Hungry Spirits [Spirits 04] (18 page)

Gripping her hankie tightly in both of her hands, Emmaline said, “Yes. Severely reprimanded and jailed.”

“
But . . . but I don’t understand. Why ever would anyone reprimand someone for trying to save someone else’s life? That doesn’t make any sense.”

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It
will
make sense to you, trust me.”

I lifted my eyebrows and said, “Oh?”

“
Yes. You see, the young man who tried to save Stephen’s life was a German.”

Chapter Ten

My mouth fell open and stayed that way until I snapped it shut and rose to my feet. Astounded doesn’t half describe the state I was in at that time.

Emmaline held out a hand to me. “Daisy? What’s the matter? I know Germany was our enemy during the war, but this fellow. . . .”

I regret to say I raised my voice. “Do you know what those people did to my husband? Do you? Do you have any idea what they did?”

Emmaline shut her eyes and looked miserable.

“
They shot my Billy, Emmaline! And that wasn’t enough for them. They gassed him! They
gassed
him! With that filthy mustard gas. Only my Billy didn’t die. No, he’s only suffered every single day of his life since that battle! He’s going to die one of these days, because they used that putrid gas on him! Before I’d help a German, I’d cut off my own hand!”

And then, as if I hadn’t already made enough of a fool of myself, I collapsed onto the chair in which I’d eaten such a delightful luncheon, folded my arms on the little table Caruthers had set up, buried my face in my arms, and burst into tears. They weren’t dainty, delicate tears, either, but huge gasping sobs.

Poor Emmaline didn’t know what to do with me. Fortunately for me, her nature is sympathetic and she’s got an open and understanding heart. She knelt beside me, put an arm over my shoulders and crooned. I don’t remember what all she said, but it was something like, “I know, Daisy. I understand completely. It was Germans who killed my Stephen, too. But this young man tried to save his life, and he was punished for it. I’d like to help him if I can, and the only program I can think of that might help him assimilate is the one offered by the Salvation Army.”

“
I hate G-Germans,” sobbed I. Not a pretty picture, I know.

“
I understand, Daisy. Believe me, I understand.”

Wiping my cheeks with my hands—I was too upset to reach for a hankie—I said, “Do you know that my poor husband has stocked a whole lot of morphine syrup in order to kill himself when the pain of his life gets to be too much for him? Well, he has! Because of those damned Germans!”

Emmaline closed her eyes again and looked as if she were in as much emotional agony as I, although hers was quieter. Breeding shows, I guess.

I began to calm down after a few minutes. Then I started feeling like a total fool. Sniffling pitifully, I said, “I’m . . . sorry. I just . . . I don’t. . . .” But there was no need to go on. Emmaline understood.

“
There’s no need to apologize, Daisy. If it weren’t for the circumstances surrounding my request, I wouldn’t help a German cross the street. Not awfully forgiving, I guess, but it’s the truth. But this fellow—his name is Kurt Grünfeld, by the way—only joined the German army because he had to. He didn’t believe in the Kaiser’s cause any more than we did.”

My spate of tears had made my nose stuffy, so I sounded like I had a cold when I said, “How do you know he’s the genuine article? I mean, how do you . . . ?”

“
How do I know he’s the man who tried to save Stephen’s life?”

I nodded.

“
Because Stephen told me so in the letters he wrote to me.”

Skeptical, I asked, “And you say you’re sure the letters were really from Stephen?”

“
Yes.” She reached into the bodice of her gown—which, by the way, was perfectly gorgeous. No homemade frocks for Miss Emmaline Castleton. Unless, of course, she had a seamstress on the staff at the residence, which was quite likely—and pulled out an envelope.

The envelope was relatively tidy, considering she must have had it for years, but when she withdrew its contents, I saw a tattered sheet of what looked like paper torn from a book or something. The paper had brown-red spots on it, and I feared I knew what those spots were.

“
Kurt said he mailed this and another couple of letters to me after the Armistice. He’d kept them for a year and a half before he was able to get them into the post. I didn’t receive them until last year. But this is the message I want you to read.” She handed me the raggedy piece of paper.

It was torn from a book, and the book had evidently been published in Germany, since it was written in German. I read:

Naturally, by the time I came to the end of the letter, I was sniffling again. Without speaking, I handed the letter back to Emmaline.

She sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’re the only person I’ve ever shown this letter to,” she said at last.

“
Why?”

“
You’re the only one I’ve trusted to understand.”

Good Lord. Me? Who earned my living as a total fraud? It occurred to me then and there that Emmaline must have great depth of perception to look past the trappings of my profession and see the me inside.

“
Why in the world do you trust me?” I asked, genuinely puzzled. It then occurred to me that maybe this was a setup. Could Sam Rotondo, in an effort to get me to desist in my career as a phony spiritualist, actually. . . .

No. Not even Sam would pull a stunt like this. I hoped.

She sat down in the chair that she had vacated to stifle my tantrum, and she thought for a moment in silence. I didn’t pressure her.

After what seemed like forever, she said, “I’ll tell you why I trust you, Daisy, and I hope you won’t take my words amiss.”

Shoot. But I determined to behave with dignity for the remainder of our time together. I nodded at her to let her know I was listening. I wasn’t sure about the
taking her words amiss
part yet. We’d see about that.

“
I . . . don’t believe in spiritualism, and I have a feeling you don’t, either.”

