Daisy Gumm Majesty 05-Genteel Spirits

by Alice Duncan

  “I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted you again, Gladys. Please go on and tell me why you’re calling.”

  She cleared her throat. Meticulous Gladys, whom I’d interrupted twice in one telephone call, and we hadn’t even got to the meat of her call yet. I tried to suppress my feeling of guilt.

  “Yes,” she said eventually. “As I said, I work for Mrs. Lurlene Winkworth, as her private secretary.”

  I almost shrieked again. I’d always figured Gladys would become a college professor or something like that. I’d never once figured her for a private secretary. Not there’s anything wrong with being a private secretary; it’s just that I couldn’t quite feature Gladys Pennywhistle in the role. I said, “Yes?” with becoming gentleness of tone.

  “Mrs. Winkworth desired that I telephone you . . . as Desdemona Majesty, I mean . . . Oh, dear.”

  I understood. “Please don’t be dismayed, Gladys. I’m sure you’re as surprised to find that I’ve become a spiritualist as I am to discover you’re a private secretary. By this time in my life, I expected to be married to Billy and rearing a family.” I shot a glance at my beloved, who scowled back at me, and I wished I hadn’t said that to Gladys. It wasn’t Billy’s fault we couldn’t have children. It was the thrice-cursed-forever Kaiser’s. Valiantly, I continued in spite of Billy’s scowl, “And I rather expected you to go into teaching or nursing or something of that nature.”

  A heavy sigh made its way through the telephone wire. “You’re right, Daisy. I attended two years of study at Pasadena College, but then I couldn’t find a job, and I couldn’t afford to continue my education at a university. Being a secretary to Mrs. Winkworth isn’t exactly what I’d planned, but . . . well, the position is rewarding in its own way.”

  Have I mentioned that the country was in something of a depression in 1922? Well, it was. Gladys wasn’t the only person out of work at that time. Thousands of soldiers had come back after risking their lives only to find they were apt to starve to death on the streets of America because they couldn’t secure employment, which didn’t seem fair at all. I considered myself and my family fortunate.

  “I should say so!” Realizing my voice had risen again, I lowered it. “I’m sure everyone asks you this when they learn you work for Mrs. Winkworth, but have you met Mr. Monty Mountjoy?” I tried not to pant, especially with Billy sitting there, watching me and still frowning.

  “Oh, my, yes. And I suggest you don’t believe anything the press has to say about him. He’s always a perfect gentleman when he visits his grandmother.”

  Well, he’d better be, if his grandmother was anything like mine. Grandma Gumm, whom I’d only met twice because she lives in Massachusetts, never hesitated to give a girl a swat, whether the girl deserved it or not. Rather than reveal this, which spoke perhaps more about my childhood behavior than my grandmother’s charms, I said, “I’m glad to hear it. I never believe what I read in the newspapers about celebrities. One of my best friends works in the pictures, and he says most of the stuff you read is all made up anyway.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s so.” Gladys didn’t sound as if she considered the situation to be in any way commendable. A woman of high moral standards as well as a brain, our Gladys. “This friend of yours wouldn’t be Mr. Harold Kincaid, would it?”

  “Why, yes. Harold and I are great friends.”

  “I see. He and Mr. Mountjoy are acquainted, and he mentioned that he knew you and that you were highly recommended as a spiritualist.”

  I said, “How nice of him.”

  The conversation sagged for a moment. Then Gladys cleared her throat again. “At any rate, the reason I called for . . . well, Desdemona Majesty, is that Mrs. Winkworth desires to hold a séance sometime soon. And . . . and Desdemona Majesty is reputed to be the best spiritualist medium in Pasadena.” I could tell Gladys still had trouble reconciling the Daisy Gumm she used to know, and who had been kind of a tomboy and definitely a prankster, with the Desdemona Majesty who conducted séances and communed with spirits. In truth, I couldn’t fault her for any confusion in that regard.

  “I see.” All business now, I. “When does she want to hold this séance?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday. That is the Saturday after tomorrow, if your schedule is free. In the evening. Around eight o’clock. Mr. Mountjoy, Mrs. Winkworth’s daughter, and Miss Lola de la Monica will be among the attendees.”

