How It Happened in Peach Hill

by Marthe Jocelyn

  “You’re lying!” shouted Delia, fists clenched and face aflame. “This is babble!”

  “Memories are the spirits we create for ourselves,” Mama said firmly. “The recollection of your mother is trapped by your desire to see her again.” She was almost purring, though her heart must be thumping, as mine was, like the heart of a hurdler galloping to the last jump. She stepped to the edge of the platform. “I can locate her roaming aura, if you care to consult me privately.” The audience chuckled. “It may be that her situation is one you do not care to share with all of Peach Hill.…”

  Delia sat, deflated.

  Mr. Poole appeared at Mama’s side. “My friends, Madame Caterina!”

  Mildred, widow of Edmund, rose to her feet, clapping. A few others joined her in a sprinkling of applause, though not the hurrahs and cheers that I knew Mama had hoped for.

  “Champagne is being served in the next room.” There came a well-timed pop! “Please join me in a toast to the marvelous Madame Caterina!”

  Mama curtsied gracefully and left the stage. She would never cry, of course, but her eyes burned with disappointment. I pretended not to see her beckoning me. Instead, I followed Delia into the hallway, where she waited with Sally to receive her wrap from Norah. Demanding an apology was meaningless, I knew. I wanted to yank her hair or rip the tassels off her shimmering dress.

  “Delia!”

  But when she looked at me, I saw the face of a sad little girl, spite and haughtiness flown away.

  “Delia?”

  “Are you happy now?” said Sally. “With your mother making a fool of her in front of everyone?”

  “But she—you—” I decided to ignore Sally. “You were bent on destruction. You purposely tried to make fools of us first. Mama just turned the tables, and not very far.”

  People streamed out of the ballroom, pressing around us, far too many for Norah to assist by herself. Sally’s uncle Travis waved from the door to tell her that their car was waiting.

  “I don’t like liars,” said Delia. “Especially mother liars.” She hugged her shawl close around her shoulders.

  Me neither, I thought. How did she know?

  A little of Delia’s old spirit had returned. “And your mother is the biggest liar of all,” she said. “Except possibly for Mr. Slippery-Slidey Poole. She deserves whatever she gets. I’m going now.” She took Sally’s arm as they squeezed through the crowd toward the door. What?

  The foyer was full of flashing jewels and happy chatter. Mr. Poole, everybody said so, was a charming host and threw a splendid party. Madame Caterina had been a treat, so pretty and surprising.

  I felt as if my skin were crawling with spiders. What did Delia know about Mr. Poole? Or was she guessing, like me? She had often been horribly right about things. Had my mother given him money? Were our hard-earned bundles of bills hidden somewhere inside this house? The curving staircase beckoned. One small person slipping out of the crowd would hardly be noticed, would she? I was halfway up the carpeted steps, compelled to prowl.

  “Annie?”

  “Oh!” I about jumped out of my shoes. It was Mr. Poole, standing suddenly on the landing above me.

  “The upstairs is strictly off limits to guests, my dear. Even special guests.”

  “I—I—was looking for the ladies’ room.”

  “Indeed. It remains, as during your last visit, behind the second door on your right in the lower corridor.”

  I stepped down one step.

  “Your mother asked me to give you a message.”

  “My mother? Has she gone?”

  “Well, yes. She was disheartened by events. I had Douglas drive her home. She said you would understand.”

  “She left me here?”

  “I’ll have Douglas take you when you’re ready.”

  “We suffer a disaster and she abandons me?”

  “Nonsense, child. It was hardly a disaster. Your mother is the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met.” He clasped his hands across his heart to emphasize how thrilling she was.

  “Not according to everyone,” I muttered.

  “Ah, yes. That brings me to the next point.” He came down the stairs, glancing past me at the hallway brimming with guests. He put his hand on my arm, guiding me toward a door that opened into what must be his study. “May I have a word with you in confidence?”

  If I’d believed in ghosts, I’d have said that one had sauntered through me right then, the chill I got.

