Emily's Ghost (2 page)

And so, with the bright
May sun shining through the ceiling-high windows, warming the back
of her neck under her straight dark hair, Emily thumbed drowsily
through dozens of back issues of the fascinating and bizarre
periodical, stopping every now and then to peruse an article that
caught her fancy. At five-thirty, she sat up straight.

"Bingo," she whispered
softly to herself.

In the Newsworthy column
of a two-year old issue of
Etheric
was a photo of Senator Alden shaking the hand of
his new aide, Jim Whitewood. Mr. Whitewood, who admitted to having
"only modestly psychic powers," promised to "keep the lines of
communication open between Senator Alden and those with genuine
psychic ability."

Only modestly
psychic
. That was like saying someone was
only modestly around the bend.

Emily hugged herself with
joy. Her original plan suddenly got a little more
cockamamie.

****

Armed with a Xerox copy of
the
Etheric
photo
and caption, Emily cornered Stan Cooper alone in the
Journal's
smoking lounge
the next morning. "Stan, I really need your input on this." She
handed him the photo she'd found and watched him break into a
contemptuous smile. "The magazine folded a little after this issue
came out," she said. "It had no circulation to speak of, so I doubt
if your average voter even knows about this."

With a flick of his wrist
Stan let the sheet of paper float down to the floor. "Your average
voter could care less," he said. "Your average voter is female and
madly in love with Senator Alden."

Emily scooped up the sheet
and tucked it in her bag. "Says who?"

"Ask anyone at a shopping
mall. Lee Alden was a devoted husband for ten years. When his wife
died in a car accident a couple of years ago there was talk he
might not run again, that's how devastated he was. For a while he
refused to appear socially at all." Stan lit a new cigarette from
the stub of his last one, took a deep drag, and steered it out past
his nose. "Lately he's begun to show up at an occasional charity
function; but he arrives alone and early, and leaves in an hour.
Every socialite in Massachusetts has tried to land him. Every
female shopper in the state nourishes her own silly, secret
hope."

The measured tone in his
voice had gradually turned bitter, so much so that Emily averted
her eyes from the coldness she saw in his face. For the first time
it occurred to her that Stan might not be objective when it came to
Senator Arthur Lee Alden III. She couldn't imagine why.

"Well, I think women are
as well-informed and conscientious about whom they vote for as
anyone," she said firmly. "But they have to have the information
out in front where they can see it. They have to know this guy's a
flake."

"Oh, Christ, Emily, the
man could get thrown in jail for life and they'd vote for him." He
snubbed out his cigarette in irritation and stood up to leave. But
at the door he turned suddenly and said, "What're you up
to?"

"Okay," she said, taking
the plunge. "Originally I planned to call and say I was looking for
a respected medium -- channeler, I guess I mean -- and ask if the
senator could recommend anyone. Then I found Whitewood's open
invitation in
Etheric
and I thought, why don't
I
just show up and say I have psychic powers? How
far could I get?"

"You're nuts, Emily," Stan
said calmly.

But Emily could see in his
face that he was intrigued by the possibilities. "No, really, Stan.
I mean, I do have certain ... intuitions. I'm very good at
intuition. I've called my friend Cara several times at the exact
moment when she's picked up the phone at the other end to call me
--"

"-- which probably means
it's your friend Cara who is telepathic," Stan said
dryly.

"Whatever. But I've been
reading up on this stuff. A lot of it is just plain old common
sense and shrewdness --"

"-- both of which you
possess in abundance, I can see."

There was a sneer in his
voice, but it was a kindly sneer. Emily took hope from it and said,
"So you think it might fly?"

Stan looked at her for a
long, withering moment. Then he said, "This conversation never
happened," and walked out.

Emily was left puzzling
over his parting shot. Did he mean, "Lucky for you I'm not a
snitch"? Or did he mean, "Don't tell me until it's over"? She threw
herself into a battered Naugahyde lounge chair and remained there,
deep in indecision, for some time. But the sound of voices in the
hall got her moving again. Yes. There was a story there, dammit.
And the taxpayers of Massachusetts had the right to know
it.

The security guard had to
throw Emily out of the library that night; when she left her
book-bag was full. For the rest of the week she crammed herself
full of facts -- well, they were hardly facts -- on the paranormal,
and learned all she could about Senator Alden. Jim Whitewood, the
senator's aide, was due back in Boston on Monday. By Sunday
afternoon Emily felt ready for him. She felt sure that she could
seem as mystical and vague as the next guy. She'd be just fine, as
long as he didn't ask her to bend a spoon or anything.

The only thing bothering
Emily was what always bothers women in new social situations: what
to wear. How did a channel dress for a job interview? She'd seen
one or two people who claimed to be mediums on talk shows, but they
were men. She'd never seen a woman channel; all she had to go on
were a couple of book jackets from the seventies in which the women
mediums had posed for their autobiographies.

So she did the best she
could: she rummaged through her closet and came up with a Ralph
Lauren skirt from his Peasant Period, and a frilly white blouse,
and a large straw hat with turquoise flowers. The outfit flattered
her dark eyes and hair; she was even tall enough to carry off the
hat. She looked exciting; she looked exotic; she looked ready for
lunch under a palm tree in Barbados, which is where she'd bought
all the clothes in the first place.

But the JFK Federal Office
Building in downtown Boston?

Emily turned slowly around
in her full-length mirror, trying to gauge the effect she'd have on
Jim Whitewood. One thing was sure: she'd stand out from the pack.
She smiled. The crazy lady in the straw hat smiled back, her dark
eyes dancing with mystery. For an instant Emily believed she really
was a psychic.

