by Alice Duncan
This was, sad to say, all too true. “That's only because you don't like what I do for a living.”
Pa, who didn't care for strife in any form, even the mild sort Billy and I were displaying, yawned theatrically and rose from his chair. “Think I'll turn in now. As you just said, Daisy, Doc Benjamin told me to get lots of rest.”
God bless my father. His diversion worked. Billy chuckled. “Since when have you done what the doctor tells you to do?”
Pa winked at the both of us. “Since it serves my purpose in this instance.” He left us alone in the living room, and I heard him say something to Ma in the kitchen. After supper, she and Vi always sat at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and a gossip session.
“Are you really ready to go to bed, Billy?” I decided not to resurrect the topic we'd been discussing before Pa left us. It was too touchy a one, and I wasn't up to another fight with him. “You don't have to retire just because I'm dead-beat.”
“I guess I'm ready.”
“I'll push you to the bedroom.”
Normally Billy didn't like people pushing his chair for him. The chair was one of those newfangled ones with wheels so big, the person sitting in it could propel himself around. But Billy didn't object when I occasionally pushed him on walks. That night he didn't object, either.
We said good-night to Ma and Aunt Vi as we rolled through the kitchen to our bedroom, which was directly off the kitchen. Our bungalow had two nice, private rooms upstairs that would have been swell for a young married couple to live in. Since Billy couldn't climb the stairs, Aunt Vi used them.
Pa had built us a sun porch, or deck, outside our bedroom, and on fine nights Billy and I would sit out there and chat or just watch the stars. On that bleak November night, it was too darned cold to go outdoors so I shut our bedroom door to get some privacy. I knew that Ma and Aunt Vi would take their tea into the living room because that's what they always did, out of consideration for Billy and me.
I had lots of reasons to be thankful for my family. Ma and Pa and Aunt Vi were three of the best, most praiseworthy people in the universe. The three of them almost made up for the reasons I had to wonder why God had played Billy and me such a dirty trick.
But that was nonsense. Even in my foul mood that night, I recognized nonsense when I thought it. I firmly believed then, and I still believe, that God endowed human beings with free will and the brains to use it wisely if they chose. Therefore, I don't really believe it was God's fault the wretched Kaiser had decided to use the gifts God had given him for a wicked purpose. It was our bum luck that Billy had been caught in the Kaiser's evil scheme. And if mustard gas isn't evil, I don't know what is.
I helped Billy change into the pajamas I'd given him for his birthday the summer before. He hated night shirts, since they made him feel even less like a man than he already did. After changing into my nightgown, I climbed into bed after him. He snuggled close to me and wrapped me in his arms, and as much as I hate to admit it, I cried again. It had to be time for my monthly, because that was the only time I became at all emotional. Thank heaven, Billy didn't notice my tears.
# # #
It rained the next day. As I stared out our bedroom window at the water pelting down from the sky, I decided it was just as well. It was much easier to abide a filthy mood if the weather cooperated. Heck, if the sun had shone down upon our little place in the world that morning, I might have cheered up a little. That would never do.
Every once in a while, I got to feeling cynical. That morning was one of those whiles.
“At least the rain will keep Pa indoors,” I muttered to Billy as I hung up my nightgown and tried to decide what to wear. A crown of thorns seemed appropriate, but there wasn't one in any of my hat boxes.
“I doubt it.” Billy was already dressed.
For some reason, his being dressed encouraged me slightly. I entertained the perhaps-foolish hope that as long as he continued to get up and dress in a shirt, collar, tie, jacket, and trousers every day, all was not lost. I'd read about men who became so down in the dumps, they wore their night shirts and robes all day and all night, no matter what. While I knew there was no cure for Billy's ailments, as long as he cared enough about life to look as spiffy as he could, there might exist the chance of a mental recovery, if not a physical one.
Also, the fact that he'd dressed before me that morning meant that his pain wasn't so bad that he'd had to struggle through the agony of moving his ruined legs before getting out of bed. This wasn't as heartening as it might seem, since it probably meant he'd had to get up in the middle of the night and take a dose of the morphine syrup he got from Doc Benjamin.
