Madame Presidentess

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

MT. GILEAD, OHIO

The following day, when we arrived at the cramped farmhouse my sister Maggie shared with her husband Enos and their three children, Pa was waiting for us at the head of the drive.

“Looks like the spirits were modest in their predictions. Where’d you get all this?” he asked as he helped Ma down from the buckboard seat.

Ma grinned. “Town’s more gullible than heaven knows.”

“And the insurance company?”

Ma shrugged. “They ain’t said nothin’ yet. But all that’s left is ash and blackened timbers, so they’ll never know.”

“Know what?” Maggie asked, her forehead wrinkling.

“Let’s just say that the fire had some help,” Pa said with a smug smile.

I hopped down from the wagon, aghast. “So the ladies were right? You did set the fire?”

“Don’t be so high and mighty, Little Queen. The Lord helps those who help themselves. Besides, the spirits told your Ma it would all work out, and it has and then some.” He guided us into the house. “Hurry to put those things away. I have something to show you.”

Pa sat in a chair by the fire, feet propped on a stool, directing the rest of us as we unloaded the wagon. Then we piled back in and Pa took us into town.

We pulled up in front of a three-story brick building on Main Street. On the lowest level, the plate-glass windows reflected our image in the late afternoon sun, showing me that Polly was holding a sleeping Utica and Molly was braiding Tennie’s curly locks. The second- and third-floor windows were much smaller and curtained by thin fabric, indicating those rooms were meant for private use.

“What is this place, Pa?” I asked, fascinated. I’d never seen a building so big or so fancy. Even the bank in Homer was only two stories.

“It’s our new place of business.” He beamed with pride. “You two”—he pulled Tennie and me into the circle of his attention—“are going to be bigger than the Fox sisters. I’ve already started running ads in the paper.”

Tennie and I looked at one another, mirrors of each other’s excitement and fear. The Fox sisters were notorious throughout the country for their communications with the spirit world. They regularly held séances and charged up to five dollars a sitting to speak with customers’ departed loved ones. Tennie and I had the gift of speaking with the spirits, which we’d inherited from Ma, but we’d never done it on a commercial basis. We didn’t have much experience seeking out the spirits; usually they came to us—and privately at that.

I wasn’t sure how Tennie felt, but the idea of being a medium for strangers made my gut tighten. What if I couldn’t reach the person they were looking for? Worse yet, what if I was wrong? I voiced these fears to Pa while he unlocked the front door and led us inside.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that, Vickie. Your ol’ pa has his ways. I’ll tell you all about it later. But first, the grand tour.” He made a flourishing gesture around the large room with livid blue walls the color of a fresh bruise. “This is where I’ll sell my elixirs and tonics. Everyone must pass through here before they can see our girls—a chance to prime them for a sale—then back out again before they go. Annie, I’ll need you to start on a new batch of elixir first thing since we had to sacrifice our stock in the fire.”

Ma nodded solemnly. She enjoyed making Pa’s tonics even though they weren’t really the magic cures he claimed. I’d helped her enough times to know they were mostly alcohol and vegetable oil, often with a dash of laudanum thrown in for good measure. But they made his clients happy, and some even claimed they worked, so I didn’t question their methods.

Pa led us up a narrow, steep flight of stairs. At the top, the floor branched off, leading to one room on either side. I stepped into the one on the left, facing the street. Sunlight streamed through rectangular windows onto bright golden wallpaper covered in black filigree. Books on magic, the occult, and the philosophy of life and death lined a tall bookshelf in one corner while settees and chairs covered in flaking gold paint and worn burgundy velvet waited to be inhabited by customers. Dominating the center of the room was a round table on which a ball of glass sat, flanked by candles. Around the table sat four stiff-backed chairs, and from the walls above, daguerreotypes of two men and two women stared down solemnly, as if reminding all present that spirits ruled this place.

“You certainly have created an atmosphere,” Polly observed.

Tennie crossed from this room to the other then back again. “They look almost the same, only the other room has red walls.”

Pa nodded. “That will be your room, Tennie. Victoria, you’ll practice in this one.”

