Gilda Joyce, Psychic Investigator

by Jennifer Allison

  “Oh, certainly Go ahead, Summer, have a nice time.”

  Summer stared at him, wondering if he had actually understood her request. What a strange person Mr. Splinter was. She decided to go ahead and invite Gilda before he changed his mind. She went back to her desk and began to type very quickly.

  Dear Glinda:

  Mr. Splinter has given me permission to respond to your letter. He said you may come to visit us this summer. I will look into making flight arrangements for you from Michigan to San Francisco.

  By the way, you probably remember that Mr. Splinter has a daughter about your age. Her name is Juliet, and I’m sure she could use some intelligent, unspoiled company. Someone like yourself would do her good.

  She’s recovering from a little accident she had recently, and she doesn’t seem to have many friends. She can be a brat sometimes, but I think that’s because she’s lonely.

  Summer thought for a moment, and then decided to delete the last line about Juliet being a brat, just in case Mr. Splinter happened to see the letter.

  I hope your mother is keeping a smile on her face, and that your brother’s mental condition is improving.

  Look forward to meeting you here in San Francisco!

  Summer Matthews

  Summer Matthews

  Executive Assistant

  On the third floor of the Splinter mansion, Juliet lay in bed with her foot propped upon a very expensive pillow. Next to her bed, several untouched sandwiches grew stale upon a plate. A large television screen blared a rerun of The Munsters, but Juliet did not laugh at the image of Frankenstein-like Herman Munster crashing through a wall as he walked in his sleep; she was reading a letter from her mother, and her facial expression suggested the look one might make while attempting to eat an entire raw onion.

  Dear Juliet,

  Your father informed me of your unfortunate little spill down the stairs, so just wanted to send you a little “something” to brighten your day! I was going to try to catch a flight up to San Francisco to visit you, but your father tells me you’re doing just fine now, although feeling a little “blue.” It’s so important to stay positive! I just know you’ll be up and going in no time! Fresh air will help!! How about calling some girlfriends for a little company? If I were you I would hate to lie in bed all day. Did I ever tell you that I’ve never taken a single sick day off from work? I always feel much better when I get to the office!

  Things are just crazy here at Alogon: our annual Sales & Earnings conference is this week, and Alogon earnings were disappointing this quarter following some “adverse reactions” from our new depression/attention deficit disorder combination-therapy pill. Your mom has her work cut out for her as Director of Corporate Communications!

  I hope it’s not too foggy up in San Fran. That city can be so depressing with that horrible cloudy weather! Get me to the beach is all I can say!

  Work hard, play hard!

  Love,

  Mom

  Although she knew that her mother only wanted to help, Juliet hated reading her bright, encouraging notes, because they always seemed to be yelling at her. This particular letter reminded her of her mother’s repeated attempts to encourage a “sunnier disposition” in her daughter through a program of energetic activities, Rodeo Drive shopping trips in L.A., and antianxiety medication produced by Alogon—things Juliet had ultimately rebelled against at the age of ten, when she begged to move from her mother’s beachfront home in San Diego to foggy San Francisco, where her father lived.

  Juliet’s parents had gotten divorced when she was four years old, and Juliet had only the faintest memories of the early days when her parents lived together in San Francisco. After spending much of her childhood in San Diego with her mother and her two giggling, teenage stepsisters, she found her father’s dark, quiet house appealing. Her mother’s new husband, Chuck, was always starting a game of beach volleyball and yelling at her to “watch the ball!” and Chuck’s muscular, tanned daughters had always made Juliet feel like a vampire: her skin blistered in the sun and she was allergic to sunscreen.

  Juliet tossed her mother’s letter aside, feeling that she now was more firmly determined than ever to enact the exact opposite of her mother’s earnest advice: instead of getting some “fresh air,” she would stay inside, wearing her dingy bathrobe. Instead of “calling some girlfriends for a little company,” she would remain a hermit, residing in her bedroom and rejecting all visitors for the rest of her life.

  Every now and then, Juliet’s father cautiously poked his head into Juliet’s bedroom to say hello or bring her some educational books to read.

