Strong Spirits (1)

by Alice Duncan

  Now came the fun part.

  In an accent I’d been cultivating since my tenth year, and which I’d modeled on a phonograph record featuring John Barrymore playing Macbeth, I rolled out my Rolly introduction.

  “Och, m’love, ye’ve come nigh to me again.” I had to lower my voice an octave, but I just adored doing the Scottish burr. If I didn’t value my livelihood so much, I might have used it in the neighborhood, but I couldn’t afford to jeopardize my medium business by playing around with an accent. I also made Rolly refer to me as “m’love,” since we were supposed to have been soul mates a thousand years or so before. I hate to admit it, but it was nice to think some man had once cherished me madly, even if he was make-believe, not to mention a thousand years’ dead.

  “Oh, my,” whispered my left-hand neighbor, Mrs. Lilley. I hoped she wasn’t going to panic, so I hurried on with my mediumistic part in this farce.

  “Rolly,” said I, in an overjoyed sort of voice. “I’m so glad you could join us.”

  “M’love,” I said. Or he said. Oh, you know what I mean. “I am yours to command.”

  Would that it were true. I could use some strong male person at my command. “Rolly, another new spirit has crossed over to your plane, alas, another victim of the Great War.”

  “Och,” said Rolly, and I was pleased to hear the sadness in his voice. I was really good at this.

  “This young man is the son of Mrs. Lilley, and his name is Bartholomew Lilley, Rolly. He was killed in France.” Next to me, I heard Mrs. Lilley give a muffled sob. I felt wretched all of a sudden.

  However, I persisted. I had Rolly offer the sympathy I felt. “Och, such a loss, such a loss. ‘Tis a crime to send young lads off to perish in wars.” I thought about having him say something about the futility of war, but decided that would probably just make Mrs. Lilley feel worse, if such a thing was possible.

  “Have you encountered Bartholomew Lilley, Rolly?” I asked, striving for a sweet, consoling tone of voice. I wanted to hug Mrs. Lilley and let her use my shoulder to cry on.

  Rolly didn’t answer at once. I did this from time to time, especially when I was being asked to communicate with a new spirit. So to speak. Sometimes I get to feeling really ridiculous when I try to describe my work.

  When I felt Mrs. Lilley getting tense, I decided I’d waited long enough. Gently prodding, I said, “Rolly?”

  “Aye, lass. Aye. Another moment, m’love. I think—yes. Yes, I have summoned Bartholomew Lilley.”

  Mrs. Lilley cried out this time. Mrs. Kincaid whispered harshly, “Hush, Ruth! This is the important part.”

  I wished I could run interference between the sisters, but I was supposed to be in a trance. Fortunately, Mrs. Lilley didn’t get hysterical or anything. She was tense, though. I could feel the tension coursing from her body to mine.

  You know, I guess I truly must be a little sensitive to mystical auras and stuff like that, because I honestly felt some sort of new force in the room. It should have been a prickly sensation but oddly enough, the force made me feel better. It was like a benevolent energy. I can’t really explain it, and I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I swear that it might as well have been the spirit of Mrs. Lilley’s son arriving in order to console his mother.

  That probably sounds creepy, but it wasn’t. Anyhow, even if it was creepy, I wouldn’t have run away from it. We Gumms are a tough lot, and I had a job to do. Therefore, I stuck. “Rolly,” I said, “does Bartholomew have a message for his mother? She misses him terribly and mourns him every minute of every day.”

  Mrs. Lilley squeezed my hand again, and I felt like a rat. That had never stopped me before, and it didn’t stop me then. “Yes,” Rolly said. “Bartholomew wishes his mother to be at ease. He is happy here, with his kin.”

  “His kin?” Mrs. Lilley whispered desperately. “Does he mean my father and grandfather and grandmother?”

  I felt like saying, “Beats me,” but didn’t. Rather, good medium that I was, I said, “Rolly?”

  Rolly said, “He is with his kinfolk who passed before him.” I don’t know what made me add the next part, but I did. “And your cousin Paul is with him, too, me darlin’ Daisy. Guiding him in his new home.” It’s stupid and I know it, but thinking of Paul and Mrs. Lilley’s son as friends made me feel better. Rolly continued. “Aye, and he wishes his mother”—I had him pronounce it something like “mither,”—”not to grieve overmuch. He will be here to welcome her when her time comes.”