Billy's morphine use had increased during the past year. I feared he'd become addicted to the drug, if he wasn't already. But he needed relief from his pain, and morphine gave it to him. Therefore, I tried not to worry too much. Even though it was stupid and fruitless, I couldn't stop wishing there was another answer to Billy's pain. But I feared that, as long as he still lived, there wasn't.
At least he hadn't awakened in the night crying out, thinking he was still in a foxhole in France and being shot at by the Kaiser's army. I've read that terrible nightmares are another symptom of shell shock. It seemed to me that Billy had enough to bear without nightmares, but nobody'd asked me.
Mrs. Bissel called bright and early that morning, before I'd donned more than my combination underwear. I threw on a robe and dashed to the kitchen, hoping I'd beat our other party-line friends (I use the term loosely) to the telephone. I should have known better. Mrs. Barrow had the fastest pick-up in the West. I swear, the woman sat next to her telephone twenty-four hours every day, just waiting for the phone to ring so she could eavesdrop.
After I'd shooed her and a couple of other people off the wire, Mrs. Bissel asked breathlessly, “Did you determine anything during your meditations, Daisy?”
Gosh, I'd forgotten all about telling her I'd meditate on the matter of her haunted basement. Not that I ever meditated on anything, but I might at least have done some hard thinking about her problem and come up with a plan of action. Lack of thought had never stopped me before, and it didn't stop me then.
Rather than flat-out lying to her, I said, “I need to visit your home again, Mrs. Bissel. The spirits can be elusive.” And I could be forgetful.
“Of course, of course. I expected you to come again today.”
The chorus of houndish woofs in the background made me smile, which made me perk up slightly. Until I looked out the kitchen window and saw the rain again. Thanks to heavy winds, the torrent's downward path had been pushed sideways. It was darned hear horizontal at the moment.
I sighed, wondering if the Model T would make it up the hill. Then again, why bother with the automobile? It wasn't a closed-in machine; I'd probably drown if I tried to drive it all that way in this hideous rain. I knew from experience that the Model T didn't like rain any more than it liked hills, and I'd have to drive on at least one unpaved street. Asking it to tackle rain, hills, and mud together might prove fatal to the motorcar, if not my humble self.
Perhaps Brownie could take me in the pony cart. I could rig up some sort of cover for it. Maybe. Then again, Brownie was a recalcitrant beast at the best of times. I wouldn't put it past him to sit down in the middle of Lake Avenue and refuse to move at all if I asked him to pull me uphill in the rain.
It would be better to take a red car. At least the cars weren't completely open to the elements, and if I took Pa's big umbrella, I might stay moderately dry, except for my feet, but I could wear rubber boots. They weren't exactly fashionable, but sometimes elegance had to bow to practicality. And, as an added benefit, I wouldn't have to crank up the Ford and pray it would start, or coax a balky Brownie to do his duty and pull the pony cart. The red cars ran up and down the various hills in Pasadena and Altadena on their little tracks, and all I had to do was hand the driver a nickel to avail myself of their services.
Mrs. Bissel must have sensed my thoughts,
because she said, “I'll have Henry run down and pick you up in the Daimler. I don't want you having to walk in this terrible weather.”
“Thank you. That would be very good of you, Mrs. Bissel.”
“Nonsense. I do so appreciate what you're doing for me, Daisy.”
What I was doing for her was, so far, absolutely nothing, but I didn't point it out to her. Nor did I reiterate that I wasn't an exorcist. I'd learned long since that people believed what they wanted to believe. If Mrs. Bissel wanted to believe that I could help her rid her home of a spirit (or ghost), so be it.
Her call made my choice of costuming for the day easier. I put on one of my spiritualist dresses, a dark blue gabardine number that had white trim around the collar, cuffs, and belt, and had a hem that ended a tasteful six inches above my ankles. A dark blue hat, black stockings (in those days, one wore black or white stockings, unless one wanted to scandalize everyone, and I definitely didn't want to do that), and black shoes. A black handbag completed my ensemble, and I'd wear my good black woolen coat. Another funereal ensemble, and appropriate to the weather, my mood, and my profession.