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit outside in the garden and read?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. I’d rather watch television.”

  “I could take you to see a movie—”

  “I’d really rather spend some time alone, thank you.”

  It was better without people, Juliet reasoned. Who in the world could possibly understand how she felt? She was obviously crazy, after all. She had seen her dead aunt’s ghost.

  6

  A Dismal Progress Report

  TO: Gilda Joyce

  FROM: Gilda Joyce

  RE: Careers Progress Report

  PROJECT 1–TRIP TO SAN FRANCISCO

  PROGRESS: Outstanding letter sent to Mr. Lester Splinter.

  RESULT: I am losing all hope that I will ever get to San Francisco.

  PROJECT 2–NOVEL-IN-PROGRESS–

  “A HAIRY SITUATION”

  PROGRESS: The novel is in big trouble due to the use of a pink wig as the main character. In the story, the wig kills Mrs. Frickle, after which it jumps on a plane bound for Mexico.

  RESULT: This was supposed to be a horror story, but now I see that it’s really an absurd cartoon.

  PROJECT 3–PLAID PANTS

  SURVEILLANCE PROGRAM

  PROGRESS: Dismal. An embarrassment. The loss of Wendy Choy was a blow to the Plaid Pants Surveillance Program, and a major pitfall has occurred. The surveillance program must be terminated for the time being, because Plaid Pants has discovered that he’s being watched.

  Yesterday, I went to observe Plaid Pants at his place of employment–the Gas Mart convenience store. The suspect (Hector Flack) was wearing his usual plaid pants–pants of an enormous size that probably aren’t sold in regular stores. (Why plaid? You would think that he would want to call LESS attention to his boat-sized pants. Of course, it’s possible that he can’t afford to buy new pants. Worst-case scenario: He owns SEVERAL PAIRS of the SAME plaid pants because he thinks they look fantastic.)

  As usual, the suspect was eating a Reese’s peanut butter cup and pretending to read a newspaper, which he was using to conceal a Playboy magazine. As usual, Plaid Pants looked annoyed whenever a customer interrupted his reading to ask for gum or cigarettes or lottery tickets.

  I pretended to examine the ingredients on a box of Ho Hos while secretly monitoring Plaid Pants, but made the mistake of remaining in the Gas Mart too long after other customers left. That’s when Plaid Pants caught me looking at him.

  Plaid Pants: Aren’t you a little young for me?

  Me: Excuse me?!

  Plaid Pants: You seem to be awfully interested in somethin’ in this Gas Mart. I mean, I’ve seen you in here, lookin’ at me.

  Me: I’m not looking at you. I’m looking at these Ho Hos.

  Plaid Pants: You like Ho Hos?

  Me: I don’t know. They’re okay.

  Plaid Pants: I’ve seen you in here before, haven’t I?

  Me: No.

  Plaid Pants: You have a friend–a Japanese girl.

  Me: She’s Chinese! I mean, she’s American. Anyway, that probably wasn’t even us.

  Plaid Pants: So you girls like convenience stores, huh?

  Me: No.

  Plaid Pants: Shoplift much?

  Me: No!

  Plaid Pants: Come on. I know how you kids are.

  Me: I am NOT shoplifting.

  Plaid Pants:
I’ll give you them cupcakes for free if you want.

  Me: No, thank you. I’m just looking.

  Plaid Pants: I can get free stuff here.

  Me: You mean, you STEAL stuff?

  Plaid Pants: Just takin’ what’s due me.

  Me: You mean, you’ve been stealing candy. Your boss said so.

  Plaid Pants: AHA! See? I knew you’ve been watching me. You’ve got a little crush or somethin’.

  Me: Don’t make me puke.

  Plaid Pants: Well then, see that sign on the door? It says “No Loitering.”

  Me: I can read, thank you very much.

  Plaid Pants: You know what “loitering” means?

  Me: Of course I do. (Actually, I thought it meant something like really bad littering, but it just means lurking around a place, doing nothing.)

