How It Happened in Peach Hill (3 page)

Alone in my room later, I panicked. What if pretending to be stupid and clumsy was turning me stupid and clumsy? I made myself recite poems backward and the date of every battle during the Civil War. I practiced juggling, using two shoes and a hairbrush.

I sat with the mirror in my hand, twisting my face into idiotic grimaces and then just staring at my own reflection. Was I pretty at all? Could a boy ever look at me and think so? Could Sammy Sloane?

In the morning, I crawled into my corner while Mama was fixing her hair. She didn’t like me nearby when she was working, but I’d found a way around that. I’d inched the big chair in the front room into such a position that I could sit behind it with my knees scrunched up and my back in the crook of the wall.

Mrs. Romero arrived promptly at eleven o’clock. Mama sat her down and held her hands for a moment. “I could read your palm, Mrs. Romero,” Mama began. “But the vibrations
from the spirit world are very strong this morning. There’s an older woman here from the Other Side, with a message for you. She has a matronly bosom and says she’s family but not related by blood.”

Mrs. Romero gasped. “Mother Romero? Frank’s mother? She died of the influenza five years ago, May 1919.”

“She’s worried about your daughter,” said Mama. “Your daughter who is named for a flower.”

“That’s Rose,” said Mrs. Romero.

“But I’m seeing another flower too,” said Mama. “Bright red, like passion.”

“I don’t know. Rose is my only girl.”

“It could be a real flower,” prompted Mama.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Romero. “We have geraniums on the porch.”

“That’s likely it. The porch … and passion …” Mama’s voice trailed off, letting the words simmer.

“I don’t like to think of Mother Romero watching that!”

“She is suggesting that you and your husband sit out on the porch in the evenings, in the blue rockers. Rose won’t be able to entertain her young man there, in the dark.”

Mrs. Romero was speechless.

“You have another child,” said Mama. “A boy. Is he named for his father?”

“How did you know that? Young Frankie.”

“His grandmother has a message for him, too,” said Mama. “She wants him to be a nice boy. No more rough language. No more slinging stones.”

Mrs. Romero sighed. “I tell him again and again. He doesn’t listen to me.”

“Stop feeding him fatty meats,” said Mama. “No more sausages. A tough boy needs cauliflower and Brussels sprouts to make him more sensitive.”

That part was my idea. I only wished I could have watched him at supper that night.

Nearly all our customers were female, as I said. We’d get the odd young man on a matter of romance, and one fellow, Bobby Pike, who begged Mama to help him bet on the horses. But when Mr. Poole arrived, in the middle of September, along with golden light in the late afternoons, we knew the season was changing in more ways than one.

Mama had not insisted on a telephone when inquiring about rooms, as we’d not lived with one before. The fact that most people used party lines in these little towns made Mama more uneasy about sharing the service, never knowing who might be listening in. But here it was, already installed, and now
Brrrp brrrp
, crying for attention in the hallway.

Women, their first visit, often tapped on the door on an impulse, courage up. Men tended to arrange things ahead of time. Mr. Poole, a businessman, called us on the telephone to reserve an appointment for two days later.

Mama reported the conversation in full. “He is acquainted
with that Mrs. Foster, who conveniently discovered she was pregnant directly after I said there was a baby in her future,” Mama told me. “He asked ‘What remuneration will you require?’ instead of ‘How much does it cost?’ I think you should visit his house this evening, Annie.”

It was best to view the homes of our swankier patrons after dark, when I would not be disturbing anyone inside. Mama liked to hear architectural details.

Mr. Poole lived halfway up the hill in a house with a pagoda and a lily pond, all wrapped around with a wrought iron fence. I didn’t often climb fences. Although I preferred to peek through windows from an up-close position, a fence could mean a vicious dog. I chose just to stroll by as the night grew darker. Columns flanked the mansion’s front door; there were marble steps and panes of stained glass set into the upstairs dormer windows. All these fine touches ensured that Mama would be most solicitous of poor, bereaved Mr. Poole.

