others must promise on your honor not to tell anyone what you see tonight.”

  They promised.

  “But where is the guest of honor?” John asked. “Or what you choose to call the ‘Ghost of Honor’?”

  “No candles, Phil! No candles!” Jeb clamored. “Blow out the candles so Opalina can come!”

  “Opalina! Angelica Trumbull’s cat?” Bill was mystified.

  “That’s right,” said Phil, blowing out a candle.

  “We’re not going to sit in the dark, are we?” cried Bertha.

  “It won’t be dark long, Bertha,” said Ellen. “It has to be dark for the ghost.”

  “I’m not going to sit in the dark while you talk about ghosts!”

  “Oh, cut it out, Bertha,” Bill urged. “They’re going to do tricks, and they don’t want to let us see just how they do them. Go ahead, Phil!”

  Phil blew out the rest of the candles, and the Finley children turned expectantly toward the old red chair. But the room remained black.

  “I hate this,” Bertha complained.

  “Look at the punkin!” Jeb shouted. “Look at the punkin!”

  Within the pumpkin, stationed in the fireplace, a pallid light was growing swiftly brighter, streaming through the ears, eyes, teeth and nostrils of the cat face Phil had carved. And now the almond eyes commenced to shower rainbow-colored rays around the room, flickering over the children one by one.

  “See Opalina’s eyes!” Jeb crowed.

  A silky whisper made the guests jump. “The youngling spies his friend.”

  “I want to go home,” wailed Bertha.

  “Foolish girl!” hissed the pumpkin. “I won’t eat you. I have had nothing to eat for two hundred years.”

  Spat from between the pumpkin’s jagged teeth, these comforting words failed to soothe Bertha. She set up a howl, and her brother remarked uneasily: “This is some trick! I don’t see how you do it!”

  “Nor I,” muttered John.

  “It isn’t a trick. It’s a treat!” Phil asserted.

  “You ought to be pleased and grateful when we show you our secrets,” Ellen said resentfully.

  But the visitors didn’t appear to enjoy themselves.

  “I will shed my disguise for the sake of these timid souls.” The light in the pumpkin went out and Bertha screamed.

  A luminous fog poured out of the pumpkin’s eyes, forming a cloud that soared above their heads and slowly sank into the old red chair, swirling, curling, gathering gracefully into the shape of a white Angora cat.

  “This is our guest of honor,” Phil announced.

  “Angelica Trumbull’s pet,” his sister added.

  “My fayvit ghost,” said Jeb.

  The feline phantom drew herself up haughtily and rolled her eyes like searchlights over the visitors, striking them dumb. They listened in a daze as Opalina addressed them in her most impressive style:

  “Yea, verily I am Opalina, a filmy, diaphanous being from another world, made of the finest grade of atmosphere, a V.I.P. or Very Important Presence.

  “I am two hundred years old this very night; and first I must thank the children of the house for the birthday gifts displayed upon the hearth. The milkweed mouse is an ingenious creation. The kittens are a charming souvenir; and the youngling’s portrait of me is a masterpiece.

  “However, we are not here merely to celebrate. Because of my early friendship with your forebears, I have decided to tell you all about them; and since you three have blamed my present protégés for not revealing the source of their information, I will be satisfying your curiosity and settling your quarrel at the same time.”

  So saying, Opalina relaxed her pose. She curled up comfortably, washed her face with her dainty flaming tongue. Then once again, she commenced the saga of her lives.

  Though Phillip and Ellen had heard it all before, they and Jeb sat silent with the others, entranced by the pale white light and the purring voice that came from the old red chair. And while the whispered history continued and tale succeeded tale, as in a dream, it seemed that doors were opening one by one, through which the children passed to meet and mingle with friends and relatives of long ago.

  Trumbulls, Paisleys, Cumberlands and Montagues came and went. The recitation ended with the story of Pettijohn and Crackerjack, the Pankey Inn, Miss Pankey and the Britts.

  “And then the Finley family arrived and my ninth life began.”

  By now the guests had lost their sense of awe. Opalina’s cozy, catlike qualities had overcome her ghostly features; and it was evident throughout her lives that she had been a loyal, helpful friend.

  A sigh of satisfaction arose from the audience.

  “It was wonderful to hear all that,” Bill said, and they all expressed their thanks.

  “You’re welcome,” Opalina replied graciously. She yawned and placed her chin across her paw.

  “Bingo really cleaned out the secret room,” Bill observed.

  “He sure did!” Phil said regretfully.

  “Lucky guy, finding that diamond bracelet,” John exclaimed.

  “I wish he hadn’t!” cried Bertha. “Aunt Selina was Angelica’s aunt. We’re sort of related. I wish it was still there so I could find it. I’d have a right to that.”

