Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] (8 page)

      
“Let's go to bed then, sweetheart. Good-night, Pa.”

      
I bent and kissed my father. He looked more wan and pasty-faced than usual that evening. I feared he'd overtaxed himself during the day. “You'd better stay home and rest tomorrow, Pa. You know what Dr. Benjamin said.”

      
Dr. Benjamin had told my father to stop eating so much, give up cigars, and rest as much as he could. Pa hadn't done any of those things, although I didn't smell any traces of cigar smoke lingering on his clothing that night.

      
“Pooh,” said Pa, chuckling some more. “I want to enjoy what life I have left to me, Daisy. No sense sitting around, waiting for the Grim Reaper to pay me a call. I'd rather go out and meet him head-on.”

      
I think I gawked at him. I'd never heard Pa talk about dying before, and it scared me. “Nuts,” I said. “You're going to outlast us all.”

      
“You're certain to outlast me, at any rate.”

      
I turned my gawk upon Billy, who had a lopsided, cynical grin on his face. “Billy! Don't talk like that.”

      
He took my hand. “Sorry, sweetheart.” After a pause, during which I could swear I could see the tension crackling like electricity in the air around us, he said, “Would you really miss me if I died, Daisy?”

      
I couldn't help it. My eyes filled with tears, and I felt a couple of them slide down my cheeks. It had been a truly ghastly day, and this was no way to end it. “How can you even ask me that, Billy?” To my deep chagrin, my voice quivered. I absolutely
hate
acting like an emotional woman, even though I am one, albeit not often.

      
He shrugged. “I don't know. Seems like all we do is fight lately.”

      
This was, sad to say, all too true. “That's only because you don't like what I do for a living.”

      
Pa, who didn't care for strife in any form, even the mild sort Billy and I were displaying, yawned theatrically and rose from his chair. “Think I'll turn in now. As you just said, Daisy, Doc Benjamin told me to get lots of rest.”

      
God bless my father. His diversion worked. Billy chuckled. “Since when have you done what the doctor tells you to do?”

      
Pa winked at the both of us. “Since it serves my purpose in this instance.” He left us alone in the living room, and I heard him say something to Ma in the kitchen. After supper, she and Vi always sat at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and a gossip session.

      
“Are you really ready to go to bed, Billy?” I decided not to resurrect the topic we'd been discussing before Pa left us. It was too touchy a one, and I wasn't up to another fight with him. “You don't have to retire just because I'm dead-beat.”

      
“I guess I'm ready.”

      
“I'll push you to the bedroom.”

      
Normally Billy didn't like people pushing his chair for him. The chair was one of those newfangled ones with wheels so big, the person sitting in it could propel himself around. But Billy didn't object when I occasionally pushed him on walks. That night he didn't object, either.

      
We said good-night to Ma and Aunt Vi as we rolled through the kitchen to our bedroom, which was directly off the kitchen. Our bungalow had two nice, private rooms upstairs that would have been swell for a young married couple to live in. Since Billy couldn't climb the stairs, Aunt Vi used them.

      
Pa had built us a sun porch, or deck, outside our bedroom, and on fine nights Billy and I would sit out there and chat or just watch the stars. On that bleak November night, it was too darned cold to go outdoors so I shut our bedroom door to get some privacy. I knew that Ma and Aunt Vi would take their tea into the living room because that's what they always did, out of consideration for Billy and me.

      
I had lots of reasons to be thankful for my family. Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi were three of the best, most praiseworthy people in the universe. The three of them almost made up for the reasons I had to wonder why God had played Billy and me such a dirty trick.

      
But that was nonsense. Even in my foul mood that night, I recognized nonsense when I thought it. I firmly believed then, and I still believe, that God endowed human beings with free will and the brains to use it wisely if they chose. Therefore, I don't really believe it was God's fault the wretched Kaiser had decided to use the gifts God had given him for a wicked purpose. It was our bum luck that Billy had been caught in the Kaiser's evil scheme. And if mustard gas isn't evil, I don't know what is.

