How It Happened in Peach Hill (6 page)

Just what Mama wants to hear, I thought. Another sucker. And another brick in our dream house.

I pulled my sleeve from the old woman’s talons and put my palms flat against her silky cheeks. “I’ll add my touch to hers,” I said. “May you be restored.”

“She touched me!” cried the woman, lifting her hands toward the sky. Uh-oh. I imagined her neighbors on line pressing forward in a herd.

“I have to go!” I slipped back inside and leaned against
the door, breathing slowly. The sound of cracking china rang out from the kitchen.

“Oh, Peg!” Mama’s voice was as sharp as a slap. “First the teapot and now the creamer!”

“It’s not broken, ma’am, only a chip.”

I could hear Mama’s tongue clicking all the way down the hallway.

“Mama!” I called. “There is such a line outside you won’t believe!” I bounded into the kitchen.

“What did you say, Annie, dear?”

That “dear” prickles my neck, the way it comes in handy in front of people but hides away when we’re alone.

“There are people out front, Mama, lined up for Madame Caterina. Word of my—of your—healing is all over town. Did you tell anyone, Peg?” I gave her a poke.

“Well, I might have mentioned a time or two to a person or two last night that I’d seen a miracle before my very own eyes on the kitchen floor amongst the tea leaves I’d stirred with my very own hands.”

Mama got the glinty eye that came along with any of her new ideas. “Good for you, Peg,” she said. “Spread the word.”

Peg smirked, pleased to have pleased Mama. “My father said my tea has sent him into fits for years,” she said. “But anyone else I mentioned it to, they’re all as thrilled as little children with the circus coming. Everybody wants to see you for themselves.”

“Annie!” said Mama. “Peg is absolutely right!” She clasped her hands. “And what happens when the circus is coming?”

We stared blankly.

“A parade!” she cried.

“A parade,” agreed Peg.

“A parade?” I was not thinking at Mama’s pace today.

“You, darling!” said Mama. “You must spend the day on parade!”

I squinted at her.

“Walk around the square, have a sundae at the café, shop at the shops, show Peach Hill how you’ve changed. Show them all how clever and healthy you are. Here, take a few dollars.” She stuffed money into my hand, showing me how seriously she meant this. “It’s an investment,” she added. “Go on, get out there.” She nudged me out the door: a walking advertisement for Madame Caterina.

Peach Hill seemed like a different place now that I was allowed to have my wits with me. I liked the buzz of tittle-tattle following my every step. I pretended I was somebody famous, Mary Pickford or Buster Keaton. I could hear the ladies whispering, felt them rub up against me as if I were a good-luck amulet. They used to cringe if I came too close, and avert their eyes from the dribble on my lip, but today they made excuses to talk to me.

“Hello, dearie. What a joy to see you all fixed up!”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Fine day, isn’t it? You tell your mother I’ll be around tomorrow with my sister, who gets hives.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Whatever next? A miracle in Peach Hill. I always knew you were a special child.”

“Hello, Mrs. Ford.” You never had a good thing to say about me, you old liar, except to show pity.

I spent every penny Mama had given me, knowing it was a rare opportunity. I bought a tin of talcum powder from the chemist—“June Rose”—and a paintbox, and a new book called
Black Beauty
. I lingered outside the window of Laraby Jewelry & Pawn Shop, always curious to see new wares.

But what was that? Sitting there in full view on a blue velvet tray was Mrs. Poole’s bracelet, the one we’d passed about at the séance only last Friday. I would have known it anywhere, with that plum of a ruby. What was it doing here? Had Mr. Poole sold it for some reason?

I tried to treat myself to lunch at Bing’s Café, but Bing’s wife, Sadie, was quick to tell me, “On the house, darling, if you touch my sore knee.”

“Happy to, ma’am. Delicious iced tea.”

I hadn’t decided whether to tell Mama about the bracelet at Laraby’s when I burst in the front door, late in the afternoon, carelessly slamming it behind me. Mama hates a slam, especially when she’s working. This time, it brought her out of the front room with a scary smile pasted on her mouth.

“Why, Annie, dear,” she said. “You’re home.”

Dear? Who was with her? Not a customer, or the parlor door would have stayed shut.

