Spirits Revived (Daisy Gumm Majesty)

by Alice Duncan

  “Of course! You probably think I’m an idiot.”

  “No. Most white people don’t think about Hawaii when they think of the United States.”

  I gave Keiji the soft black shawl I’d worn over my gown, and he carried it as he conducted me to the living room. “We’re an insular society, I reckon.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I hear Japan’s worse. Either you’re born there, or you don’t belong. Anyway,” he said with another short laugh, “how do you think people from New Mexico feel when most American citizens don’t even know New Mexico’s a state?”

  “My goodness, I’ve never once thought about New Mexico. I’m so used to thinking about California, it never crosses my mind to think about the difficulties people in other states and territories must face.”

  “It’s not so bad,” he said, opening the door from the sun room, where I’d entered the Bissel mansion, to the living room. “Anyhow, have a good séance. The breakfast room’s all set up for you, and I’m ready to turn off the lights whenever you say.” He left me with another smile and a brief wave, and I wafted into the living room, wrapping my spiritualist persona around me like a cloak. I’d practiced wafting, and I did it to perfection.

  The guests gathered there had been chatting, but as soon as I entered the room, Mrs. Bissel broke off the conversation she’d been having with Mrs. Hanratty, and both ladies rushed over to me.

  “Good evening, Daisy. I’m so glad you could help us with this séance tonight.”

  “I’m pleased to be here,” I told Mrs. Bissel in my low, soothing spiritualist’s voice. I tell you, by that time, my voice was so well modulated, I could probably have taught elocution lessons—only that wouldn’t have paid as much as spiritualism.

  “So good to see you, Daisy,” honked Mrs. Hanratty. She eyed me up and down with concern. “How have you been doing? I know what an ordeal you’ve been through this past year.”

  “Oh, but Daisy can communicate with her late husband, can’t you, dear?” said Mrs. Bissel.

  See what I mean?

  My heart pinged painfully for a second. Then I bowed my head and murmured, “When a person crosses over to the Other Side, it sometimes takes a while until he or she feels settled enough to communicate with those of us remaining here on this plane.” Spewing that sort of garbage was second nature to me by that time.

  “Do you mean you haven’t communicated with your late husband?”

  Mrs. Hanratty’s head drew back, and I hastened to assure her, “Not at all, Mrs. Hanratty. In fact, I chatted with Billy for quite a while the day before yesterday.” And that was the truth. The fact that Billy hadn’t answered would remain my secret.

  “I’m so glad. Being blessed with the gift you have must be such a comfort,” said Mrs. Bissel.

  Oh, golly. Sometimes, and this was especially true since Billy’s death, I wanted to screech at people who believed my nonsense to grow up and act like sensible adult human beings. That, however, would have been idiotic to do if I wanted to keep pursuing a lucrative career as a spiritualist. So I swallowed my anger—which I admit was irrational. After all, I don’t guess it was their fault that Mrs. Bissel and Mrs. Hanratty actually believed my guff—and made a demure noise. We spiritualists are great at producing gentle noises that mean nothing. More and more in recent days, I’d come to think my entire life meant nothing. Not that I aimed to join Billy any time soon.

  But honestly. How come was it that all these rich ladies believed the absurdity I fed them? None of my friends believed a body could converse with dead people. They all had too much sense for that.

  Hmm. Perhaps I just answered my own question. Folks in my station in life didn’t have time to fiddle with spirits and ghosts. We had too much real work to do in order to survive from day to day.

  But never mind that. These women were my bread and butter, and I honored them for that. At least I tried to.

  “Come with me, Daisy. I want you to meet my cousin, Laura,” said Mrs. Bissel, her voice lowering as she took me by the arm and led me to the corner of her massive living room. “She suffered a terrible bereavement a couple of months ago when her son died.”

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry. What was his name and what happened to the poor fellow?”

  “His name was Eddie. Eddie Hastings—my cousin is Laura Hastings, and her husband is Stephen Hastings—and no one quite knows how he died. He was found in his apartment—he was an attorney—when no one could get in touch with him for a few days. So young, too. Only twenty-seven.” She lowered her voice even more. “Some of her friends and the police think he was a suicide, but Laura doesn’t believe it.”

