Death at a Seance

by Carolyn Marie Wilkins

  “I’m surprised Mrs. Mason would tolerate that kind of behavior,” I said.

  “Dr. Epps’s wife is her best friend. Harriet Epps has been coming to Mrs. Mason’s evenings since the very beginning.”

  “But why does Mrs. Epps put up with it? It’s the twentieth century, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Annie said wryly. “Though I’m not sure Dr. Epps is aware of the fact. Mrs. Epps turns a blind eye to her husband’s doings because he’s one of the richest men in Aronsville. When he’s not drunk, he adores her, buys her anything she wants.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “Who’s the second one I should watch out for?”

  “Mr. Stokes,” Annie said. “The man is mean-spirited and won’t hesitate to give you a hard time. Rumor has it, he’s a big wheel in the Aronsville Klan.”

  “A Kluxer? Here?” A cold shiver ran down my spine. “They’re the ones who ran us off our farm two years ago.”

  Seeing the look of fear on my face, Annie smiled. “They haven’t lynched anybody up here for twenty years, and it’s unlikely they’ll do so tonight. Just be careful, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “I will,” I said. “How will I recognize him?”

  “The man is thin as a stick, with the posture of a soldier. He’s clean-shaven with a receding hairline and small, piggy eyes. His wife is twenty years younger. Blonde. A typical Southern belle type. You won’t miss them. If either one asks you for anything, just let me handle it.”

  Here, in the gentile confines of Mrs. Mason’s dining room, it was hard to imagine that I was in any real danger. But that fact did not keep me from spending the rest of the afternoon in a state that alternated between excitement at getting to see my first séance and fear being either pinched or lynched.

  At eight o’clock that evening, the guests began to arrive. Though there were only nine guests, we’d prepared enough food to feed an army. There were heaping platters of roast beef and mounds of potato salad on offer, and for dessert, Annie’s special lemon pound cake.

  My job was to stand at a small serving station set up on the wall opposite the buffet table and serve the lemonade. Dressed in my black servant’s uniform, white cap, and frilly apron, I studied the guests with interest, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversations.

  “Did you see Madame Cora at the Gaiety Theater last week?” A buxom matron gestured enthusiastically with her left hand as she balanced a full glass of lemonade and a roast beef sandwich in her right. The man to whom she spoke gave an enthusiastic nod. He wore a red vest under his evening jacket and, despite his middle-aged face, had a full head of suspiciously black hair held down with a shiny pomade I could smell from several feet away.

  “She was positively spellbinding,” he agreed in a reedy, aristocratic voice. “After seeing Madame Cora, it is impossible to doubt that there is life after death.”

  “Precisely,” the matron said. She was almost as tall as Mrs. Mason, but much thinner, with a long beaked nose that reminded me of a hawk. Decorating her yellow floor length gown was a large diamond broach in the shape of a feather. “Perhaps now people will stop persecuting us. Spiritualism is every bit as legitimate a religion as Methodism, for God’s sake.”

  “More than other religions, Mrs. Epps. If we had our own temple, the association could host its own events.”

  Mrs. Epps’s sudden burst of laughter caused a small amount of lemonade to splash onto her dress. If she noticed, she didn’t deign to show it.

  “My dear Mr. Gillette,” she said, “you are such a dreamer. Our little Spiritualist Association barely has a dozen members. I think we’ll be hosting visiting mediums at the Gaiety for some little while yet. Excuse me, will you?”

  Waving eagerly to an obese man leaning on a cane at the opposite side of the room, she reminded me of a small ocean liner as she steamed away, leaving Mr. Gillette to nurse his lemonade alone. I detected a flash of genuine anger on his face before he rearranged his features in a well-practiced smile.

  “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

  I’d gotten so engrossed in snooping that I’d completely forgotten my work. Standing in front of me waving her cup in my face was a girl in her early twenties. Her hair was cut in a scandalously short bob, and she held a cigarette in her left hand.

  “So sorry, miss,” I said. “Can I serve you some lemonade?”

