Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) (12 page)

“What are the headlines today, dad?” asked Adam.

“Global warming.”

Her mother kept offering eggs and toast, encouraging Jillian to eat.

“Mom, I really don't have much of an appetite this morning.” Jillian was taking little sips from her cup of tea, which she drank, as usual, black. “This Yorkshire Gold tea has such a unique flavour!”

Her mother contorted her features into a smile and agreed, “It is a good tea.” Then her mouth went slack when she caught sight of Molly lying underneath the breakfast table, shredding Kleenex, and she added wearily, “I'm always cleaning up dog hair and washing the floors, because they constantly smell like dog poop.”

“Ruthie, my dear,” exclaimed her husband with polite urbanity, “that's something I've been meaning to mention for some time. When you take Molly for a walk, you should carry spare tissue with you and once Molly does her— business— wipe her butt gently with it. Either that or you could ask Madame Zelda for guidance.” Molly thumped her tail a few times and lifted up her ears when she heard her name.

Jillian and Adam broke out into laughter, but their father's suggestion made their mother's lip curl. “Geordie, please tell me you haven't been wiping Molly's butt in front of our neighbours.”

“Why? What's so unusual about that?” He smiled with raised eyebrows as he continued to fumble with the newspaper.

The two exchanged a tired married look.

“Mom, I was looking through the photo albums in the attic the other day, and I could only find one picture of you. Why is that?”

“Oh, you know how it is. I hate my pictures, so I rip them up,” she replied feebly. “I never look like myself or the way I think I should.”

“What? How should you look, Mom?” asked Adam, aggrieved.

Ruth Crossland wiped at her eyes and said, “Well, not the way the camera says I do.”

“For goodness' sake!” cried Jillian, “you look great, Mom.”

“Yeah, Mom. What will happen when you die and we have no pictures to remember you by?”

She looked at him smiling, “You'll just have to look in the mirror, and you'll see me.”

“Okay, get out the violins. It's not the same thing, and you know it.”

Her mother glanced doubtfully at Jillian as she poured her more tea and offered her fresh carrot muffins, patiently waiting for the moment when her daughter would give her some sort of indication of what had happened at the dance. She was not one to pry into her daughter's private affairs. She hesitated at first but then pressed forward, “Is there something on your mind, Jilly-bean?”

Jillian looked up, startled. “What makes you think so?”

Her mother was sitting across from her and leaning on her elbows, looking at her with a wondering expression. “Well, I would imagine there would be something on your mind, dear,” she said smiling, and then got up from her chair to put some dirty dishes in the sink.

Jillian looked at her father and brother, who were staring at her, and sensed that something was about to become real. “Okay, if you must know, I met a boy at the party.”

Her mother looked sidelong at her for a few moments, then walked over to the table and took out from her robe pocket a deck of cards, which she proceeded to spread out in front of her.

“I'm out of here!” announced her brother angrily.

“Me too!” added her father. They both stormed out.

“Oh, Mom. Please don't start with that.” Jillian pleaded, getting flustered.

“It would be interesting to see. We just need a little guidance,” replied her mother reassuringly. “There are signs we must watch for— signs not to be missed.”

“But I don't want to know what the Tarot cards have to say. Mom, did you hear what I said?”

Her mother continued spreading the cards. “Yes, I heard you,” she replied, looking up, obviously annoyed. Her hands fluttered to her head. She gave her daughter a troubled look: “Mark my words, Jilly, these young men today are full of raging testosterone.”

Jillian looked at her mother with a stunned look on her face but then found herself wondering whether there might be some truth to what she was saying. Matt had been rather aggressive. So maybe her mother knew what she was talking about, or perhaps she had been through all this herself as a young girl before marrying her father? The thought of sex conjured images in her mind of dancing torsos moving to tribal rhythms like the ones in those National Geographic specials, and for that matter the ones at the Hart House dance the night before; a mass gathering for a youthful orgy. She shook her head to dispel such thoughts from her mind. The absurdity of the whole thing made her laugh. “It seems absolutely ridiculous, Mom, for you to rush along without rhyme or reason and jump to conclusions about this boy I met last night. I'll probably never see him again.”

“Well, he phoned this morning. What's his name?”

“His name is Matt Barnes, and he's an intern at St. Michael's Hospital.”

