Josie laughed. “My mother isn’t as mysterious as everyone seems to think she is—not by a mile.” A picture loomed up: of her mother as a wild-haired voodoo priestess dressed in a mantle of feathers, wearing an alligator-skin belt studded with tiny dolls all stuck through with pins. She laughed again.
“I do wonder, though,” said Mabel. “Perhaps there are things you’ve never noticed.”
Josie lifted an eyebrow. “Such as?”
“Where does he sleep? What does he eat? Does he sit for meals with the other servants?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t eat. Perhaps he doesn’t sleep.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “Tosh!”
Cassie was turning in circles on the lawn, faster and faster, her face lifted to the sky. Mrs. Gubbins sat in the grass looking on. A moment later the girl collapsed on the ground, giggling to herself as if there could be no better company.
“He’s awfully strange,” said Mabel. “You can’t tell me he doesn’t give you the creeps.”
“Of course he gives me the creeps,” Josie countered, but Mabel shushed her, and Josie glanced over her shoulder. Her mother and Merritt were coming down the back steps, arm in arm. The man looked even more like a corpse in the cheerful afternoon light. Mabel dabbed at her lips with a corner of her napkin.
“Hello, Mother,” Josie said, when they had come near enough for greetings. “Hello, Merritt.”
Merritt nodded to each of them. He did not speak, and his eyes were fixed on the tea table as if he were looking straight through it, at something no one else could see. Josie heard Mabel shifting uneasily in her chair.
“You girls have hardly touched your sandwiches,” Mrs. Clifford observed. “And I suppose your tea’s gone cold, too, with all your chitchatting.”
“Oh, no, ma’am,” Mabel said brightly, taking a sip to illustrate.
Josie’s mother regarded her guest with an unreadable look. “We’ll leave you to your tea party. Make yourself at home, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clifford,” Mabel replied, but the pair had already passed beyond the garden room. Cassie was still sprawled on the lawn like a rag doll, and they strode by her as if she were invisible. They were heading down to the back gate, where there was a path that cut between the back lawns of Sparrow and Thrush Streets and led to the graveyard on the hill. Mrs. Clifford sometimes walked in the afternoon, but she never went with anyone but Merritt.
“I can’t imagine he provides much in the way of conversation,” Mabel said.
“We’ve gone weeks without hearing him speak.” Josie picked up a sandwich, took a bite, and found she was no longer hungry.
“Perhaps that’s part of her magic.” Mabel split open a scone and buttered it lavishly. “Perhaps he can only speak when she’s spoken to him first.”
* * *
Emily rejoined them for dinner that evening. Josie wanted to tell her about the tea party, but she knew better than to speak of it now.
There was a pause once Emily had told of her afternoon activities in Greenwich Village, and Mrs. Clifford flicked a glance at Josie as she cut her veal into dainty pieces. “How was your visit with the Foley girl?”
“Her name is Mabel.” Her mother merely lifted an eyebrow. “It was very nice.” Josie hesitated. “Thank you.”
“You had the perfect day for it,” said Emily.
Her mother paused. “I hope your little tea party has satisfied your desire for—how did you put it—‘outside company’? I do not wish the Foley girl to enter my house again.”
Josie’s jaw dropped. “But why? What did she do?”
“She’s a common snoop, Josephine, and you know it.” Her mother went on cutting her veal as if they were discussing the weather. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see her eyes roving over the place, taking everything in, every word you said, filing it away for her next tea party. When the time comes, dear, don’t wonder why you aren’t invited.”
Josie felt the fire rising in her cheeks. She glanced at Emily, who gave her a sympathetic look. Cassie, seemingly oblivious, swirled her mashed potatoes into a small mountain with her fork and studded it with peas.
“Mabel had never been here before.” Josie heard the petulance in her own voice, and it made her more so. “She was just curious.”
“It was the wrong kind of curiosity.” Her mother sniffed. “Someday you’ll understand. Gossip is currency among that lot.”