By the time I was dressed, Billy had made himself some toast and was eating breakfast with Pa in the kitchen. Pa looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading and smiled at me. “You're looking very nice today, Daisy.”
“Thanks, Pa.” I smiled at him and at Billy, who didn't smile back. I gave a hefty internal sigh, and waited for him to say something rotten to start my day right.
He surprised me. “You look great, Daisy.” He gave me a sad grin that made my heart ache.
My poor heart took more abuse than any such organ ought to be forced to take. Which didn't matter any more that morning than it ever had. “Thanks. It's nice to know the men in my life appreciate me.”
Pa appreciated me. Billy didn't. I didn't say so. Nevertheless, I twirled in front of them as if I were a model at Nash's Department Store, walking down that runway-thing they put up when the society ladies attended fashion shows there.
“Going to Mrs. Bissel's?” Billy asked, sounding wistful, as if he wished I were going to stay home and keep him company on that lousy rainy day.
I wished I were, too, but I had to work--not that he'd ever thank me for it. Maybe he'd like my job better when I brought him a puppy. I still had to ask Mrs. Bissel about that. “Yes. That was her on the telephone.”
“Going to use some kind of anti-ghost poison?” Pa asked, chuckling. “Like ant powder?”
Good old Pa. He could always make me giggle. “Wish I had some. It might come in handy in Mrs. Bissel's basement.”
Billy said, “Huh,” and chomped on his toast.
I didn't snap at him, but instead put another piece of bread in the toast rack and lit the burner. We had a pretty nice gas range (bought with money I earned as a spiritualist, I might add), and it was much easier to regulate the toasting of bread than it had been when we used a wood-burning stove. Ma and Aunt Vi were always thanking me for getting such an up-to-date stove. Pa probably would have thanked me if he'd thought about it.
Billy had never thanked me and never would, because of his feelings about my spiritualist business. That morning, I tried not to get indignant at him for it. Didn't work. Never did. As far as I was concerned, Billy was pigheaded and unreasonable about my job. Even if he was a wounded war hero, he didn't have to be so darned illogical.
He was wrong when he said what I did was wicked. Through my work I helped people cope with their grief. Many's the woman who's thanked me after a séance during which I'd told her that her son or husband or cousin or lover was at peace on the other side of life and still loved those he'd left behind. I don't consider easing people's heartaches wicked. I consider it pretty darned nice.
Billy would never admit that he thought so, too. To my credit, I didn't allow my frustration to show that morning.
I took my toast over to the table and buttered it. “Are there any oranges already picked?” We had a navel orange tree right next to the back steps that produced oranges in the fall. Another orange tree closer to the back end of our yard, this one a Valencia, produced oranges in the springtime. Therefore, we had fresh oranges almost all year round: another splendid reason to live in Pasadena.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I ate the last one.” Billy was honestly rueful that I'd have to go outdoors and pick an orange if I wanted one.
“That's okay.” I glanced at the window again and decided I was sorry, too. Still raining. I decided I could live without an orange for breakfast. “Mrs. Bissel's sending her car to pick me up today, so I won't have to get soaked walking to the red car line.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Pa. “I was afraid I'd have to stand in the rain and crank the Model T for you.” He chuckled again.
Billy didn't. As usual. “At least you won't have to drive in the rain,” he said, sounding as if he would have liked to scold me for going out in the rain but didn't dare do so in front of Pa.
“Right.” To make up for Billy's lack of enthusiasm, I added a brightness to the word that I didn't feel. “She's got the best dogs, Billy. You'd love them.”
“Hmmm,” said Billy.
“What kind are they?” asked Pa.
“Dachshunds.”
“Aha! Little sausage dogs, eh? I'll bet they're cunning.”
Have I mentioned that Pa was the greatest guy in the world? Well, he was. He knew exactly what ailed Billy. He also knew what Billy put me through every day as I tried to earn our bread, but he never once talked about our problems. He only tried to smooth over the bumps when they occurred.
“They are,” I said around a mouthful of toast. “They're the most precious puppies I've ever seen.”
