How It Happened in Peach Hill

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “Mama?” I called, but then, “Never mind,” when she answered me. A dreadful suspicion had seized me; all Mama’s confident chatter about Mr. Poole’s clever investments and doubling our money finally crackled in my ears with unnerving clarity. Had she given him a portion of our cash?

  20

  To dream of cake means

  you will have good fortune.

  The supper on Saturday was a buffet, thank goodness. If I’d had to sit at a table next to one of those glittering matrons I would have choked. All that nonsense about salad forks and cheese knives that Mama thought I should know in case we ever entertained the President’s wife, well, what did it really matter? A buffet was ideal, since I had no appetite anyway. I wished I wanted dessert; I watched one gentleman cram a chocolate cupcake into his mouth and look around for somewhere to hide the stem of the maraschino cherry. He flicked it onto the floor.

  I perched in a corner, watching the dresses swish by.

  Mr. Poole’s niece, Miss Weather, wore a flapper dress the color of emeralds. I saw her flirting with Sally Carlaw’s uncle Travis as if she’d invented eyelashes. Lexie’s father was wearing a cummerbund the same silky crimson as his wife’s corsage. Mr. Fletcher, principal of the high school, looked as though he’d last worn his tuxedo on his wedding day, a hundred years ago. Sally Carlaw had come with her uncle and brought along Delia, whose father was on duty at the police station. The de Groots likely weren’t considered a better Peach Hill family, so Delia was lucky to be there. Her dress was gorgeous, I’ll admit; a silvery gray shift, hemmed with a silky fringe. I wore black, as always, for the stage.

  I never liked to perform in front of a scoffer, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. The difference was that Delia was a scoffer I knew.

  When supper ended, we were ushered into the ballroom, where a small jazz ensemble sat in one corner making sounds to set the mood, whatever mood that might be.

  Mama called me to her side. I had barely been able to look at her that week, since my notion of distrust had taken hold. Though she didn’t know the reason, she had not been pleased with my manner. We’d been testy with each other on every occasion.

  Her eyes now were wide and fond, her public devotion at odds with the quiet threat in her words.

  “You will make this work, Annie. We are a team. Do not forget that.”

  No one watching would notice anything amiss. Mama licked her fingertips and smoothed my hair. She pinched my cheeks to make them rosy. “Be a good girl,” she said. “Be a doll.”

  Mr. Poole had set up a little platform, decorated with a fringed carpet and a potted palm taller than Mama.

  She perched on a stool with the toes of her beaded slippers dangling. She wanted to stay alert and upright. She was flushed and pretty, eager to start. It took an age for everyone to find a place, and then Mr. Poole tapped a spoon against a wineglass and cleared his throat.

  “It has been my great pleasure these past few weeks,” he said, “to make the acquaintance of our newest Peach Hill resident.” The smattering of applause muffled a remark from the back that I suspect was lewd.

  “And my delight has only increased,” Mr. Poole went on, a little more loudly, “as I have come to admire her extraordinary gift.”

  There was a flutter of curiosity. The invitation had not been precise, saying only that guests would never forget what they were to see here tonight.

  “We live in remarkable times!” Mr. Poole was booming now, all warmed up. “The human mind has invented and explained so many things. Who would have imagined, when I was a boy, that man would fly in airplanes, let alone fight a great war from the sky? Who would have thought that a message could be telegraphed or a conversation spoken through wires across the Atlantic Ocean? The very fact that it is night and we sit in a room illuminated by electric lights is reason enough to believe in miracles. So why do we suspect that the brain might falter in the face of mere death?

  “This has been a matter under serious study by many leading scientists. Even Thomas Edison spent his later years developing a machine to receive spirit messages. If only he had been so fortunate as we are, to know a trance medium who would undergo observation upon request …”

  Mr. Poole gestured toward Mama, full of pride. “You will be astonished, as I have been, at the ease and accuracy with which Madame Caterina displays her talent. I urge each of you to seek her guidance on any matter that requires discretion.

