How It Happened in Peach Hill

Marthe Jocelyn

Mama told me to lie.

She said it would be best, when we got to Peach Hill, if I practiced the family talent of deception; I was likely to hear more if I appeared to be simple. So, I perfected the ability to cross one eye while my mouth stayed open. I breathed out with a faint wheeze so that my lips dried up, or even crusted. Once in a while, I’d add a twitch.

People would take a first look and shiver with disgust. Then they’d look again and think, Oh the poor thing, thank the heavens she’s not mine. And then they’d ignore me. I got the two looks and became invisible. That’s when I went to work. People will say anything in front of an idiot.

I gathered gossip and brought it home to Mama. She put it to use in little ways, giving it back to the very same people, only shaped differently and in exchange for money. Lots of money, over time.

I thought of us as gardeners. I prepared the soil; Mama decided on the arrangements and planted the seeds. The customers decided if it was flowers, vegetables, or weeds they were going to harvest.

That’s the kind of thinking that floated through my brain while I was trying to act daft.

We arrived in Peach Hill toward the end of summer and there was not a peach tree in sight. There was a hill, though, dotted with fancy houses that might have had peach trees before they had swimming pools and rose gardens. We took a ground-floor apartment down in the town, knowing our stay would be temporary.

The front room, where Mama received company, was set up in the most careful and lovely manner. There was a cushy red armchair for the customer and a smaller one for Mama, with a polished table in between. An ivory lace curtain dappled the light and a sign in the window, lettered in pearly script, announced Madame Caterina, Spiritual Advisor.

Mama was sharp, I’ll give you that. She was a fake as far as hearing from the dead, or even seeing the outcome of a situation ahead of time, but she had a sensitive way about her, when required professionally, that drew out secrets. With a little background information, she could easily appear to see straight into the hearts of forlorn and desperate women – it was usually women – who would spend heaps of money to hear the advice of a stranger. While she seemed to be reading a palm, she examined the watch and assessed the jewelry. Certain services were offered when the rings had bigger stones. Services that cost a little more.

Mama claimed we had Gypsy blood, that wanderlust and fortune-telling came naturally. But she also promised me we were getting rich and that, someday soon, we could buy a house all of our own.

Peach Hill was our sixth town, Mama’s and mine. It didn’t take long for word to flutter around like a flock of birds. People might scorn us in public, but nearly everyone had a reason to seek us out on the quiet. The women were quickly convinced that Mama had the second sight, the things she knew.

My acting daft seemed to be working. The main benefit for me was that schools don’t take loonies, so I was off the hook for education as far as Peach Hill was concerned. The downside was that I had no friends. Who would be friends with a wonky-eyed, chapped-lip moron?

After a few days of experimenting, I pinpointed the two best places in town for eavesdropping: the benches in the square, out front of Bing’s Café, or one of the shaky wooden stools at the Cosmos Launderama.

We hired what Mama called a girl, though she must have been nearly twenty. At first I thought she was as slow as I pretended to be, the way she shook her head from side to side while Mama gave instructions. Then I realized she just couldn’t control her disbelief at the things asked of her. Mama always tossed in extras so that Peg would have something to whisper about.

“Leave the pillowcases inside out on the beds, Peg. Makes the spirits restless and readier to communicate.”

“Yes’m.”

“We’ll need fifty-two mushrooms, with the stems at least two inches long. And a new deck of cards.”

“Yes’m.”

“And Peg?”

“Yes’m?”

“Call me Madame, Peg. Not ‘Yes’m.’ I’m a clairvoyant, not a butcher’s wife.”

“Yes’m.”

And off went Peg, head swaying.

“What are we going to do with fifty-two mushrooms?” I asked.

“Sauté them and eat them on toast during Peg’s day off.” Mama winked at me.

I didn’t have friends, but I knew the name of every kid in town. That’s not bragging; that’s collecting data. I had a tiny notebook especially adapted. One of those little diaries that six-year-olds have, with a pony on the cover and a slim gold pen attached in a snug leather loop. I hammered a hole through the top of the spine and it hung around my neck on a length of blue ribbon.

I worked out my own code. The townspeople thought it was part of my disability, the way I’d coo like a dove and scribble marks in my book.

“Do you suppose she thinks she’s writing poems?” I heard Mrs. Ford say to Mrs. Romero. “Poor thing, she sees the other children with their schoolbooks and wants to be the same.”

Ha. Ha-ha-ha.

No, Mrs. Ford, I was making a note to tell Mama about the letter you received from your husband’s ex-wife. And she’ll hear about your unhappily married daughter, Mrs. Romero, because nothing is better for business than misery and longing.