“Come in, dear,” said Mama. “There’s someone here inquiring after your health.”

I peered into the room. It was a woman, wearing a serge suit the color of lilacs. Her hair, faded yellow, was drawn back into a bun. Her hat sat on her knees with pansies popping up all over it.

“This is Mrs. Newman,” said Mama. I recognized the note of poison in her voice. “She is insisting that you attend school, as of tomorrow morning.”

“It’s the law,” said Mrs. Newman. “Not a personal whim.”

My stomach began to churn. This was Mrs. Newman? This perfectly pleasant-looking woman with the silly hat was the shark Sammy had spoken about?

She wanted me to go to school?

Mrs. Newman was looking at me.

“I am overjoyed to have my child recovered,” said my mother, stroking my cheek. “But she has only been well for a matter of hours. How can you imagine she is ready to attend school? She is not yet a normal girl.”

Mrs. Newman’s right eyebrow rose to a suspicious peak.

“She is not educated,” Mama went on. “She has always been near me. Already the town bullies have plagued her. I fear she may have trouble if placed in a classroom with these same cruel children.”

“Indeed, Mrs.—?”

“Madame,” said Mama.

“Indeed, madame. It is my job to obey the law that states that all children under the age of sixteen must attend school.
Your daughter is apparently healthy and able. Her lack of learning is not a drawback but a challenge. However, you make an important point, that she is somewhat behind her peers in learning the fundamentals. She will be placed in the first grade under the instruction of Miss Carruthers and will—”

“But I need her at home!” Mama snapped. “She is a great help to me, and—”

“That is of no account. It is precisely to avoid the exploitation of children that the law was devised. The law states that all—”

“Oh, pish the law,” said Mama.

“Excuse me,” I said, so politely that even Mama stopped in surprise. “Mrs. Newman. I’ve been ill, or slow-witted, or, some say, idiotic. I’m not certain what you mean by school, exactly, but if it’s a place where I’m to learn my letters and make some friends, why, it sounds wonderful!”

Mama snorted. I would not look at her. Mrs. Newman’s eyes narrowed to blue slits; she didn’t know she was handing me a ticket to freedom and adventure.

“I will accompany you to school in the morning,” she said. Her gaze slid over my clothing. “You will need to look tidy and clean. Dark skirts are preferable, with a crisp blouse or trim sweater.”

Mama actually snickered. “Crisp” and “trim” were not adjectives that applied to us.

“I don’t have anything like that, ma’am.”

“Do your best. I will be here at half past eight.”

My mother believed in the power of costume; her dresses could best be described as foreign. She favored hot colors, orange and scarlet and peach. Her skirts were longer than the current fashion and folded about her like the robes of a rajah’s wife. Her colored stockings arrived in brown packages through the post, and she bought them by the dozen. Mama would never dream of getting a bob—her luxurious black hair was part of her professional wardrobe.

Mama thought people were more likely to trust a spiritual advisor who wore a disguise.

“A priest, for example. Very dramatic, all in black. And look at the Pope! Now, there’s a daring costume for a homely man.”

Part of Mama’s allure was to appear exotic, uncommon, a keeper of mystery and magic. She always looked ravishing, but as for me, I had never coped well with dresses. Mostly I wore silk smocks with loose, pajama-like trousers underneath.
Mama ordered them from a Chinese lady in San Francisco, who also made fireworks. My only dress, the black one I wore for callings, had too many strings and pockets underneath to make it sensible for school.

“Since they’re so damn insistent that you get an education, you can go naked as far as I’m concerned,” said Mama with a dismissive sneer.

“I’ll make you a skirt,” offered Peg. “But I won’t have time until the weekend.”

“I suppose I could just wear my own clothes,” I said. “The others already know what I look like. Who would I be trying to impress?”

Sammy Sloane’s face appeared in my mind’s eye, exactly the person I’d be trying to impress, but I couldn’t admit that out loud. I imagined Sally Carlaw and Delia de Groot cackling behind their hands.

“You could borrow my Sunday skirt,” suggested Peg. “Until Saturday. I’ll make you something of your own then.”

“Oh, Peg! Thank you!”

Sammy smiled at me while Sally and Delia turned away in jealous awe.

