How It Happened in Peach Hill (12 page)

“Was his name William Grey?” I’d asked, and she’d laughed before realizing I might really care to know. And then she said, “No, no, it wasn’t. I used my maiden name professionally and it was best to keep it that way.”

Whoever he was, he was gone now.

I found a silk shift, never worn in my company, folded in tissue paper beneath Mama’s personal garments. Oh, it was
lovely, the way it rippled over my fingers almost like water. I rolled it into the bottom of my suitcase, with a change of underclothing and a fresh blouse. I put in my hairbrush and my toothbrush. What else? I wanted my suitcase to be full to the brim. It seemed like a momentous expedition—as if I were making a journey as far as the Pacific Ocean or the Baltic Sea. But I was only going to Lexie’s house, so I shut the lid and snapped closed the catches. No one had to know it was my first night away from the home of my mother, aside from those grim hours on a cot at the sheriff’s house in Carling. No one except my mother knew about that.

My stomach was in knots during supper. I moved the food around, spread out the peas, chopped up the chicken into tiny pieces. I didn’t want Mama using a poor appetite as an excuse to cancel the evening. Peg stayed to tidy and then handed me a waxed-paper packet.

“I made some raspberry jumbles for your little party tonight,” she said. “A surefire path to popularity is to arrive with raspberry jumbles.”

“Oh, thank you, Peg!” I clasped her in my arms and kissed her on the cheek. “How would I know anything without you?”

I heard Mama snort but chose to ignore her. I looked at her only once more, when I waved from the door and stepped out into the navy blue night.

As Peg had said, Lexie lived in one of the “grand houses” of Peach Hill, one street over from Mr. Poole’s. The wide front porch overlooked a front lawn nearly the size of the town square. The other girls were there already, all piled into a porch swing that hung from the rafters like a cradle. It
creaked and groaned under the weight of three giggling, writhing bodies. The handle of my suitcase got slippery, I was clutching it so tightly. At last their giddiness faded and they noticed that I was there.

“You’ve come!”

“Come in, we’ve been waiting!”

“Annie’s here!”

The swing squawked as they all jumped off.

“Come in, come in, we’ve had the best idea!” They dragged me inside, where Lexie’s mother appeared, summoned by the noise. She was wearing a soft blue suit and had her hair bobbed, like a lady in a magazine.

“Hello, darlings!”

Lexie kissed her mother and clasped her hand.

“Hello, Mummy. This is Annie. Remember? I told you?”

The weight of that “told” swung like an ominous tree branch above my head. “Told” meant all the rumors, all the dirt: “I’m bringing home the town oddball, be polite!”

“Ah, yes! Annie! How nice that you could come tonight.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Johns,” I said.

“I’ll send Alice up shortly with snacks for you girls.”

“I brought raspberry jumbles.”

“Oohh!” squeaked the girls.

“Why, Annie, that’s lovely of you. Would you all like lemonade to go with your treats?”

Her niceness made me dizzy.

I was hauled up the stairs, into Lexie’s bedroom. They spun me around so I could see the enormous princess beds with gauzy canopies, the thick rug, the flounced curtains, the
vanity table lit up on both sides of the mirror with twinkling lights.

“Look what Lexie has!” Ruthie thrust something at me.

“It’s a Ouija board!” they cried, bubbling over. “Everybody has one now!”

“And we thought—” said Lexie.

“We thought,” said Ruthie, “since you have a natural ability—”

“—you could probably summon the dead,” said Jean, “or contact that spirit girl you mentioned and—”

“—bring her ghost here! To my bedroom!”

What could I do? This was exactly what my mother had feared, that silly girls all over the country were joining the craze for spirit calling and would stop paying the professionals. But silly girls couldn’t do it right. Only clever ones could.

“Have you seen a Ouija board before?” asked Lexie when I hesitated.

“Uh, yes. Yes, of course,” I said. “I was only thinking. To do this properly, we should make some preparations.”

More squeals and clapping hands and jumping up and down.

“Do you have any candles?”

“I wouldn’t be allowed candles in my bedroom,” said Lexie.

Jean and Ruthie pouted. “Come on, Lexie, can’t you sneak them?”