Whoa
.
Maybe I've been reading too much
of this stuff
. It was catching. In a kind
of panic she snatched off her hat and threw it on her bed; she
pulled off the blouse and skirt and tossed them in a heap on top of
an old steamer trunk. After that she slipped into her softest
cotton nightgown, made herself a cup of hot tea, and fished out the
Financial Section of the Sunday New York Times. It was just the
dose of reality she needed. In twenty minutes she was fast
asleep.

The next morning found
Emily, hat in lap, sitting on the Boston "T" and bound for the
senator's downtown offices. She tried hard to focus on the
otherworldly, but it wasn't easy: everyone around her was dressed
in three-piece business suits. She tried hard to be inconspicuous,
but that wasn't easy, either. When the lawyer type next to her
jumped up for his stop, he took off with her hat, which had got
caught in the open zipper of his briefcase.

If I believed in omens, I
would not be comforted by this, she thought grimly, tucking the
remaining flowers back into the hatband.

Still, by the time she
found herself face-to-face with the senator's secretary, she'd got
back her sense of outrage and with it, her confidence. It seemed
completely clear to her that both the senator
and
his aide were gullible at best
and unfit for their jobs at worst.

The secretary -- a nice,
normal, middle-aged woman dressed sensibly in a linen suit -- was
kind but firm. "Miss, ah, Bowditch, is it? I'm sorry, do you have
an appointment with Mr. Whitewood?"

This was the tricky part:
getting in. "No, I don't," Emily replied candidly, "but I
feel
absolutely certain
that he'll want to hear me." Emily gave the
secretary a significant look.

The secretary gave her a
significant look back. "Can you tell me the nature of your
visit?"

"No-o-o, I'm afraid I
can't," Emily answered meaningfully.

"I see. Well, Mr.
Whitewood hasn't come in yet. Perhaps if you take a seat ... I'll
see what I can do. But I believe Mr. Whitewood is full up with
meetings today."

Emily moved away to the
reception area. The secretary took down a black binder and began
scanning the page. Emily was set to spend the whole day waiting if
she had to; but she hoped that the secretary was finding a blank
slot in the calendar before noon. After about twenty minutes Jim
Whitewood came in; Emily recognized him instantly from the photo
in
Etheric
. He
was impeccably groomed, a little slick, maybe even opportunistic,
she thought. He looked more Wall Street than Federal Office
Building.

She gave him a mysterious
smile as he hurried past her into his office. The secretary
followed. In less than a minute Emily was being ushered in, and it
wasn't even nine o'clock.

Whitewood introduced
himself and offered Emily a seat. "I understand you have something
to tell me?"

"Well, not
tell
, exactly. It's more
something I have to ... offer you."

Whitewood gave her the
briefest of glances, taking in the rounded curve of her shoulders;
the cut of her bodice; the hat.

"Really."

Emily blushed deeply. "I
mean, not offer, exactly. That was probably the wrong word." Ah,
what the hell, she thought. In for a penny, in for a buck. She
stood up, swept her hat from her head, and glided across the room,
coming to rest near an enormous potted Schefflera. She was going to
play this for all it was worth.

She turned to face the
senator's aide and said in a throaty voice, "I understand that you
extend a welcome to those with ... extraordinary
perceptions."

"And you are such a
person?" he asked noncommittally.

"I am."

"How do you
know?"

She lifted a shoulder.
"How does one ever know? There are only so many events that can be
attributed to coincidence, only so many dreams that turn out to be
prophetic -- "

"You're a channel,
then?"

"Yes." Ohboy. No turning
back now.

"Physical or
mental?"

"Physical. No,
mental."

"I see."

"Thoughts ... words ...
images.
Feelings
." Emily had twisted a flower loose from her hatband and was
pulling at it absent-mindedly; a soft rain of turquoise petals
began fluttering to the floor.

"Full trance?"

"Light."

"I see."

He spun his chair towards
an impressive view of downtown Boston, then slowly spun it back
again. "You've worked with a teacher?"

"To be honest," she said,
feeling her way carefully, "I was hoping you could recommend
someone. Someone with experience in training channels, someone you
knew and trusted --"

"Please wait here, Miss
Bowditch," the aide said suddenly.

He left the office and
Emily dropped into a pillowed settee. So far so good. It amazed her
that absolutely anyone could come in off the street, ask to spend
time with an aide to a United States senator, and then talk utter
nonsense with him. What a waste of a national budget. Where had he
gone off to, anyway? To consult his Ouija board?

She looked around the
beautifully appointed office. More tax dollars. Those were real
oils, not prints, on the walls. That Sheraton desk was no
reproduction. The carpet was richly woven, palest cream -- what
must it cost to keep clean, for God's sake? The wing chairs
opposite her -- Portuguese crewelwork, or she wasn't from New
England. It was all wonderfully understated, all shockingly
priced.

Her eyes widened. Oh,
lord.

From where she sat she
could see a dozen giant turquoise flower petals -- fallen soldiers
in her battle of wits with the senator's aide -- lying in a heap on
the pale carpet. She jumped up, ran across the room, and was on her
hands and knees plucking petals when Senator Arthur Lee Alden III
walked in.

"Whoops. Well! Senator!"
Emily scrambled to her feet and extended her hand to him, but her
hand was full of silk petals. She hurled them into her bag; half of
them fell back to the floor. "I'm Emily Bowditch."

He took her hand in a warm
and easy grip. "Lee Alden; pleased to meet you," he said in an
electric baritone. "Jim Whitewood tells me you're looking for some
information; suppose you tell me about it."

The senator. Himself.
She'd never seen him up close before. On CNN and Local News, sure.
In the papers and in the magazines, lots of times. It was quite
well documented: Senator Alden was a heartthrob. Six-two, blue
eyes, square jaw, thick hair, great bloodline, lots of money -- a
man
made
for the
media. But the media came nowhere near capturing his sheer,
knock-down presence.