Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “Don’t you fret,” the old woman said. “I’ll fix you a nice a headache powder for Mrs. Kerchal’s migraines. I’ll even throw in some healing balm to loosen up those crotchety old joints of yours. Set a spell and I’ll fix it myself.”

  Sister Marie’s cardinal rule when I assisted her was that I was to be seen and not heard. I was dying to ask Teo about the wedding, but the steely look Sister Marie gave me as I returned to my task reminded me to hold my tongue. I’d thought I was beyond caring about Sam Kerchal and his stupid family, but as I continued, a murderous fury raged inside me. Sam had written me poetry. He’d told me he wanted to run away with me, but it was all a lie. He’d gotten engaged to some rich college girl from Indianapolis instead. Bastard. May you and your entire family suffer a life of devastation and misery. May your mother fall and break both her legs. May your bride be barren as the desert sands. May she never bear a healthy child. Silently but with great intensity, I brooded on these vengeful thoughts as I ground the fragrant lavender buds into shreds. And may your father rot in hell forever.

  Only Sister Marie’s voice startled me out of my hateful reverie. “Hand me a bit of that lavender, baby.”

  Without thinking, I swept the handful I’d just finished off the cutting board into my hand and gave it to her. Carefully removing a small glass bowl from its special place on the shelf over the washbasin, Sister Marie mixed the lavender together with a handful of mint leaves and sprinkled the mixture with a small dose of poppy seed powder. Folding the herbs into a piece of butcher’s paper, she fastened the bundle securely with twine and handed it to Teo with a smile.

  “This should take care of any headache. And this,” she said, pulling a small jar of amber liquid down from the cabinet behind her, “will keep those old knees from givin’ you so much trouble.”

  After Teo left, the old woman touched me on the arm. “Looks to me you got a bit upset hearing about the wedding and all. You all right?”

  Looking down at the floor, I shrugged. “I’d gladly see them all rot in hell,” I said bitterly. “No man is ever again going to put me in a position where I ruin my life over him. No man, do you hear me?”

  “Of course I hear you,” Sister Marie said softly. “But remember, chile, carryin’ a grudge can be mighty hard work.”

  ~||~

  As summer moved along, I got better and better at making Sister Marie’s most popular remedies. I was not the herbalist she was, of course, but when Sister Marie was out visiting or attending to her many clients around the city, it was up to me to mind the store. When Teo returned two weeks later, I was alone, putting the final touches on Sister Marie’s Easy Breathe Ointment.

  “You’re never gonna believe it,” Teo said, waving her arms in a flurry of excitement. “Mrs. Kerchal slipped and fell last week. Broke both legs and twisted her spine something awful. Young Mr. Kerchal is beside himself with grief.”

  “What a shame,” I said. “Has the wedding been called off?”

  “The reception has been postponed indefinitely. Sam’s getting married down at the courthouse. After the wedding, he and Miss Becky are moving home to help care for his mother.”

  I exhaled slowly and willed my hands to continue stirring the mixture of alcohol, molasses, and eucalyptus leaves in the large white porcelain bowl in front of me.

  “Isn’t that something,” I said softly.

  Teo nodded. “The poor woman can hardly move. She’s already had one operation, but I don’t think it took. She just lays upstairs in her bedroom, hysterical with pain. Don’t know how my old knees are going to make it, climbing up and down those stairs all day. Can you fix me up with another bottle of that rheumatism juice?”

  “Of course,” I said. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  After settling Teo in Sister Marie’s rocker with a steaming mug of black tea, I unlocked the cabinet above the sink and pulled down a jar of camphor leaves and a bottle of laudanum. While I worked, Teo continued telling me about the disaster that had befallen the Kerchals.

  “Doc Warren suggested they move the missus to a sanitarium, but young Sam wouldn’t hear of it.” Teo sighed and shook her head. “I haven’t had a moment’s rest in two weeks.”

  “Must be difficult,” I murmured. Strangely, I felt little compassion for my former employer. All I could remember was the triumphant look she’d had on her face while her husband smashed my honey pot, dragged me down the stairs and out into the street.

