How It Happened in Peach Hill

by Marthe Jocelyn

  Mama must have been studying my notes. That was why I was listening to this performance. I’d become allergic to policemen after Carling. The soles of my feet started itching to run, and my eyes squeezed shut to block out the scenery. But Mama, a true professional, calmly followed her own motto: “There is no one more useful as a friend than a police constable.”

  And no one more dangerous as an enemy. Except, as I would find out, a police constable’s daughter.

  “My own hands have given me the gift I prayed for,” purred Mama. “My little girl has shaken off the troubled shadows. It’s only natural that people should line up for a share of the healing.”

  “I can understand that, ma’am. I’m right happy for you. But it’s disturbing the quiet of the neighborhood. Do they all have to be here at the same time, crowding up the public street?”

  “Officer de Groot …” Mama paused. “Am I right? It is Officer de Groot?”

  “Montgomery de Groot, ma’am. At your service.”

  “Montgomery? That is a fine big name.”

  Suitable for a large, fleshy, red-faced bear like yourself, she managed not to say.

  “Monty, ma’am, really. My wife, well, the fellows, well, mostly I’m called Monty.”

  “Monty, then. The thing about a lineup …” Her voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “A lineup is good for business! A woman goes to market in the morning, thinking of nothing but the choice she has to make between chops and chicken. She sees a cluster of other women, each of them yearning for the answer to a dream, and poof! The struggles of the day disappear and her own dreams are kindled. I can answer some of life’s most difficult questions, Monty. I can change the way you face your days.”

  I knew her hand was resting on the sleeve of his uniform. I could just feel it. I knew her eyes were shining up into his. “And perhaps,” she whispered, “help you sleep a little better at night.”

  Ew. She had no shame. First Mr. Poole and now the policeman. The men of Peach Hill were falling like ninepins. Why did it work so well? Were men just so dull-witted and vain that pretty words made them dance like puppets? And why did Mama want puppets, anyway? She should find someone who was funny and handsome, like Sammy Sloane, and live in a cottage with a veranda.

  But she did have the memory of an elephant. It was weeks before that I’d told her the police constable’s wife had run off last spring, coincidentally on the same day the fish man came through with fresh halibut. Estelle de Groot had taken only one dress and a change of lingerie, according to Mrs. Ford and the other loyal wives squeezing tomatoes at Carlaw’s. All the ladies seemed more envious than scandalized. At school, Delia claimed that her mother was dead. Better than admitting the shameful truth, I supposed, though maybe she wouldn’t see it as shameful if she knew for sure that her mother was happy.

  Officer de Groot coughed and I heard the boots shuffle again. “I was only suggesting you make appointments with them, ma’am.”

  “Call me Caterina.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I’d better be off. It was just to tell you to limit the commotion.”

  I peered around the corner to watch the finale. They wouldn’t notice me now. Officer de Groot, not knowing how to make his exit, put out a paw as if to shake on a business deal.

  Mama grasped it with both her hands and turned it over. There was barely enough light to find the doorknob, so I knew she was bluffing when she said, “Oh, my!” in that fluttering way. “Oh, Monty! You have a fascinating arrangement of lines on your palm. I would be most intrigued to examine them closely. Would you like to come back this evening? On your way home from the station? Free of charge, of course. The pleasure will be all mine.”

  “That would be—uh—I would like that very much. But, uh, not till Tuesday. I’m on late duty till next Tuesday.”

  “Till Tuesday, then,” said Mama. She released his hand and he groped for the handle of the door. If he were smart, he would never step into our hallway again. But he clearly was not smart.

  As the door closed behind him, Mama spun around and pointed a finger at me. “I don’t like you spying on me,” she said, “but I hope you took note that friendliness to men in uniform is an important skill and one you should be learning.”

  “Why didn’t it work in Carling?” I dared to ask.

  Mama flinched. “Because the uniform in Carling was stretched to cover three at once,” she said. “The sheriff, his wife and God. Now, get out there”—she pointed toward Needle Street—“and pick one who looks likely.”