  “Lemonade?” The girl’s high-pitched peals of laughter caused several guests to look disapprovingly in her direction. Though I am sure she noticed the attention she was attracting, the girl did not seem to care. “You can’t be serious.”

  Unsure how to respond, I maintained an awkward silence, while covertly taking note of her heavily rouged cheeks. The only women I’d ever seen wearing that much makeup were the whores who plied their trade on Lincoln Avenue. As the girl continued to hold her glass out expectantly, a dark-haired young man materialized next to her.

  “Miss Annabel never drinks her lemonade straight,” he told me with a knowing wink. “She needs a little something to go with it. Those prunes up in Washington have made it illegal, but I don’t let that bother me.” He pulled a silver flask from the pocket of his suit jacket and poured a generous dose of amber liquid into her cup.

  “Here you go, darling. The perfect glass of lemonade.”

  “Ooh, Ronnie,” she cooed, “you always know how to make a girl happy.”

  Judging by the smell of their breath, Ronnie and Annabel had already made each other happy several times that evening. As the couple wove their way toward the buffet table, you could have cut the disapproval in the room with a knife.

  Mr. and Mrs. Stokes arrived a few minutes later. True to Annie’s description, the man carried himself as if he were the very incarnation of Robert E. Lee. He thrust his hat into Edward’s waiting arms without a single word and began to walk purposefully toward the buffet. But his wife, a frail blonde in a yellow organdy gown, was not about to be left unaccompanied, not even for a moment.

  “Don’t abandon me, Henry dear,” she called out in a lazy Southern drawl.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” her husband replied, tapping his foot in thinly disguised impatience as she made an elaborate show of handing Edward her shawl and hat.

  “That’s much better,” Mrs. Stokes announced to no one in particular. Though her voice was soft, it had a resonance that allowed it to be heard easily over the conversations of the other guests. “I was so hot in that little ol’ shawl of mine, I thought I would perish.”

  With a thin smile, Mr. Stokes offered her his arm, and the couple began to walk toward the buffet table. But their plans to eat were interrupted by Dr. Epps, who intercepted the couple and immediately launched into a long story about his time in Theodore Roosevelt’s cavalry. The doctor was in full flight when Mrs. Stokes suddenly turned pale and collapsed in her husband’s arms.

  “My heavens!” Dr. Epps exclaimed, all thoughts of San Juan Hill temporarily forgotten. “Give the woman some air.”

  As her husband guided her to a nearby chair, Mrs. Stokes gasped and fanned herself frantically.

  “My wife has a weak heart,” Mr. Stokes said and took a small glass bottle out of his pocket. “She’ll be fine after she takes her medicine.”

  With infinite care, Mr. Stokes squeezed an eyedropper full of clear liquid into his wife’s open mouth. Sure enough, Mrs. Stokes was back to her old self within seconds.

  “Thank you for your kind attention,” she said to Dr. Epps as he hovered over her. “But I’m just fine now, thanks to my little drops. In fact, I do believe I am ready for a small repast.”

  As the couple headed toward the buffet table, Mrs. Mason appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Dressed for the evening in a floor-length purple gown, a long rope of expensive pearls, and a feathered Indian headdress, Mrs. Mason was an imposing figure. She surveyed her guests in silence for a moment, then nodded to Edward, who picked up a large mallet and struck the Chinese gong th
at hung suspended from a stand in the corner of the room.

  “Our séance is about to begin,” she intoned gravely. With a regal gesture, she nodded to Mr. Lewis, who opened the large double doors that led into the parlor. “Come, ladies and gentlemen. The spirits await us.”

  As the guests filed in, I caught a quick glimpse of the round mahogany table and carved wooden chairs I had helped Mr. Lewis set up earlier that afternoon. I had to admit, I was curious about what would take place in there. I had been told, in no uncertain terms, that I was to stay out of the parlor once the séance began, but nobody had said anything about listening at the keyhole.

  Keeping as quiet as I could, I hovered outside the door, pretending to wipe away a spill on a nearby end table. Hopefully, Mr. and Mrs. Lewis would be too busy washing dishes in the kitchen to catch me snooping. If anyone questioned me, I could say I was clearing away the dirty cups and plates that had been left behind. To have this honest excuse, I kept a tray filled with empty glasses in my left hand. But the truth was, I was listening, fascinated by the mysterious events taking place just the other side of those heavy double doors.