Ma scowled at Pa. “Where’d you get the money to outfit this place? Thought we’d have ta wait ‘til the insurance money came though. Did you win a bet?”

Pa reached into his coat pocket and produced a wad of colorful bank notes. “Being postmaster had its perks.” He wiggled his fingers in the air. “Sometimes when people were expecting money, I had to tell them it was lost in the mail.”

Shock jolted through me. I knew my father was different from other men, but I’d never suspected he was the thief many people accused him of being. It hurt my heart and soul that he could so openly flout the law when he took a rope or switch to us without a thought when he suspected us of lying. A protest bubbled up within me, words begging to be let forth, but I clamped my jaw shut, knowing from long experience that anything I said would result in a bloodied lip or worse.

“Once this place is up and running, I plan to buy the floor above.” He pointed up. “We’ll live there so we can be open longer and don’t have to take up space with Maggie and her kin.” He rubbed his palms together. “Yes, you girls are going to make us rich.”

To that end, Tennie and I spent the next week taking lessons from Pa and memorizing his “blue book,” a small notebook in which he kept notes on everyone in town. He’d been busy since coming to Mt. Gilead. His notes included tavern gossip—juicy secrets and scandalous accusations—and extensive cemetery records highlighting the recently departed, connecting families, and noting birth and death dates as though he’d traipsed through the entire graveyard like a storybook sleuth.

“Be a good listener,” Pa exhorted. “Don’t be afeared of silence. People will tell you what you need to know if you keep your trap shut.”

We had certainly learned to keep silent around him.

“But what if the spirits aren’t talking and neither are the customers?” Tennie asked. She had always been bright and enthusiastic to please.

Pa thought on that a moment, rubbing his beard. “Well, there are things you can do to get a response from them whether they want to give it or not. If you’re trying to get a name, ask them to write six names on a piece of paper, one of which is the dead person’s, and watch them close. Nine times of ten, they will hesitate on the right name. Or if you need to prove your abilities to someone who is doubtful, ask them to think of a letter, then have them recite the alphabet. They will give some kind of reaction when they reach their chosen letter.”

I regarded him dubiously. It couldn’t be that easy.

“Ah, the Little Queen doesn’t believe her old pa. Practice it on your brothers and sisters. You’ll see. It works.”

Tennie believed in him. Her wide eyes shone with worshipful awe. “How do you know all this?”

“Reading people is a valuable skill no matter what your occupation. The more you pay attention, the more they reveal. And when you have the information, you have the power. You hold the purse strings. Remember that.”

At first, working at Pa’s shop was fun, an adventure. I liked making my own money—all of it went to Pa, but I was still contributing to the family—and it was much better than going to school or taking in laundry and sewing as Ma and I had done in Homer. I enjoyed being able to help people find peace or get the answers to questions that had long disturbed them.

When a client came in, we drew the curtains to darken the room. Then my father introduced the client, supplying me with as much information as he could.

A plump woman in a pale pink gown stood between my father and a man with the deeply lined face of someone who had spent many hours in the sun and wind.

“May I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Henry Wilkins,” Pa said. “Mrs. Wilkins here lives about an hour south, but she was born here.”

That was my cue to riffle through my pages of mental notes so I was as prepared as I could be. Wilkins, Wilkins. Ah yes. Family had been in the area since the 1820s, one of the first to take up residence. Most recent death was a daughter, a young girl, who had succumbed to consumption two years prior.

“My boy has been ill for some time now. The doctor doesn’t know what ails him. I wondered if the spirits might be able to tell us what medicine cannot.” She leaned in so close I could smell the mint that didn’t quite mask her breath. “If you could tell me if he will live, there’s an extra two dollars in it for you.”

That was an unusual request—most people wanted to question their departed loved ones—but the unusual was common in this line of work. Once the couple was seated, we joined hands and sang a hymn. Before I even had a chance to address the spirits, a girl was there with us, her rich brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, wafting in the ghost breeze that stirred her dress.

“A girl is here with us,” I said, keeping my inner sight on her while watching Mrs. Wilkins closely. “She says her name is Edith.”