  “Looks likely” was Mama’s way of saying good shoes, real bird feathers on the hat, jeweled watch, bulge in pocket-book …

  I brought in a lady in a sealskin jacket and set up appointment times for everyone else to come back.

  Stooping down to collect my stack of schoolbooks, I had a sudden thought. Who was Mama, really?

  How did I know if Mama told the truth about anything? Just because she said something different to me from what she said to the rest of the world, did that make it true? Or was it just a different falsehood? What did I know about anything, except what Mama had taught me? Did that mean I was really as ignorant as an idiot?

  My slice of pie sat untouched on its plate.

  13

  A uniformed person in your

  dream foretells that a wealthy

  person will come to your aid.

  My first several days of high school made me hot and cold, made me crow and cry and cringe. Each day held thunderclaps of embarrassment and sprinklings of delight. I never knew in the morning how supper would find me, other than worn to threads from being so alert. And keeping my chin up, no matter what comments Mama tossed my way. She couldn’t stop herself, maybe guessing that the more I went to school, the more I would realize there were things my mother was wrong about.

  I hadn’t expected the lessons to be interesting. Some of the teachers were dull, of course, but even that was worth considering. Shouldn’t a classroom be a theater, with the students enthralled? Why did Mr. Goldin use the deadliest drone to describe the violent exploitation of Congo natives? Why did Mrs. Baker choose poems about willow trees and raindrops, when there were others in the same book about highwaymen? These puzzles and many more were my entertainment each day, for now I had a mission. I would discover, for myself, what lay beyond my mother’s doorstep: a universe of knowledge and truth and the mysteries of friendship.

  “It is most gratifying to finally have an eager scholar,” Miss Croft would say, causing an epidemic of spinning eyeballs. I’d never had much to do with numbers beyond counting dollar bills and converting them at the bank into twenties, but it turned out that I was a natural at mathematics.

  “Miss Grackle has achieved another perfect score.”

  A muttered chorus of “Goody-goody toady girl” burned my ears. Which was better, pride in my cleverness or winning friends? It seemed easier, by far, to please the teachers than my classmates.

  Girls kept me at a distance. I caught Sammy looking my way a few times, but if ever he seemed about to approach, up popped Sally or Delia or some other distraction.

  I found my place for eating lunch. There was a tree near the gate, too far from the benches or the ball field to be a place for the others to congregate. I found a spot, between two huge roots, that fit my bottom exactly and had a good view of the yard and the street. With that mighty trunk at my back, no one could sneak up on me. I kept an eye on Delia’s crowd and on Sammy’s gleaming hair.

  At noon one day, I spied the pansies on Mrs. Newman’s hat bobbing toward the schoolyard. She was dragging the girl from the alley with a death grip on her wrist. The girl’s bare feet stubbornly slowed progress every step of the way.

  Mrs. Newman’s mouth was set in a grim, triumphant line as she moved her iron claw to the girl’s shoulder and marched her through the gate. I wondered where the sneaky old bat had managed to catch her, since I’d had no luck myself. It must have been in a very tight corner, with no chance for the girl t
o dart away like a swift little cockroach. I couldn’t picture Mrs. Newman lurking about in the alley behind the bakery.

  I felt pity at the girl’s plight more than at my own. I was just contrary; she was downright untamed. For me, school had become a sanctuary away from home and the world of Madame Caterina. But would the alley girl ever show up without an escort? Would Mrs. Newman need to provide this service every morning?

  They stopped at the school steps. From my spot beside the tree, I could not hear, but I could see Mrs. Newman pointing and the girl scowling as she sat down on the step and pretended to brush off the soles of her feet.

  The wide front door swung open just then, and Miss Primley came out, grasping the big brass yard bell. She rang it ten times, arm swinging in an arc, front to back, alerting everyone from here to Wyoming that the lunch recess was over.