Waiting for Peg to make supper, Mama and I reread the few notes I had about the Pooles. Mrs. Poole had died a year before, from an ailment that had her looking like a skeleton long before she passed. I knew this the same way I knew everything, from listening. She seemed to have been quite a sourpuss, who spat out insults as rapidly as an auctioneer. The ladies at the market did not get hushed or teary when her name came up.

“He never would have married her if she hadn’t been so rich!” was the general sentiment. One knobbly-nosed woman had even suggested that Mr. Poole could be forgiven if he’d hurried his wife’s death along with the judicious use of arsenic, but here the other ladies would not venture.

Mostly there was talk of how her father must be spinning under his fancy pink granite tombstone, knowing that his estate and the inheritance from the Lovely Legs stocking factory ended up in the hands of his son-in-law.

“This is a big fish, Annie,” said Mama. “This demands our particular consideration.”

“Do we do something different?”

“Notice details,” she said, as if that weren’t already my specialty.

Mr. Poole arrived on a Wednesday afternoon, nearly in disguise. Peg reported later that he wore an overcoat with the collar turned up and a hat with the brim tipped down. He knocked twice and then knocked again four seconds later before Peg even had her apron off. Mama thought I was reading in my room, but I was already settled behind the red chair. Thanks to my ingenuity and small frame, I knew from the start how things really stood with Mr. Poole.

Mr. Poole began to speak without sitting down, as if Mama were an angel descended from Heaven and would disappear before he’d got his worries off his chest. He was certain
his dead wife had returned to haunt him. She didn’t like the new crockery he’d chosen and she’d broken four teacups, jumping them out of his hands to the floor. She didn’t approve of his introducing new fish into the pond, so she’d left two of them gasping on the bank. Mr. Poole wanted Mama to contact his dead wife and tell her to stop.

“You remind her that I’m alive and she’s not,” he said. “I’ve been drinking out of teacups covered in primroses for twenty-two years and it’s time for a change.”

He was pretty ruffled. Mama tucked him into the big chair I was squeezed behind and said she could see how reaching Mrs. Poole was of the utmost importance. She leaned in so close to him that I dared not breathe. She had decided to enchant while my legs got cramps, pressing up so tightly against my chest.

“Normally, Mr. Poole, I would have a calling here in this room to send the word to your late wife. But this sounds like an extreme situation.” Her voice was tender, urgent, making me squirm. “I believe I will be most effective if I come to your home.”

My goodness, I thought. His watch chain must be solid gold! Or he was flashing emerald cuff links and alligator shoes. It was too risky to peek.

“The spirits are often caught off guard when approached on their own territory,” Mama told him. “I can likely reach her without too much difficulty.”

“I see,” said Mr. Poole, sounding nervous.

“I expect your wife will insist on a little coaxing to move along quietly,” said Mama, making it seem she took his plight seriously. “It may not happen all in one night. But we’re most
likely to succeed by using elements from her earthly home; some jewelry, perhaps, and a cup of dirt from your garden. Oh, and we’ll need a small advance to pay for other particular materials. I’ll bring my daughter as an assistant.”

“You have a daughter?” He sounded surprised—also, disappointed, perhaps.

“You may have seen her around town,” said Mama. “She is an unusual child, and sadly touched in the head. It has been a struggle, being a lone widow caring for a needy child. But I have discovered that inhabitants of the Other Side are particularly receptive when she is with me. How would Friday night suit you?”

Friday would be just fine with Mr. Poole, and out came his billfold. Mama named a price that would have choked a regular fortune-seeking patron, but the rustle of paper money told me that he offered no complaint. Mama continued to murmur into the hall, where she wrapped him in his overcoat and found where his hat had slipped off its hook to the floor.

“That’s her again!” cried Mr. Poole. “She’s followed me here!”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so,” soothed Mama. “There aren’t many spirits who dare to come here uninvited.” She chuckled and opened the front door. Mr. Poole hovered on the step, not hurrying his good-bye.