  The room was dim, with enormous armchairs flanking a cold fireplace. The floor was littered with boxes and stacks of books, as if the library were being moved.

  “Events this evening have led me to question what I believed about you and Catherine,” said Mr. Poole. “That snip suggested that your mother is not a genuine medium. That she employs tricks to captivate her customers.” He gazed at me intently, making me feel as if I were shrinking to the size of a mushroom.

  “Delia is disturbed,” I said. “About her own mother. It makes her feel better to belittle mine.”

  “I’m not certain that is the whole of it,” said Mr. Poole.

  “The natural ability of a psychic must occasionally be enhanced by theatrics to have the desired impact,” I said carefully. “Is that what you’re referring to?”

  Mr. Poole smiled. “You do take after your mother, don’t you? She can spin gold out of words.” He kept pausing between sentences, making me shiver.

  “Your mother was splendid when I met her,” he said. “I’d never visited a psychic before. I … I imagined she could expel my wife’s nagging ghost, perhaps make some business predictions. I trusted her.”

  Why was he telling me this? How could my mother have left me here?

  “But now it appears that trust was misplaced.”

  I shuffled my feet, inching back toward the door. Would they hear me in the foyer if I began to scream?

  “Now!” He flung his arms up and tossed back his silvery chin. “Now the sun is rising in the west! We are looking at the world from a different hilltop! Far from being less than what she was, she is much more!

  “She enchants whomever she encounters. She is not ruled by the whims of unreliable spirits who may or may not materialize; she decides who will visit and when! Such cleverness! Such charm!”

  He put a confiding arm around my shoulder. “Her only error is one we can quickly address. Her only error is that she performs her magic for mere dollars when there are hundreds and thousands of dollars available for such a talent as hers.”

  “It’s not an error,” I said. “It’s the way we work. We are best—Mama is best—with one person at a time.”

  “Not anymore,” said Mr. Poole.

  “Mama doesn’t want to be famous, or to attract dangerous attention.”

  “I don’t think you understand,” he said, his voice like honey. “I have plans for Madame Caterina. What you’ve done in the past, what you think you want or don’t want; none of that matters. I am now equipped with knowledge that could lead to your undoing. Best to avoid that, don’t you think? Together we can flourish. As long as you follow instructions, we will all be very rich! We’ll leave Peach Hill far behind. Is this clear?”

  My hands were like ice.

  “Douglas must be back by now; I’ll have him take you home. Be sure to tell your mother about our little chat.”

  I wanted to think before I passed on any messages. Messages? Threats. He’d threatened me. Both of us. This was exactly why we’d never trusted anyone. There was a reason we had that rule, and I didn’t intend to waver now. But for the first time, I didn’t trust Mama, either. She seemed to go right along with him. I couldn’t read her the way I used to; I wasn’t seeing everything. Had she given him some of our money to invest in a dubious nickel mine? Did she really want to go with him on a tour that might spark unwanted attention? Would she marry him?

  I found Mama sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the wall as if it were a train window with the whole world hurtling
by. I slid into the other chair, deciding to be sulky about being left behind.

  “Don’t be petulant.” Mama cut me off before I could complain. “It was essential that I leave before strangling that hussy. What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why she took such personal delight in humiliating me.”

  “Mama, she doesn’t want you to seduce her father. She doesn’t want you for her mama. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Mama looked aghast. “Surely not! What a revolting idea!”

  “It’s funny,” I said, “because she seems to be right so much of the time. It’s just that her intent is evil.”

  I stopped. Was it evil? Or simply … self-preserving?

  Like the rest of us?

  * * *

  Sunday passed with no customers. We were tired, and it was a relief to have a quiet Sunday. The knocker clacked once, to announce Douglas, burdened with a case of leftover champagne and one of the floral arrangements from the buffet table. Mama was quite cheered up by the note.

  Forever amazed,

  Always devoted,

  On to the next …

  Gregory

  22

  If you sing before seven,

  you will cry before eleven.