  Aha. Now I had something to work with. I wish she’d told me she wanted me to chat with Eddie sooner. I could have gone to the library and read his obituary. I’d heard about the Hastings family, however. Mr. Hastings ran one of Pasadena’s most prestigious legal firms.

  “What a tragedy,” I murmured soulfully. “Did he work with his father?”

  “Yes. The current Mr. Hastings’ father began the firm late in the last century, and Eddie was carrying on the tradition. Indeed, it was an awful tragedy. It shattered poor Laura. Why, it’s been two months, and she’s only now getting out and about again.”

  “Two months isn’t a long time when you’ve lost a beloved son.” Or a husband. I spoke gently, because I didn’t want Mrs. Bissel to think her comment had annoyed me, even though it had. Shoot, I’d agonized for months over Billy—still was agonizing, in fact—and, while it’s dreadful to lose a husband, it must rip a mother’s heart out to lose a child.

  “Oh, yes, yes,” said Mrs. Bissel, sounding chastened. “You’d know all about that. I didn’t think.”

  I certainly did already know about that, and also the part about Mrs. Bissel not thinking—although she was a brilliant light in the universe compared to Mrs. Pinkerton. But I said, “Oh, no. It’s quite all right. Losing my husband was awful, but I can’t even imagine losing a child.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s true. Of course, I was crushed when my Francis died. But that was fifteen years ago. I still miss him, but not as much as I once did.”

  Great. I only had fourteen years left until I didn’t miss Billy so much. I didn’t say so.

  “Why do folks think Mrs. Hastings’ son killed himself? Had he been depressed or something?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Mrs. Bissell. “And Laura is certain he didn’t kill himself. It must have been something else, although I don’t know what.”

  Something else, eh? Hmm. “Did he have heart problems or anything? I understand that a person who suffers from rheumatic fever as a child might have a weakened heart as an adult. I know my husband suffered terribly after he was gassed in the war. Did the younger Mr. Hastings serve in the war? That might lead anyone to suicide.” Dr. Benjamin, our well-beloved physician, who had written on the death certificate that Billy had died a natural death, had told me that.

  Mrs. Bissel cocked her head as if this was a new angle for her to think about. “No. Eddie didn’t serve in the war. I believe he was still in school during the war. And I don’t think he had any medical problems, although I never asked Laura. Here she is.”

  Mrs. Bissel stopped in front of a gaunt-looking woman who bore traces of grief I’d recognize anywhere. I’d seen them on my very own visage not long ago. She wore a straight black dress with a low waistline and long sleeves. She could have passed as one of Macbeth’s witches, with her pallid countenance, tortured brown eyes, and limp gray hair. “Laura, please let me introduce you to Desdemona Majesty, who will be conducting our séance tonight.”

  Mrs. Hastings gazed dully at me, but she held out her hand for me to shake. I felt so sorry for her that I took her hand in both of mine and said, “I am so very sorry about your loss, Mrs. Hastings. Perhaps we can give you some measure of comfort tonight.” I aimed to try, anyway.

  “Comfort,” said Mrs. Hastings as if comfort was as far from her at that moment as the moon a
nd stars. I understood perfectly. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Mrs. Majesty lost her husband only a year ago, Laura,” said Mrs. Bissel, again causing my heart to twang. “She understands grief.”

  “Losing a child must be the most terrible loss a person can suffer,” I said in order to make Mrs. Hastings know I understood her pain. Not that I truly did, but I have a great imagination. If I didn’t, I’d be in another line of work.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Hastings again, and I saw tears shimmer in her eyes.

  I wanted to hug her. Instead, I gave her hands a brief squeeze. “I’ll do my best to communicate with your Eddie tonight, Mrs. Hastings.”

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  I felt like such a fraud.

  But, honestly, I did try to give people relief and reassurance. Every now and then, particularly during the past year, I’d felt rage toward my clients. But really, people like Mrs. Hastings truly needed to believe their loved ones were safe and happy on the other side of life. And I always stressed that their loved ones still loved them and wanted them to be safe and to enjoy whatever life remained to them. God forbid anyone go home from one of my séances and decide to commit suicide in order to join her beloved whatever.

