You know I don’t approve
of giving women the vote or a role in politics. It ain’t ladylike.”
“Yes,
my dear chief,” Madame De Cassin implores. “As always, Miss Malone wishes to speak
with her beloved Rachael.”
“Very
well, Miss Malone,” Chief Silver Thorne says. “I will see if I can find Rachael
in the Summerland if you will promise to treat Li’l Lucy with continuing
kindness. She has been ill, Miss Malone, has she not?”
Jessie
clucks her tongue. Chief Silver Thorne is forever going on about equality for
women, rights for Negroes and for the heathen Chinese, and showing kindness
toward the girls she’s got under contract. Why should a Cherokee chief who lived
two hundred years ago give two hoots about such things? Sure and she wishes
Madame De Cassin would find another spirit guide who ain’t so damn self-righteous.
“Has
she not been ill?” Chief Silver Thorne repeats.
“It’s
quite true, sir, I still ache,” Li’l Lucy whispers.
“Yes,
yes, she’s been ill,” Jessie says, vexed. Li’l Lucy fell ill because she failed
to follow Jessie’s instructions on how avoid getting in the family way. Serves
Jessie right, including the pathetic girl at a séance on her most magnetic day.
“You
will promise me, won’t you, Miss Malone?” Chief Silver Thorne persists.
“Oh,
fine and dandy. I promise.” She’s still sending Li’l Lucy back to the
Parisian Mansion. But perhaps the Morton Alley cribs can wait.
“Good.
Now, then. Rachael?” Chief Silver Thorne begins to call out in a cloudy voice
that seems to come from the ceiling. “Rachael?”
“Rachael?”
Madame De Cassin says briskly in-between the spirit guide’s masculine summonings.
“Rachael, answer us please.”
The
high, clear voice of a young girl emanates from the ceiling. “Jessie? Oh my
dear one, is that you, Jessie?”
Grief
spills through Jessie like it always does. The sharp, deep yearning for her
Rachael, for Lily Lake lost so long ago. Jessie grips the hands of Mr. Watkins
and the spiritualist even tighter as tears, real tears, spill down her face.
“Rachael? My beloved Rachael?”
“I’m
here, Jessie.”
“Are
you all right?”
“Of
course, I am, Jessie. What about you? How are you, my darlin’?”
“I’m
fine, Rachael.”
“Have
you gone to see a doctor about that pain in your liver we talked about last
time?”
“No.
I. . . .I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”
“You
really must go, Jessie. You must see a doctor. I feel something is wrong.”
“Pah,
never mind about me. Rachael, I saw a lady today. She was attacked by them
hatchet men in the park. I can’t get her out of my mind! Can you tell me if
she’s all right?”
Rachael
hesitates, and Madame De Cassin says in her own voice, “Rachael has been
picnicking in the Summerland today, Jessie. She’s enjoying her own Fourth of
July, and she may not know—“
Now Rachael’s
voice interjects, “Someone else has come. Someone else is here with me. Someone
who has crossed over in recent days. A lady. A pale, pretty lady with such a
sad face. And such deep sea eyes, swimming with tears, always swimming with
tears.”
Mr.
Watkins inhales sharply as if someone has punched him in the gut. He whispers,
“By God, is that you, Mama?”
“Yes,
she is your mama,” Rachael whispers. “Mama is telling me something. Mama says,
‘Beware, my son. Beware, you are in danger.’”
“Yes,
it’s true! A dip pinched my boodle book on the ferry from Oakland.”
“’No,
the pickpocket is not the danger she means,’” Rachael whispers. “Mama says. . .
.”
Suddenly
a freezing wind whips through the sitting room, and an eerie sound whistles.
Jessie’s teeth begin to chatter, a sour taste pools on her tongue. The stench of
rotgut wafts over the table, and a snippet of honky-tonk music blares in her
ear. The darkness turns blindingly white, stark white for an eye blink, then
flips into darkness again.