  The hubbub of students lining up blocked my view for a few minutes, but as the crowd filed inside, I saw Mrs. Newman take off her shoes, low pumps dyed the color of periwinkles. She put them on the ground in front of the girl while Miss Primley waved her hands about, probably objecting. Mrs. Newman just stood there in stockinged feet, nodding at the girl. The ground must have felt cold through her stockings, and the silk would be shredded in no time with the pebbles and twigs strewn everywhere. Mrs. Newman didn’t shift or shuffle.

  The girl pulled on the pumps. They were too big, but she stroked the leather with her dirty fingertips. Miss Primley clapped her hands and the girl jumped, clomp-clomping up the steps. The secretary ushered her inside but turned with a final gesture; she rotated her finger next to her temple, the way a kid would say “you’re crazy.”

  Mrs. Newman just smiled and waved good-bye. She tiptoed to the gate and paused under the tree, three feet from where I hid. She lifted her skirt, unhooked her garters, rolled down her stockings and slipped them off. She scrunched them into a ball and put them into her pocketbook. She gave away her fancy shoes and walked home barefoot! What kind of woman believed that going to school was so important? I watched until she was well down the street before I raced for the GIRLS door, late for biology class.

  I didn’t see the girl from the alley again that day, but I heard from the yammer amongst the students that she’d been placed in the ninth grade.

  And sure enough, Delia’s father came back that evening. Mama and I had done our research, going over the charts and notes for every scrap she might use. I sneaked into my corner while Mama primped in front of her mirror. This was one show I did not mean to miss, better than a story on the radio.

  Mama sat Officer de Groot down in the red armchair. It creaked under his weight, and I had a vision of the carved legs splintering with a loud snap and him crashing, whomp, to the floor amidst the debris, with his enormous shiny boots stuck straight out in front and a look of astonishment on his face. And me, exposed for the nosy spy that I was, squished beneath the broken velvet chunks of chair.

  “This will be a new experience for you,” Mama was saying, her voice soothing as a lozenge. “But you must try to leave your reservations outside the door. In here, it’s just you and me, no walls and no secrets. Did you know that the word ‘clairvoyant’ means ‘seeing clearly’? I cannot see clearly if you stand guard against me, can I?”

  I suppose he shook his head.

  “That’s right. Now, let me warm your hands to stimulate the connection between your heart and your heart’s path, to energize your aura and prepare your soul to share with me.” Sometimes I shook my head in wonder, listening to my mother spout nonsense.

  There were a few quiet moments while my mother adjusted the light and no doubt cradled his hand in her own. I couldn’t hear him breathing and worried that he might pass out from holding his breath in.

  “I see conflict under your roof,” said Mama, which she often said to begin, because what roof is not harboring conflict of some sort? On the rare occasion when the customer said, “Conflict? I live alone. There’s no conflict,” Mama had an answer for that, too: “Ah, but there will be soon, for I see turbulence in your forecast.” Or something along those lines.

  But with Officer de Groot, her opening suggestion was enough.

  “You see conflict? My hand tells you that?”

  “That and much more,” she murmured. “I also see two beautiful women.”

  “My daughter,” he said. “And, I suppose, my wife. But she is no longer with us.”

  “Ah,” said Mama. “But not yet of the spirit world?”

  “She left,” he whispered.

  “Ah,” said Mama. “There was conflict, as I suggested.”

  “She didn’t like being a policeman’s wife,” he admitted. “She moved away.”

  “But not alone?”

  “How—?”

  “Your palm,” explained Mama, “shows a betrayal. But I can see that you were true of heart and not the deceiver.”

  “Well,” said Officer de Groot, whispering. “She went off with another fellow, but it’s not public knowledge.”

  Oh, yes it is, I thought. All over the square.

  “And your daughter?” prodded Mama. “There is trouble with your daughter?”

  “She pretends that Estelle is dead,” he said. “The shame is too great for her to bear. But she’s her mother’s daughter, she’s sassy and often disobedient.” He coughed. “I really, this is not, I shouldn’t …” The chair creaked with his uneasiness.

  “Please!” said Mama. “It is my profession to honor your secrets. Discretion is essential to trust. You trust me, don’t you? As you couldn’t trust your wife?”