  Another sob from Mrs. Lilley. I hastened to have Rolly add, “And not before. Bartholomew begs his mother to remain a true Christian woman. There’s much left she needs to do on the earthly plane before she joins Bartholomew in the hereafter.”

  Before the war, I never once thought about preventing possible suicides among those I served, but since the war I’d been thinking about it a lot. People who are lost in grief are liable to do anything, and I felt a responsibility to let them know their loved ones didn’t want them to join them on the Other Side before God called them. If you know what I mean.

  All right, I suppose it sounds silly. It didn’t seem silly to me at the time. And I expect it didn’t seem silly to Mrs. Lilley or Mrs. Kincaid, either.

  This time, a sigh emanated from the woman on my left. It was better than a sob.

  What happened next wasn’t better than anything. Overcome by the mystical drama of the moment (I did mention that I’m good at my job, didn’t I?) a young woman named Medora Louise Trunick uttered a heart-rending moan, slid out of her chair and landed with a plunk on the dining room floor. The plunk would have been louder if she’d weighed more, but she was as skinny as Pudge Wilson. I’d seen Medora making eyes at Lieutenant Farrington in the drawing room earlier, so I chalked up this theatrical moment to her desire to make an impression.

  The interruption startled everyone into jumps and gasps of alarm. Harold leaped up from the table and ran for the light switch. His mother, I presume fearing for my spiritual health, hissed at him not to do it, because the light might do something awful but unspecified to my humble self who was, if you’ll recall, supposed to be lost in a trance and communing with a bunch of dead people.

  To say that I was vexed would be an understatement. I could have whacked the fallen woman. I wasn’t allowed that luxury. Rather, I had to mutter a few disjointed syllables, look dazed, blink several times, and press a hand to my brow, as if I were awakening from a trance—which was the whole point.

  Chapter Four

  Medora’s fainting spell ended the séance. Harold, thwarted in his attempt to shed light on the subject, rushed back to Medora and stood looking down at her as if he, too, wished he could smack her. Lieutenant Farrington was already kneeling beside her, chafing her hands and murmuring soft words. It was probably better that he, and not Harold, was tending to the stricken woman, given the latter’s facial expression.

  I watched these ministrations through slightly slitted eyes, thinking malevolently that I’d like to do more than chafe those delicate, never-worked-a-day-in-their-life hands. Since I was supposed to be recovering from summoning the dead, I didn’t say a word, but only continued to murmur a few incoherent phrases here and there as Mrs. Kincaid did her best to revive me.

  “We need light,” Harold announced peevishly, fists planted firmly on hips. “Can’t I turn on the switch yet?”

  Since I didn’t need anyone, and especially not a Kincaid, getting cranky because of me, I sped up my recovery. It wasn’t more than fifteen seconds later that I blinked, smiled wanly, and said, “Why aren’t the lights on?” An instant later, they were. I pretended to see Medora on the floor for the first time and murmured, “Oh, my. Whatever happened?”

  Harold snarled, “She fainted.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said in a weak voice. “I hope it was nothing I—”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Kincaid said as sternly as she could, which wasn’t very. “You were wonderful, Daisy.”

  “Yes,” whispered Mrs. Lilley. I
’d almost forgotten about her in the muted uproar then transpiring in the dining room. “Thank you so much.”

  I turned my head and blinked a couple of times at her, trying to convey my interest and also my state of trance-induced befuddlement. “Oh? What happened?”

  “I told you,” said Harold. “She fainted.”

  “She means during the séance, darling,” his fond mother said soothingly.

  “Ah.” Harold grinned at me, which was a definite improvement over the scowl he’d been directing floorwards at Medora. “Yes, indeedy, Mrs. Majesty. You were superb. In fact, you were better than that. You were absolutely magnificent. Called old Bartie right up, you did.”

  “Harold.” This time Mrs. Kincaid sounded as if she were issuing a warning. Since she was a kind, rather ineffectual disciplinarian, I’m sure Harold wasn’t frightened in the least, but I appreciated her trying to call a halt to his cynical enjoyment of my efforts at communing with the dear departed.

  “She’s coming around.”