“We don’t need them,” I said quickly, seeing Lexie’s doubt. “Look, there’s a moon. It’ll be high enough in no time. We’ll use that.” I pulled apart the frothy curtains. Lexie turned off the row of lights above her vanity and the lamp in
the ceiling. Moonlight trickled across the floor and Lexie’s bed in a weak stripe. The darker the better, for my purposes.

“My mother always says the moon draws out secrets,” I said, making up my patter on the spot. “The same way it rules the tides.”

“Ooh.”

“What’s it like to have your mother?” asked Jean.

“She’s the only one I have, so it’s normal to me.”

“She’s very pretty,” said Ruthie, as if she were handing me a present.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Do you think she’ll get married again?” asked Jean. “My parents saw her driving out with Mr. Poole. Father was saying a fellow couldn’t be blamed for going into debt over a filly like that.”

“Jean!”

“I’m only saying what my father said.”

“Couldn’t your mother go into a trance and find out if she’s going to fall in love?” asked Lexie.

“Ooh, think of that!” cried Ruthie. “Does she have a crystal ball?”

How did I get myself here? I wondered. What pathetic, lonely part of me thought this would be fun?

“A clairvoyant doesn’t necessarily see what will happen,” I explained. “She is sensitive to likelihood. She sees what probably will happen.”

“Oh.”

“But seeing into the future is quite different from talking to a spirit who has passed to the Other Side,” I said.

“Let’s try the Ouija board,” said Ruthie.

“We have paper,” said Jean. “In case your ghost girl shows up.”

“Good idea,” I said. “May we sit on your bed, Lexie? And put the Ouija board directly in the moonlight? That will rouse the spirits and make them more receptive.”

“Ooh!”

They scrambled to remove their shoes, as did I, since that was the point of the suggestion. We settled more or less in a circle on the billowy eiderdown. I tucked my left foot—always the best cracker—neatly under the Ouija board, which rested on our knees.

I showed them how to place their fingers lightly on the planchette so that it could move easily from letter to letter while the spirits spelled out answers.

“Let’s take turns asking,” said Lexie. “Me first because it’s my Ouija board.” No one could argue with that.

“Oh, Great Ouija!” Lexie intoned. “Come to us and share your wisdom! Come unto us, O spirit!”

I cracked my toe.

The girls screamed loudly enough to break glass. It was a wonder Lexie’s mother didn’t rush in with bandages.

“The spirit is here!” I whispered. “What do you want to know?”

“Will Terence Price invite me to the Christmas dance?” asked Lexie.

For cat’s sake! I thought. The planchette slid to YES, obviously guided by three eager spiritualists.

“Yes! Ouija said yes!”

This was too dumb. Time to jazz things up. I uttered a terrified
moan and went rigid, with my legs jerking into stiff rods. I tipped the board over while my head flipped back and my chest arched forward.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The girls bounced out of the way of my kicking feet.

“What’s wrong with her? Oh my God, she’s having a seizure!”

“Get your mother, Lexie, this is scary!”

“No,” said Lexie, “I think it’s the spirit she told us about.”

“Give her the paper!”

“Find a pencil!”

“OhmygoodnessgraciousMarymotherofGod!”

The girls jabbered like ninnies.

I kept twitching and whimpering like an ailing goat.

Lexie put a pencil in my hand and adjusted the Ouija board so that I could use it as a desk. I could hardly see in the dark, but I began to scrawl while they leaned over me, as entranced as if I were the reincarnation of William Shakespeare.

My name is Gwendalen of Stone House, I wrote. I am daughter to Arne the Vast and Elbecca of Tune. I have found a willing vessel in the form of Annie Grackle and in this way must tell my tale
.

“What is she doing?” asked Ruthie in a whisper.

“She’s been possessed,” hissed Lexie.

“Is this a sin?” asked Jean.

“Shhh.”

My father tried to have me wed more times than I can count, but the price was always higher than he cared to pay. He preferred to keep me out of sight during all encounters with the prospective bridegrooms. I confess that I was not a lovely maid. I have a wide,
turned-up nose. My brothers called me Piggy. The dowry could never be high enough
.

“Oh, how sad,” whispered Jean. Lexie pushed a new sheet of paper under my pencil.

My family’s wish to have me gone from home was understandable. The nuns of Saint Lucy’s welcomed me, realizing I would have no place in the world other than what they offered me. They were not to know how brief my time with them would be
.

