Girls nestled around me like puppies as I gazed up at the filmy canopy that hung over Lexie’s bed. I’d never even changed into Mama’s lovely nightdress. We’d slept in our clothes, exhausted by the drama of Gwendalen.
I slowly extricated myself without disturbing anyone and tiptoed downstairs, hoping to escape unseen. But Mrs. Johns was in the hallway, pulling on white gloves.
“An early bird, eh, Annie? Your little party sounded like quite a success last night; if giggles and squeals are any measure. Is that daughter of mine stirring?”
“No, ma’am. They’re all asleep up there.”
“Well, I’ll have to go poke them.” She laughed. “Sleep is no excuse to miss church.”
“No, ma’am.”
Church, I thought as I hurried away. I could do my good deed today. Mama liked to linger in bed on Sunday mornings—well, most mornings—so I did not meet her when I sneaked in to retrieve the bundle of clothes I’d collected.
The Wilky house sat at the end of a dusty road called the Way. Each house along the Way got smaller and shabbier, with the Wilkys’ being the shabbiest. No place I ever saw looked less likely as a waiting room for Heaven. No one out here had an automobile, so it didn’t matter that the road was so badly rutted. I followed the straggle of people picking their way in Sunday shoes.
Along with my donation of clothing, I’d brought fifty cents to put in the basket, or the box, or the jar, whatever they had. They must have a collection, or what was the point? No spirits, God or otherwise, spoke loudly enough to drown out the clinking of coins. That was what Mama said, anyway.
Mrs. Tabitha Wilky answered the door. She wasn’t wearing a badge declaring her name, but I could tell right off from her round eyes and disheveled hair that she was related to that girl.
“I haven’t seen you before,” she said.
“No,” I said. “May I come in?”
She folded her arms across her chest like a sentry.
“What for?” she asked. She could use a lesson in appealing to potential customers, I thought.
“I was told the Lord makes an appearance here from time to time,” I said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky today.”
She humphed but leaned sideways to let me edge past.
The living room was just as Peg said, crowded with mismatched chairs and benches. The seats up front were full. Three or four people wearing white shawls were milling around at the front and humming. The choir, I guessed. I saw no sign of the minister or his daughter. I chose a stool near the door, in case I needed to flee. I tucked my bundle underneath.
I recognized two old women who drank lemonades outside Bing’s every lunchtime and a man who sold newspapers near the train station. A few young women clustered together, sporting hats with jaunty artificial feathers, dyed lurid colors no bird ever wore. Looking around, I saw that the congregation was mostly women. Just like for Mama, I thought. Why are women the ones seeking answers?
I wasn’t expecting much from the service, even less once the Reverend Wilky had shambled to the front of the room. His elbows were patched, and his trousers were flapping above naked ankles. What had happened to Peg’s father’s socks?
The choir quickly took their places in a semicircle around a rickety music stand. The Reverend Wilky stood waiting, looking like the scruffiest of mechanics.
But when he opened his mouth, oh, my! His voice was a low, rumbling burr, silky as he greeted us, his brethren. He began by rejoicing in the beauty of the day.
“And who made this day?” he asked.
Everyone around me called out, “He did!”
“Hallelujah! And who created this glorious sun?”
“He did!”
“Who gave us eyes to see the sky?” The Reverend’s voice rose to a honeyed roar. The choir was humming a hymn behind him. “He did!”
I joined in, having learned the routine.
“And who made our shoulders feel the sun after a day of labor?”
“He did!”
We were all with him now, warmed up, ready to go.
I’d heard that in most churches, the minister gave a sermon and the congregation sat as still as hymnbooks, listening to his mighty words, waiting to be transported to a holy place.
Here there were chairs, but once the service started, most people rose to their feet and stayed there, swaying, clapping, stomping, shouting and sweating, right along with the Reverend Wilky and possibly with the Lord above.
“Who sees that we are sinners?”
“He does!”
“Hallelujah! And who tells us how to punish the sins of our children?”
“He does!”
