Candles Burning (28 page)

As I was sorting out these memories, I realized that she looked like someone whose face was familiar to me. Years would go by before I was able to put a name to the face.

Miz Verlow introduced her to us that night as Mrs. Mank.

Mrs. Mank's hair was grey, shot with strands of black, and fashioned in short, tight, rather harsh waves. Her eyes were grey too, a lighter grey than the pearls around her neck. Her cheeks, pale with powder, were full and round, her nose sharp and long and cold like grey marble. The pink of her lipstick was like Mama's palest lipstick with a coating of grey ash. The dress she wore was of two shades of nearly indistinguishable grey, the piping pearl grey, the basic fabric a little more silvery. A double strand of pearls glistened around her neck and her earlobes held fat pearl studs.

Her shoes were softly burnished pewter in color; Mama told me later that they were handmade. She also said that they were about her size, a size five; they may have been size fives but Mama's shoe size was a six. That never stopped her cramming her foot into a five or a five-and-a-half. Mrs. Mank's stockings were silk, the color of cobwebs.

Mrs. Mank smiled warmly. “Roberta Ann Carroll Dakin, at last.”

Her accent was not the familiar accent of Alabama or Florida or Louisiana, nor was it anything that I recognized as obviously foreign—the ones like the Chiquita Banana lady's, or the hoity-toity English accent that I knew primarily from television and radio. If her plates were Maryland plates, I speculated, she might be from Maryland; her accent might be that of Maryland.

Already disconcerted by the most recent events, Mama must have been more than a little dazzled by the silver coupe that Mrs. Mank drove—a foreign make at a time when few Americans drove foreign cars—and then by Mrs. Mank's pearls and by Mrs. Mank's sheer presence.

Mrs. Mank looked at me briefly, the way most people did, expecting very little and apparently finding somewhat less.

Intent on making Mrs. Mank welcome, Miz Verlow accompanied her to her rooms. Mrs. Mank had a private bath and a sitting room as well as a bedroom, a suite created by unlocking doors between connecting rooms. Miz Verlow surprised me by asking me to bring up Mrs. Mank's luggage. She must have known that it consisted only of a train case and a Gladstone bag (a term I had picked up in the short time since our arrival at Miz Verlow's house). At first they seemed heavy, but before I had taken two steps from the open trunk of Mrs. Mank's foreign automobile, they seemed as light as if they were empty.

Once I had delivered the two pieces to Mrs. Mank's suite, I returned to close the coupe's trunk. The automobile fascinated me: a low, long-nosed, short-tailed two-seater with wire hub-caps, so unlike the American makes that I knew by sight. The Edsel looked gaudy next to it. Where the Edsel sported a blinding weight of chrome and a squared-off roofline, fins, scallops and deep-set owlish headlights above its massive split bumper, this vehicle was—tidy, elegant, secretive. While the Edsel thrust itself forward, as if to plow through the air, Mrs. Mank's car occupied its own space wholly. The Edsel was boxy; the whole body of Mrs. Mank's coupe curved. It was chromed, to be sure, but unconventionally and elegantly. The headlights sat
on
the very hood, in their own chrome-edged caverns. On the hood and the trunk a medallion depicted a leaping horse, and another medallion, a horse with wings, head-on. And on the trunk, in script, was the word

Pegaso

Like Pegasus, the winged horse.
Pegaso
must be foreign for Pegasus but what brand of foreign, I could not begin to guess. I tried it out to myself in Mrs. Mank's voice and accent:
Pegaso
. Evidently it was not a magic word, for no magical event occurred—no sudden flash, no piano trill, no winged horse pawing the sand.

The glove box was locked, preventing me from educating myself from any manuals or registration forms that might have been inside it.

The wind had risen and become urgent, shredding the fog and blowing it away. It snatched at my clothing, trying to drag me toward the beach. But it was not great enough to muffle the sound of two more vehicles on the road from the Pensacola Beach.

The yellow sweater provided no warmth. It felt as if it were shrinking in tight bands around my chest and neck and wrists.