  In a few moments, Mrs. Mason began to sing a hymn. Though her voice was muffled by the door, it was clearly audible:

  Come, Spirit Friends, come

  From beyond the great abyss

  Come, Spirit Friends, come.

  One by one, the other participants joined in:

  Loved ones we cherish and miss

  Let us know you are not gone

  Show us you still survive

  Bring us a sign of your love

  From beyond the other side.

  After a long period of singing, the group fell silent. In my mind, I pictured them holding hands around the table the way I’d seen in newspaper articles. Would a ghost appear? Tray in hand, I pressed my ear against the door.

  I was completely engrossed in eavesdropping when I felt an all-too-earthly hand tap me on the shoulder. The high-pitched woman’s voice came not from inside the séance room, but from directly behind me. “I’m here for the spook party. Is it too late to get in?”

  As I spun to face her, the glasses on the tray I’d been holding went crashing to the floor. For one horrifying moment the two of us stared at each other in silence.

  “Oh dear,” the woman said. She was small, barely five feet, with bobbed hair and the slender, boyish figure that was becoming increasingly popular among the younger set. Terrified, I dropped to my knees and began wiping the floor in a desperate attempt to clean up the mess.

  Seconds later, the parlor doors swung open and Mr. Gillette appeared, his face a study in anger.

  “What the dickens is going on here, Bright Feather?” he demanded. “You have ruined the entire evening.”

  Mrs. Mason joined him in the doorway. “You know very well I am not to be disturbed once the doors are closed.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am,” I groveled shamelessly. “I didn’t mean to disturb anyone. Truly I didn’t. It will never happen again, I promise.”

  “It’s not her fault,” the woman said. “She was clearing away the dirty glasses when I bumped into her, causing the tray to fall. It was my fault entirely.” She offered Mrs. Mason a disarming smile and stuck out her hand. “I’m Ellen Parker. My cousin, Mrs. Nelson, has been telling me about these séances of yours.”

  “You’re Henrietta’s cousin?” Mrs. Mason said. “I’m surprised she never mentioned you.”

  “A small oversight, I am sure,” Miss Parker said airily. “I see I’ve arrived a bit late and caused a commotion. Surely the spirits will forgive my intrusion? If they could be persuaded to continue, I’d be oh so grateful. I’m only in town for a few weeks and was so hoping to participate.”

  “Of course. Any relative of Mrs. Nelson is welcome here,” Mrs. Mason said, shaking the woman’s hand. “Allow me to present Rudolph Gillette, president of our newly formed Spiritualist Association.”

  “A pleasure,” the woman said. Despite her stylish hat, bobbed hair, and short skirt, Miss Parker looked to be at least thirty. Grateful not to be the center of attention, I remained on my knees, scrubbing diligently at the mess of spilled lemonade on the floor.

  “What do you say, Rudolph?” Mrs. Mason said. “Shall we invite Miss Parker into the parlor and attempt to contact the spirits once again?”

  Mr. Gillette coughed delicately. “Much as I would love to include the lady in our gathering, I fear that she will unbalance our magnetic energy field.”

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Mason said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  In response to Miss Parker’s puzzled expression, Mr. Gillette explained that an even number of men and women were required to create the magnetic balance needed to conduct a séance.

  “But of course, you can return next week,” Gillette continued. “Bring a gentleman to accompany you.”

  By this time, I had picked up every shred of broken glass I could find and dried all the lemonade. I stood up, collected the rest of the glasses, and prepared to return to the kitchen, where I would no doubt receive an additional tongue-lashing from Mr. Lewis for my clumsiness. I was almost out of the room when my whole body suddenly went cold, as if I had been dropped in a vat of ice. I turned back around and noticed a thick black cloud hovered over Miss Parker’s head. My left ear began to buzz furiously.

  Please, God, I thought to myself. Not now. I’m in enough trouble as it is.