  I woke up on Monday, my sixteenth birthday, to hear Mama singing. It was unusual enough that she was awake before me, but singing!

  “Happy birthday, darling.” She patted my cheek and put a bowl of freshly sliced pears on the table. “Many happy returns of the day.”

  “Thank you, Mama.” I ate a piece of fruit.

  “Do you think I look any older?” she asked.

  “You? No, Mama, you never do. You’re just as beautiful as you were yesterday.”

  “I think in our next town you should stop calling me Mama. I think we could be sisters, don’t you? You might practice using ‘Catherine’ around the house.”

  The pear jammed in my throat. “Our next town?”

  “We’ll be going on tour very soon,” said Mama. “We were thinking we’d head south for the winter. Go to sunny places where it smells like orange blossoms whenever you open the window. Gregory has already contacted certain acquaintances. He’s coming over after breakfast to devise the itinerary. We can all sit down to look at the map.”

  I couldn’t let this go on. I had to stop her. I had to stop him.

  “Mama, I have to tell you something about Mr. Poole.”

  She went still.

  I took a breath. He knows about us, I wanted to say. We have to run away again. But that was exactly what I didn’t want. I wanted, with all my heart, to stay in Peach Hill.

  “I don’t trust him,” I said, whispering. “He’s acting as if we’re indebted to him, as if we belong to him somehow.”

  “Annie, you trust me, don’t you? My instincts are telling me that this tour is exactly what we need. We’ll keep moving, always ahead of scrutiny. Gregory is certain the rewards will be tremendous. Have I ever led us wrong?”

  “But Mama—”

  “Try using ‘Catherine.’ ”

  I couldn’t depend on her listening to me. Somehow I’d have to prove that he was not to be counted on, find some evidence that shouted “steer clear” …

  I volleyed one more excuse, guaranteed she’d find it a poor one. “We’ve hardly been here yet. What about my friends?”

  “Every town has friends,” she said, flipping her hand. “And now that you’re sixteen, we can stop worrying about school.”

  “I’m going to school, Mama. You can examine the map without me.”

  “Legally, you are no longer required to attend school.” She leveled a look at me. But it was my sixteenth birthday, and I could be ruthless too.

  “I’m going to school because I want to be there. I like it. I’m learning everything that you never taught me. The world is wider than just us. I need to know it all. Oh, and look at the time! Thanks for the lovely breakfast.”

  Sixteen! I bounded into Needle Street. I was going to school! I would devise a scheme to unmask Mr. Poole. We would not succumb to blackmail. I would not spend the rest of my life scurrying from town to town like a vagabond. Whatever happened later, however she worked her black magic, at least I’d told my mother that I was going to school!

  Sammy was waiting on the corner.

  “Is it true?” he wanted to know at once.

  “Is what true? What did you hear, Sammy?”

  “At the bash on the hill. Your mother saw ghosts while she was wearing a blindfold, but then Delia got up and called her a sham.”

  “What do you believe? My story or Delia’s?”

  “I haven’t heard yours yet.”

  “I’m getting a little tired of explaining myself,” I said, sounding way too much like Mama. “You’ll have to decide for yourself.”

  For Sammy to like me, he had to believe that I was a psychic. For me to like Sammy, I had to pretend that he was smart enough to know I wasn’t a psychic. It was getting confusing. I still just wanted to kiss him every time I saw him.

  Not only Sammy had heard the scandal, of course. As with all other small-town dramas, reports of Mr. Poole’s party crackled through Peach Hill. Delia’s version was the main source of gossip for the high school.

  “You were faking?” Lexie and Jean accosted me on School Street as Sammy sidled away. “It was all a hoax? Delia told us everything!”

  “Delia doesn’t know everything,” I said. “Why would you believe Delia? She’s been saying her mother is dead for two years when really everyone knows that she ran away with—oh, never mind!” I could play just as dirty as Delia.

  Lexie and Jean gaped.

  “With who?” said Jean.