“Jar
me, what is it?’ Jessie
of giving women the vote or a role in politics. It ain’t ladylike.”
“Yes,
my dear chief,” Madame De Cassin implores. “As always, Miss Malone wishes to speak
with her beloved Rachael.”
“Very
well, Miss Malone,” Chief Silver Thorne says. “I will see if I can find Rachael
in the Summerland if you will promise to treat Li’l Lucy with continuing
kindness. She has been ill, Miss Malone, has she not?”
Jessie
clucks her tongue. Chief Silver Thorne is forever going on about equality for
women, rights for Negroes and for the heathen Chinese, and showing kindness
toward the girls she’s got under contract. Why should a Cherokee chief who lived
two hundred years ago give two hoots about such things? Sure and she wishes
Madame De Cassin would find another spirit guide who ain’t so damn self-righteous.
“Has
she not been ill?” Chief Silver Thorne repeats.
“It’s
quite true, sir, I still ache,” Li’l Lucy whispers.
“Yes,
yes, she’s been ill,” Jessie says, vexed. Li’l Lucy fell ill because she failed
to follow Jessie’s instructions on how avoid getting in the family way. Serves
Jessie right, including the pathetic girl at a séance on her most magnetic day.
“You
will promise me, won’t you, Miss Malone?” Chief Silver Thorne persists.
“Oh,
fine and dandy. I promise.” She’s still sending Li’l Lucy back to the
Parisian Mansion. But perhaps the Morton Alley cribs can wait.
“Good.
Now, then. Rachael?” Chief Silver Thorne begins to call out in a cloudy voice
that seems to come from the ceiling. “Rachael?”
“Rachael?”
Madame De Cassin says briskly in-between the spirit guide’s masculine summonings.
“Rachael, answer us please.”
The
high, clear voice of a young girl emanates from the ceiling. “Jessie? Oh my
dear one, is that you, Jessie?”
Grief
spills through Jessie like it always does. The sharp, deep yearning for her
Rachael, for Lily Lake lost so long ago. Jessie grips the hands of Mr. Watkins
and the spiritualist even tighter as tears, real tears, spill down her face.
“Rachael? My beloved Rachael?”
“I’m
here, Jessie.”
“Are
you all right?”
“Of
course, I am, Jessie. What about you? How are you, my darlin’?”
“I’m
fine, Rachael.”
“Have
you gone to see a doctor about that pain in your liver we talked about last
time?”
“No.
I. . . .I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”
“You
really must go, Jessie. You must see a doctor. I feel something is wrong.”
“Pah,
never mind about me. Rachael, I saw a lady today. She was attacked by them
hatchet men in the park. I can’t get her out of my mind! Can you tell me if
she’s all right?”
Rachael
hesitates, and Madame De Cassin says in her own voice, “Rachael has been
picnicking in the Summerland today, Jessie. She’s enjoying her own Fourth of
July, and she may not know—“
Now Rachael’s
voice interjects, “Someone else has come. Someone else is here with me. Someone
who has crossed over in recent days. A lady. A pale, pretty lady with such a
sad face. And such deep sea eyes, swimming with tears, always swimming with
tears.”
Mr.
Watkins inhales sharply as if someone has punched him in the gut. He whispers,
“By God, is that you, Mama?”
“Yes,
she is your mama,” Rachael whispers. “Mama is telling me something. Mama says,
‘Beware, my son. Beware, you are in danger.’”
“Yes,
it’s true! A dip pinched my boodle book on the ferry from Oakland.”
“’No,
the pickpocket is not the danger she means,’” Rachael whispers. “Mama says. . .
.”
Suddenly
a freezing wind whips through the sitting room, and an eerie sound whistles.
Jessie’s teeth begin to chatter, a sour taste pools on her tongue. The stench of
rotgut wafts over the table, and a snippet of honky-tonk music blares in her
ear. The darkness turns blindingly white, stark white for an eye blink, then
flips into darkness again.
“Jar
me, what is it?’ Jessie
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