  It wasn’t until after Teo left that I remembered what I’d been thinking about when I was preparing Mrs. Kerchal’s headache powder: May you and your entire family suffer a life of devastation and misery. May your mother fall and break both her legs. Had my ill wishes caused the old lady’s misfortune? The idea seemed ridiculous. Still, I had seen some strange things while working for Sister Marie: rapists suffering from nightmares so terrible they hung themselves; unfaithful husbands struck down by freak accidents in the street; thieves inexplicably returning the things they’d taken. Had I somehow hexed Mrs. Kerchal without being aware of it?

  For the rest of the day, I worried. Should I tell Sister Marie what I’d done? If I did, she would no doubt be angry, perhaps angry enough to throw me out. Terrified at the prospect of being homeless and penniless once more, I decided to hold my tongue. It wasn’t as though I’d intended to hex Mrs. Kerchal’s headache powder. Unlike Sister Marie, I was no conjurer. I was just a scared young woman trying to fend for herself in a dangerous world.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sister Marie began taking me with her on house calls. To my surprise, I discovered that the old woman was welcome in some of the most prestigious homes in Aronsville. We still had to enter through the back door, of course. But once inside, we were whisked into the upstairs parlor, where the mistress of the house would seek Sister Marie’s help for a long litany of problems.

  After our first such visit, I asked the old woman why her wealthy white clients did not simply seek a doctor’s care. “It’s not like they can’t afford it,” I said, shaking my head.

  “By the time they call me, these women have been to several doctors. They’ve been to specialists. Maybe they’ve even been up to that fancy new clinic in Battle Creek,” she said with a knowing smile. “By the time they call for me, these ladies are well and truly desperate. They realize they need a miracle. And that, my dear, is the business we’re in: the miracle business.”

  Sister Marie’s clients rewarded her handsomely for her miracle work, crossing her palm with gold pieces, fine linen, and other expensive gifts, all of which she kept hidden in a hole in the floor under her bed.

  “You could easily afford to buy yourself a new place—something nice, maybe a farm in the country,” I told Sister Marie after a particularly remunerative session. “With all this money, why are you still living in Churchtown?”

  The old woman just smiled. “There’s an old song my mother used to sing,” she said. In a reedy but surprisingly resonant voice she began:

  Live a humble

  Live a humble

  Humble yourself

  The bell done rung.

  When she had finished, she sat quietly for a moment before continuing. “You never know when the bell of life is gonna ring, chile. I might be sitting pretty at the moment, but I ain’t never gonna forget where I came from and those that helped me along the way. Good thing to keep in mind, chile. Sometimes it’s best to keep yourself away from prying eyes. Jealousy can make people do terrible things.”

  With this, she speared me with a long sidewise glance. “Know what I heard today?”

  Feeling increasingly uncomfortable under her gaze, I shook my head. The old woman cocked her head and studied me in silence until I could bear it no longer.

  “What is it?” I said. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “A little bird told me young Sam Kerchal’s wife has had a miscarriage. Can you imagine? First his mother falls and is likely to be paralyzed for life. Now h
is wife loses her baby.” Continuing to watch me closely, the old woman shook her head. “Almost seems like that poor family is cursed, doesn’t it?”

  I felt myself turning red. “What? You think I had something to do with this? That I put some kind of hex on those white people?”

  The old woman’s eyes were steely. “Did you?”

  Moments earlier, we’d been having a pleasant conversation at the kitchen table over a cup of tea. But as Marie continued to stare at me, I began to feel sick to my stomach.

  “They were cruel to me,” I said stubbornly, looking away.

  “So they were, child, so they were. Trouble is, the things you do to others have a way of coming back to haunt you.” She reached across the table and grabbed my wrist so tightly it hurt. “Especially when you have the Sight.”

  “The Sight?” My head felt like it was filled with cotton. Although she was speaking in plain English, I couldn’t seem to comprehend what the old woman was telling me. I shook my head in an unsuccessful attempt to clear the cobwebs. “You telling me I have powers?”