“Who tells us that to spare the rod is to spoil the child?”
“He does!”
“Hallelujah! He is here with us because we are all sinners! Because we are all spoiled and must face our punishment! Who is our only hope for salvation?”
“He is!”
“Hallelujah! And who here will accept His judgment? Who here will give whatever you have to follow our Lord to Heaven?”
“We will!”
“Hallelujah! Say it again!”
“We will!”
“Hallelujah!”
I knew the whole time it was a show. I was not persuaded for a moment that God was listening in particular to Reverend Wilky of Peach Hill. But I was shouting and shaking and sweating. He was so good that I got to my feet and shimmied, nearly ready to stand up before the Lord along with the rest of them.
The ones who knew the routine shuffled their way to the front and dropped their money on a silver tray. They had the sweat wiped off their brows by the Reverend’s own handkerchief in the middle of a blessing. Each worshipper took a sip or two of Wilky’s Silk Revitalizing Elixir. More than one of them swooned right there on the floor and was dragged out of the aisle to be revitalized. I shuffled up with the rest of them and took a swig from the offered bottle. Wow! It scorched my throat and made my eyeballs hop. The man was serving straight-up alcohol, no doubt about it. The choir belted out music that grabbed the heart and tingled the soles of the feet; the tumult of salvation was overwhelming.
And then it was over. Reverend Wilky loped out the door. The chorus stopped and the singers gathered up their music sheets. Bodies flopped into chairs to recover, flapping prayer books like fans, noticing how hot the room had grown. Slowly, chatter took over from panting.
One of the choir members was staring at me. It took a whole minute to see that the pale, shining face with hair scraped back into a braid belonged to Helen Wilky, the wild girl. She’d surely undergone a Sunday transformation! I smiled in surprise, but she ignored me as soon as I recognized her, and she headed to the door.
The Reverend stood on the step outside with his family beside him, speaking with his flock as it dispersed.
“Greetings, sister.” He sounded as if he had a sore throat. “The Lord is always pleased to see a new face.”
“Greetings,” mumbled his wife without looking up. She held a basket full of little bottles, each with a hand-printed label stuck on: WILKY’S SILK REVITALIZING ELIXIR.
“My name is Annie.” I said it straight to the girl.
“Mmmm,” she said.
“This is my daughter, Helen,” said the Reverend. His fingers squeezed her shoulder and she winced. “A sinner, like the rest of us.”
Helen bobbed her head and glowered at the ground.
A rush of recognition yanked me to attention. The Reverend Wilky’s hand might as well have been holding the strings on a marionette. I’d been my mama’s puppet too long not to notice, not to feel the tug myself. I knew there was a bruise under that choir shawl.
But the next worshipper was waiting.
“How do you do?” I said, and stepped into the mud of the front yard and along the Way.
Needle Street was simmering with activity. People milled about, calling to each other, chattering and giddy, as if they were at a picnic just waiting for the fellow with the hot dogs to appear. I ducked quickly back into a doorway. I had a feeling that I was the fellow with the hot dogs.
“Annie?”
“Peg!”
“I heard at church!” cried Peg. “You’ve had another episode! Lexie and her mother were full of the news.”
“Oh,” I said. “That explains the circus.”
Peg’s main concern was to check my focus, to make sure the convulsions had not turned me back into a wonky-eyed moron.
“I’m all right, Peg. But …” I looked past her to the gathering people.
“We’ve got to get you safe inside,” she said. “Where have you been?”
“Walking.” Why mention the Wilkys’ church?
“Your mama is going to wonder, she sees this crowd.”
“My mama is going to fly off the handle, she sees this crowd. She doesn’t like it when I get the attention.”
“Maybe she’ll think it’s all for her?”
“We’re not usually too popular on Sunday,” I said. “Most people feel it’s sneaking behind the Lord’s back to seek solace from the dead on a Sunday.”
Peg poked her head around the corner. “Oh, Lordy,” she said. “We better go round by the alley.”
Mama was just emerging from her bedroom as we crept through the kitchen door.