  Thank God for Lieutenant Farrington and his interruption, because Harold had opened his mouth, I feared to spout more jolly comments. His friend’s words made him transfer his attention back to Medora.

  “Good,” said he. “Let’s heave her up onto her chair, old boy.” Intending to suit the action to the words, he reached for one of Medora’s more grabbable appendages.

  “For heaven’s sake, Harold. Don’t put her on the chair. She might fall out of it again.” Mrs. Kincaid left me in her sister’s care and hurried to her son’s side. “Please carry her into the back parlor. Thank you, Del.” She smiled sweetly at Lieutenant Farrington.

  Everyone but Mrs. Lilley and I trooped out of the room. Although I don’t generally press the point that talking to dead people is an exhausting business, that’s part of the performance, so I didn’t dare perk up right away. I was glad Mrs. Lilley seemed satisfied with my work or the evening might have been a complete disaster.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Majesty?” she asked tenderly. Nice woman. I truly hoped my act would help her cope with her devastating loss.

  “I’m . . . fine,” I said with just a jot of breathlessness.

  “Are you well enough to stand, or would you like me to bring you something first? Tea? Water?”

  This was getting ridiculous. I wasn’t the one with the problem here; it was Mrs. Lilley. Yet here she was, trying to help me. I decided I’d acted faint for long enough. “I’m fine. Thank you so much for your concern. Sometimes it takes me a little while to recover from a trance, but I’m feeling quite fine now.” I turned to her and took her hand. “Did your son come through, Mrs. Lilley? I had hoped to be able to find him for you, through Rolly.” It was my custom to pretend to recall nothing from one of my séances, once I was under the spell of my control.

  Her smile was as radiant as a woman who looked like a wraith could produce. “Yes, dear. My darling Bartholomew came through. He sounded just like himself, too.”

  Well, that was a wonder. I pressed her hand. “I’m so glad.”

  “You’re really a marvel, Mrs. Majesty. You ought to be so proud of the usefulness of your work.”

  I wished Billy could have been there to hear her. He probably wouldn’t have believed it anyway. But there was no use fretting over what couldn’t be. Besides, the party seemed to be getting away from me, so I stood up, making sure I held on to the table for support. Not that I needed any. “Thank you,” I said modestly. “I do try to use the gifts God has seen fit to give me to good purpose.”

  We walked out of the dining room together, Mrs. Lilley holding my arm, supporting me. She had it exactly backwards, but this, too, was part of my job, so I allowed her to help me. Then again, perhaps her believing she was being of use to me was one more step toward her own recovery. People seem to like knowing other people need them. On a personal level, I was kind of tired of helping everybody, especially Billy, but I didn’t resent it too much.

  Medora Trunick had revived enough to join everyone in the drawing room by the time Mrs. Lilley and I got there. Featherstone was supervising the laying-out of refreshments on a table at one end of the room. I saw Edie Marsh there, looking flushed and nervous.

  She also looked as if she’d been crying. It distressed me to see her thus, so I decided to find out what the matter was. I didn’t like my friends to be unhappy. Edie slipped out of the room as soon as she’d finished her work, and it took me another fifteen or twenty minutes to make my own escape, since I didn’t want to appear to be in a rush.

  Harold and Lieutenant Farrington cornered me shortly before I departed. Both men praised me to the skies, which was a relief. I had feared Harold would hold Medora’s faint against me, but he didn’t.

  “You’re fabulous, my dear!” he exclaimed, sounding an awful lot like one of my girlfriends talking about Douglas Fairbanks. “I’ve never seen such a magnificent performance as the one you just gave us!”

  “Thank you.”

  “It really was a splendid séance, Mrs. Majesty.” This, from Delroy Farrington, who was nowhere near as effusive as Harold. I was glad of it, since one person effusing over me was already almost more than I could take. “You do a spectacular job. I honestly think your efforts were of comfort to Mrs. Lilley.”

  “Oh, my, yes,” Harold concurred. “Why, Aunt Ruth looks better than I’ve seen her look in months, and all it took was a little spirit-dabbling from a true professional.” He beamed at me, and I decided he’d meant his comment as a tribute to my skill as a spiritualist.