  I darned near screamed again. But, my goodness gracious sakes alive! Miss Lola de la Monica was one of the leading lights of the motion-picture industry. What’s more, she and Monty Mountjoy were reputed to be having a hot and sordid affair. I guess Miss de la Monica fitted Mr. Mountjoy in when she wasn’t dallying with Mr. Rudolph Valentino, who was supposed to number among her many amours. Shoot, I don’t know how the woman did it. I only had one man in my life, and he was too much for me most of the time. Of course, that was the Kaiser’s fault, too.

  But we’ve already discussed how imprecise published accounts of celebrities could be, haven’t we?

  “Let me check my calendar, Gladys. Hold the wire for a moment, please.”

  In truth, I knew darned well I was free to hold a séance the following Saturday evening. The only thing I had on schedule between now and then was a party at Mrs. Bissel’s house, where I would read tarot cards and palms for the guests; and two dog-obedience lessons, but those were held in the morning. However, I paused long enough for Gladys to think I was very much in demand. Which I was. Most of the time. The present lull was actually rather like a vacation for me, although I hoped it wouldn’t last too long, since my family needed my income.

  When I again picked up the receiver, I made sure I sounded as though I were doing Mrs. Winkworth a favor. “I do have a commitment . . . but, no. I’m sure I can move that appointment to another time.”

  “Oh, dear. You have something else scheduled?” Gladys sounded worried, and I felt guilty again.

  “Oh, no, not at all. I have no commitments that can’t easily be changed. Yes, Gladys, I will be happy to hold a séance for Mrs. Winkworth on the Saturday after next.”

  “Ah! I’m so glad!”

  For the first time, Gladys sounded other than confused. I guess Mrs. Winkworth was either a hard taskmistress or Gladys expected a lot of herself. I suspected the latter. She’d always been extremely precise and exacting, and if she didn’t get the highest grade on any given test, she’d fall into a deep melancholy that would last until she again excelled at something academic. That sort of thing didn’t happen often since, as noted before, Gladys had a largish brain in which she stored lots and lots of stuff that didn’t matter a whit to me.

  She went on, “Thank you so much, Daisy. Mrs. Winkworth will be so pleased.”

  “And I shall be very pleased to meet her.” Not to mention her grandson and Miss de la Monica. “And I look forward to seeing her house. I understand it’s quite lovely.”

  “Huge,” said Gladys succinctly. “I actually get tired from all the running around I have to do, although the exercise is, I’m sure, good for me. But the gardens are quite beautiful and I do enjoy strolling in them of an evening.”

  I’d just be they were. San Pasqual was one of the loveliest streets in our lovely city. “Well, it will be nice to see you again, Gladys,” I said politely, wondering if the severe, bespectacled Gladys I remembered would have changed as much as I had in the years since we’d graduated from high school.

  “It will be a pleasure to see you again, too, Daisy,” she said, sounding perfunctory rather than ecstatic.

  I hung up the receiver and turned to face my husband and my aunt. I expected Billy to say something cutting—he’d gone so far as to say what I did for a living was evil a time or two—but Aunt Vi beat him to the punch.

  “You’re going to meet Monty Mountjoy and Lola de la Monica?” Her voice was breathy and very nearly reverent.

  “I guess so. That was Gladys Pennywhistle, and she set up a séance at Mrs. Winkworth’s house for next Satur
day night.”

  “Oh, my dear goodness gracious sakes alive,” said Aunt Vi, sinking into her chair—she’d been standing, clutching the back of it, I guess staring in awe at my back as I spoke with Gladys on the ‘phone.

  “I swear, Daisy,” said Billy, “you do get around, don’t you?”

  He didn’t sound too terribly snide, so I smiled and said, “I do. And in such exalted company, too.” I wandered back to the kitchen table, wishing my helping of egg-and-potato casserole was still warm. But I ate it anyway. “Never turn down food” is my motto, which explains why I’ll never achieve the lean and boyish shape that was so fashionable in those days. My bust flattener helped my image some, but I still had hips. Couldn’t help having them without starving myself.

  “Well, I guess that’s all right,” said Billy, surprising me. “It must be fun to meet all these celebrities.”