  Ew.

  “Let me look at the rest of your lines,” she said quickly. “See here? Your life line? You have a long life ahead, Officer—”

  “Call me Monty.”

  “A long life, Monty. I see tribulation along the way, but you will find peace.”

  As if that fortune would not suit anyone who ventured through the door!

  “I will?”

  “You will. And speaking of finding things, you might like to know that my abilities as a medium are quite renowned. I could track down your wife, if you wish.”

  “Really?”

  “Though naturally the cost of psychic discovery is quite high.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it, ma’am. I’m not sure there’d be any point.” He stood up. I plugged my ears, hard, so I wouldn’t have to hear the way she said good-bye to him. Some things really were too painful for a delicate girl like me.

  14

  If you do not present a new

  pair of shoes to a poor person

  at least once during your life,

  you will go barefoot in the

  next world.

  “Do we have any clothing we no longer use?” I asked Mama.

  “I’m collecting for the needy.”

  “You’re what? The who?”

  “The needy, Mama. Poor people who do not have enough clothing to wear.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mama.

  “There is a girl at school who has no shoes,” I told her. “And I’m sure she’s not the only one. So I thought I’d collect outgrown clothes and take them as a gift.”

  Mama shook her head. “You amaze me,” she said. “I’ve raised a missionary. However did that happen? You’ll be sailing away to Africa before I know it.” She dealt another row of tarot cards and examined them closely.

  “So, do we?” I insisted. “Have extra clothes?”

  “Only if you’ve grown too fat to fit them,” Mama said.

  “I can decide?” I asked. “It’s up to me?”

  “You’re only depriving yourself.” She didn’t look up from the Empress card.

  “I’m collecting clothing for the needy,” I told Peg. “Do you have anything you’d like to contribute?”

  “Honey,” she said, “I am the needy.”

  I’d never thought about that before. Here was Peg, working for us and then going home to work some more for her ungrateful father.

 
“Why don’t you have a husband, Peg?”

  “Just don’t have one yet,” she said. “I aim to find one, but none of the scaredy-cat men I’ve met want anything to do with me as long as my father lives and breathes. I’m going to have to poison his tea before I get a beau.”

  “That’s what I think about Mama,” I said. “And not just boys, any friend at all. She jolts the bejeebies out of anyone who ever meets her, except in the front room.”

  “She’s scary, all right,” muttered Peg, giving a careful look at the doorway first.

  “But anyway,” I said. “There’s this needy person I’ve noticed, and I want to give her some things.”

  “Who is she?” asked Peg. “I probably know her.”

  I hesitated. I couldn’t think of a reason not to tell her, though often the reason didn’t show up until after the telling was done. But maybe Peg would know where she lived.

  “It’s this girl,” I said. “She’s a bit younger than me, and smaller. She wears raggedy overalls and looks a bit rough.”

  “Dark hair?” asked Peg. “Big, moony eyes and dirty hands?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That’s the Wilky girl. I’m surprised you had a reason to meet her. She’s not at the school, is she?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Reverend Wilky and his wife, Tabitha, who was Tabitha Crane before she married that man, they don’t believe in school. They believe children will learn what they need to know through the guidance of a heavenly hand. So far, that hand seems to be leading their own child into nothing but trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Peg looked at me and ruffled my hair just like back when I was a moron. “Nothing you need to know about, honey. It’s a nice impulse, you thinking you could help that girl, but she is beyond help. Certainly any kind you could give her. Reverend Wilky has the kind of opinions a team of oxen couldn’t shift.”

  “Does he have a church?”

  “If you can call it a church. He’s got what used to be a living room in the front of his house out on the Way. Now it’s full of every kind of broken-down, rubbishy chair and bench that he could salvage from anyone’s back door all over town. He has his wife and child dragging furniture and anything else from wherever they find it. He’s got about twenty regulars, I’d say. They squeeze in there on a Sunday morning and listen to the Reverend stomp his feet and thump his chest and squeeze the Word of God out of thin air.