  Sister Marie released my wrist and smiled. “More power than you have any idea what to do with, Carrie. You’re a Seer, sure as you’re born.”

  As I took in Sister Marie’s words, something clicked into place.

  “A Seer,” I said, nodding my head. “Is that why I get a buzzing in my ear when something important’s about to happen? Mama used to say it was an angel trying to get my attention.”

  Sister Marie smiled. “I’m guessing your Mama was one too.”

  A slow smile spread across my face. “If Mama could see me now, I know she’d be proud to see me using my powers.”

  “That she would,” Sister Marie said. “But when you’ve got the Gift, you must use it the right way if you want to hold on to it. You can’t afford to go around hurting people, Carrie. Watch your mind and watch your thoughts at all times, you hear?”

  I nodded gravely. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For the next forty days, I want you to go to St. John’s Cathedral on High Street first thing every morning. Put a penny in the collection box and light two candles: one for Mrs. Kerchal and one for Sam’s wife.”

  “She put me out on the street, pregnant and barefoot,” I said stubbornly. “Anyway, I ain’t Catholic, and neither are they.”

  “Do not argue with me, girl.” The look Sister Marie gave me would have split a stone in half. “After you light those candles, you are going to get down on your knees and pray for the Kerchal family. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “This remedy is as much for you as it is for them,” Sister Marie said, patting my hand gently. “If you want to be a Seer, you’ve got to cure the bitterness that has curdled your heart.”

  ~||~

  I was awake before dawn the next morning. I dressed in the dark and slipped outside, closing the door softly behind me. As I hurried along the quiet city streets, my plan was to slip into St. John’s Cathedral as soon as the building opened. If I was going to light a candle for the Kerchal family, I preferred to do it unobserved.

  The cathedral was massive, built in a Gothic style and topped by the most imposing bell tower in Aronsville. While I had passed it many times, it had never even occurred to me to set foot inside. St. John’s was not just a white folks church. It was a rich folks church.

  Nonetheless, I was there on a mission. I took a deep breath, climbed the broad stone steps, and walked inside. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I was relieved to see that none of the worshippers scattered among the pews seemed to have noticed my entrance. Against the rear wall stood a wrought-iron stand that held several rows of flickering votive candles. Feeling awkward and out of place, I dug a dime out of my pocket, dropped it into the collection box, lit a candle, and began to pray—for Sam, for his family, for his new bride, and for myself, a young and willful girl coming to terms with her own power.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still bitter when I left the church that morning, but at the same time, I had to admit that something inside me felt just a tiny bit lighter. I still performed my ordinary tasks—running errands, chopping and grinding herbs, sweeping out our little shack twice a day. But somehow, even these mundane tasks were now imbued with a deeper meaning, almost as though each object I saw was somehow lit from within.

  Day by day, the colors around me grew brighter, and the smells became more pungent. For better or for worse, my hearing became almost unbearably acute. The clanging of bells, the grinding of the trolley wheels against the pavement, the shouts of the street vendors affected me as never before. Even more unsettling was the fact that as I passed perfect strangers, I often knew what they were going to do before they did it.

  With increasing accuracy, I could predict whether a man walking down the street would turn left or right at the corner, whether he would stop to buy a morning paper, or if he was on his way to church or to one of the brothels on Lincoln Avenue. Sometimes I could even sense their moods. After passing a woman all dressed in black coming out of Freedom Baptist Church, I became overwhelmed with an almost unbearable sense of loss, and I knew without a doubt that she had just lost her husband in a tragic accident at work. More and more I found myself staying indoors—away from the racket, the stink of horse manure, and the intruding thoughts of strangers.

  When I mentioned this to Sister Marie, she assured me these symptoms would soon pass.

  “It’s part of the Openin’,” she said. “Now that you know who you are, all the senses you’ve been keepin’ blocked off are beginnin’ to come to life, kinda like the buds openin’ on those elm trees out there. The buds are tender when they first emerge, but they get bigger soon enough. In the meantime, put some of this Protection Oil on your forehead, your stomach, and behind your ears before you go out.”

