Nightmare Alley (19 page)

“Honey, I don’t like it.”

“In God’s name, what’s the matter with it?”

“Well, what if there are—what if people do come back? I mean, well, they mightn’t like it. I can’t explain it. I’m scared.”

“Listen, baby. I been over this a hundred times. If anybody’s going to come back they’re not going to get steamed up because we fake a little. We’ll be doing the marks a favor; we’ll make ’em plenty happy. After all, suppose you thought you could really speak to your dad, now. Wouldn’t that make you happy?”

“Oh, God, I wish I could. Maybe it’s because I’ve wished so hard for just that and hoped that maybe someday I could.”

“I know, kid. I know how it is. Maybe there’s something in it after all. I don’t know. But I’ve met half a dozen spook workers in the past year and they’re hustlers, every one of them. I tell you, it’s just show business. The crowd believes we can read minds. All right. They believe it when I tell them that ‘the lawsuit’s going to come out okay.’ Isn’t it better to give them something to hope for? What does a regular preacher do every Sunday? Only all he does is promise. We’ll do more than promise. We’ll give ’em proof!”

“I—honey, I just can’t.”

“But you don’t have to
do
anything! I’ll handle all the effects. All you have to do is get into a cabinet and go to sleep if you want to. Leave everything else to me.”

“But s’pose we got caught? I can’t help it; I think it’s mean. Remember how I told you once, the night you—you asked me to team up with you—about how I chalked on Daddy’s tomb-stone ‘He never crossed up a pal?’ I was scared to death out there in that cemetery, and I was scared every minute until I touched Daddy’s headstone, and then I started to cry and I said his name over and over, just as if he could hear me, and then somehow I felt like he really could. I was certain he could.”

“All right. I thought you were his daughter. I thought you had guts enough to turn a trick that would get you the kind of life he’d want you to have. Give us a few years in this dodge and just one big job and then we can knock off. Stop jackassing all around the country and settle down. We’ll—we’ll get married. And have a house. And a couple of dogs. We’ll—have a kid.”

“Don’t fib, honey.”

“I mean it. Don’t you think I want a kid? But it takes dough. A wad of dough. Then it’ll be Florida in the winter and the kid sitting between us in the grandstand when the barrier goes up and they streak out, fighting for the rail. That’s the kind of life I want and I’ve got my angles worked out, every one of them. Got my ordination certificate today. Baby, you’re in bed with a full-blown preacher. I bet you never thought you’d bed down with a reverend! Last week I had a tailor make me an outfit—black broadcloth. I got a turn-around collar and everything. I can put on a pair of black gloves and a black hood and work in a red light like a darkroom lamp—and nobody can see a thing. I’ve even got cloth buttons so they won’t reflect light. I tell you, it’s a perfect setup. Don’t you know a spook worker never takes a real rap? If anybody grabs, the chumps rally around him and start alibi-ing their heads off. Do you think I’m a feeblo to go monkeying around with scientific committees or any other wise guys that are likely to upset the works? Pick your crowd and you can sell ’em anything. And all
you
have to do is sit there with the old ladies admiring you and thanking you afterward for all the comfort you’ve brought ’em. But if you are yellow I can do it alone. You can go back to the carny and find yourself another kooch show and start all over.”

“No, honey. I didn’t mean—”

“Well, I do mean. I mean just that. One way is the big dough and plenty of class and a kid and clothes that will make you look like a million bucks. The other way is the carny, doing bumps and grinds and waggling your fanny for a bunch of rubes for a few more years. And then what? You know what. Make up your mind.”

“Just let me think about it. Please, honey.”

“You’ve thought about it. Don’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. Look, baby, I love you. You know that. No, don’t pull away. Keep quiet. I said I love you. I want a kid by you. Get it? Put your other arm around me. It’s like old times, eh, kid? There. Like it? Sure you do. This is heaven, kid. Don’t break it up.”

“Oh, honey, honey, honey.”

“That’s better. And you will do it? Say you will. Say yes, baby.”

“Yes. Yes—I’ll do anything.”

In the old gray stone house near Riverside Drive, Addie Pea-body (Mrs. Chisholm W.) answered the door herself. She had given Pearl the evening off and Pearl had gone willingly enough, in view of what was coming.

The first to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, and Mrs. Peabody shooed them into the parlor. “Honestly, I was just dying for somebody to talk to, I thought the afternoon would never go by, I’d have gone to the matinee but I just knew I couldn’t sit through one, I’d be so excited about tonight, they say this new medium is simply grand—and so young, too. They say she hasn’t a speck of background, she’s so spontaneous and natural, she used to be a show girl I hear but it really doesn’t matter, it’s one of the strangest things how the gift strikes people in all walks of life and it’s so often among humble people. I’m sure none of us will ever develop full power although they do say the Reverend Carlisle is simply wonderful at developmental sittings. I have a friend who’s been developing with him for nearly a year now and she has noticed some amazing phenomena in her own home when not a soul was there but herself. She’s simply mad about Mr. Carlisle, he’s so sincere and sympathetic.”

In twos and threes the rest of the company gathered. Mr. Simmons made one or two little jokes just to liven things up, but they were all in good taste and not offensive, because, after all, you should approach a séance with joy in your heart and all the people have to be attuned or the phenomena are likely to be scarce and very disappointing.

The bell rang a steady, insistent note, full of command. Mrs. Peabody hurried out, taking a quick look in the hall mirror and straightening her girdle before she opened the door. Outside, the light above the door fell on the heads of two people, the first a tall, dramatic-looking woman in her late twenties, rather flashily dressed. But Mrs. Peabody’s glance slid over her and came to rest on the man.