  Plaid Pants: So you’d better get movin’–and leave them Ho Hos behind before I call the cops. Or your mother. You’re supposed to be in school. And don’t you know it’s dangerous to hang around, talkin’ to strangers? You don’t know what kind of people are around here.

  Me: It’s summer. We don’t have school.

  That’s when Plaid Pants gave me one of his squinty-eyed serial killer looks, so I thought I’d better get out of there. MISSION ABORTED.

  OTHER UNRESOLVED ISSUES

  Wendy Choy: Wendy hasn’t written a single letter yet. When she comes back from camp, she’ll have stories about her new friends and how they laughed hysterically every night while making s’mores and playing their instruments. There are probably lots of girls just like Wendy there–musical prodigies with no baby fat on their stomachs.

  The truth is that I miss Wendy, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that. Maybe I’ve relied too much on Wendy in the past. I need to be more self-sufficient. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I need to grow up and stop playing these ridiculous games. At my age, I should be spending my time going to the swimming pool and staring at guys. Do I really have careers, or am I just weird? I never used to care one way or the other, but now I’m worried that I’m simply weird.

  SUMMARY: PROGRESS IS POOR ON ALL FRONTS!

  Gilda reread her progress report with a feeling of disgust. She suddenly felt extremely low.

  Whenever Gilda felt extremely low, she did one of two things: (a) she ate a peanut-butter, banana, and chocolate-syrup sandwich, or (b) she sat at her typewriter and typed a FAVORITE MEMORY. If she typed long enough, she could sometimes create the sense that this experience was happening in real life—almost as if she had managed to go back in time.

  A FAVORITE MEMORY

  BY GILDA JOYCE

  I am seven years old, and it’s midnight on Christmas Eve. In the living room, I see the Christmas tree lights blinking: on, off; on, off. Mom hates blinking lights because she thinks they’re “tacky” and “too 1970s,” but Dad and I like them because we think they have more personality than the boring, plain lights that everybody else uses. Outside, the world is frozen solid and covered in snow. In fact, when I look out the window, everything looks kind of ghostly.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen, and there’s Dad, drinking a cup of hot chocolate and eating a doughnut. That’s just the kind of thing Dad used to do–drink hot chocolate and eat a doughnut at midnight. I feel like we’re in on some big secret as I sit down at the table with him.

  Dad: You just missed Santa Claus.

  Me: No, I didn’t.

  Dad: Sorry, kiddo. I got here just in time to meet him, but we decided not to wake you up.

  Me: I don’t believe you.

  Dad: That’s okay; you didn’t miss much at all.

  Me: What happened?

  Dad: Let me think. Yes, now I remember: the first thing Santa did was ask if it was okay to let the reindeer come inside to eat some cookies and warm their hooves by the fire. You know, it gets very cold for them when they’re flying through the atmosphere up there.

  Me: Reindeer don’t eat cookies.

  Dad: Now, how would you know that?

  Reindeer love cookies! Anyway, the next thing we did was watch some television.

  Me: What did you watch?

  Dad: David Letterman. Oh, I tell you, we laughed!

  Me: What about the reindeer?

  Dad: Oh, they watched TV, but they didn’t get most of the jokes. In fact, what they really wanted was more cookies, but those were all gone.

  Me: They ate ALL the cookies?

  Dad: Well, you can’t expect a team of flying reindeer to have only one cookie apiece, can you? Anyway, Santa began putting his gifts into stockings and under the tree, but the next thing I knew, he and the reindeer were playing with everything he was planning to leave here for you and Stephen. In fact, they were all having so much fun, Santa began to think they might just want to keep everything for themselves. Santa turns to me and says: “These kids of yours–Gilda and Stephen–are they really all that good?”

  Me: What did you say to him? You said yes, didn’t you?

  Dad: I had to think hard, Gilda. Because you can’t tell a lie to Santa Claus. So I thought hard, and I scratched my head. I rubbed my eyes and I squinted at the ceiling for a very long time–like this. “Take your time,” says Santa Claus. “There’s no rush. None at all.”

  Me: YOU SHOULD HAVE SAID YES!!