How she hated this. It wasn’t fair that a word of criticism from her mother’s lips could distort a thing that had been, at the time, almost perfectly enjoyable. “What lot?”
“Why, common women! This silly little town is rife with them.” Her mother took a sip of wine, glanced at Josie, and sighed. “Of course you don’t notice these things. This is why I’ve kept you out of the day school. Girls don’t learn anything useful at a place like that. Your Mabel Foley couldn’t spell ‘arithmetic,’ much less perform any. No,” she went on, as if she needed or wanted to convince anyone, “those girls only learn the value, such as it is, of gossip.”
“Then why did you even let me invite her?”
“To teach you an important lesson.” So Mrs. Clifford had known what Mabel Foley wanted, and she’d let Josie invite her anyway. Her mother had made a fool of her. “Don’t sulk, Josephine. Miss Jasper allows you to make your own mistakes, and you forgive her every time.”
Now Cassie squashed her mashed-potato mountain into a mesa. “Can I ask a question?”
“I don’t know, dear,” said Mrs. Clifford. “Can you?”
Cassie went on, in her airy childish way, as if she hadn’t been corrected. “If it’s a silly little town, Mother, then why do we live here?”
“Because it’s the silly little people who put the veal on our table.”
“The silly little people who think Mother talks to spirits,” Josie offered, keeping one eye on Mrs. Clifford’s face to gauge her reaction, but Cassie spoke again before their mother could respond.
“Is Mr. Berringsley a silly little person, too?” The girl pushed her plate away, crossed her arms and leaned forward on the table, grinning like an imp.
Josie watched a knot form in her mother’s jaw. “Come here, Cassandra.”
Every trace of mirth fell from Cassie’s face as she got to her feet and rounded the dining table, eyes on the carpet. Mrs. Clifford slapped her daughter on the cheek, leaving an angry red mark, and pointed a long white finger at her nose.
“That’s for your impertinence. Now go back to your seat and eat your potatoes, or you will finish them for breakfast.”
Other People’s Secrets
6.
Some nights it was impossible to fall asleep. He’d start thinking about how horribly different life was now, that even if his dad was working all the time at least Alec knew he’d be home again eventually. As long as his parents were married, Alec’s father could be away but he was still there, still belonging to them—and now he never would again.
This was a whole new kind of loneliness. Some nights Alec very nearly convinced himself there was someone else in the room with him, someone who didn’t want him to know they were there. Maybe there was more than one of them. It was like each doubt and angry thought had gathered itself out of the darkest corners of the bedroom and stood skulking in a circle around his bed. You’re shy. Shyness is weakness. Things bother you that don’t bother anybody else and that makes you DIFFICULT. You don’t like to play football or baseball, or any of the other things Dad was good at when he was a kid, things he always thought he’d get to do with a son of his own. Eventually Alec would nod off, and if he woke up an hour or two later the phantoms were gone, but the feelings were still there.
Alec didn’t tell his mother about the shadow-people in his room. He knew she’d worry about him even more than she already did, and anyway, he knew perfectly w
ell they weren’t really there. “I’m going to make an appointment for you to see someone,” she’d said more than once over the past few weeks. “A counselor. So you can talk about your feelings—about the way things are now.”
He couldn’t see how talking to a stranger would help him to feel any better, but he also wasn’t about to say no to anything his mother suggested. Even when he did everything he could think of to please her, she might burst into tears.
* * *
The weekend after school started, Danny and Harold spent the night to celebrate Alec’s birthday. Alec was still annoyed that Harold had dissed his mother’s pizza, but Danny wanted him to come, so Alec resolved to give him another chance. Mrs. Frost made veggie burgers with French fries and a double-chocolate cake.
“Maybe sometime my mom can come over, and you can show her how to bake one of these,” Danny proclaimed, a ring of chocolate icing around his mouth. Take that, Harold, Alec thought.