Back when I was six, when most children were in the first grade, Mama was La Bella Flora, the fortune-teller for Lenny’s Famous Fun Fair. We lived in a real caravan, painted like a Gypsy wagon, and we traveled up and down the East Coast, pausing in towns for a couple of nights at a time. But that autumn, when I was six, Lenny broke his leg in a fall from the practice trapeze, and we stayed in a place called Turkleton for several weeks. All of us carnival kids went to
the local school, to keep the authorities off Lenny’s back. There were four others besides me: the nine-year-old Turino twins, who performed as savages and ate raw meat; Greta, the Fat Lady’s dainty daughter; and Isabelle, my first friend, who was eight and could already speak four languages.

I was placed in the first grade.

My mother had taught me to read when I was three, so even back then I was bored to weeping with the Elson Reader. I was learning to juggle, and I knew the trick to lying on a bed of nails. I’d tried the trapeze and watched a man eat fire every night. First grade didn’t hold much allure.

On what was to be my first morning at Peach Hill Primary, Mama sat home in a bath full of lavender-scented bubbles, daring me to go through with it. I walked out the door with Mrs. Newman and closed it firmly behind me.

Half an hour later, studying the rows of six-year-old heads in front of me, I cursed my own pride.

The letters of the alphabet marched across the top of the blackboard in Miss Carruthers’ classroom. Paper oak leaves frolicked up and down the door frame.

“This is Annie, boys and girls. She will be joining us in room 102. Please make her feel welcome.”

Everyone clapped politely. Miss Carruthers pointed to an empty miniature desk and I felt like a rhinoceros blundering my way to the back row. We stood to salute the flag and then bowed our heads and said a prayer. Little faces kept turning my way, sneaking peeks through fingers.

“Take out your maps, boys and girls,” said Miss Carruthers. “We will first locate the Atlantic Ocean.” I didn’t have a map, so I looked out the window as we progressed
through the Pacific, the Indian and the Arctic oceans in turn.

“You’re the idiot, ain’tcha?” The boy in front of me scratched his armpit while he whispered at me. “Is that why you’re in here?”

I gave him my coolest Mama stare.

“Well, is it?”

“Turn around,” I said. “You’re annoying me.” He had a rash on the back of his neck, which I examined closely while the class tried to discover the difference between an ocean and a sea.

Ten minutes later, the boy twisted around again.

“Hey, idiot,” he said. “You’re a big, ugly baboon.”

“Shush,” I said.

“And you smell.”

That was enough for me. I leaned over and yanked his ear just about off. He squawked like a chicken, and Miss Carruthers had us both in corners before I could spit. She said she’d attend to us later, which she maybe thought had me quivering with anxiety. From the corner, I listened to the lesson in arithmetic, learning to make change of a dollar in ten different ways.

I bounced my forehead gently off the wall in front of me. Even though I was there at my own request, it felt as though Mama had devised the perfect punishment for my announcing myself healed without consulting her. But I was a resourceful girl, wasn’t I? I had the tools to fashion a different day for myself.…

During the lesson about using four nickels instead of two dimes to buy six oranges, I toppled over, just missing the
corner of Miss Carruthers’ desk. The teacher stopped midword, which had been my intention. Six-year-olds made a rewarding audience. They let out great gasps and hollers of excitement.

“She fainted!”

“She’s dead!”

“Is there blood?”

“I see blood!”

“Did her brains come out?”

“She’s got no brains! She’s an idiot!”

“Move back, boys and girls. She needs air.” Miss Carruthers hovered above me, brushing the hair off my face.

“Daniel, fetch some water, please,” she said, and feet clattered out of the room.

“She’s an idiot,” I heard again. “Her mother is the fortune-teller. She’s a moron.”

“Not anymore,” said someone else. “Now she’s smart enough for the first grade.”

“Oh, Daniel, thank you.” The teacher spoke to her helper. “Thank you. Oh! No! Daniel!” The warning came too late. Instead of delivering the cup of water into Miss Carruthers’ hand, Daniel had tossed it full force on my head. The surprise made me jerk to life. Another thrilled chorus buzzed through the children.

“Can you walk, dear?” asked Miss Carruthers.