Read Online How It Happened in Peach Hill by Marthe Jocelyn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marthe Jocelyn
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must warm the connection,” Mama began. “Please place your hands on the table.…” All hands were obedientlylaid on the gleaming walnut surface. We gave a minute to let people settle, to sit quietly in the flickering light, to wonder what would happen next.
Mrs. Torn sat beside me with her fingers spread wide, showing off ragged nails. She must chew them like toast. Mrs. Newman seemed to be gripping the table, the sinews taut on her long fingers. Mama’s hands were elegant, with beautifully shaped nails. The tips of her fingers drummed gently on the wood; she was impatient to get started. Miss Weather, across the table, had pulled off her gloves as we sat down, revealing a wart near the tip of her ring finger. Mr. Poole sat next to his niece. His hands were large, with a light crop of dark hair below each knuckle. How could Mama consider marrying him? He had hairy fingers! He sat bolt upright, perhaps more excited than anyone else.
“Take the hands of your neighbors to form a circle,” said Mama. Mama did a lovely séance, I must say. The candles were placed just so, to keep a golden gleam on her face, highlighting her cheekbones and catching auburn flecks in her dark hair.
“Let us hum together,” she said. “It will improve our chances of entry into the spirit world.”
Most people were self-conscious and needed to be shown. Mama began, as always leading the way. Of course I joined right in with her, my hum soft and steady, on a higher note than hers. Mr. Poole started up, deep and rolling. He likely sang bass in the church choir. Miss Weather and Mrs. Torn were a bit meek with their contribution, and Mrs. Newman made no sound at all. Her eyes stayed intently on Mama, which was certainly best for me. The candles wavered, not bymy doing but just because of air currents. The flicker made the two young women gasp and Mrs. Newman roll her eyes.
It worked best to keep the hum going strong until people stopped twitching, until they were nearly bored. Mama’s voice got subtly higher and began to falter, as if she were deciding which note to continue. Her eyes closed halfway. That was my signal.
Crack!
Ladies always jumped at the sharp snap below us, or was it coming from the corner of the room? Squeals were stifled. Another
crack!
Mrs. Newman leaned over slowly to look under the table. There was nothing for her to see except legs and boots and my stockinged feet, playing with my shoes. I waited until she was upright and then
crack!
I knew she was puzzled, but she held her face blank. Mama jerked abruptly, as if she had collided with some force invisible to the rest of us. She recovered quickly but remained slumped and began to speak in a husky voice, completely unlike her own.
“I am standing at the Gate to Beyond,” she said. “There is quite a crowd to greet us here today. There is a fellow in uniform, wanting to speak to Sylvia Torn.”
Mrs. Torn shrieked. She dropped my hand and Mrs. Newman’s. Her fingers flew to her mouth.
“He’s waiting, Sylvia Torn. Are you ready to hear him?”
“Yes!” she bleated. “Yes, I am!”
I waggled my foot, tugging the fishing line to make the pink kerchief hanging over the lamp flutter wildly for a moment. Rosy shafts of light flew across the ceiling, and the candle flames danced. Mama’s voice altered pitch and took on a faint Southern twang.
“Sylvie?” she said, guessing.
Mrs. Torn nodded urgently and moved her hands from her lips long enough to whisper, “Buddy?”
“Who else?”
“Buddy!”
“How’s my girl?”
“Oh, Buddy! I miss you!”
“Don’t you worry about me anymore. I’m doing just fine over here. But it’s time for you to buck up, my girl. Time to move on.”
“Oh, Buddy! I can’t live without you!”
“Sure you can! You’re my girl, aren’t you? Tell you what I think. You need a job,” said Buddy.
Mrs. Newman made a sound, but Mama kept going.
“In a shop, maybe, or a café? Get out and meet some new people, maybe
Mrs. Torn sat beside me with her fingers spread wide, showing off ragged nails. She must chew them like toast. Mrs. Newman seemed to be gripping the table, the sinews taut on her long fingers. Mama’s hands were elegant, with beautifully shaped nails. The tips of her fingers drummed gently on the wood; she was impatient to get started. Miss Weather, across the table, had pulled off her gloves as we sat down, revealing a wart near the tip of her ring finger. Mr. Poole sat next to his niece. His hands were large, with a light crop of dark hair below each knuckle. How could Mama consider marrying him? He had hairy fingers! He sat bolt upright, perhaps more excited than anyone else.
“Take the hands of your neighbors to form a circle,” said Mama. Mama did a lovely séance, I must say. The candles were placed just so, to keep a golden gleam on her face, highlighting her cheekbones and catching auburn flecks in her dark hair.
“Let us hum together,” she said. “It will improve our chances of entry into the spirit world.”
Most people were self-conscious and needed to be shown. Mama began, as always leading the way. Of course I joined right in with her, my hum soft and steady, on a higher note than hers. Mr. Poole started up, deep and rolling. He likely sang bass in the church choir. Miss Weather and Mrs. Torn were a bit meek with their contribution, and Mrs. Newman made no sound at all. Her eyes stayed intently on Mama, which was certainly best for me. The candles wavered, not bymy doing but just because of air currents. The flicker made the two young women gasp and Mrs. Newman roll her eyes.
It worked best to keep the hum going strong until people stopped twitching, until they were nearly bored. Mama’s voice got subtly higher and began to falter, as if she were deciding which note to continue. Her eyes closed halfway. That was my signal.
Crack!
Ladies always jumped at the sharp snap below us, or was it coming from the corner of the room? Squeals were stifled. Another
crack!
Mrs. Newman leaned over slowly to look under the table. There was nothing for her to see except legs and boots and my stockinged feet, playing with my shoes. I waited until she was upright and then
crack!
I knew she was puzzled, but she held her face blank. Mama jerked abruptly, as if she had collided with some force invisible to the rest of us. She recovered quickly but remained slumped and began to speak in a husky voice, completely unlike her own.
“I am standing at the Gate to Beyond,” she said. “There is quite a crowd to greet us here today. There is a fellow in uniform, wanting to speak to Sylvia Torn.”
Mrs. Torn shrieked. She dropped my hand and Mrs. Newman’s. Her fingers flew to her mouth.
“He’s waiting, Sylvia Torn. Are you ready to hear him?”
“Yes!” she bleated. “Yes, I am!”
I waggled my foot, tugging the fishing line to make the pink kerchief hanging over the lamp flutter wildly for a moment. Rosy shafts of light flew across the ceiling, and the candle flames danced. Mama’s voice altered pitch and took on a faint Southern twang.
“Sylvie?” she said, guessing.
Mrs. Torn nodded urgently and moved her hands from her lips long enough to whisper, “Buddy?”
“Who else?”
“Buddy!”
“How’s my girl?”
“Oh, Buddy! I miss you!”
“Don’t you worry about me anymore. I’m doing just fine over here. But it’s time for you to buck up, my girl. Time to move on.”
“Oh, Buddy! I can’t live without you!”
“Sure you can! You’re my girl, aren’t you? Tell you what I think. You need a job,” said Buddy.
Mrs. Newman made a sound, but Mama kept going.
“In a shop, maybe, or a café? Get out and meet some new people, maybe
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