  Dad: Well, I finally did realize that the truthful answer was yes. “Santa,” I said, “I’m not going to lie to you. These kids of mine aren’t perfect, and they both need to clean their rooms more often. But I think they deserve the presents, because they’re my favorite people in the world.”

  So Santa says, “I believe you,” and he made the reindeer stop playing with the toys.

  Gilda’s mother returned home from work and found Gilda fast asleep on the purple carpeting of her bedroom floor next to her typewriter—her “progress report” crumpled in one hand.

  “Gilda,” said Mrs. Joyce, “why are you sleeping on the floor?”

  “I’m not,” Gilda mumbled, feeling very disoriented. “I was just thinking.”

  “Well, get into bed.”

  Gilda climbed into bed without bothering to put on her pajamas.

  Mrs. Joyce sighed. “Did you eat dinner?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “I was having a good dream,” said Gilda.

  “What’s that in your hand?”

  “Nothing,” said Gilda, stuffing the crumpled progress report under her pillow. She didn’t want her mother to see the details of her failing projects.

  “Good night.” Mrs. Joyce wedged the covers around her daughter tightly and kissed her forehead. This was the way she used to tuck her in when Gilda was very young.

  Just before turning out the light, Mrs. Joyce noticed Gilda’s FAVORITE MEMORY in the typewriter. She stood silently reading for a minute, her hand pressed against her cheek. She knew that Gilda was always typing something on that typewriter, but she had to admit that she was surprised by the contents of Gilda’s “favorite memory.” I didn’t realize she still missed Nick this much, Mrs. Joyce thought.

  After closing the door to Gilda’s room, she pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes with the same pressure she used to stop a headache—as if trying to push one of her own memories far back into her mind.

  7

  Never Turn Down an Adventure

  For years, the black mailbox outside the house had been Gilda’s sullen enemy, withholding letters from friends at camp, valentines, invitations to star-studded events, million-dollar checks, and offering only bills and sappy cards from Grandma Joyce. But today, the fickle mailbox was her friend. Today, the U.S. Postal Service had come through with flying colors.

  Gilda stared at the letter with san francisco clearly printed on the return address. She tore open the envelope and read the letter, then reread it three more times. Now, simply as a result of a letter she had written, a whole new world had opened up; she was actually going to San Francisco!
She allowed herself the indulgence of skipping from the mailbox back to the front door of her house.

  After Gilda calmed down a bit, she had to admit that she was just a little concerned about the surprising reference to “a daughter about your age”—Juliet—who had apparently suffered some kind of “accident” and who had no friends.

  Gilda pictured herself spending the summer force-feeding mashed carrots to a large, drooling girl who didn’t know how to speak or walk properly. This would be God’s way of punishing her for the lie about her brother in her letter to Mr. Splinter.

  Gilda decided she was willing to take that risk. After all, she would be in San Francisco.

  PACKING LIST FOR SAN FRANCISCO TRIP:

  typewriter & lots of paper

  notebooks & pens

  The Master Psychic’s Handbook

  Ouija board (just in case)

  fishnet stockings

  pendulum

  strand of fake pearls

  binoculars

  red lipstick

  giant handbag

  makeup kit (for disguises)

  fake fingernails

  bug spray

  crucifix

  flashlight

  Polaroid camera

  suntan lotion

  cat’s-eye sunglasses

  heart-shaped sunglasses

  blond wig

  dictionary

  thesaurus

  leopard-print jacket (for evening)

  evening gown (for séances)

  blue jeans, T-shirts

  miscellaneous accessories

  bikini

  stiletto pumps

  giant hoop earrings

  underwear (West Coast style)

  There was only one remaining problem: How would Gilda convince her mother to let her fly across the country to visit a relative she had never met?

  Mrs. Joyce sat in her car in the garage, smoking a cigarette. She wanted to forget the hospital before she entered the house, and she felt that one cigarette on the sly would help her do just that. Although she knew better, being a mother and a nurse, Mrs. Joyce still smoked secretly, usually in her car, the bathroom, or outside, behind the garage.