I ran to the kitchen for a pair of shears and began cutting the buttons off the sweater. I started at the bottom, as it was easiest. The edges of the buttons had not dulled in the time since I had forced them through the holes, and they were hard to grasp. But I succeeded, at the cost of a few cuts and a little blood, in getting the blades of the scissors behind the shanks of the buttons and through the thread holding them to the wool. Despite the relaxation of the wool as the buttons fell away onto the floor, the one at the top was the most difficult, with my chin tucked to the point of the scissors blade. The threads gave way very suddenly to the gnawing of the blades and the button popped the highest and widest of them all—popped directly onto Mrs. Mank's forefinger and thumb, as if it were on an elastic string.
I never heard her enter the kitchen
. An instant's terror snapped through me; it was like touching an electrical socket.

She stood there in the middle of the kitchen, looking down at me. Her face was as straight as her back.

The button flickered between her fingers and was gone.

“Waste not, want not,” she remarked. “Or so I have been told.”

And then she passed regally out of the kitchen by way of the swinging door to the butler's pantry. As she walked through the dining room and the foyer and out the door onto the verandah, I listened to her step. It was as audible as anyone else's would have been.

I collected the three other buttons from the corners where they had rolled. The sweater still bound me at the armpits. I struggled out of it, bundled the buttons and the candle stub on the kitchen table into it and looked around for a place to hide it for a while. The kitchen was about to be busy; no place in it was safe from disturbance. Opening the door to Cleonie's and Perdita's room, I dropped my bundle just inside.

The new arrivals were climbing out of their vehicles outside. The previous Sunday, I had helped Miz Verlow put out the refreshments. I meant to do it all by myself today but the weird visitation from Mamadee's voice, and the ghost giant in the fog gave me greater impetus; the long list of responsibilities put off both the immediate shock and the consideration thereof. I raced into the parlor, where the coffee urn stood ready to go, and plugged it in. Then I hurried back to the kitchen. By the time the guests had been shown their rooms and had time to relieve and refresh themselves, I was supposed to have everything needed in the reading room, arranged around the coffee urn on the big piecrust table: cups in their saucers, coffee spoons, little plates and napkins. There was tea to make, the hot water jug to fill, cream and sugar cubes, lemon slices, and plates of sweets and savories and little crustless sandwiches left by Perdita in the refrigerator, for me to array. Nothing was larger than a bite or two, so as not to spoil anybody's supper.

Mama drifted in first. She made a sad job of pouring herself coffee. She too was still trying to absorb the voice and its utterances. Her cigarette shortage added to her restlessness. I was not surprised to have her frown at me over her cup as she raised it to her lips.

“I'll pour for the guests, Calley. Go somewhere else. Children should be seen and not heard.”

I had not said a word. I hoped that her hand steadied before she actually had to pour for someone other than herself. Turning to leave, I nearly ran into Mrs. Mank.

“Oh Lord,” Mama said. “Calley, apologize for stepping on Miz Mank's toes!”

Mrs. Mank smiled coldly at me and even more coldly at Mama. “No harm done, Mrs. Dakin.” She clearly articulated the “Mrs.” “This little girl is a busy little creature, isn't she?” Mrs. Mank continued. “I expect that she has more to do.”

“Yes, she does,” agreed Mama, with open pleasure at the thought.

Though I was very curious to see how Mama and Mrs. Mank would get along, I was also aware that Miz Verlow needed me. I could almost hear her in my head, calling my name.

Outside, around the back, Miz Verlow was stacking her trolley with luggage. I ran up to her and helped her push it up the ramp into the back hall.

“I hope you grow fast,” she said. “I caint wait for you to be able to sling some of these bags for me.”

I stood straighter and tried to look bigger. The implication that I was going to live in Miz Verlow's house long enough to do any growing thrilled me.

She stepped back from the trolley to take a breather.

“Miz Verlow,” I asked, “did you ever see a ghost?”

The question did not seem to surprise her.

“I might have.”

That was as good as an admission to me. “What size was it? Can ghosts be different sizes?”

She shook her head at me. “Slow down, little girl. I said that I might have. That doesn't make me an expert.”