After dinner Harold leaned in and lowered his voice so Alec’s mother couldn’t hear him. “Have you used the Ouija board again?” Alec shook his head, and Harold laughed. “I guess it would be kinda weird if you had.”
“Why are you even talking about it?” Danny put in. “You thought Alec was pushing it the whole time.”
“I never said that!” Harold shot back, but he didn’t look at Alec as he denied it.
“Here, look. Let’s go upstairs,” Danny said, “and we’ll show you that thing I found.”
Harold let the others lead him up the back stairs to the large attic room, but he shook his head when he saw the letters gouged into the windowsill. “You could have done that when you moved in,” he said to Alec. “It’s so dusty up here, we’d never know.”
“Whatever, Harold,” Danny said cheerfully, but Alec couldn’t shrug it off so easily. If you think I’m lying then why don’t you just go home?
“I think we should try the board again,” Alec said. “This time I’ll write down the letters.”
They snuck the talking board up to his room and set it on his desk. Harold sat in the chair and Danny drew up another. Alec sat at the end of his bed with the notebook.
“Hello?” Danny said, and they waited. “Hello?”
“It’s just what I thought.” Harold took his fingers off the planchette and leaned back from the desk. “I knew you were pushing it.”
Alec’s heart knocked in his chest. “I wasn’t!”
“Whatever.” Harold rose from the desk. “Let’s watch Guardians of the Galaxy.”
Mrs. Frost made popcorn and brought it into the TV room, and if she noticed the silence that had fallen between the boys, she pretended not to. Alec, cheeks still burning with indignation, found himself wishing that Harold would fake a stomachache and go home. Some birthday this was turning into.
His mother said goodnight midway through the movie, and the house was perfectly still by the time the end credits came on. Alec switched off the television.
“I want to try the board one more time,” he said. “Downstairs. Maybe it makes a difference. I’ll take the notes.”
Harold rolled his eyes, but Danny led the way into the dining room. They set themselves up as they had that first night, but Danny took the planchette and Alec the notepad. “Hello?” Danny said again.
This time the planchette sprang into motion, sliding toward the corner marked HELLO before spelling out
a-g-a-i-n s-p-i-r-i-t.
A pause, and then:
you have not succeeded in frightening us away—
“Neither have you,” Danny replied cheerfully. “I ain’t afraid a’ no ghosts!”
“I think we should test it,” said Harold.
Danny frowned. “What do you mean?”
“We should ask it things no one else could know.” Harold nodded at Alec. “Things he couldn’t know.”
“Don’t be a doofus,” Danny retorted. “You know he’s not moving it. How could he be?”
mother is out planning the rally or we would not be here—
At this Danny literally scratched his head. Alec found he could transcribe the words as the pointer completed them, that there was no need to write the letters down one at a time only to make sense of them afterward.
mrs gubbins says you havent been born yet—
“Mrs. Gubbins?” Harold exclaimed. “What the . . . ?”
“Shhh! You’ll wake up Alec’s mom.”
“Who is Mrs. Gubbins?” Alec asked.
mrs gubbins is my doll—a very special doll—she tells me other peoples secrets—even yours spirit—
“Don’t call me ‘spirit,’” he said when the pointer stopped. “I’m not a spirit. My name is Alec.”
see josie i told you he was a boy—
Josie, Alec thought. Short for Josephine.
Harold leaned forward until his chin was almost on the board, as if he were about to whisper into the ear of someone invisible.
“Ask Mrs. Gubbins,” he said, smirking. “What are Alec’s secrets?”
mrs gubbins says alec does not keep any secrets worth telling—but you do—
Danny laughed. “Very funny,” Harold said sourly.
once a liar always a liar thats what mrs gubbins says—
Harold pulled away from the planchette and sat staring at the board, as if the invisible hand had reached up and slapped him. Danny eyed his friend, but did not remove his fingertips, so the pointer continued to dart between the letters.
cassie if you insist upon insulting the spirits then dont—
“Stop it,” Harold said quietly, but Danny did not react.
come crying to me when they haunt you—
“I said stop it!” With the back of his hand, Harold flung the pointer from the table, and it went sliding across the carpet before thudding loudly against the baseboard.
