Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  Following Sister Marie’s example, I raised my forearm and offered Mrs. Mason what I presumed to be an Indian salute.

  “Greetings Chieftess Mason,” I said.

  Nodding gravely, she leaned forward expectantly. Apparently, I was supposed to say more. Seized by a sudden fit of inspiration, I decided to improvise.

  “I am called Bright Feather. I bring you greetings from the sun-kissed hunting grounds beyond the western mountains.”

  With surprising agility for such a large person, Mrs. Mason leaped from her couch and began to circle around me, clapping her hands and stomping her feet as she sang:

  Hiya hoya hiya ho!

  Praise above and joy below!

  Sacred feather flying free

  Shine your light on you, on me!

  Dripping with perspiration, Mrs. Mason continued to dance around me, punctuating her singing with occasional Indian war whoops.

  “Surely you know this one, Bright Feather. It’s an old Indian song. Join me!” Mrs. Mason took hold of my arm. “You too, Marie.”

  Though we tried to sing along, neither Marie nor myself could quite catch hold of the tune, perhaps because Mrs. Mason changed it frequently. After several minutes of trying to get me to sing, she shook her head sadly.

  “You poor thing,” she said, panting from exertion. “You’ve been utterly deprived of your cultural heritage.”

  Beckoning us to resume our seats, Mrs. Mason flopped down on the couch and refreshed herself with long swallow of Lady’s Remedy.

  After what seemed like a suitable interval, Sister Marie cleared her throat. “We’ll be taking our leave now, Chieftess Mason. I promised another client I’d stop by on my way back to Churchtown.”

  “This child is living in Churchtown?” Mrs. Mason’s eyebrows, clearly painted a fake red to match the color of her hair, lifted in alarm. “That will not do, Marie. Bright Feather is no ordinary Negro. The girl has Indian blood. She must receive a proper education in the ways of her people.” Mrs. Mason’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment. Then, as inspiration struck, her massive face creased itself into a wide smile. “I will bring her here, to live with me,” she announced triumphantly.

  I turned to Sister Marie with a panicked expression. I didn’t want to speak out of turn or offend a valued client. However, I could not imagine leaving the warmth and comfort of Sister Marie’s company to live with this eccentric white woman.

  I was trying to think of a tactful way to say this when Sister Marie said, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Chieftess Mason. As you can see, I am an old woman. I need the girl’s help in order to make my medicines. I would not be able to brew my Lady’s Remedy without her.”

  Mrs. Mason absorbed this news in silence. From the pouty look on her face, I’m guessing she was not used to being told “no” by anyone, especially a Negro. At the same time, she had to admit that Sister Marie had a point.

  “Oh dear me,” she said. “Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  “No, ma’am,” Sister Marie said. “Perhaps, Madame Chieftess, I could make a suggestion?”

  Mrs. Mason gave a grudging nod.

  “I s’pose I could spare Carrie on the weekends. You’d have to pay her for her time, of course, but she’s an experienced housemaid. Anything you need done, she could help you with it.”

  “I do receive a lot of guests every weekend,” Mrs. Mason said slowly. “Edward and Annie have never complained, but I imagine they could use an extra pair of hands in the kitchen. And when she was not working, I could give the girl the education she so desperately needs.”

  “A wonderful idea, Chieftess,” Sister Marie said. “She’d have to be paid, of course.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Mason said. “The wicked days of chattel slavery are gone forever. I am prepared to offer Bright Feather one silver dollar for every Saturday that she works here. What do you say, fair maiden?”

  My eyes widened. “A dollar?” It was an exorbitant sum for a single day’s labor. “I’d be delighted, ma’am. What time do you want me to start?”

  “Your lessons will begin this coming Saturday morning at nine o’clock precisely. Afterwards, Edward will instruct you regarding the work you will be doing in the kitchen.”

  Although I was excited about the idea of earning my own money, I began to have second thoughts about Mrs. Mason’s proposal. On the long streetcar ride back to Churchtown, I shared my fears with Sister Marie.