  “It is, in a way, but it also makes me nervous sometimes.”

  “You?” His left eyebrow lifted sardonically. I didn’t appreciate that expression on my Billy’s face. Before he’d gone off to war, he couldn’t have looked sardonic if he’d tried.

  “Yes. Me. Although I must admit I’m less nervous around big shots than I might have been if I hadn’t met Harold Kincaid. He’s told me so much about so many of the so-called stars, it’s hard to keep from laughing when I meet some of them.”

  “Do you think Lola de la Monica is really from Spain?” breathed Aunt Vi, who was still impressed by what she read in the papers.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll ask her,” I said. “And I’ll get autographs, too, if you want them.”

  Billy said, “Huh.”

  But Aunt Vi said, “Oh, thank you, Daisy! I’d just love to have autographs from Monty Mountjoy and Lola de la Monica!”

  It was nice to know somebody in the family appreciated me.

  Chapter Two

  Actually, Ma and Pa were pretty impressed, too, when I told them about my impending séance later in the day. Sam Rotondo, who came to dinner that night, was also impressed, although not in a good way. That came as no surprise to me, since nothing at all about me ever seemed to please Sam.

  Perhaps I should say a little more about Sam. I didn’t really dislike him. Not anymore, anyhow. I’d hated his guts when I’d first become entangled with one of his schemes. But he was a very good friend to Billy and Pa, who had a weak heart and could no longer work as a chauffeur for rich people as he’d once done. And, as I’ve already said, Ma and Aunt Vi liked him, too. Besides, late in 1921, when I’d discovered that my Billy had a whole boxful of morphine syrup stashed away in our closet, Sam had been surprisingly sympathetic when I’d spoken to him about it. His sincere conception of and insight into Billy’s problem had taken me aback, to tell the truth. I hadn’t expected compassion and understanding from someone like him. Well, from someone like I thought he was, I mean.

  Mind you, Billy needed the drug. If it weren’t for morphine syrup, I doubt he’d have been able to live at home, but would have had to spend his days in one of those hideous, gray-walled institutions where too-badly injured victims of the Kaiser’s wrath had been locked away since he began his wretched war. But Billy had me. And he had Ma and Pa and Spike and the rest of my family, all of whom loved him. And Sam. He had Sam.

  Still, the plain, unvarnished fact of the matter was that Billy’s health had been deteriorating ever since the war ended, and his constant pain was debilitating and horrible. So were his lungs and his night terrors and his shell shock. Damn the Kaiser. But there I go again. Get me started on the Kaiser, and I never shut up. At any rate, Billy needed a good deal of morphine syrup by 1922, but when I found a box stuffed full of morphine bottles hidden away in the back of our bedroom closet, I’d become very frightened. Suicide is an ugly word, but it was never far from my mind in those days. Nor, I fear, was it far from Billy’s.

  Anyhow, after having heart-to-heart chats with Sam; Johnny Buckingham, our good friend as well as a captain at the Salvation Army; and Dr. Benjamin, I wouldn’t have blamed Billy if he’d done himself in. I’d tried having a heart-to-heart talk with Billy, too, but he wouldn’t allow me into his innermost hell. All I knew for certain was that he hated living as he did. Worse, he thought I hated it, too. He was right; I did, but not because I ever once regretted marrying Billy. I adored Billy; I only hated what had happened to him. Heck, if he were to live another forty or fifty years, I’d be right there at his side, cheering him on.

  Billy thought I pitied him, and he didn’t like it. I did pity him, and I didn’t like it, either.

  However, Dr. Benjamin, who saw Billy weekly, had told me more than once that influenza, pneumonia, bronchitis or some other chest ailment would probably take Billy away from me one day in the not-too-distant future. The notion depressed me greatly. I couldn’t imagine life without Billy, even Billy as he had been returned to me after being gassed out of his foxhole in France and shot as he tried to crawl to safety. Naturally, when we married, we never anticipated the tragedy that had ended our life as we’d expected it to be. We’d believed our life together would be sunshine and flowers. Heck, we lived in the City of Roses, didn’t we?