I slipped to the window to examine this gent. He wore a wide-brimmed fedora, like a gangster, and pinstriped trousers. He patted Mama’s arm more than once, he was that grateful. Finally, with a jaunty stride, he went off down Needle Street. I lingered in the hallway as Mama came back in, humming.

“Was that the gentleman who telephoned yesterday?” I still felt warm from listening to her flirtations. Mama pulled me into the front room and closed the door against the chance of Peg’s ears catching my normal voice.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He was most certainly a gentleman.”

I didn’t like the way she said that. “What do you mean?”

“He’s rich, he’s well-spoken and his breath doesn’t stink. He really believes that his dreadful wife is hovering like incense in a Catholic church. We’re going to scare away her spirit,” said Mama. “It will be quite an effort and take several tries. It will require investment on his part, but he will be very grateful in the end.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“We start this week and take it step by step. On Friday evening we’ll go to his home to perform a spirit banishment.”

“But—but we’re all set up here!”

“You’ll have your toes, won’t you? We can use the bell, and perform some hooey with earth from the garden. We won’t do a full-fledged calling, just a quick contact. Mrs. Poole will speak just long enough to leave her husband craving more. I’ll have him eating out of my hand before you can say ‘Harry Houdini.’ ”

Oh, Mama must have felt brimful of confidence! Only so would she mention the great escape artist. To her mind, Harry Houdini was the devil. Houdini’s mother had died a few years earlier and he’d tried to summon her spirit, using several different trance mediums. But he kept being tricked by fakes and had lost all faith that the spirit world existed. He’d since devoted his life to exposing frauds. Mama had nightmares about Harry Houdini appearing on our doorstep;
that was why we avoided publicity and stuck to Nowhere, New York.

She grinned at me, a rare and lovely sight. “It will be fun, Annie! A challenge. It’s good for us to shake things up once in a while, keeps our wits lively.” She looked down and realized that she was rolling Mr. Poole’s paper money between her thumb and forefinger.

“This is only the beginning,” she said. “I have plans for Mr. Gregory Sebastian Poole.…”

Mama dressed with great care on Friday evening and looked beautiful. She wore a shawl trimmed with feathers, making her seem as exotic as a wood nymph. I wore black, as I usually did for callings, the hint of mourning being a reminder of the solemn occasion. My skirt was specially rigged but not uncomfortable. My skin prickled and I was damp under the arms, but that was part of the thrill of performance.

I had assembled the supplies: a bell in a domed glass case, the second bell beneath my skirts, a silver sugar bowl with a matching pearl-handled scoop, a dozen candles with crystal saucers, a corked bottle of “cordial,” fishing line, and smelling salts, just in case.

We arrived at Mr. Poole’s house in a taxi, after sunset but while the sky still held pink light. According to our research, Mr. Poole employed five servants, and one of them was a gardener. There was privet hedge on either side of the drive and
a tidy lawn bordered with flower beds, still bursting with asters this late in the season. A man wearing an old-fashioned frock coat led us into a large room where fancy French doors opened onto a terrace. A fire burned, trying to warm what the evening was cooling. The firelight danced against walls papered with patterns of twisting ivy.

Mr. Poole greeted Mama by grasping both her hands and kissing both her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered charmingly. This was never my favorite part, watching Mama dally. I remained by the door, my face perfectly stupid.

“This is my daughter, Annie,” said Mama, pulling me out of the shadows. “She is touched, as I told you.” She paused while I sent him a crooked smile and wobbled my eye a couple of times. “The nuns at my school would have said that such a child was a blessing, Heaven-sent to test my faith. I believe that I receive certain communications because Annie is recognized as a creature undistracted by earthly concerns.” Mama’s golden tongue could turn even the blight of a hideous and demented child into a valuable possession.

Mr. Poole bowed slightly, without a wince or a shudder.

“Good evening, Annie,” he said, as politely as if I were the town priest.

“Say hello, Annie,” instructed Mama.

“Hello,” I said.

“I noticed on the way up to the house,” said Mama, “that you nurture a few late bloomers, like those sunny-looking purple asters.”