A moment later Alec heard a door open on the second floor, and his mother’s footsteps come softly to the head of the stairs. She called his name, her voice thick with sleep. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, Mom. Everything’s fine. I’m sorry we woke you up.”
“It’s pretty late,” she replied. “Aren’t you guys tired yet?”
That was code for Go to bed now, please. Alec picked the pointer off the carpet—he was surprised it hadn’t cracked—and put the board back in the drawer. Harold stared at the table, his arms tightly crossed. “Coming?” said Danny, and he nodded slightly. But when he and Alec went back into the family room and unrolled their sleeping bags, Harold did not follow.
A minute later the front door opened and closed, and when the boys went back to the front hallway they saw Harold’s overnight bag was gone.
“That jerk,” Danny said, shaking his head. “They really spooked him, didn’t they? Oh well!” Alec lay awake, thinking not of that-jerk-Harold but of the portrait of Josephine Clifford his mother had placed on the mantel.
In the morning, Alec’s mother insisted on calling Mrs. Yates to make sure Harold had gotten home safely. She turned away and lowered her voice as she spoke into the receiver. “The boys must have had some sort of a tiff last night . . . you’re right, of course . . . they’ll patch things up on Monday . . . and please tell him he’s welcome to come back for pancakes and fruit salad.”
“I’ve never seen him like that,” Danny said as he poured the maple syrup. “He was like a totally different person last night.”
“I don’t know what I could’ve done differently.” Alec pushed a piece of honeydew across his plate. “I didn’t make the pointer move.”
“Of course not.” Last night’s goings-on had not diminished Danny’s appetite, and he tucked into his stack of pancakes with a cheerful face. “We gotta chalk it up as one of those things nobody’s ever gonna be able to explain, like crop circles or Bigfoot. He’ll get over it.”
&
nbsp; Somehow Alec doubted that. “Do you think we were really talking to somebody?”
“More than one somebody,” Danny replied through a mouthful of pancake. “They were talking to each other, remember? And then there was that Mrs. Gubbins character. Nobody could’ve made that up.” He took another bite and giggled with his mouth full. “Mrs. Gubbins. That’s so ridiculous.”
“They called each other by name,” Alec said slowly. “First it was Josie, and then Cassie.”
“So you’ve got two girl ghosts.”
“What’s that about ghosts?” said Mrs. Frost as she flipped another pancake on the skillet.
“We were telling ghost stories last night.” Danny flashed Alec a conspiratorial look as he spooned out some fruit salad. “Wouldn’t be a sleepover without ’em.”
The phone rang, and when his mother answered it, Alec ran to the living-room mantelpiece and brought back the portrait of Josephine Clifford. “I think this is her,” he said softly. “This is Josie.”
Alec liked the way Danny looked at old photographs. He took a minute to see the person inside the photo—a person who, though dead and gone, had held as many hopes and dreams as the boys did now.
“If they lived here we should be able to find out about them,” Alec went on. “The real estate agent told us a famous actress lived here once. Maybe she’s one of them.”
Danny looked up from Josie’s face, and grinned. “I like the way you think, dude.”
Votes for Women!
7.
Half of Edwardstown considered Lavinia Clifford a witch, a confidence artist, or both, while the other half quietly made and kept their appointments in her sumptuous reading room. No one doubted she was the little town’s most prominent resident, though she rarely appeared in public.
In late October, however, the National Women’s Committee invited “our esteemed Mrs. Clifford” to give the keynote speech at their autumn rally, and on this occasion even the most plainspoken skeptics treated her like a queen. The drunken men who inevitably loitered along the margins of these events could hardly summon a jeer between them. She was that magnificent.
The Boy from Tomorrow Page 3