  “The woman is flat-out crazy,” I said. “All this nonsense about Indians. How do I know she won’t scalp me?”

  Sister Marie laughed. “She may be eccentric, but she’s completely harmless. Near as I can figure, this Indian business is part of her religion.”

  “Her religion?” I’d heard a lot of crazy things, but I’d never heard tell of a church where people pretended to be Indians.

  “She’s what you call a Spiritualist,” Marie explained. “Spiritualists believe that Indian guides can lead them up to heaven. Mrs. Mason holds a spiritual circle every Saturday night to commune with the dead.”

  “You mean a séance?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ve got a little Cherokee on my grandma’s side,” I said, “but I am not an Indian.”

  “You may not be an Indian, but you are a Seer,” Sister Marie said firmly. “With your natural powers and those Indian-lookin’ braids of yours, you might be able to make a nice livin’ as a medium.”

  “But she’s bound to figure out I’m not a real Indian sooner or later. What will I do then?”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when it comes, Carrie.” Sister Marie smiled. “It’s been my experience that people tend to believe what they want to believe. In the meantime, you could certainly use the money. You need to start thinking about your future, Carrie. I’m an old woman, and I won’t be here forever.”

  “Nonsense,” I said, pressing Marie’s gnarled hand between my own. “You’re going to be around for quite some time.”

  Sister Marie flashed me a mischievous grin. “Perhaps, child. Perhaps. But fortune favors those who prepare. God is givin’ you an opportunity here. I suggest you take advantage of it.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I arrived at Mrs. Mason’s home the following Saturday morning at fifteen minutes before nine o’clock. It felt strange to be going there without Sister Marie, and I was more than a little nervous. As before, the butler, an elderly Negro man with graying hair, opened the door. His aura of quiet authority was further enhanced by the serious expression, cutaway jacket, and gray vest he wore. With a solemn nod, he gestured for me to follow him. Silently, he led me through the marble entry hall, past the parlor Sister Marie and I had seen on our previous visit, and into the largest kitchen I had ever seen.

  Two large stoves stood side by side, flanked by what seemed to be yards of marble-topped space for preparing food. Above them, orderly rows of copper pots hung from hooks suspended from the ceiling. On the opposite wall, two deep sinks awaited any dishes that might need washing, and off to the side, a pantry as large as Sister Marie’s entire living space held shelves overflowing with canned goods.

  “My name is Edward J. Lewis,” the butler said, “but you can call me Mr. Lewis.” He nodded toward a rail-thin woman in a maid’s uniform. “This is my wife, Mrs. Annie Lewis.” He pulled out a chair at the large oak table in the corner and gestured for me to sit. “Welcome to our household, Bright Feather.”

  I blushed. “Y’all know I’m not really an Indian, right?”

  “That’s obvious,” Mrs. Lewis said with a grin, “but don’t tell that to Mrs. Mason. Once she gets her mind made up about something, she does not budge. And, by the way, call me Annie.”

  “Mrs. Mason takes her religion very seriously,” Mr. Lewis said. “If she catches you making fun, disbelieving, or mocking in any way, she will not hesitate to terminate your employment. Under this roof, you will go by the name Bright Feather. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” Now th
at I had made up my mind to come here, the last thing I wanted to do was fail. I was prepared to walk around in a feathered headdress all day if I had to.

  “She’s not so bad, really,” Annie added. “Mr. Lewis and I have been with her for fifteen years and never had a lick of trouble. Long as you humor her whims, you’ll be fine.”

  “I will do my best,” I said. “What about the rest of the household?”

  “There’s only the two of us,” Mr. Lewis said. He put his arm around his wife’s thin shoulders and gave her a peck on the cheek. “There used to be lots more, back when Mr. Mason lived here year-round.”

  My eyes widened. “Mr. Mason doesn’t live with his wife?”

  “He stays in Indianapolis most of the time, managing his business,” Annie said. “Ever hear of Mason cookware?”

  “Of course. Everyone uses Mason’s iron pans for cooking,” I said. “Is he in on the Indian thing too?”