  “This evening, we will witness a demonstration of her remarkable ability to read minds and to contact those of our loved ones who have left us and now dwell on the Other Side.”

  His introduction had caused a breathless hush of anticipation. Mama was beaming. Even I felt quite pink, as if we really were about to contact spirits from beyond. I would never have guessed that beating under Mr. Poole’s well-cut coat was the heart of a carnival barker.

  The basket that held our supplies sat beside the doorway. I scooped it up and made my way amongst the chairs, distributing paper, envelopes and small pencils as Mr. Poole continued.

  “To assist with the demonstration, we request that you write down a question, or the name of a person you have lost, and then seal your paper into an envelope. Madame Caterina’s lovely assistant”—he smiled at me—“her daughter, Annie, will come around and collect the sealed envelopes.”

  Mama and I had discussed it a hundred times—should we engage a Lurker or not? I’d finally convinced her that it wasn’t worth the risk, but now the pressure was all on me. It was up to my sharp eyes to find the one word we needed to begin.

  I shuffled between the rows and collected envelopes. The audience was beginning to chatter again, intrigued and suspicious and merry with the fun of Mr. Poole’s inventive game. Mama’s gaze met mine across the room of scribbling guests. My stomach began to tighten. The prickles I felt before any performance raced up and down my arms as I circled close to the “stage.”

  “Have you got me a name?” said Mama between smiling teeth.

  I scurried into the audience to fetch the last few envelopes. I caught sight of the letter “E” just as a woman folded her paper, with probably a “d” and then some other letters. As I handed the brimming basket back to Mama, I whispered, “Ed.”

  Mama handed her silky flame-colored scarf to Mr. Poole to tie around her eyes.

  “I am honored indeed,” he announced, “to introduce to you Madame Caterina!”

  The applause burst out like firecrackers all over the room. Mr. Poole stepped off the platform and left us to it.

  My mother sat blindfolded and perfectly still until the racket settled down. She was as cool as a lake breeze. I couldn’t bear it if something went wrong, but in the same minute, I prayed for that to happen. Why should things always go her way?

  Seconds ticked by while the audience held its breath. Mama reached out her hand, and I passed her the first envelope. She displayed it in front of her, stroking it dramatically, humming softly at the same time.

  “I am receiving a strong message from a person whose name begins with an ‘E,’ ” said Mama. “Please signal if this means something to you.” Thankfully, the woman whose note I’d spied on lifted her arm. I went to her side and was engulfed in the scent of lily of the valley.

  “The person is recognized, madame.” That was code for “It’s a woman.” If it had been a man, I would have said, “The person has been identified.”

  “Ask her to stand for a moment,” said Mama, “to clear the air around her. I believe her caller will make an appearance.” Some people didn’t realize straightaway that Mama had divined the person as a woman, but the whisper went through the room pretty quickly, rustling like yellow leaves.

  “The reception is not entirely clear,” said Mama. “Is it Edward?”

  “Edmund!” called the lady with a shake in her voice. She already had a lace-bordered hankie at her lips; she was ready to crumble.

  “He seems to be upset about something. Do you know what this might be?”r />
  “Oh!” the lady cried. “He didn’t have a chance to tell me good-bye! He was taken sudden.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mama. “It was unexpected.” She so naturally repeated whatever the person told her that it sounded like psychic wisdom.

  “He went one afternoon to buy a new trowel for his gardening. He had a seizure and passed on, right there at Murray’s Hardware, next to the nail bins.”

  “Edmund has been waiting nearby,” said Mama. “He’s here tonight to say farewell. Do you have a message for him?”

  The woman groped to support herself on the chair in front of her. “Edmund!” she hollered. “Ed! It’s me, Mildred.”

  “He’s waving,” said Mama, “with a look of great fondness.”

  “Good-bye, Ed. Forgive me—I nagged about your personal habits, but you were a kind man. Good-bye, dear.” She slumped back into her seat and blew her nose loudly. She dabbed her eyes and nodded at the onlookers. Whether they were amazed or skeptical, it didn’t matter. Mildred’s grief was clearly eased. And it was only the first act.