I almost added that I was going to ask Mrs. Bissel to give me one in payment if I succeeded in getting whatever was living in her basement to move out, but I caught myself before I could blurt it out. I wanted to surprise Billy. I didn't think even Billy could resist the charm of a dachshund puppy--although who knew? Billy was an expert at resisting those who tried to help him.
Still and all, and as discouraged as I'd been in recent days, not all my faith in miracles had died yet. And although it was a big task to ask of a tiny puppy, I prayed a puppy could help us out. We sure needed something.
A knock came at our door, and I got up to answer it. Henry, Mrs. Bissel's chauffeur, stood on the porch, holding a big black umbrella. “Put the umbrella on the porch and come on in and have a cup of something, Henry. I'm just finishing breakfast.”
“Thank you, Miss Daisy.”
Henry Pettigrew, as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, was a nice fellow and I liked him a lot. He and Pa knew each other from the days when Pa used to be a chauffeur for rich moving-picture people. Henry and his wife and two children lived in an apartment off Mrs. Bissel's garage. Mrs. Pettigrew was a very good seamstress, and lots of ladies in Altadena and Pasadena availed themselves of her talents.
As I ran to get my coat and hat, Pa poured Henry a cup of coffee and made him sit down and warm up. I was glad of it, because Billy seldom said nasty things about my work when non-family members were present. I figured the more the merrier, at least for me.
It didn't take me long to complete my toilette. Henry, good employee that he was, jumped to attention as soon as I walked into the kitchen. “You sure look pretty today, Miss Daisy. You're a sight prettier than the weather.”
“I think so, too,” said my Billy, not caring to be upstaged by a chauffeur, I guess, because he didn't usually compliment me more than once per day.
“Thanks, Henry. And you, too, Billy.”
I bent down and kissed Billy on his forehead, not deeming it appropriate to demonstrate too much affection in front of others. Not for me the loose morals running rampant among the young people of the nation in those days.
Even if I'd felt like being loose, which I didn't, I wouldn't allow myself to be because it might hurt my business. Working as a spiritualist medium was tricky enough, even for a proper,
moral girl who sang in the church choir. If people thought I was one of the free-and-easy girls everyone deplored back then, my goose would have been cooked.
“When will you be home?”
Billy's question came out sounding tight and not altogether pleasant, and my heart sank into my sensible, moderately low-heeled shoes. If his mood didn't improve before I came home, I'd be in for it tonight. I should have been used to it, but I wasn't.
“As soon as I can be. It probably won't take me long.” Primarily because I didn't have the faintest idea what to do about Mrs. Bissel's problem. Which set me to thinking, as I should have done the night before.
I suppose I could bolt the door leading from the basement to the out of doors in order to trap whoever was living down there inside. Then I could get rid of it myself or call on the local law enforcement people to do it for me.
No. That wasn't any good because it would clue Mrs. Bissel in to the fact that it wasn't a creature from the nether world hanging out in her basement, but a living entity. I wasn't sure she'd pay me even in money, much less in dachshunds, if she knew the truth--whatever the truth was. Heck, I didn't know for sure there was anything at all down there, much less a human being.
Henry helped me into the back seat of the Daimler, holding the umbrella over my head the whole time, and I felt kind of special. Maybe it's not so bad being from the working classes, because we appreciate stuff like being driven around in a Daimler more than people who are accustomed to such luxuries.
The only problem with the arrangement was that it was more difficult to chat with Henry when he sat up front and I sat in the back. That being the case, and since I still felt gloomy and depressed, I didn't try to talk to him, but stared out the window at the rain.
It's a funny thing about our weather. Sometimes it didn't rain for months on end. At other times it would rain so hard, houses slid down hillsides. You'd never catch me building a house on a hill in Southern California, even if I could afford to.
The downpour must have started some time during the night, because already the streets ran with water. Henry had to drive in the middle of Colorado Street in order to keep us from getting waterlogged by the huge puddles that had built up next to the curbs and made small lakes in the street. Luckily, all of Pasadena's main streets had been paved. When Henry turned north onto Lake Avenue, the street looked like a river running downhill. I began to wonder if we'd make it to Mrs. Bissel's house even in the Daimler, which was a darned good machine.
