Tommy worked one last shift at the tannery before he and the other part-timers were replaced by full-time workers. Luckily he had a steady string of prayer buyers who were often willing to pay a little extra when he added a personalized prayer at the end of a session as he’d started to do since Mrs. Schultz had been so receptive and generous with small tips. Every bit made a difference to his savings.
When Tommy arrived at Mrs. Arbuckle’s with prayer in hand, her butler blocked his entrance. Tommy’s heart stuck in his throat. Had they figured out Hank took a silver thimble the last time they were there? Tommy looked over his shoulder, hoping a police officer wasn’t coming up behind him, knowing Tommy had an appointment that day and time.
“Mrs. Arbuckle won’t need your services, Mr. Arthur.”
Tommy cleared his throat. “Can I ask why?”
“None of your business.”
“Well, I wrote one especially for her—”
“Invite the boy in at least, Charles,” Mrs. Arbuckle said from the foyer.
The butler sighed and opened the door to let Tommy inside.
Mrs. Arbuckle took Tommy by the shoulders. “You’re a very nice boy, Tommy. Perfectly crafted prayers and sweet. Always a comfort.”
Tommy held up a slip of paper. “I wrote you a new one. In regard to your worry about your brother and his journey to the afterlife. I’ve covered it all with scripture and the reverend’s seal of approval.”
She shook her head and stepped away from Tommy.
“What’s wrong?” His heart beat in his ears. He got ready to run if he had to.
She glanced at the butler and waved him away. “Always has his nose in my business.”
Tommy agreed. That’s what butlers did.
“I don’t want to offend you, but with my age and my family’s finances, I only have so much to devote to my spirituality and religion, and I tithe a good deal to the reverend. The prayers were insurance, extra.”
Tommy nodded.
“And now there’s this Dreama in town. You’ve heard of her?”
Tommy thought back to a newspaper article he’d seen, one that mentioned she had come to town to be a medium between the living and dead. And he’d heard her name mentioned at Miss Violet’s, known that she’d been there to visit, but was confused. “I read something but . . .”
Mrs. Arbuckle closed her eyes and took a deep breath before refocusing on Tommy. “She’s remarkable.” Mrs. Arbuckle’s rheumy eyes looked up to the ceiling as though this Dreama was up there. “You must have been to see her by now? A spiritual soul like yourself?”
“I’ve read about her. Heard her name mentioned.”
“Well, I met with her, and she connected me with Robert. I felt him, I heard his voice like it was in my own head, and I left with the peace of mind that nothing, no one else has given me.”
“But this . . .” Tommy held up the paper. “This is a special prayer, sure to ease your worry. And you can keep it and reread it and—”
She grasped Tommy’s hand. “Your work is done here. I’m going to consult with Dreama from now on. I’m sorry.”
Tommy shook his head, thinking maybe he should visit Dreama to see exactly what she was offering that he wasn’t.
“You told me about your dead brother,” Mrs. Arbuckle said. “Go see Dreama. She’s a godsend. You understood my pain. But Dreama relieves pain, and she could remove yours. Go see her.” Mrs. Arbuckle picked up a newspaper and shook it at him. “Says she’s doing a night for mothers and meeting privately at Miss Violet Pendergrass’s offices . . .”
Tommy held up his hand; hearing her gush over the person who siphoned off his business was painful.
“Take this. Read up on her.” She shoved the morning paper into his hands. The front page screamed, “Pennies from Heaven: Dreama Sees into Souls and Heals and Cashes in Big.”
He read testimony after testimony from people in the article whose lives had been changed by Dreama. “I can sleep again.” “Made amends with my brother after twenty years of not speaking.” “Record harvest after Dreama told me where to plant my crop this year.” All of this was accompanied by illustrations depicting a veiled woman sitting among clients, her slight build looking like anyone else aside from the veil. But the people sitting with her were in awe, their faces enraptured—that was clear.
It seemed like magic.
Another headline caught his eye. “Miss V. Pendergrass. Too Good to Be True?” He sighed. Surely not. Miss Violet’s reports indicated her success and wealth fanned out to clients and now seeing articles about Dreama, she seemed to be the only person challenging the height of Miss Violet’s achievements.
But he was confident most people found peace in the old reliable Bible, something they could revisit. So off he went to the rest of his prayer appointments. Perhaps he could get Mrs. Johnson to buy an extra prayer or invite him back a second time that week to recoup the loss of Mrs. Arbuckle’s fee.
Tommy plodded to each home.
Slam. Slam. Slam.
Every last client dismissed Tommy and his prayers. Each had decided Dreama delivered comfort he could not. Tommy was so worried about the loss of funds that he didn’t even notice that Frank had kept to a distance.
At one point, the bird landed on Tommy’s shoulder and rubbed his head into Tommy’s neck. “Oh, Frank, this isn’t good.” Maybe he should hire onto the tannery full-time. He’d been doing most of his high school work from afar anyway. With his enthusiasm damp and gray, he headed back to Miss Violet’s where he’d retrieve his afternoon chore list.
Nothing on the list would lead to Tommy making more money. More work—same money.
Trudging along he considered the articles detailing the money and fame funneling toward Dreama. Now her success was undercutting his. He shook his head and picked up his pace. Partway home he thought of Mrs. Schultz. She liked him more than any regular prayer client. He wasn’t due to see her until later in the week, but perhaps she might be able to point him to friends of hers who might want his services.
When he arrived at her home, the lady’s maid answered the door. Her face dropped, then lit up, and she pulled Tommy into the foyer. He exhaled, a good feeling sweeping through him.
“I’m not supposed to deliver Mrs. Schultz’s prayers until the end of the week, but—”
“She’s gone.” The maid held up her forefinger, then dug through a drawer in the desk near the door. “Where is it, where is it?” She opened the next drawer and finally spun around, holding an envelope. “For you.”
He took it from her. His name was written in blocky print. “Gone? Where?”
The maid moved toward the door and opened it for him to exit. “Back up north with her son. I’ll join her there next week. She said your words, your reassurance, led her back there to her children, where she should have gone years ago. You’ll see in the envelope that she wanted to give you something extra. And she had me write a note.”
A chilly breeze whipped through the door, fluttering one end of the envelope in his hand. “She left because?” Tommy asked.
“Because you did a good job and shone a light into the darkness of her life. She took what you gave her and did something with it.”
Tommy drew back at the sentiment, reaching to recall the exact prayers he’d sold her recently. “She believed what I said?”
She pointed at the envelope. “Same words are in the note there. You’ll see for yourself. She didn’t believe what you said. She believed in you.”
He tipped his hat and exited. Then, before the door could shut, he jammed his foot into the opening. The maid peered at him, her eyes wide.
“Tell her thank you. For believing.”
The maid lifted her hand to wave. “I will.”
The mix of the day’s disappointment combined with the thrill of finding out someone took his prayers far beyond her heart and into action made his heart leap. Only one person felt like that, but it felt monumental, as though something shifted, like when Pearl needed him.
Was he good at what he did? Not as good as Dreama, apparently. But . . . Mrs. Schultz. She believed. Her departure dissolved a steady income source, but still, what she said . . . He opened the envelope, read the appreciative words, and saw two dollars inside. Grateful for those dollars since sending money off to San Diego, he began to think giving away money had brought some to him. He shook his head. Silly thought. That wasn’t how the world worked. Clearly not. All the canceled appointments were evidence of that. But he basked in the pride that Mrs. Schultz’s letter brought him. He’d done a good job and changed someone’s life. That was worth more than any money he might have lost that day.