  There I go again: digressing. To get back to Sam, he was good for Billy and for my father. Therefore, I tolerated him ever so much better than I had when we’d first met. I still wasn’t sure what he thought about me, although I knew he disapproved of my line of work. When we’d first met and he’d accused me of fortune-telling, I’d become highly indignant. I didn’t tell fortunes, darn it, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. I conducted séances, interpreted tarot cards, manipulated the Ouija board and read palms. If people with lots of money and no brains wanted to pay me for doing those things, more power to me, I say. None of my skills, even though people paid me to ply them, could be considered fortune-telling, unless one wanted to stretch a point until it snapped clean in half. It seemed to me that Sam did exactly that, and I’d detested him for it.

  There was another thing I resented like fire: I could never get either Sam or Billy to acknowledge that my job truly helped people. But it did. Our country—indeed, the whole world—had been through two and a half hideous tragedies only a few years earlier: the Great War, the great influenza pandemic and the ensuing financial problems resulting therefrom. Both of Billy’s parents had died in the epidemic, and many, many young men had died in the war, including Aunt Vi’s only son, who’d been buried in France. After the war, the country had been plunged into a financial depression that was still devastating to common folk like the Gumms and the Majestys and, evidently, Gladys Pennywhistle. The only people who weren’t affected by the depression were the ones who were so rich they weren’t affected by anything. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make here.

  The point is that during the war and the concurrent pandemic, thousands—perhaps millions—of people had died. I considered it part of my job to give comfort to people who needed help coping with their losses. My work made my clients . . . not jovial, certainly, but contented. I made sure to let them know that their loved ones were happy on the Other Side, and that they wanted their survivors to live cheerful and fulfilled lives until called by God to join them. Does that sound evil to you? Well, it doesn’t to me.

  However, Sam and I now tolerated each other, which was a step in the right direction, at least for me, since he spent so much time at our house. I’d once kind of hoped he’d become interested in another friend of mine, a girl with whom I sang duets in church from time to time. But neither Sam nor Lucille Spinks, the girl in question, had seemed to be much taken with each other. Well, Lucille had been taken with Sam, but he hadn’t returned her regard, so that was that. Anyhow, it was probably better that they hadn’t become a couple, because then Sam would have spent more time with Lucy than he did with Billy, and that would have hurt Billy who had enough pain to contend with already.

  Anyhow . . . where was I? Oh, yes, I remember. Sam came to dinner the night Gladys called, and I told him I
was going to hold a séance for Mrs. Winkworth and meet Monty Mountjoy and Lola de la Monica. I was surprised and annoyed when he scowled at me.

  I glared back at him. I wasn’t about to take any guff from Sam Rotondo about my job. “Well? What’s the matter with that?”

  My voice held a challenge that Ma didn’t like. She said, “Daisy,” in that voice. You know the one I mean. All mothers use it to keep herd on their children.

  “Nothing’s the matter with that,” said Sam, sounding as grumpy as all get-out.

  “Then how come you’re frowning at me?”

  “I’m not frowning at you.”

  “Yes you are! Darn you, Sam Rotondo, what’s the matter with Lurlene Winkworth? For heaven’s sake, from everything I’ve read about her, she’s the most respectable female alive in this world today. I read an article in the Herald that traced her ancestors back to Plymouth Rock, for Pete’s sake, although she belongs to the DOC rather than the DAR, which I consider silly, although that’s probably because my folks are Yankees.”

  The Daughters of the Confederacy prided themselves on having come from Confederate stock. The Daughters of the American Revolution, on the other hand, prided themselves on having come from the stock of original Europeans to settle our grand land. Personally, I didn’t care what my forebears did or didn’t do. I had enough on my hands, what with dealing with Billy and helping to support my family. Besides that, I’d begun to consider wars of any kind at all complete failures of communication and diplomacy. I know. My views are probably radical, but don’t forget that I lived every day with the result of one man’s obsession, and I was far from the only one. My belief, in case anybody cares, is that the guys who want to start wars should jolly well go ahead and fight them. Themselves. And leave the young, healthy boys they’d normally send to fight and die for them at home where they belong.

  Where was I? I’m sorry I keep getting distracted. Ah, yes.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Mrs. Winkworth,” said Sam as though he didn’t believe himself. “But that idiot grandson of hers is trouble.”