“Peg? Is something the matter? What are you doing here on your day off?”
Peg’s eyes slid down the hall and back to me. “We met,” she said. “On the corner.”
Mama was too smart for that. She strode to the front door and opened it, ignoring Peg’s cry of “No! Ma’am!” and slammed it shut when the crowd hallooed.
“What’s happened?” She had me by the shoulders, her face three inches from mine. A muffled chant of “Annie! Annie!” rose outside.
“What have you done?”
“Gwendalen came back,” I mumbled. “At Lexie’s house.”
“Lexie Johns goes to St. Alphonse Church,” said Peg. “Her mother was telling the story up and down the pews, about the mutilated ghost that appeared on Lexie’s bed.”
Mama’s temper caught fire like a match factory, and she shook me hard. Someone knocked at the door.
“Ma’am! No! You don’t mean to be so fierce! The girl can’t help herself if these fits come over her like that. Can she?”
What could Mama say? That she’d taught me to lie and I could help myself perfectly well?
“A talent like yours was bound to be passed on,” Peg continued. “Your Annie seems to be gifted too. Isn’t that a blessing?”
There came another knocking on the door, longer this time. Mama let go of me.
“Thank you for stopping by, Peg.”
“Oh! You’re right! My father will be wanting his Sunday luncheon. I’d better scoot.” Peg left through the kitchen. Mama let loose.
“Do you plan to make a habit of treachery?”
“No, Mama! Please let me explain.”
“I am the clairvoyant, Annie, no matter how you sneak about trying to steal the spotlight. When you healed yourself on a whim, I told you that I would not tolerate being undermined.”
“I’m not undermining,” I said. “I’m enhancing. There’s a crowd of people out there, Mama. We can turn it straight into dollars. They think you healed me, so they expect me to be psychic as well.”
“Well, you’re not.” She sounded as if she wanted to bite me.
“But, Mama, don’t you see? I could be. I could be anything we want me to be. We only have to decide what. There are two of us. We could double our offerings and double our income.…”
She turned her eyes to the door and seemed to be looking right through it.
“I suppose you think you’re growing up,” she said finally.
“It had to happen, Mama.”
“Let them in,” she said. “Palms only.”
I opened the door.
“Palms only!” she called out. “We’ll read you two at a time.”
Mama took her lady into the front room, and I led a Mrs. Peers to the kitchen table. I held her hand in mine, noticing the polished nails, the gaudy bangles and the thin—meaning cheapskate husband—wedding band.
I took a moment, reminding myself: Heart Line, Head Line, Life Line, Mount of Saturn, and mounts of all the other planets.
“I see conflict under your roof,” I said softly.
“That’s my Bill,” she sighed. “Scolding me day and night.”
“Your heart line, here, shows an unhappy marriage,” I said.
Her eyes filled up at once. “He never stops nagging! I spend too much money, I’m not cute anymore, I can’t cook pork chops the way his mother does—”
“It’s only your first marriage,” I put in quickly. “There will be another, truer love.”
“What? Really?” Mrs. Peers sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her other hand. “Who is it? Tell me!”
“His name is not written on your palm,” I said. “But you will not travel to find him.”
“He’s a boy from town?”
“You may know him already,” I said, “but you have not yet recognized his special place in your life.” That would cover just about every possibility.
“What should I do?”
“While you’re waiting to discover this love—”
“Yeah?”
“You are not a naughty child. Don’t let your husband treat you like one. Remind your Bill that women now have the right to vote and you’re running him out of office.”
Miss Peers barked a surprised laugh. “You’re a doll! “You’re the cat’s pajamas. I’m telling him tonight: Back off, buster! I’ve got a mystery man to find. Did you say he was dark-haired?”
“Sure,” I said. “Dark.”
“Here’s your dollar,” said Miss Peers. “Hold on, I’m gonna give you two. And I’m coming back next week!”
She clattered away down the hall, giggling as she tugged on her hat.
Could it be so wrong to give a person hope?