  Mama pushed her blindfold up to her forehead and handed the envelope to me. I tore it neatly across one end, withdrew the paper and handed it back to her, but not before I’d glimpsed the written word “Michael.”

  “Edmund!” My mother pretended to read, silently enlisting “Michael” as the next ghost.

  “Oh!” the audience murmured.

  Mama chose another envelope from the offered basket and slipped her blindfold back in place. She went through the trembling, stroking, humming routine again.

  “Michael has come to visit,” said Mama after a respectful pause of several seconds. “Would anyone here be awaiting Michael?”

  “That’s my boy,” said a man gruffly.

  “That’s my father,” said a woman, jumping up.

  “He seems to be quite a young man,” said Mama, always preferring the story more likely to twist their heartstrings.

  “That’s my boy,” said the man again. “He was nineteen. Died in the war.”

  “But he’s laughing,” said Mama. “Why is that?”

  “Oh, he was a sunny boy, our Mike,” said the man. He reached down to pat the arm of someone sitting next to him, and I realized it must be Mike’s mother, with tears trickling down her face.

  “Perhaps the medium can give you both some comfort,” I said, letting Mama know there were two of them.

  “I feel that his good humor was a morale booster for his fellow soldiers,” said Mama. “And he wants you to know he did not suffer at the end.”

  “But they told us he was left wounded on the battlefield,” said the man. “For two days with his leg shot off.”

  Oh, cats! We couldn’t pay for a sadder story! The hush in the room was like the gulp before a sob.

  My neck burned. We were despicable cheats, using people’s deepest sorrow for entertainment.

  But … so good at it!

  “He did not suffer,” Mama said, hurrying on, “because he knew your love was with him throughout the ordeal. His last earthly thoughts were of your home.”

  Mike’s mother shook with sobs. Her husband sat down and put a bulky arm around her narrow shoulders. A good start, with two crying women.

  Again the torn-open envelope, again the paper passed from me to Mama. It was a question this time, but I did not have a chance to read it.

  “Michael!” announced Mama, and then replaced her blindfold. What next?

  She held the envelope as before, but this time her hand shook, as if she trembled with emotion.

  “The person who asked this question urgently wants an answer!” Mama smiled. “The spirit world is responding with a simple reply, loudly and clearly. Yes, you will find a husband! And without too much more waiting!”

  Not one but two ladies jumped to their feet, each exclaiming that it was her question. Mama laughed along with the rest of us. “No wonder the spirits were so adamant,” she said. “There must be two husbands waiting. In fact”—she pulled the scarf away from her eyes and let her hand hover, quivering over the basket—“am I sensing a husband in this very room?” Her eyelashes fluttered prettily, as if she were the wife-in-waiting.

  A young man wearing spectacles and a violent blush raised his hand from the second row. “That’s me,” he said. “My question. I was only wondering.” He shrugged.

  “Well, now you have your choice of two!” said Mama. I could see how pleased she was that she’d hit the bull’s-eye. “That is perhaps the quickest delivery on a promise I have ever managed!”

  Oh, they loved her now. She tore open the envelope and read aloud: “ ‘Will I ever find a husband?’ ” The audience clapped. Mama slid on the blindfold and I placed another envelope in her hands.

  “I am receiving another name,” she said. “Please show yourself, without speaking, if you are related to someone passed over named Carol. Or, perhaps, Caroline?”

  A man heaved himself to his feet.

  “The person has been identified, Madame,” I said. I thought I recognized him as one of the gents who worked at the bank.

  “Sir,” said Mama. “You have lost someone?”

  “Caroline,” he said. “My sister.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mama. “She has something to tell you. She seems to be shaking her head. Do you understand her message?”

  “Can’t say as I do,” said Caroline’s brother. “You tell me. You’re the genie.”

  A scoffer. Some people seemed to think that if they challenged a medium, it made them look clever. Mr. Poole stood up near the wall, as if preparing to pounce if he didn’t like the fellow’s attitude.