I only blinked at her, too startled to speak.

“
But you’re so wonderful at your job, and so . . . so
good
at it. . . . I mean, you don’t promise people anything they couldn’t figure out on their own if they had any sense, you know? And you don’t try to tell them more than you can deliver. Telling someone to live happily in this world until called to the next because the deceased loved one wants him to is, in my opinion, a brilliant ploy.”

Good heavens! Still, I didn’t speak.

She went on, a little desperately, I thought. “And I’ve talked to Harold and Mrs. Kincaid and Mrs. Bissell and other people about you. They all say the same thing. You’re the best at what you do. And you never, ever tell other people what folks tell you in private sessions.”

Finally I felt compelled to whisper, “Thank you.”

“
But you don’t honestly believe you’re communicating with spirits from beyond, do you? I mean, do you
really?
”

Talk about a struggle! Did I want to tell the truth to this woman, who had just revealed a deep, dark secret to me? Well, what the heck. Why not? I got the feeling what we said at this little meeting wouldn’t go any farther than her father’s grand front porch. After heaving a huge sigh, I told the truth.

“
Of course, not.” And then, because I felt compelled to do so, I told her the total,
unvarnished
truth. “I began playing with the Ouija board because, back when I was ten, Mrs. Kincaid gave her old one to my aunt Vi. I made Rolly up at a family get-together when everyone else was afraid of—or pretended to be afraid of—the board. I had a grand time pretending for my family. Then Vi told Mrs. Kincaid how ‘talented’ I was with the board, Mrs. Kincaid asked me to work a party she was having, and that was it.” I hesitated for a moment and went on, kind of bitterly, “When Billy finally came home from the war, he was unable to work because he was so badly injured. So I began reading tarot cards and palms for people. I could make ever so much more money doing that than I ever could as a clerk at a dry-goods store or as an elevator operator.”

Emmaline nodded. “Yes. I see. It’s as I suspected. I can’t begin to tell you how much I admire you, Daisy.”

She admired me? Mercy sakes. “Well, I don’t think there’s really much to admire. I’m . . . well, I’m a fake.”

“
But you’re so good at it. And you’re never cruel. And you tell people the truth.” She reached across the table and took my hand. “Don’t you see? I went to Mrs. Bissell’s to see if what I suspected about you was the truth, and discovered it was. And you . . . you have such a strong connection with the German issue. . . .”

“
I should think that would have put you off.” Feeling stupid, I added, “After the scene I just played for you, I’m surprised you still trusted me enough to tell about your German.”

She shook her head hard. “No. Don’t you see? You’re totally honest.”

Totally honest. After I admitted I earned my living as a phony. Well, I never claimed to understand rich people. I could only gaze at her in wonder.

“
You and your husband have suffered so horribly from that war. You understand what I’ve been through.”

“
I know lots of people who lost loved ones, including my aunt. She lost her only son.”

I saw tears well in her eyes again, and they surprised me.

“
The Kaiser is a devil,” she said. I got the impression she meant it.

“
I agree.”

“
But, you see, it wasn’t only France, Belgium, England and we who suffered under his hand. His own people have endured dreadful hardships. They were just his toys in the whole mess, and now they’re being punished for it.”

With a grimmish sort of half smile, I said, “Yes. That’s just about exactly what my husband says.”

“
I’m surprised he’s so . . . so generous.”

“
Billy’s always been a levelheaded sort of fellow.” Yet another deep sigh preceded my next difficult confession. “And I guess you’re both right. It’s just . . . it’s just that I’m so resentful of what the Germans did to him, it’s difficult for me to be fair.”

“
I know. They killed the only man I’ve ever loved.”

We both sat there, staring across the magnificent lawns surrounding us that were interspersed every now and then with a piece of statuary or a grand tree or what have you.

Emmaline broke the silence. “But I truly would like to help Kurt if I can. In order to do that, of course, I’ll have to sponsor him.”

“
Yes. I understand immigrants to this country require sponsors.”

“
It’s terribly difficult for Germans to get into the United States, even with sponsorship. Providing I can manage that part, then I’d have to find him employment somewhere. That’s when I thought of the Salvation Army. I’ve supported the organization for years now. They’re about the only religious entity I respect, because they behave the way Christians are supposed to behave—at least, they behave the way Christ behaved.”

“
I agree,” said I, rather surprised, since I’m a lifelong Methodist. Still, I admire the Salvation Army because they really
are
like Jesus in that they don’t turn up their noses at people who are poor and hungry—or even drunks or dope fiends. Maybe even if they’re Germans. And when Harold told me you were teaching a class there, I thought you might be willing to speak to the captain about Kurt.”

“
Kurt is in Mexico now?”

“
Yes. I doubt he’ll be able to enter the country legally unless I can get my father to write strongly worded letters to the immigration folks and to his congressman and have my sponsorship and the Salvation Army back up my claims that Kurt is both employable and has a job waiting for him after he completes the Salvation Army’s program. Then he can become a United States citizen and be safe. He’s not safe in Germany, and he’s totally alone in Mexico.”

“
What sort of job do you have for him?”

“
I figure he can be my chauffeur or something.”

And then, as if I didn’t already have enough on my enfeebled mind, I thought of Hilda Schwartz. I sat up straighter in my chair and said, “Oh!” I didn’t mean to. The word just slipped out.

“
What?”

“
I just thought of a woman in my cooking class.”