  So I intended to give Mrs. Hastings as much consolation and solace as I could. Generally my intentions came to fruition, so my confidence was high.

  Just then Mrs. Pinkerton burst into the room in her usual flurry. I swear, that woman could stir up a fuss merely by breathing. She was constantly in a flutter about something. I only hoped this dither was normal and not created by something her awful daughter had done.

  But no. She was merely dithering because she was late to the party.

  “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry to be so late. I couldn’t find my—Oh, Daisy! I’m so glad to see you, dear. Why, I don’t know what I’d have done without you during—But we mustn’t talk about our own problems when your poor husband—My goodness, I can hardly catch my breath!”

  That was Mrs. Pinkerton all over. She drove me crazy with her hysterical ways. Only once in all the years I’d known her—more than half my life—had I ever given in to my frustration and told her what I truly thought of her daughter, and that had been through my so-called spirit control, Rolly. I felt guilty afterwards, but both Harold and Sam told me I’d done the right thing. And maybe I had, because Stacy Kincaid was still, as far as I knew, living life on the straight and narrow path. One never knew how long Stacy could keep out of trouble, but one could hope. Mrs. Pinkerton was difficult at the best of times, but when Stacy was acting up, she was positively impossible.

  “How nice to see you, Mrs. Pinkerton,” I lied. But I did it in my best, most professional, soft and calming spiritualist’s voice.

  “It’s so good to see you again, my dear.” She whirled around, searching for Mrs. Bissel. Mrs. Bissel stood beside me, but I guess Mrs. Pinkerton had been focusing on me and missed her—a difficult thing to do, as Mrs. Bissel was quite a large woman. What’s more, that evening she’d decided to wear a startlingly purple gown that made her look not unlike one of Aunt Vi’s larger eggplants.

  By the way, while Mrs. Pinkerton was doing all her fluttering, Keiji tried to keep up with her, valiantly attempting to wrest her wrap from her so he could hang it in the hall closet. Every time he got close, she veered off in another direction. At last she came to a quivering stop in front of me, and he snatched her shawl before she could run off again. I gave Keiji a speaking glance, which he returned with interest.

  “Who is the guest of honor tonight, Griselda?” Griselda was Mrs. Bissel’s first name, which wasn’t her fault any more than it was my fault my first name was Daisy.

  “My cousin, Laura Hastings, lost her son a couple of months ago. Mrs. Majesty is going to get in touch with him tonight.”

  At the news of Mrs. Hastings’ loss, Mrs. Pinkerton slapped a hand to her generous bosom, and sucked in a breath.

  “Oh, my dear, what a dreadful thing to happen!” said she.

  “Indeed. Here, please let me introduce you, Madeline”—Madeline being Mrs. Pinkerton’s first name.

  I watched as Mrs. Pinkerton and Mrs. Bissel stopped in front of Mrs. Hastings, feeling terribly sorry for the latter. Mrs. Pinkerton could be a sore trial at the best of times, and poor Mrs. Hastings wouldn’t be having a best of times again for the rest of her life, as nearly as I could judge the matter. I lifted a silent prayer to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in any longer that I could help the woman that night.

  “You’re looking quite spiffy this evening, my dear. Somber, though. Incredibly somber.”

  It took all my considerable acting talent not to whirl around and give Harold Kincaid, who’d whispered those words, a big, fat hug. “Harold! I didn’t know you’d be here. I’m so glad you are!” Naturally, I kept my voice well-modulated and soft. No squealing, even if I was overjoyed to see my best friend.

  “I drove Mother up here. Thought it would be fun to raise the dead with you tonight.”

  “Fun?” I shook my head. “I don’t know about fun. I’m supposed to get Rolly to talk to Eddie Hastings, Mrs. Hastings’ late son.”

  Harold’s jolly expression turned dour. “Yes. I heard about that. Terrible loss for the poor woman, especially since her husband’s such a rotten cur.”