My hand was getting tired. I paused to give it a shake.

“How did you die?” asked Jean.

My father discovered that I had—what was that word? Ah—besmirched his name with disparaging words, I wrote. The consequence was to have my tongue removed at the roots
.

“Aaaaahhh!” They all screamed together, making my hand wobble.

Some girls have been known to live after such a surgery, but alas, I was not one of them. I bled without cease, no matter what poultice was applied to staunch the flow. Eventually I choked to death on my own blood
.

“Eewww!”

That seemed a fitting ending. I tossed my head back and gurgled while my throat stretched toward the ceiling. The girls gasped, deliciously thrilled and horrified. Because we were seated on the bed, my forehead was spared collision when I threw myself forward. I merely sat hunched over, hiding my grin while their commotion buzzed above my head.

Girls nestled around me like puppies as I gazed up at the filmy canopy that hung over Lexie’s bed. I’d never even changed into Mama’s lovely nightdress. We’d slept in our clothes, exhausted by the drama of Gwendalen.

I slowly extricated myself without disturbing anyone and tiptoed downstairs, hoping to escape unseen. But Mrs. Johns was in the hallway, pulling on white gloves.

“An early bird, eh, Annie? Your little party sounded like quite a success last night; if giggles and squeals are any measure. Is that daughter of mine stirring?”

“No, ma’am. They’re all asleep up there.”

“Well, I’ll have to go poke them.” She laughed. “Sleep is no excuse to miss church.”

“No, ma’am.”

Church, I thought as I hurried away. I could do my good deed today. Mama liked to linger in bed on Sunday mornings—well, most mornings—so I did not meet her when I sneaked in to retrieve the bundle of clothes I’d collected.

The Wilky house sat at the end of a dusty road called the
Way. Each house along the Way got smaller and shabbier, with the Wilkys’ being the shabbiest. No place I ever saw looked less likely as a waiting room for Heaven. No one out here had an automobile, so it didn’t matter that the road was so badly rutted. I followed the straggle of people picking their way in Sunday shoes.

Along with my donation of clothing, I’d brought fifty cents to put in the basket, or the box, or the jar, whatever they had. They must have a collection, or what was the point? No spirits, God or otherwise, spoke loudly enough to drown out the clinking of coins. That was what Mama said, anyway.

Mrs. Tabitha Wilky answered the door. She wasn’t wearing a badge declaring her name, but I could tell right off from her round eyes and disheveled hair that she was related to that girl.

“I haven’t seen you before,” she said.

“No,” I said. “May I come in?”

She folded her arms across her chest like a sentry.

“What for?” she asked. She could use a lesson in appealing to potential customers, I thought.

“I was told the Lord makes an appearance here from time to time,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky today.”

She
humph
ed but leaned sideways to let me edge past.

The living room was just as Peg said, crowded with mismatched chairs and benches. The seats up front were full. Three or four people wearing white shawls were milling around at the front and humming. The choir, I guessed. I saw no sign of the minister or his daughter. I chose a stool near the door, in case I needed to flee. I tucked my bundle underneath.

I recognized two old women who drank lemonades outside Bing’s every lunchtime and a man who sold newspapers near the train station. A few young women clustered together, sporting hats with jaunty artificial feathers, dyed lurid colors no bird ever wore. Looking around, I saw that the congregation was mostly women. Just like for Mama, I thought. Why are women the ones seeking answers?

I wasn’t expecting much from the service, even less once the Reverend Wilky had shambled to the front of the room. His elbows were patched, and his trousers were flapping above naked ankles. What had happened to Peg’s father’s socks?

The choir quickly took their places in a semicircle around a rickety music stand. The Reverend Wilky stood waiting, looking like the scruffiest of mechanics.

But when he opened his mouth, oh, my! His voice was a low, rumbling burr, silky as he greeted us, his brethren. He began by rejoicing in the beauty of the day.

“And who made this day?” he asked.

Everyone around me called out, “He did!”

“Hallelujah! And who created this glorious sun?”

“He did!”

“Who gave us eyes to see the sky?” The Reverend’s voice rose to a honeyed roar. The choir was humming a hymn behind him. “He did!”

I joined in, having learned the routine.