  “I am a clairvoyant,” said my mother gently. “Not a genie. Genies are magical creatures who live for hundreds of years. I hope you are not implying, sir, that I appear to be a century old?” Everyone laughed, charmed. Someone in the back even gave one of those wolfish, admiring whistles.

  “But Caroline is still trying to reach you,” added Mama, calming the audience. “I feel that she wants to prevent you from doing something you are contemplating. What might that be?”

  “As if I’d tell you,” said the man, flushing.

  “Absolutely right,” said Mama. “You deserve your privacy. I’ll tell your sister to keep her advice to herself.”

  “You do that,” the man blurted. “What’s she giving advice for, anyway? She died when she was two!”

  Another laugh from the audience, embarrassed this time. The man was pouring vinegar on Mama’s show.

  Mama pushed up the blindfold and ripped the seal on the envelope. She scanned the paper quickly as she passed it to me, urging me to pretend to read it. The words on the page read, “Will the person I’ve lost come home?” What I read aloud was “Caroline!”

  The applause was not so noisy or prolonged this time. We needed a good ending. Mama replaced the scarf over her eyes.

  “I am hearing a question that speaks of heartbreak,” she said. “You have lost someone and have trouble accepting that there will be no return.”

  A hand shot up in the back. I made my way toward it. My heart thudded to the polished parquet floor. “The person is recognized, Madame.”

  It was Delia de Groot.

  21

  She who hurries cannot

  walk with dignity.

  “My mother is gone.” Delia stood to make her declaration.

  Her mother wasn’t dead! Half the people in the room knew that! But Mama had no idea who had spoken, and she was already responding.

  “I see her beckoning to you, as if she has a secret to tell,” said Mama.

  A wave of snickering rippled through the hall. She had a secret, all right. Delia blanched. Mama hesitated, confused.

  I cut in. “Madame is contacting only the deceased this evening,” I said loudly. “She is skilled at finding missing persons, or objects, but she is currently envisioning the Other Side and not prepared to seek out what you have lost.”

  Delia narrowed her eyes, al
most beaten, but then leaned forward, as if ready to pounce.

  “Then how did she see my mother ‘beckoning’ in the first place? She’s a phony, that’s how! You’re fakes and liars, both of you, phonies and fakes!”

  The people all around her shifted in their chairs, gaping in excited horror, as if watching a wrestling match. Mr. Poole hurried over but then stood useless and dithering.

  I admit there was a part of me that gaped in admiration. Delia was doing what I’d never have the nerve to do: taking on Mama, and in public! But only for an instant. We were in peril, and I knew what should be done with Delia. Toss her through the French doors! I wanted to bellow. Dunk her in the pond!

  Mama tore off her blindfold, her cheeks glowing and her eyes locking on their quarry. Go on, Mama! Chew her up and spit her out!

  Mama pulled herself up tall, set her shoulders back and took a slow breath, while everyone else was holding theirs.

  “You’re very young, miss,” Mama began quietly. “Your experience of the phenomenal is limited—”

  Delia stomped her foot. “Show me the papers! Show us the notes you were reading. I’m sure there’s a trick!”

  The paper Delia had written was in my pocket. The others were on the floor around the base of the stool. Her paper should still be in its envelope. What if she kicked up enough of a fuss to have us searched?

  But Mama lifted a warning finger, like a schoolmistress. As long as she had a smidgeon of control, there would be no scoffers scrambling for evidence.

  “What lies out of our sight is often beyond our understanding.” Mama raised her voice a little, putting music into it, so that it carried above the chatter. “We expect the spirit world to be mysterious. Understanding the nature of loss is a lifelong challenge. But when a loved one leaves us, by choice, instead of through death, it is most difficult to accept.”

  Delia flinched, but Mama continued, calmly exacting her revenge.

  “The missing person hovers in an emotional mist, becoming a memory before her time, instead of remaining a presence. She is standing offstage, as it were, overlapping with those we cherish on the Other Side.”