A Fold in the Tent of the Sky by Michael Hale Page B

reported missing in action; that of course, is one of the reasons we are here.”
    The man from Boston spoke up then: “I just hope, Doctor, that Mrs. Pope’s spirit guide Llewelyn doesn’t—I mean, he may find your presence somewhat off-putting.” His hand came up to his mustache for an instant, then out to the planchette. His touching it was a way of confirming something in himself. Automatic writing: the machinery of the spirit world. “I’ve come all the way down here, and—I don’t want to go back, shall we say, empty-handed.” He smiled and glanced at each of them in turn, seeking something from them. He pulled his hand back and his wedding band scuffed the edge of the table with a gentle tap.
    A shadow passed in front of the lamp in the next room and they all turned to look. A woman entered with the abruptness of a servant coming to clear away dishes. The men got to their feet with barely enough time to detach themselves from their seats before she was in her place at the table. Rathburn introduced his fellow sitters, pointing with the stem of his pipe, then quickly sitting down as if he were about to play the piano. Instead he opened his notebook and made a few entries.
    The lady before them smiled and pressed her two small hands palms down on the table for an instant, then pulled the paper and the planchette toward her. She gave off the scent of roses; her eyes, when she gazed around at her guests, seemed big for her face, her nose too small. She wore nothing on her head and her dress was as plain as a man’s work shirt: long-sleeved, charcoal gray, unadorned except for a small gold brooch at her throat.
    â€œAre you there, Llewelyn?” she said after they had all joined hands—Mrs. Stuart, still holding tightly to her handkerchief, grasped Mr. Smith’s hand with two fingers only.
    â€œWhat is it today, Llewelyn? The planchette? Rap for us, Llewelyn.” Nothing, except the faint hollow hiss of Rathburn’s pipe, the distant gunning of an engine. “Are you there? I know you are. Come on. Just a little knock so we know you’re there.” She spoke in a singsong, as if to a child.
    Nothing.
    â€œOur guests are waiting, Llewelyn. Rap for us.”
    Sarah Pope shifted in her chair and whispered something under her breath. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, her lips moving as if in silent prayer. Mr. Rathburn’s pipe smoke drifted near Mrs. Stuart’s delicate nose; her eyelids flickered in response.
    All of a sudden Dr. Stuart snorted and got to his feet—at first they all assumed it was out of impatience, the tantrum of someone who would rather make a fuss than doubt in silence; but then he fell back in his chair, his arms rigid at his sides.His head shot back, flinging spit from his open mouth. He began to pant and jerk as if he were being prodded with a stick. Rathburn rose to his feet but stood frozen as the planchette jumped from the ream of foolscap and landed bottom-side up on his notebook. Stuart’s hand spasmed out toward it as he slumped forward.
    He let out a heavy, croaking gasp of bubbling breath as a quaking rumble of something like words emerged from his mouth: “MEE-OOWWWR. MEEEOOW, MEOWRRRRush Limbaugh sound biting on White Watergate . . . Iran-Contra. Ken Starr Chambergate all that shit from CNN . . . Tupac’s closing night in Vegas . . . now, what did Beavis and Butthead have to do with it? That’s what I’d like to know!” He stood up again; his eyes were closed, the lids fluttering. “How about a track from Spin da’ Spool K’s latest on Spam Kan Records to heat things up—” His thighs bumping the table now, his body gyrating in a St. Vitus dance as he began to chant in the drawling, clipped twang of a carnival barker:
    I’m the puppet MAST er . . . I break all the RULES,
    I pull the strings, suffer no FOOLS,
    I skirt dis AST er. Icono CLAST er
    I know the