  In an effort to push the sensations away, I set my tray down and pinched myself on the arm as hard as I could, but my hands were so numb I could barely feel my skin. My entire body had begun to tingle, and the buzzing in my ear had grown even louder. Lord knows I did not want to say anything. Truly I didn’t. Nevertheless, in the face of all common sense, something inside me pointed my finger at Miss Parker and began to speak.

  “Do not return to this house.” Though it was definitely my voice speaking, it sounded deeper and more resonant than usual. “Someone here does not wish you well.”

  Though I was fully conscious, I felt myself in a bit of a daze, as though I were somehow observing events instead of participating in them.

  “Stop this at once, Bright Feather,” Mrs. Mason said, her eyes flashing with anger. “First you disrupt my séance. Now you impugn my hospitality? How dare you?” She pointed a commanding finger toward the door. “Leave my home at once!”

  But I continued to stand, as if bolted to the floor. As the rest of the guests looked on in shocked amazement, Mr. Stokes grabbed me by the arm.

  “You’re lucky Mrs. Mason is a kind soul,” he said under his breath. “If you were my servant, I’d slap this nigger foolishness right out of you.”

  Twisting my arm roughly behind my back, he marched me into the kitchen.

  “What’s the matter?” Mr. Lewis said, doing his best to appear calm. “Has Bright Feather done something wrong?”

  “To say the least,” Mr. Stokes said. “Mrs. Mason wants her out of here at once.” Giving me a final shove, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  “Lordy, chile,” Annie said, “what happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Maybe I did,” I said.

  When I told them what had happened, Mr. Lewis shook his head sadly.

  “Didn’t I tell you to keep away from that parlor? Mrs. Mason is a nice lady, but once you make her mad, there’s no going back. She’s never going to give you another chance.”

  “I know,” I said miserably, “but something came over me, and I just started talking. I couldn’t help myself.”

  His wife gave me a pitying look. “Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to act around white people? Doesn’t matter what you saw. If it’s gonna make ’em uncomfortable, you keep it to yourself.”

  “Mrs. Lewis is right,” Mr. Lewis added. “I don’t care if you saw Satan himself standing next to the woman. It’s not your problem, and definitely not risking your job for. Best be gone before anyone else comes back here looking for you. Here,” he sa
id, thrusting a brown paper bag into my hand. “Take a few of these sandwiches with you.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sister Marie was clearly surprised to see me when I arrived home an hour later.

  “You were supposed to work ’til eleven,” she said. “What happened?”

  As I described the evening’s events, the old woman’s mouth tightened into a grim line.

  “Never let curiosity get in the way of work,” she said firmly. “Especially not your first day on the job.”

  “I know, Sister Marie. I know.” Tears flowed down my cheeks as I spoke. “It’s just that there was going to be Seeing. I wanted to know how they did it, that’s all. If it was like the kind of Seeing that I do.”

  For a long while, Sister Marie said nothing. As I sat on the stool across from her, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic creak of her rocking chair against the wooden floor.

  “And that’s what really got you in trouble, wasn’t it? Your Seeing.”

  I nodded my head miserably. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And when you spoke to the group, did you tell the truth about what you saw?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I saw a black cloud over the woman’s head, and it came to me in a flash that she was not safe in Mrs. Mason’s home.”

  “Humph,” Sister Marie said. “Fill my pipe and hand it to me, Carrie. After that, I want you to leave me alone for a while. I got to think on this.”

  When I awoke the next morning from a fitful night’s sleep, the old woman was gone. Determined to put myself back in her good graces, I spent the morning cleaning. I swept the floor. I polished her battered tea kettle until it gleamed. I washed the bedclothes and hung them outside in the summer sun to dry. I pulled the last bunch of turnip greens from the herb garden out back and placed them to simmer in a heavy cast-iron pot with a slice of bacon, some onions, and a small potato. As the savory aroma of home-cooked food began to fill the house, I sat down in Sister Marie’s rocker and waited. Though my stomach growled with hunger as the afternoon passed, I was not going to eat until the old woman returned. It was the least I could do for having been such a disappointment to her.