The Rev. Stanton Carlisle was about thirty-five. He was holding his black hat and the lamplight made his hair glisten golden —just like the sun, she thought. He made her think of Apollo.

Mrs. Peabody noticed in her first swift glance that he was dressed in street clericals with a black vest and a turn-about collar. He was the first spiritualist minister she had ever seen who wore clericals but he was so distinguished-looking that it didn’t seem a bit ostentatious; anybody would have taken him for an Episcopalian.

“Oh, Mr. Carlisle, I just knew it was you. I got a distinct impression the minute you rang the bell.”

“I am sure we shall establish an excellent vibrational harmony, Mrs. Peabody. May I present our medium, Mary Margaret Cahill.”

Inside, Mrs. Peabody introduced them to the others. She served tea and it was so English—just like having the vicar over, she thought. Miss Cahill was a sweet-looking girl, and after all some people can’t help being born on the wrong side of the tracks. She probably did the best she could with what she had to start with. Even if she did look a little cheap she was beautiful and had an odd, haggard expression about her mouth that touched Mrs. Peabody’s heart. Mediumship takes so much out of them—we owe them such a tremendous debt.

Mr. Carlisle was charming and there was something about his voice that stirred you, as if he were speaking just to you even when he addressed the others. He was so understanding.

Finally Mrs. Peabody stood up. “Shall I play something? I always say there’s nothing like having an old-fashioned family organ. They’re so sweet-toned and so much nicer than a piano.” She sat at the console and struck a gentle chord. She would have to get the pedal levers oiled; the left one squeaked a little. The first piece she turned to was “The Old Rugged Cross” and one by one the company picked it up, Mr. Simmons coming in with a really fine baritone.

The Rev. Carlisle cleared his throat. “Mrs. Peabody, I wonder if you recall that splendid old hymn, ‘On the Other Side of Jordan.’ It was a favorite of my sainted mother’s, and I should dearly love to hear it now.”

“Indeed I do. At least, it’s in the hymnal.”

Mr. Simmons volunteered to lead, standing by the organ, with the others humming:

Mrs. Peabody’s eyes were wet when the hymn was finished, and she knew that this was the psychological moment. She sat silently on the bench and then closed her eyes and let her fingers find the chords. Everyone sang it softly.

She played the “Amen” chords softly, drawing them out, and then turned to the Rev. Carlisle. His eyes were closed; he sat upright and austere with his hands resting on the knees of his black broadcloth trousers. When he spoke he kept his eyes closed.

“Our hostess has provided us with a fine cabinet. The niche between the organ and the wall will serve beautifully. And, I believe, there are hangings which can be lowered. Let us all compose ourselves with humble hearts, silently, and in the presence of God who hath hid these things from the wise and prudent and hast revealed them unto babes.

“I call upon the Spirit of Eternal Light, whom some call God the Father and some call the Holy Ghost; who, some believe, came among the earth-bound as our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ; who spoke to Gautama under the Bo tree and gave him enlightenment, whose praise was taught by the last of India’s great saints, Sri Ramakrishna. Marvel not at what we shall attempt, for the hour is coming in which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice and shall come forth. Many of them that sleep in the dust of the earth shall awake, but some who did evil in their days upon the earth shall be reborn and remain among the earth-bound for yet another existence. No spirit who has ever returned speaks to us of hell fire but rather of rebirth and another chance. And when a man has done much evil he does not descend into a pit of eternal torment but wanders between the worlds, neither earth-bound nor liberated; for the Lord, being full of compassion, forgives their iniquity. He remembers that they were but flesh, a wind that passeth away and cometh not again until the prayers and faith of liberated and earth-bound alike cause their absorption into the Universal Soul of God, who is in all things and from which everything is made that was made. We ask that the Great Giver of Love enter our hearts and make us to become as little children, for without innocence we cannot admit those presences who draw near about us now, anxious to speak to us and make their nearness known. For it is written: ‘He bowed the heavens also, and came down: and darkness was under his feet. And he rode upon a cherub, and did fly: yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind.’ Amen.”

He opened his eyes and Mrs. Peabody thought she had never seen eyes as blue or with a glance so resembling an eagle’s. Spiritual power flowed out of him; you could just feel it.

The spiritualist continued, “Let Mrs. Simmons sit nearest to the cabinet on the far side. Mrs. Peabody on the other side, before the organ which she plays so beautifully. I shall sit here, next to her. Mr. Simmons next to his wife.”

An armchair was carried into the niche for Miss Cahill who sat tautly, her knees close together, her hands clenched. The Rev. Carlisle stepped into the niche.

“Are you sure you feel equal to it this evening, my dear?”

Miss Cahill smiled bravely up at him and nodded.

“Very well. You are among friends. No one here will break the circle. There are no skeptics to endanger your life by suddenly flooding you with light. No one will move from his chair when it is dangerous to the vibration lines. Any ectoplasmic emanations from your body will be carefully observed but not touched so you have nothing to fear. Are you perfectly comfortable?”

“Yes. Comfortable. Fine.”

“Very well. Do you want music?”

Miss Cahill shook her head. “No. I feel so—so sleepy.”

“Relax, my dear friend.”

She closed her eyes.

Mrs. Peabody tiptoed about and extinguished all the lamps except one. “Shall I close the cabinet curtains?”

Carlisle shook his head. “Let us first have her with us. Without anything between us. Let us form the circle.”

Silently they took their places. Minutes crept by; a chair creaked and outside a car passed. Behind the velvet drapes which shut off the street light it sounded out of key and impertinent. The Rev. Carlisle seemed in a trance himself.