But, I would think to myself, you can cluck your tongues if it makes you feel better, and I’ll just make my doodles.

It was harder to sit near the kids. Kids do not welcome idiots into their circle and they either chased me with stones and nasty names, or slunk off to a place I couldn’t follow. But, after a time, they got used to me. They could see I was only stupid and harmless. They finally ignored me, just like their parents.

There was one boy, named Sammy Sanchez. They always called him Sammy Sanchez, as if there were other Sams he might be confused with. Not a chance. I might as well say it – he was the most wonderful boy I ever saw. He’d been away at his aunt’s farm for the summer and the first time he showed up in the square, I forgot myself and stared with both eyes, looking straight at him. Of course he was not looking at the loony girl and nobody else was either, so I could have blown him a kiss and not been caught. But I didn’t. I recovered myself and stumbled off my bench with hot cheeks. I heard a ripple of choked-back laughs as I loped home, looking as dim-witted as I possibly could.

Peg found me crying in the kitchen. I sobbed that they’d teased me, that I was ugly and wanted to die.

“Ah, now,” said Peg. “There, there.” She stroked my head and patted my back till I settled down. “You’d be quite pretty if you wore sunglasses. Never mind there’s a vacancy between your ears. Try closing your mouth, if you can. And wash your hair once in a while, for pity’s sake!” She had me lean over the side of the sink while she gave my head a scrubbing, and then doused it with something smelling of lemons.

Nearly all our patrons were female, as I said. We’d get the odd young man on a matter of romance, and one fellow, Bobby Pike, who begged Mama to help him bet on the horses. But, when Mr. Poole arrived, middle of September, along with golden light in late afternoons, we knew the season was changing in more ways than one.

Mr. Poole lived halfway up the hill, in a house with a lily pond, all wrapped round with a wrought iron fence. Mr. Poole fancied himself a very dapper fellow, and used an oil to sculpt his rippling gray hair that smelled like a sunny island. His wife, Mrs. Poole, had died a year ago, from an ailment that had her looking like a skeleton long before she passed. I knew this the same way I knew everything, from listening.

Mama didn’t like me nearby when she was working, but I found a way around that. I inched the big chair in the front room into such a position that I could sit behind it with my knees scrunched up and my back in the crook of the wall.

Thanks to this, I knew from the start how things stood with Mr. Poole. He was certain that his wife had returned to haunt him. She didn’t like the new crockery he’d chosen and she’d broken four teacups, jumping them off their hooks to the floor. She didn’t approve of his putting new fish into the pond and she’d left two of them gasping on the bank. Mr. Poole wanted Mama to contact Mrs. Poole and tell her to stop.

“You remind her that I’m alive and she’s not,” he said. “I’ve been drinking out of teacups covered in primroses for twenty-two years and it’s time for a change.”

He was pretty ruffled. Mama soothed him into the big chair I was tucked behind and said she could see how important it was for her to reach Mrs. Poole.

“They usually respond quickly when they’re upset,” lied Mama, in her sweetest voice. “Though she’ll expect a little coaxing to move on quietly. I can set up a ‘calling,’ but I’ll need a cup of dirt from your garden and a small advance to pay for other particular materials. How would Friday night suit you?”

Friday would be just fine with Mr. Poole and out came his billfold, with Mama murmuring right next to him all the way to the shoe shop on the corner. I slipped to the window and saw him patting her arm more than once, he was that grateful. She came back humming and slid the dollars into her purse.

Mama wasn’t the only one thinking about where a romance might lead.

I knew I had it bad the morning I got up early to watch Sammy Sanchez walk past on his way to school. I’d figured out we were on the path from his house near the rail yards to the school at the bottom of the hill.

Sammy didn’t wear a baseball cap like the other boys. His black hair flopped and blew in the autumn wind like … well, like shiny black hair. As the week ticked by, I got bolder with my spying. On Friday morning, I left the spot behind the lace curtain and moved to the doorstep. I put on Peg’s sunglasses and tossed my hair. I was cheating on being daft, and Mama would likely strangle me if she knew.

I licked my lips and let them form a tender smile. Sammy Sanchez wheeled along on his skateboard and hopped off just as he came to the cracked sidewalk in front of our building.

“Hey,” he said, maybe surprised for a second before he realized it was me. He gave me a wave and took two steps. Then whoosh – back on the board and he was gone. I about fainted. He’d spoken to me!

I was in heaven. And then immediately in the darkest pit. There is no wonderful, black-haired boy on earth who wants a wonky-eyed, chapped-lip moron for a girlfriend.