  “The coin collection belonged to Angelica’s grandson,” her brother remarked. “That was more valuable and much more interesting. I’d rather have that.”

  “So would I,” Phil agreed.

  “I’d rather have the bracelet,” Ellen put in. “I’m glad Bingo found it because they were all so poor. But oh dear! There aren’t any treasures left.”

  “No treasures, certainly,” Opalina murmured.

  “If we could only find something!”

  “You might if you tried.” The whisper alerted them all.

  Phil
lip was pessimistic. “I don’t think we could. Ellen and I searched the secret room ever so often.”

  “That’s not the only place.”

  “Then where should we look?” Ellen asked eagerly. Opalina narrowed her eyes. “That’s telling!”

  “You showed Bingo where to look.” Phil was reproachful.

  “Yes, in order to keep them all at home and properly fed, especially the kittens. None of you are in need of food and shelter.”

  “But what do you think we could find?” Ellen asked.

  “Oh, several unimportant little things that people have mislaid. I shan’t tell you what or where. It will be more fun if you hunt for them.”

  “Everywhere on the place?”

  “No. Just in Saul’s wing.”

  Of course Opalina was right. A treasure hunt is fun, even if what you find is not great treasure. The children scattered, pelting upstairs and down, fumbling in every corner, poking in cupboards, turning up rugs, opening desks, chests and bureaus. Saul’s wing was ransacked as never before. Sure enough, it yielded sundry trifles, nothing valuable or useful. Yet, when the children returned to the paneled room, they were excited by what they had discovered.

  “Look what I found!” cried Phil. “It was hidden way back in the broom closet under the stairs. Captain Paisley’s cane with the ivory dolphin! Remember? The one Phoebe carried when she and Jim went begging. My, but it’s dusty!” He wiped it with his handkerchief.

  “See this!” Bill held out a small tortoiseshell box with the letters H.T. in gold upon the lid. “It was under the eaves in the attic, smothered in cobwebs. I bet it’s the snuffbox Aunt Selina gave Horace... and Horace never took snuff!”

  Bertha also had rummaged in the attic and had found a doll’s trunk behind the chimney. It contained a wooden doll with flaxen hair and a pretty painted face. She was dressed in blue silk fluted petticoats and a pointed bodice.

  “Oh, isn’t she darling!” cried Ellen. “I wonder who owned her.”

  “That’s Phoebe Paisley’s favorite doll, Blue Belle,” Opalina informed them.

  “Blue Belle!” Bertha hugged the doll ecstatically. “Only think of my finding you! I’m so happy!”

  “What have you got there, John?” Phil inquired.

  John laughed. “Just a rattle! It was wrapped in a rag tucked away on the top shelf of a closet. I don’t care! I have the whippoorwill whistle. Jeb can have this.”

  “He’s too old for a rattle.”

  But Jeb didn’t think so. He took the rattle from John and looked it over. It was carved from a whale’s tooth…a grinning Mr. Punch, with a huge red nose and silver bells on his hat. When Jeb shook it, the glass eyeballs rolled in the ugly head and leered in a ludicrous way. Jeb whooped with delight.

  “And who owned that, Opalina?”

  “The Little Tripper. Afterwards, it passed to Kate’s son, Jim, and then to Phoebe, and then it was lost and forgotten.”

  “Haven’t you anything, Ellen?” Bill asked the girl, who was standing by, empty-handed.

  “No,” she said sadly. “I guess there’s nothing left.”

  “There’s one thing more,” Opalina said softly. “I’ll give you a hint: You’re very ‘warm’ right now, and don’t mind me!”

  Ellen looked blank and then her face lit up. “Are you sure I won’t disturb you?” she asked politely.

  “Impossible!”

  Thrusting her hand through the ghost’s misty back, Ellen felt below the cushion of the chair and drew forth a tiny object . . . a silver thimble encircled by a band of enameled flowers. She slipped it on her finger. It fitted perfectly. “It’s beautiful !“ she exclaimed. “Whose was it?”

  “That was given to Emily Cumberland as a reward for finishing her sampler.”

  A gong was ringing downstairs and Phil announced:

  “It’s time to have something to eat.”

  “And time for my nap.” Opalina blinked at them drowsily.

  “Thank you, Opalina, for everything!”

  “Thank you so much!”

  “Thank you!”

  “Thank you!”

  “Thank you!”

  “Thank you, kittycat, my fayvit ghost.”

  “Sweet dreams, youngling. Good-bye to all of you until next Saturday night.” Opalina collected her filmy frills in a neat spiral, closed her spectacular eyes, and the paneled room grew dim.

  Text by Peggy Bacon, 1967

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