  “He’s not a Spiritualist, if that’s what you mean,” Annie said, “but he allows the missus to live her own life. Long as she keeps out of his affairs, she can do whatever she wants.”

  It didn’t take much to read between the lines. “And that goes for his personal life as well?”

  Mr. Lewis nodded. “He’s been known to wander a bit. Rumor has it he keeps a mistress in Indianapolis.”

  Just like Mr. Sam Kerchal, I thought, but did not say. Another spoiled rich man with an oversized appetite. “Does the missus know?”

  “She must,” Annie said, “but she’s never let on. As long as Mr. Mason leaves her Spiritualism alone, I don’t think she cares.”

  “That’s as may be, but it’s none of our business,” Mr. Lewis said crisply. “We have work to do.”

  Taking his cue, Annie returned to cooking, while her husband pulled a watch from his inside pocket and studied it with a frown.

  “The missus will be wanting her breakfast any minute,” he said. “Annie, would you take it up while I finish giving Carrie her instructions?”

  His wife nodded, and within a few minutes she was carrying a breakfast tray loaded with fried eggs, buttered toast, and a pot of coffee up the back stairs to Mrs. Mason’s bedroom.

  “After breakfast, you are to meet Mrs. Mason in the library,” Mr. Lewis said. “She has chosen some books she would like you to read. You do read, don’t you?”

  “Of course I can read,” I said haughtily. “I went all the way through the sixth grade. I’m not just some ignorant cotton picker, you know.”

  Mr. Lewis’s left eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “I was not implying anything of the kind, my dear,” he said gently. “Simply trying to familiarize you with your duties here.”

  Chastened, I nodded. “Of course. Sorry if I came across as uppity.”

  Mr. Lewis permitted himself a small smile. “Perhaps ‘spirited’ is a better word. Now, after your study time, you will help us set up the séance room. See that everything is clean and that the chairs are arranged properly. The guests will begin to arrive at eight. At that time, you will help me serve the drinks until the séance begins.”

  “I’ve worked as a housemaid before, Mr. Lewis. I know what to do.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Mr. Lewis replied. “Once the séance begins, no one is to be allowed into the parlor until Mrs. Mason herself opens the doors.”

  “Not even the help?” I had to admit, I’d been curious to see Mrs. Mason’s Red Indian from the Spirit World.

  “No one,” Mr. Lewis said firmly. “Not you. Not me. Not anyone. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, hoping my disappointment did not show. Perhaps, once she got to know me better, Mrs. Mason would allow me to peep through the keyhole.

  “After the guests have left, you will bring Mrs. Mason to her rooms and sit with her until she falls asleep,” he continued. “The missus is a very fitful sleeper, and you will need to be ready in case she wants you to fetch her medicine.”

  “Lady’s Remedy?”

  “Precisely,” Mr. Lewis said with a small hint of a smile. “Although liquid opium might be a better name for it.”

  “The ingredients in Sister Marie’s medicines are secret,” I said, “but many patients do find her Remedy calms the nerves.”

  “I’ll bet,” he replied. “Now, if you have no more questions, I will take you to the library. The missus will be ready to see you soon.”

  Like everything else in Mrs. Mason’s house, the library was imposing. I had never seen so many books in my life. Shelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined the wall from the floor to the ceiling. A small metal ladder on wheels to facilitate access to the uppermost shelves was positioned against one wall.

  As I sat down gingerly on the edge of a large armchair, Mrs. Mason swept into the room attired in a full-length silk kimono.

  “Good morning, Bright Feather. I trust that Edward has given you your instructions for the day.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I am not some elderly dowager to be coddled and pampered,” Mrs. Mason said sharply. “Never refer to me in that manner again.”

  What on earth had I done? In a desperate fumble for words, I had just begun to stammer out a litany of apologies when Mrs. Mason cut me off with an imperious wave of her hand.

  “It is only your first day here, Bright Feather. No need to apologize. However, from now on, you will refer to me in the manner of your people.”