  The thick brown liquid smelled faintly of cloves, with a hint of lavender. When I put it on, I instantly felt at peace. The feeling of sensory overload began to disappear, and a strong feeling of certainty took its place. As Sister Marie and I made our rounds about the city, she would quiz me.

  “The thin man in the fedora going into the bank, is he happy or sad? Is he putting money in or taking it out? How’s his love life?”

  To my own surprise, I became more and more accurate in my answers. By late-July, I was beginning to feel confident in my newfound gifts.

  “Trust the messages you receive from Spirit,” she told me. “Never doubt that inner voice, even when it seems to go against everything you think you know.”

  On a sultry morning, Sister Marie and I set off across town to see a woman she described as “a very special client.”

  “I think you’re gonna like Mrs. Mason,” she said. “The woman is definitely a handful, and most likely several cards shy of the full deck. She’s harmless, though, and tips very well. When we get there, follow my lead. Do exactly as I do and you’ll be fine.”

  When we arrived at Mrs. Mason’s imposing brick mansion on River Street, Sister Marie marched straight up to the front door and rang the bell. This in itself was shocking, as all of our other white patrons required us to enter through the back. Once inside, a dignified Negro butler in formal attire led us through an imposing marble entry hall, down a hallway covered with a Persian carpet, and into a large parlor. At least I think it was a parlor. The décor was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Portraits of Indian chiefs in full regalia dominated one wall of the room. In the corner, a bronze statue of an angel with outstretched wings stood atop a pedestal next to a mahogany cabinet filled with the most unusual bric-a-brac—a small tambourine, a child’s ball, and on the bottom shelf, a long silver trumpet. Mounted on the other wall were pictures of dour-faced women in Victorian dress, and in the center, an old-fashioned portrait of two girls wearing their hair in identical ringlets.

  Reclining on the chaise lounge in front of us was the largest woman I had ever seen. She wore a long crimson robe that covered her massive body from her neck to her feet. Perc
hed on top of a mass of auburn hair was an Indian feather bonnet. As I took in the bizarre sight, Sister Marie poked me so hard in the ribs, I was unable to speak. Taking the hint, I simply kept walking, my eyes as big as saucers.

  “Greetings.” Though the speaker was clearly a woman, her booming voice was as low as that of a man. “Were you able to procure the herbs I requested?”

  Marie raised her open palm in an Indian salute. “Yes, Chieftess Mason,” she said gravely. She reached into her bag and extracted a bottle of Lady’s Remedy, a potent combination of alcohol, sassafras, and laudanum.

  “Hallelujah,” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. Taking the bottle from Marie’s outstretched hand, she unscrewed the cap and unceremoniously downed a large swallow. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Marie.” She turned her massive head and studied me with frank curiosity. “And who is this lovely maiden?”

  “This is my assistant,” Marie said, nudging me forward. “Go on, Carrie. Say hello to Chieftess Mason.”

  “Don’t be afraid, my dear,” Mrs. Mason said, beckoning me forward. “I don’t bite, at least not this early in the morning.”

  I took a tentative step toward Mrs. Mason’s chaise lounge and offered an awkward curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said.

  “Tell me your name, my dear.”

  “Carrie McFarland.”

  “Not the name those thieving missionaries gave you.” As Mrs. Mason waved her arm in distain, yards of diaphanous red cloth fluttered like a flag in a strong wind. “I want to know your true name—your Indian name.”

  “I’m not an Indian, ma’am.” Hoping for guidance, I cast a sidelong glance at Sister Marie but found her looking equally confused.

  “Of course you are,” Mrs. Mason said firmly. “I can always tell an authentic red Indian when I see one. With those beautiful long braids and tawny skin, there can be no doubt as to your race.” She beckoned me to come closer. I didn’t want to, but the look on Marie’s face left no doubt that I was to humor this woman. “Tell me your Indian name, sweet maiden. Speak to me of your tribe, your people.”