      
I helped Billy change into the pajamas I'd given him for his birthday the summer before. He hated night shirts, since they made him feel even less like a man than he already did. After changing into my nightgown, I climbed into bed after him. He snuggled close to me and wrapped me in his arms, and as much as I hate to admit it, I cried again. It had to be time for my monthly, because that was the only time I became at all emotional. Thank heaven, Billy didn't notice my tears.

# # #

      
It rained the next day. As I stared out our bedroom window at the water pelting down from the sky, I decided it was just as well. It was much easier to abide a filthy mood if the weather cooperated. Heck, if the sun had shone down upon our little place in the world that morning, I might have cheered up a little. That would never do.

      
Every once in a while, I got to feeling cynical. That morning was one of those whiles.

      
“At least the rain will keep Pa indoors,” I muttered to Billy as I hung up my nightgown and tried to decide what to wear. A crown of thorns seemed appropriate, but there wasn't one in any of my hat boxes.

      
“I doubt it.” Billy was already dressed.

      
For some reason, his being dressed encouraged me slightly. I entertained the perhaps-foolish hope that as long as he continued to get up and dress in a shirt, collar, tie, jacket, and trousers every day, all was not lost. I'd read about men who became so down in the dumps, they wore their night shirts and robes all day and all night, no matter what. While I knew there was no cure for Billy's ailments, as long as he cared enough about life to look as spiffy as he could, there might exist the chance of a mental recovery, if not a physical one.

      
Also, the fact that he'd dressed before me that morning meant that his pain wasn't so bad that he'd had to struggle through the agony of moving his ruined legs before getting out of bed. This wasn't as heartening as it might seem, since it probably meant he'd had to get up in the middle of the night and take a dose of the morphine syrup he got from Doc Benjamin.

      
Billy's morphine use had increased during the past year. I feared he'd become addicted to the drug, if he wasn't already. But he needed relief from his pain, and morphine gave it to him. Therefore, I tried not to worry too much. Even though it was stupid and fruitless, I couldn't stop wishing there was another answer to Billy's pain. But I feared that, as long as he still lived, there wasn't.

      
At least he hadn't awakened in the night crying out, thinking he was still in a foxhole in France and being shot at by the Kaiser's army. I've read that terrible nightmares are another symptom of shell shock. It seemed to me that Billy had enough to bear without nightmares, but nobody'd asked me.

      
Mrs. Bissel called bright and early that morning, before I'd donned more than my combination underwear. I threw on a robe and dashed to the kitchen, hoping I'd beat our other party-line friends (I use the term loosely) to the telephone. I should have known better. Mrs. Barrow had the fastest pick-up in the West. I swear, the woman sat next to her telephone twenty-four hours every day, just waiting for the phone to ring so she could eavesdrop.

      
After I'd shooed her and a couple of other people off the wire, Mrs. Bissel asked breathlessly, “Did you determine anything during your meditations, Daisy?”

      
Gosh, I'd forgotten all about telling her I'd meditate on the matter of her haunted basement. Not that I ever meditated on anything, but I might at least have done some hard thinking about her problem and come up with a plan of action. Lack of thought had never stopped me before, and it didn't stop me then.

      
Rather than flat-out lying to her, I said, “I need to visit your home again, Mrs. Bissel. The spirits can be elusive.” And I could be forgetful.

      
“Of course, of course. I expected you to come again today.”

      
The chorus of houndish woofs in the background made me smile, which made me perk up slightly. Until I looked out the kitchen window and saw the rain again. Thanks to heavy winds, the torrent's downward path had been pushed sideways. It was darned hear horizontal at the moment.

      
I sighed, wondering if the Model T would make it up the hill. Then again, why bother with the automobile? It wasn't a closed-in machine; I'd probably drown if I tried to drive it all that way in this hideous rain. I knew from experience that the Model T didn't like rain any more than it liked hills, and I'd have to drive on at least one unpaved street. Asking it to tackle rain, hills, and mud together might prove fatal to the motorcar, if not my humble self.