“An intern? How much older is this
man?
”

“He's twenty-six.”

“Twenty-six?! Why, he
is
much older than you, Jilly: eight years.” Her mother was in shock.

“What difference does it make?”

Her mother tried to make her see reason. “Well, look at it this way, Jilly: when you were born, he was already 8 years old. When you were 14, just barely a teenager, he was already 22 and probably already experienced ....” Here her words trailed off, because Adam had walked into the kitchen and had a quizzical look on his face as he made his way straight to the fridge. Things were becoming awkward. Her mother cleared her throat and continued her sentence in a lower key: “experienced in many, many ways of the world, Jilly— as in lived, loved so on and so forth. So that makes a difference, see?”

“No.”

Adam had been listening with detached seriousness as he cracked a handful of peanuts and popped them into his mouth: “What's this guy's name?” he asked.

“Mathew Barnes,” replied Jillian, looking over at her brother in appeal and hoping he would come to her rescue.

“Mathew Barnes,” reflected Adam. “Hmm ... sounds familiar. I'm sure I've heard that name before.”

“Jilly-Bean, I've given you my good counsel as a parent, whatever happens— well... what can I do? And didn't Madame Zelda warn against such things?”

“Madame Zelda? What does she have to do with this?”

“I just don't want to see you get hurt, that's all,” replied her mother.

“Why should anyone hurt me?”

Within one week of the séance, Mr. Mueller was dead.

Upon hearing the news, Geordie Crossland mumbled as if to himself, “John is dead? Why, this is preposterous. There must be some mistake.”

It was a shock— Mr. Mueller's death following a séance in which his death had been foretold was too much of a coincidence. The family was gripped in fear.

The reality of the death didn't hit Jillian until she read the obituary in the Globe and Mail:

With his best friends and family by his side, at the age of 53, John Mueller suddenly passed away. Loving husband to Joyce; much loved brother to Lorraine; cherished and remembered friend to many.

The autopsy report was finally released, revealing a blunt trauma to the head. There had been nothing in the blood system of the deceased, he was not intoxicated at the time of death and he had been in general good health until that evening. Given the circumstances of the death, a coroner's investigation was underway.

“He hit his head, obviously.”

“No, there was blunt trauma to the head.”

“You mean, someone in the house killed him?”

“No, I'm not suggesting that.”

A death following a séance where death had been predicted soon became a topic of interest in the
Globe and Mail,
the headlines reading “Occult Meeting Turns Deadly.” Jillian steeled herself when she turned to the second page of the paper to reveal a picture of Madame Zelda's sinister face, dressed in sombre black— her beady eyes like shiny black pebbles peering out at her and leading her to picture the old woman shaking hands with Satan himself! Madame Zelda soon became a celebrity of sorts, appearing on the CBC news and
The Fifth Estate.
Maybe she was gifted after all, thought Jillian. That afternoon the telephone rang repeatedly on Baby Point Crescent as Jillian's friends all wanted to know all about the séance and the death of Mr. Mueller; they were shocked and concerned for her wellbeing but at the same time fascinated.

Uncle Phil and Aunt Jean were notified.

“I don't know what you are talking about, Geordie,” said Uncle Phil, rising to his feet, trying to suppress his agitation and striding towards his brother-in-law as quickly as his short legs would allow.

“Why, haven't you read the papers? It's all over the front page.”

Uncle Phil fixed his gaze on the newspaper page in Geordie Crossland's hand.

“Oh, you haven't seen this yet?” he handed him the newspaper section.

Uncle Phil read it in silence, raised his eyes slowly and regarded Geordie Crossland earnestly before handing him back the paper. “Well, it'll all die down. This is just some misunderstanding. The only 'blunt trauma' John suffered was from falling down the stairs. I can't believe for one minute that there's a murderer in our midst.”

“Of course not! But the whole thing is very bizarre. I'm not a superstitious man— ”

“Of course,” cried Aunt Jean, looking considerably thinner and with her cheeks flushing red, “there is a connection between the death and the séance.”

Adam shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching, “Not a connection, Aunt Jean, simply a coincidence, that's all it is. Something that occurs every day and defies logic.”

“There are no coincidences,” his mother replied with a look of knowing dread in her eyes. “Evil has been unleashed!”