  “You mean it’s true?” asked Lexie. “About the fellow who sells fish? I heard my mother and her card friends talking. You mean it’s true?”

  “Delia is not to be trusted,” I said in a dramatic whisper. “She has a turbulent episode coming on, according to the cards. Emotionally very unstable.”

  “How do we know that’s not just another lie?”

  “You know what you saw, don’t you?”

  “Do we?” said Lexie.

  “She couldn’t possibly have faked that, Lexie!” said Jean. “She went terribly ugly. Nobody would do that if it weren’t real.”

  Shouts and laughter brought us up short at the school gate. Helen Wilky, standing on one foot, was circled by jeering schoolmates. Frankie Romero held one of Helen’s shoes—used-to-be-my shoes—high above his nasty, grinning head. I confess to one moment’s relief that it wasn’t me inside that crowd of sneering faces, but that didn’t stop my mouth.

  “What are you doing?” I hollered. “You put down that shoe, Frankie Romero, or you’ll be in deep trouble!”

  “Ooooh! It’s the Gypsy princess,” announced Delia. “Making a prediction!”

  I squinted at the row of gaping faces: Sally, Howie, Pitts and Delia, joined by Lexie, Jean, Sammy and several others. I strode right up to Frankie and slammed my fists against his shoulders.

  “Let go of that shoe, you bully!”

  He lowered his arms but kept dangling the shoe from his finger.

  “You better do as she says, Frankie,” said Delia. “She’ll put a hex on you.”

  Helen snatched her shoe from Frankie and darted away from his grabbing hand. She would have kept running, but the big door swung open and Miss Primley’s arm began to ring the bell. I pulled Helen over to sit next to me on the bottom step while the others filed inside.

  “Another reason to avoid school,” said Helen, tying her shoelace. “But thanks.” The toes of her shoes were scuffed and muddy, looking much worse than when I’d had them.

  “Helen, I wonder if you would help me with something.”

  She narrowed her eyes, suspicious.

  “It’s—it’s—I need you because there may be”—I was whispering—“stealing involved.”

  Helen barked that odd laugh of hers. “I can do that. Where and when?”

  “The P
oole house,” I whispered. “Tonight, I hope. Eight o’clock? If I can be sure that he’s going out.”

  “What, the old geezer who’s courting your mother?” She didn’t bother to keep her voice down. “The ruckus that Delia’s been blabbing about? This gets better and better. What are we looking for?”

  “Don’t say ‘courting,’ ” I said. “And I won’t know till I see it, what I’m hoping to find.”

  “Excuse me?”

  We spun around. Delia de Groot was standing on the top step. “Miss Primley said to get inside or be marked late and she’ll call Mrs. Newman.”

  I worried through mathematics whether Delia had eavesdropped before she’d spoken. I worried through geography about how I would arrange for Mr. Poole to be far from his mansion on Hill Road that evening. I worried through chemistry that I should never have told so much to Helen Wilky, notorious sneak thief. I worried through English that perhaps I’d lost my mind. My mother wouldn’t give money to Mr. Poole for a risky investment, would she? She was far too smart to be fleeced. Wasn’t she?

  “Mama?” I said, coming in after school.

  Peg poked her face out of the kitchen and pointed to the front room. “She’s in there, with that Mrs. Peers of yours. You come on in here and get yourself a birthday blessing.” Peg hugged me hard and laid down a bowl of warm apple crumble.

  “Your mama’s been cranky,” she said, “until that Mr. Poole called on the telephone. There hasn’t been a customer all day till this one. Mrs. Peers asked for you, but your mama told her no waiting. You better keep right out of sight.”

  Peg lit a candle and stuck it in the crumble so I could make a birthday wish.

  “Don’t tell me!” she said. “You want it to come true, don’t you?”

  Let me have the life I choose. I blew out the candle.

  We heard Mrs. Peers leave, and Mama came in, shaking her head at me. “I don’t know what claptrap you fed that woman, Annie, but she is intent on seducing the dark-haired postman.”