Which meant she didn't want to tell me. And also that likely ghosts did have different sizes.

I veered into yet another question. “Do Florida newspapers print bitcharies about dead people in Alabama?”

Miz Verlow chuckled. “Obituaries, you mean?”

I agreed that that was what I meant.

“Only if the dead person in Alabama were very important or died in a very unusual way.”

What if Mamadee was not as important as she had seemed, or pretended to be? Of course, we had no idea how she died, if she had.

I tried another tack. “Is there another way to find out if a person is dead?”

“A phone call to that person's address might suffice. Or to a friend or acquaintance.” She changed the subject. “You are very good at making voices.”

I shrugged.

“I thought you might be. Fennie mentioned something—” Miz Verlow didn't finish. “Your mama says you were the fussiest baby ever.”

Everything that ever happened to Mama was the mostest, we both knew, so I made no response. I was distracted with the speculation that Miz Verlow had just hinted that I might call Mamadee's number and use somebody else's voice to inquire as to whether Mamadee was still in the land of living or had gone to her eternal reward in Satan's fiery embrace. I thought of calling one of my Dakin uncles. One of the uncles, one of the aunts, would know for certain sure if Mamadee was dead yet. I would have to ask an operator for a number.

Miz Verlow continued, “You hear extraordinarily well, don't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I agreed as softly and humbly as I could.

Ida Mae Oakes always told me bragging on a gift was crass.

“Must be hard to concentrate,” Miz Verlow said, as if we were talking about finding the right size of shoe.

It had taken me most of my seven years to get as far as I had, learning how to shut out enough of the world so I could think. Of course I knew, by the time that I was three or so, that I heard quite a lot more than other people, and that other people didn't seem to know how to imitate sounds the way I did, more or less naturally. Ida Mae Oakes stuffed my ears with cotton balls to help block out some of the relentless noise, and then I did it for myself. Later still, I figured out that I could sleep by accepting the noise, attending it closely until I floated away on it. When I told Ida Mae, she said that she was some relieved, what with the price of cotton balls always rising, and the boll weevils, and had I noticed how rough and red her hands had gotten from picking cotton and all? She made me laugh until the grits shot right out my nose.

I still thought, maybe sometime I would meet somebody who heard as much and as well as I did, and they would be good at making the sounds they heard as a matter of course. The closest I have ever gotten to a person like me have been the autistic savants I have encountered: I know of half a dozen who are blind and on first hearing can play any music on the piano, and adapt any music to any style, all without a moment's instruction or practice. I think now maybe it was an accident that I can see. That said,
I
could—and can—hear the imperfection of my own mimicry. I am not a musician nor a chanteuse, but something much more like a record player. And as for acuity of hearing: The noise of the world is not only distracting; it can be outright painful; it can be deathly exhausting.

But I just nodded to Miz Verlow.

She said my name, “Calley?” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Calley, can you hear the dead?”

I blinked at her. Her question explained far more than I could answer.

“Yes, ma'am,” I told her, “but it ain't worth hearing.”

She looked shocked. “You mean that you don't understand it?”

I pressed my lips together. I felt like I had blurted out a secret. I was not about to tell her that I had
seen
Mamadee in the mirror as well.

Miz Verlow looked at me appraisingly for a moment.

When I didn't say anything more, she turned back to the trolley. “I think you can take this little one.”

It was a small suitcase, an overnighter, and not heavy, at least until I was several steps from the top of the backstairs. But I managed. By then, I was wishing I would hurry up and grow bigger faster too.

Bobbing around inside the parlor again, clearing the used crockery to a tray, I heard Mama's step on the verandah and caught a glimpse of Mama, pacing there. Mrs. Mank was with her. The two of them smoking—Mrs. Mank's cigarettes, I had no doubt, as Mama would not have shared her last cigarettes with a dying soul. I listened closely but they were not speaking to one another. They seemed merely to be having a peripatetic and companionable smoke—a younger woman in black, an older woman in shades of grey. A couple of other guests were also so occupied but those individuals were strolling to the beach, trailing their wisps and puffs behind them.