Olivia Spears turned to Adam: “So the séance may have unleashed bad luck?” she whispered.

“What bad luck?” retorted Adam with a contemptuous laugh. “Why don't you people step out of the Middle Ages? It's irrational and stupid to think there's any connection, given how far we've come as a society, to still believe in that crap! This is pagan superstition!”

“Well, Madame Zelda did mention a curse.”

“Madame Zelda said what? This is ridiculous. Listen to reason, people. Madame Zelda is a nut job!” Adam got up abruptly, overturning his chair, and stormed out of the room.

Although she had never been the religious sort before John Mueller's death, Mrs. Mueller now took up going to church every Sunday morning. When she whispered her beloved's name, she would unthinkingly make the sign of the cross. “But how could my poor darling John have died? He was getting better; the doctor said so.”

“Satan! Evil spirits have been unleashed!” cried Jillian's mother.

Geordie Crossland, quick to see through nonsense, spoke irritably: “Well, if you don't believe in God, how can you believe in Satan?”

Had the séance awakened evil spirits? Jillian's mother, her aunt and uncle and Mrs. Mueller believed so. Omens were everywhere. They watched for signs. Crossing paths with black cats was especially to be avoided.

One evening, while she was washing dishes with her mother, Jillian turned to her and said, “But I nearly tripped over a black cat in our backyard the other night, mom.” Her mother dropped the soapy dish in her hand and turned swiftly to face her, a look of dread in her eyes. “If you cross paths with a black cat, it means that friends will soon betray you. Mark my words Jillian: your friends will betray you!”

“But mom, why would my friends betray me?”

Her mother shrugged, “These are the mysteries of life.”

Her mother consulted the horoscopes on the Internet and in the papers, seeking guidance. She burned candles nightly to appease the evil spirits and spent her evenings looking out at the night sky through a long telescope to ascertain the positions of the moon, the planets and the constellations.

“Oh, it's just too tragic, this event; but didn't the witch predict it, though?” commented Olivia to Jillian one afternoon. “So strange and upsetting, isn't it? Who would think of or expect such a thing? The poor man!”

“People die every day, Liv. It's more common than you think.”

“But you have to admit that the circumstances were bizarre.”

“He was sweating buckets all evening, so it doesn't surprise me that he collapsed in the barn. The smell would have knocked anyone off their feet.”

Eyes puffy and red from crying, Mrs. Mueller sitting on a sofa in Aunt Jean's living room and in an altered voice recounted for the umpteenth time the events leading up to the discovery of her beloved John. “Well, John often got up in the middle of the night to get himself a drink; and he says to me, 'I think I'll have a little water, my mouth is feelin' a bit dry'.” She paused to smooth out the creases in her skirt with one hand. “I vaguely recall him kissing me on the forehead. I thought I heard him stagger out of bed, or he might have tripped on the bedsheets and grabbed hold of the bedframe, because the bed shook. I looked up and asked him if he was all right, and he replied, 'I'll see you soon, dear.'” She looked around in wide-eyed disbelief. “Could that mean that our Lord Jesus Christ will be calling me to join him soon?”

Everyone gave her startled looks. “Of course not, Joyce! That's ridiculous.”

“That was the last thing he said to me. I must have fallen asleep, because I wasn't aware if he came back to bed or not.”

Five days following Mr. Mueller's death, a cremation was planned. Mr. Mueller had never been a religious man and had made it clear in his will that his body was to be cremated and his ashes put in a large helium balloon and then released to the open skies over Algonquin Park.

Aunt Jean shed tears of joy when she heard the news. “Oh, but I think it will be beautiful; just like John to do something over-the-top. I can just imagine the exquisite sounds of harp, flute and native songbirds in their natural habitat. It will be a ceremony to remember for years to come.”

For Jillian the days leading up to the funeral were a blur. Nothing seemed real.

“I don't care if you don't have a big enough balloon in stock. You'll have to get one somehow,” Mr. Crossland shouted at some poor sales clerk at Blue Sky Balloons. The store only had balloons inscribed with 'Happy Birthday' messages or 'Get Well Soon.' Others had to be specially ordered. Eventually they provided a helium tank small enough for simple transport and twenty-three large colourful plain balloons, including a large white one, which the clerk assured him would be three feet wide when blown up, with a wide enough lip to accommodate the ashes.