It was time to move on. I had to tell Mama. We were rich enough. We could find a little cottage in a town by the ocean, with a boardwalk and a concert in the bandstand on Sunday afternoons. I’d go to school with clean hair and have friends and find another boy.

But, at supper, Mama had something to tell me first.

“I like Peach Hill,” she announced. “What would you think of moving into a house with a lily pond?”

“What?” I shouted. “No! We can’t stay here! You think I want to be an idiot for the rest of my life?” I couldn’t believe she would suggest such a thing.

“I’ll not be hollered at by my own child,” said Mama.

“You only ever think about you!” I got louder. “What about me?” I was mad as a trapped wasp.

Mama scraped back her chair and stood up, her hands clenched. “Calm down at once.” Her voice had an edge like a cleaver. “Peg will be back any moment. You go to your room and settle down. I need you to help with the ‘calling’ for Mr. Poole’s wife.”

“Are you going to tell Mrs. Poole what your plans are? Why should you get to have a greasy-haired boyfriend while I’m the ugly duckling? You want me to drool and stammer at your wedding?”

Mama tried to freeze me with her gray eyes, but did not bother to speak. I ducked past her and headed for the door. Outside I could make the noises that expressed my feelings.

“Grrrack! Arrggerrack! Aarrrroooeeeeww!”

People stepped out of my way in a hurry. I’d have grinned if I weren’t so mad. Nothing like a loony on a rampage to clear the path.

I stomped around the square a dozen times. The tears were pouring. Maybe I was crazy, after all, even having daydreams. I sat on the bench, hunched over, my elbows digging into my knees. I must have sat like that for an hour or more, still as the bench itself. Finally I noticed it was getting chilly. The heat was gone from my anger.

I knew Mama would be waiting. She couldn’t do a proper séance without me there to knock on the walls and waver the lights. She’d be pacing, wondering if I was coming to help her trick old Mr. Poole. I was shuddering with leftover sobs when I finally trudged home.

“Ah, girlie,” said Peg, when I came in. “Have those bullies been at you?” She wrapped her arms around me, warm as a blanket, making me cry all over again. Peg loved me, not knowing I was smarter than she was. She loved me because I was helpless. She loved me the way a mother loves a baby.

And speaking of mothers, “Where’s Mama?”

“There now,” said Peg, smoothing the hair away from my face. “She’s in the front room, just finishing with Mr. Poole.” Then she giggled. “Though it looks more like a beginning, if you ask me.” She giggled again.

I pulled out of the hug and gulped for air.

“She’s kissing him?”

Peg peered at me, cupping my face in her rough hands.

“Your eye!” she whispered. “It’s straight!”

Oh, skunk! I’d blown it. I thought for a second to fall down and pitch a scary fit, with my tongue hanging out. But then my chance for freedom flashed like sheet lightning across my brain.

I spread my arms wide, blinked, and gave her my loveliest, closed-mouth smile.

Peg caught her breath.

“I’m better,” I said. “These are tears of happiness. I’m cured.”

“But… oh, my Lord….” Peg was stuttering.

“Mama did it,” I said. “She laid her hands on me–”

“It’s a miracle!” Peg shrieked. She picked me up and spun me around, or tried, anyway. She started to laugh and so did I, jubilant and thrilled.

Mama’s voice cut through the noise.

“Peg? What are you thinking? You know I need the utmost quiet when I’m with a–”

“Oh, Missus!” sang Peg. “You’ve worked a miracle! Your little girl is cured!”

Mr. Poole stood next to Mama, staring at me, adjusting his glasses.

“Catherine? You did this?”

Mama’s eyes locked with mine. I’m certain she was calculating her options. But I had her.

“You cured the girl?”

“Yes,” she said, putting on a modest glow. “With help from the stars above, I have saved my precious daughter.” She stretched out her hands, staring at them as if amazed by what they had done.

Peg squealed again and squeezed me. Mr. Poole squeezed Mama. Mama blushed, but she was watching me closely. I smiled. Deception runs in the family, after all. Mama taught me to lie. She should be proud of me.

“I’m tired,” I said. Peg hustled me off to have a bath and go to bed, where she brought me supper on a tray. When Mama finally said good night to Mr. Poole and came in to see me, I was asleep. Faking sleep was nothing after faking daft.

Peg was a gossip marvel. Next morning, when I stepped outside with my hair brushed and my lips glossed, there must have been forty people waiting in line for Madame Caterina. Every one of them would be contributing to our house fund, and they all turned to look at me. And I was radiant.

Sammy Sanchez was leaning against the side of the building, skateboard rocking under his left foot.

“Hey,” he said. “I heard about you.”

“Yup,” I said. “It’s a miracle.”