  My eyes opened wide. “Is he really?”

  “Yes. Eddie couldn’t stand him.”

  “Oh, you knew Eddie?”

  “He used to dine with Del and me on a regular basis.” Harold tipped me a wink, and I understood then that Eddie, in life, had been of Harold’s ilk. That was okay by me, although I sure wasn’t going to tell anyone else, people’s prejudices being what they were.

  “I had no idea.” Taking hold of Harold’s sleeve, I dragged him to a corner. “Say, Harold, tell me as much as you can about Eddie before the séance begins. I didn’t know I was supposed to communicate with him before I got here.”

  “Ah. Yes. I suppose a little knowledge of your subject would add verisimilitude to your performance.”

  “You betcha.”

  So, in the very few minutes we had together, Harold told me everything he could about the late Edward Montrose Hastings. By the time Mrs. Bissel herded us to the breakfast room—which, by the way, was larger than our dining room at home, although nowhere near as large as her dining room, which contained the biggest table I’d ever seen and could seat a party of thirty without anyone feeling squished—I knew quite a bit about the subject of that night’s séance.

  God bless Harold Kincaid!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  * * *

  As was my custom, I placed the cranberry lamp in the middle of the table and bade everyone sit down. Mrs. Bissel had taken out—or, rather, she’d had Keiji take out—a couple of the table’s leaves, so the eight of us who were participating that night could hold hands with ease. I didn’t care to have more than eight people at my séances. More than that could become unruly, and I liked to keep strict control over my working environment.

  I sat at the head of the table, bowed my head, and was silent for several minutes. Yes, I mean minutes, not moments. This preparation time was very important to the overall scene I created. This was, ostensibly, the time during which I gathered my spiritual resources around me, and everyone who’d ever been to one of my séances knew that complete silence was called for. As an added benefit, the silence made everyone nervous. I used every trick I could think up to perform my job, and a nervous audience was generally a receptive one. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know.

  After about as much of that as I could stand, I lifted my head and nodded to Keiji, who obligingly turned out the light. The little red glow from the candle lamp in the middle of the table added a good deal to the atmosphere, which was already relatively creepy, thanks to the aforementioned period of silence. I said, “Please, everyone, take hands.”

  A little rustling told me the sheep were obeying their shepherd.

  I’m sorry. I
really should stop disparaging my clients. They were my bread and butter, for heaven’s sake! The fact that I thought them silly was wrong of me. But to continue . . .

  “Remain silent while I summon my spirit control.”

  You notice—or perhaps you don’t—that I refrained from using my spirit control’s name, which was Rolly. That’s because I’d dreamed him up when I was ten years old and now wished I’d selected a more sober-sounding name. Fortunately for me, most of the people for whom I worked believed his name was spelled R-a-l-e-i-g-h, but the name still caused me some embarrassment.

  Another space of silence ensued. When I judged the séance attendees were as receptive as they were going to get, I finally let out a soft sigh and slumped in my chair. This was the signal that Rolly had come to me.

  “Och, my darling,” came from my mouth in a voice an octave below mine and with a Scottish accent. I had the accent down pat because I used to go to school with a little Scottish girl.

  So. Rolly was among us. “You seek my services?” Also, according to my story, he and I had been married some thousand years earlier in Scotland, and he’d remained true to me ever since that incarnation. Heck, if a girl can’t have perfect love in her own lifetime, she can dream, can’t she?

  In my own voice, I said softly, “Thank you, Rolly. Our mission this evening is a sad one. We would like to communicate with one Edward Hastings, son of Laura Hastings. Mrs. Hastings is with us tonight and she misses her son terribly.”

  A sob came from the other end of the table, and I again felt a pang of regret, this time for Mrs. Hastings. Oh, heck, I felt one for myself, too.

  “Aye. Edward Hastings. Let me see . . .”

  Rolly went rummaging about in his own personal universe for Eddie Hastings. After only a few seconds, he was back. “Aye. Eddie’s a fine lad. He left your realm too soon, but he’s been wanting his mother to know that he’s well and happy here. He wants her to enjoy the life that’s left to her, and—”