      
Perhaps Brownie could take me in the pony cart. I could rig up some sort of cover for it. Maybe. Then again, Brownie was a recalcitrant beast at the best of times. I wouldn't put it past him to sit down in the middle of Lake Avenue and refuse to move at all if I asked him to pull me uphill in the rain.

      
It would be better to take a red car. At least the cars weren't completely open to the elements, and if I took Pa's big umbrella, I might stay moderately dry, except for my feet, but I could wear rubber boots. They weren't exactly fashionable, but sometimes elegance had to bow to practicality. And, as an added benefit, I wouldn't have to crank up the Ford and pray it would start, or coax a balky Brownie to do his duty and pull the pony cart. The red cars ran up and down the various hills in Pasadena and Altadena on their little tracks, and all I had to do was hand the driver a nickel to avail myself of their services.

      
Mrs. Bissel must have sensed my thoughts, because she said, “I'll have Henry run down and pick you up in the Daimler. I don't want you having to walk in this terrible weather.”

      
“Thank you. That would be very good of you, Mrs. Bissel.”

      
“Nonsense. I do so appreciate what you're doing for me, Daisy.”

      
What I was doing for her was, so far, absolutely nothing, but I didn't point it out to her. Nor did I reiterate that I wasn't an exorcist. I'd learned long since that people believed what they wanted to believe. If Mrs. Bissel wanted to believe that I could help her rid her home of a spirit (or ghost), so be it.

      
Her call made my choice of costuming for the day easier. I put on one of my spiritualist dresses, a dark blue gabardine number that had white trim around the collar, cuffs, and belt, and had a hem that ended a tasteful six inches above my ankles. A dark blue hat, black stockings (in those days, one wore black or white stockings, unless one wanted to scandalize everyone, and I definitely didn't want to do that), and black shoes. A black handbag completed my ensemble, and I'd wear my good black woolen coat. Another funereal ensemble, and appropriate to the weather, my mood, and my profession.

      
By the time I was dressed, Billy had made himself some toast and was eating breakfast with Pa in the kitchen. Pa looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading and smiled at me. “You're looking very nice today, Daisy.”

      
“Thanks, Pa.” I smiled at him and at Billy, who didn't smile back. I gave a hefty internal sigh, and waited for him to say something rotten to start my day right.

      
He surprised me. “You look great, Daisy.” He gave me a sad grin that made my heart ache.

      
My poor heart took more abuse than any such organ ought to be forced to take. Which didn't matter any more that morning than it ever had. “Thanks. It's nice to know the men in my life appreciate me.”

      
Pa appreciated me. Billy didn't. I didn't say so. Nevertheless, I twirled in front of them as if I were a model at Nash's Department Store, walking down that runway-thing they put up when the society ladies attended fashion shows there.

      
“Going to Mrs. Bissel's?” Billy asked, sounding wistful, as if he wished I were going to stay home and keep him company on that lousy rainy day.

      
I wished I were, too, but I had to work--not that he'd ever thank me for it. Maybe he'd like my job better when I brought him a puppy. I still had to ask Mrs. Bissel about that. “Yes. That was her on the telephone.”

      
“Going to use some kind of anti-ghost poison?” Pa asked, chuckling. “Like ant powder?”

      
Good old Pa. He could always make me giggle. “Wish I had some. It might come in handy in Mrs. Bissel's basement.”

      
Billy said, “Huh,” and chomped on his toast.

      
I didn't snap at him, but instead put another piece of bread in the toast rack and lit the burner. We had a pretty nice gas range (bought with money I earned as a spiritualist, I might add), and it was much easier to regulate the toasting of bread than it had been when we used a wood-burning stove. Ma and Aunt Vi were always thanking me for getting such an up-to-date stove. Pa probably would have thanked me if he'd thought about it.