  “That,” I said in a voice pitched to convince, “is the whole point of the service I offer. I’m not in this for the fun of it. It’s a serious enterprise.” I slid a glance at Harold to see if he was buying it. I couldn’t tell, although he still smiled. I took that as a good omen.

  “Well,” continued Lieutenant Farrington, “I think you’re wonderful.”

  I bowed my head, portraying the very image (I hoped) of mediumistic modesty. “Thank you.”

  “I should say so!” boomed Harold. “Say, Mrs. Majesty, I really want to talk to you about doing a séance of my own.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely!” He turned to Lieutenant Farrington. “Wouldn’t the boys love it, Del?”

  “I’m sure they would.” Lieutenant Farrington gazed upon Harold with an expression I’d seen from Billy as he looked at me occasionally. It sort of combined happiness with worship, if you know what I mean. I decided the two men must be very close friends.

  Turning back to me, Harold said, “Do you have a card, Mrs. Majesty? I’ll give you a ring after I look at my appointment book, and maybe we can set up a date and time.” He rubbed his hands in what looked like glee to me. “Oh, this will be great!”

  “I’ll be happy to talk to you about it,” said I. Billy would pitch a fit if he found out I was doing a séance with Harold and “the boys,” whoever they were. “But I’d better be getting along now. My husband is . . . He’s not been well.” I didn’t have to pretend distress about poor Billy. I lowered my gaze to the absolutely gorgeous Persian rug upon which my little Gumm feet rested.

  Lieutenant Farrington took my hand and gazed at me with an intensity that surprised me. “Mrs. Kincaid told us about your husband’s wounds and subsequent distress, Mrs. Majesty. Please allow me to offer you my sympathy and best wishes for his full recovery.”

  “I fear there’s not much chance of that, but I do thank you.”

  The nice man shook his head sorrowfully. “I heard he took some mustard gas in France.”

  “Yes.”

  “The Kaiser ought to be executed for ever even thinking of using that pernicious gas,” he said with a good deal more vehemence than I’d heretofore believed his magnificently handsome body contained.

  “I agree.” I sounded bitter. And why not? I felt bitter.

  “Tut, tut,” murmured Harold, trying to sound sympathetic, I’m sure, but not quite achieving it. “Let’s not get maudlin, kiddies.”


  “Really, Harry,” Lieutenant Farrington said repressively. “Have you no heart?”

  “Not much, I fear.” Harold cocked his head at me, then grinned. “That’s not true. I am sorry for your poor husband, Mrs. Majesty. And for you. It must be a trial for one of your tender years to have to support a family. And I know very well that women don’t get paid as much as men.”

  For some reason, Harold’s matter-of-fact statement of the facts of my case made tears fill my eyes. I felt stupid. “Thanks,” I said, which was about as much as I could say at the moment.

  He patted me on the back. Lieutenant Farrington offered me a clean white hankie he hastily pulled from his uniform pocket. I shook my head, in control again, more or less. “Thank you. I’m all right.” With a ruthlessness I’d been forced to cultivate since the war, I swallowed my tears. “And I do appreciate your—understanding.” I’d been going to say “sympathy,” but it was the understanding I truly appreciated.

  Medora Trunick rushed over to me then, probably because I was with Lieutenant Farrington, and grabbed my hands. “Oh, Mrs. Majesty, I’m so utterly embarrassed at having interrupted your séance.”

  I’ll just bet she was. I wasted one of my gracious smiles on her and told her it was nothing, that things like that happened all the time, which was a lie, and that everything was fine. She began simpering for Lieutenant Farrington then, and I almost managed to escape. Unfortunately, at that very moment Miss Anastasia Kincaid, sister to Harold and approximately my age, made her sneering entrance.

  Stacy, as she liked to be called, had bobbed hair and wore a high-brimmed hat with about a million dollars worth of beads on it. She was clad in a thin sleeveless dress, likewise heavily beaded and that revealed the whole of her bare arms. It had a skirt I considered scandalously short (and I’m no prude). She’d obviously rolled her stockings below her knees, because her kneecaps showed, carried a lit cigarette in a long, expensive-looking cigarette holder, had dipped heavily into the rouge pot before going out for the evening, had lips the color of red barn paint, and looked as if she were perishing from ennui. Taking in the full glory of her, I thought it was small wonder parents had begun to moan and groan about the immorality of the younger generation.