  Oh dear, I thought. And exactly what manner is that? As Mrs. Mason looked on expectantly, I stood and raised my arm in an Indian salute.

  “Heya Ho, Chieftess Mason,” I intoned. “Bright Feather brings you greetings and salutations.”

  Apparently, I was on the right track because Mrs. Mason beamed and gestured for me to resume my seat. Lifting a large Rand McNally Atlas from its stand on top of the mahogany table in the center of the room, Mrs. Mason carried it to where I sat and opened it to a map of Indiana.

  “The noble Indian race was here long before the white man,” she said, tapping a finger against a small dot in the center of the map. “In the place we now call home, your Indian people once built a great city.”

  “Here in Aronsville?”

  “That’s right. On top of those big mounds on the outskirts of town. It’s possible one of those Indians may have been a distant ancestor of yours.”

  Not very likely, I thought. Unless he’d made a side trip to Africa somewhere along the way. However, I knew what was expected of me. “Yes, Chieftess Mason,” I replied.

  Mrs. Mason lifted the atlas off my lap and returned it to its stand on the table. Walking to the bookcase that lined the far wall, she gazed at her books without speaking for several minutes. Finally, she nodded her head, as if in response to a set of inaudible instructions. Smiling broadly, she plucked a leather-bound volume from the bookshelf and handed it to me. Written by Benjamin Thatcher, it carried the unwieldy title of Indian Biography, or, An Historical Account Of Those Individuals Who Have Been Distinguished Among The North American Natives As Orators, Warriors, Statesmen, And Other Remarkable Characters.

  “My spirit guides have informed me that you are descended from the great Chief Tecumseh,” Mrs. Mason announced. “A Shawnee warrior who fought hard for his people. When we meet next week, I will expect you to have read the book in its entirety. You are dismissed for now, Bright Feather. Return to the kitchen and make yourself useful.”

  For the rest of the afternoon, I helped Mr. and Mrs. Lewis set up a large buffet table along the far wall of Mrs. Mason’s cavernous dining room. While we set out the plates, arranged the silver, and positioned the cut-glass punch bowl in the center of the table, Annie answered my eager questions about what I could expect to see later that night.

  “Mrs. Mason’s séances are the hottest ticket in town,” she told me. “All the society folks are wild about ’em. She only takes ten, you know. Five men and five women.”

  “Will Mr. Mason be attending?”

  “Now is not the time for idle chitchat,” Mr.
Lewis said sharply. He cast a critical eye over the decorative flower arrangement I had placed on the table by the door. “This vase needs a doily underneath it. Bring me one from the linen closet right away.”

  I scurried downstairs to the linen closet. What on earth had I been thinking, putting a vase on an antique wooden table without something underneath it? I returned as fast as I could with a hand-crocheted lace doily and placed it carefully underneath the vase.

  When her husband returned to the kitchen, Annie patted me gently on the arm. “Don’t worry about Edward,” she said. “He always gets a bit nervous before these gatherings. He actually likes you, you know.”

  “He does?”

  She nodded. “I can tell from the tone he takes with you. And, to answer the question you asked earlier, Mr. Mason never comes to these things. The missus invites Mr. Gillette to accompany her. You’ll recognize him immediately because he always wears a red vest. Plus, he’s got the phoniest dyed hair you ever saw.”

  Taking a quick look over her shoulder to check that her husband was not watching, Annie continued. “The others are all society folks. You know the type—plenty of money and time on their hands. There’s only two guests you need to watch out for.”

  “What do you mean, ‘watch out for’?”

  Annie gave me a conspiratorial look and waved me over to her side of the buffet table.

  “The first one is Dr. Epps,” she said in a semi-whisper. “He’s a retired doctor, a fat old coot who walks with a cane on account of his gout. Nice enough till you put some liquor in him. But after a few drinks, he’s liable to grab you, pinch your bottom, or even rub himself against you if he catches you alone. You’ll know it’s time to stay clear when he starts bragging about charging up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt.”