Mrs. Wilkins choked back a sob. “That’s my girl.”

I asked her about her brother. She shook her head slowly. I was about to relay the sorrowful news when Edith looked over her shoulder, held up a finger for me to wait, and disappeared. A few moments later, she reappeared with a younger boy by her side.

“Tell Mama I love her and not to cry over me,” he said.

Swallowing, I repeated the boy’s message. “John is here with us. He died moments ago. Edith was with him. In fact, she left us to be there when he passed from this life. He says he loves you and not to weep over him. He is at peace.”

Mrs. Wilkins muffled her sobs with a handkerchief.

It was Mr. Wilkins who found the fortitude to speak, though sorrow made his eyes shine unearthly bright. “Truly, you have a gift. We did not tell you our son’s name, nor could you have known how near to death he was. I only regret we were not with him at the time of his passing.”

I laid a hand on his. “He was not alone. His sister was there. Take comfort in that. Being here with me is as near to being with him as you could possibly have been.”

Most of the time the spirits complied with my patrons’ requests, and even when they didn’t, I was normally able to figure out what answer my clients wanted with the help of Pa’s methods. Well, all except for once.

Pa introduced me to a finely dressed gentleman. “Vickie, this is Mr. Davis. He is a legislator in Columbus.”

The state capital. Occasionally travelers passed through our town, but he was the first man of import to visit us. All the memorization I had done wouldn’t help me with an outsider. I would have to hope he would give some sign of the proper way to proceed.

After shaking his hand and ensuring he was comfortable, I asked, “With whom do you wish to speak, Mr. Davis?”

He c****d an eyebrow. “I was rather expecting you to tell me.”

Inwardly, I sighed. So we would play that game. Sometimes clients thought they were clever if they didn’t supply me with any information at all. All it really meant was that it would take longer for me to find their answers and it was more likely they would walk away disappointed. This man could not. I had to tell him something accurate. I nervously glanced at Pa, who motioned for me to get on with my answer.

I closed my eyes, calling on Demosthenes, the ancient Greek orator who was my spirit guide, to help me wade through the press of spirits attracted to the beacon of my soul. Usually I had a name or a description, some marker to separate the one I sought from all the others. But tonight, thanks to this man’s pride, I was blind.

“I am having trouble forming a connection with any specific spirit, Mr. Davis. Perhaps if you wrote out a list of names, that would help me. Only one has to be someone you know. You may falsify the others.”

He did not make a move toward the pen and paper on the table or even uncross his arms. “I am a worldly man, Miss Claflin. I know all the tricks your kind use. You will not defraud me this night.”

I shook my head, unable to bear his insistence that I was lying to him when I had no material with which to fashion a lie. “How can I do such a thing? You have told me nothing, sir. I can only assume you seek a loved one, or barring that, you wish to debunk my gifts and unmask me as a charlatan, which I am not. Please, either help me or leave. Your passivity does neither of us any good.”

Mr. Davis began to rise, muttering to Pa that he had taught his daughters no respect, when the spirit of a woman, her hair and russet dress sopping wet, slammed into me with the force of a carriage at top speed. But it was not me she sought to reach; it was my client.

“Paul, Paul dearest!” she cried.

“Mr. Davis?” I tried to get his attention, but he was intent on berating me to my father. “Mr. Davis,” I repeated more loudly. No response. Finally, I mimicked the woman’s frantic tone. “Paul!”

He stopped and turned toward me slowly, fear in his wide eyes.

“A woman is trying to speak with you. She has a desperate message—”

“What woman?” His voice was strained.

“I—I don’t know.” I paused, listening. “She says her name is Mary Margaret. She’s about your height, long curly red hair, brown eyes. She tells me she was a passenger aboard a boat that capsized in New York Harbor during a storm this very night. She wishes nothing more than to be with you, but—”

“Where was the ship’s port of origin?”

The odd question perplexed me. I expected him to ask if she was injured. “What?”

He slammed his palms onto the table. “I said, where was it from?”

I looked at the woman. “Ireland—Galway, I think. She was nearly home from visiting family when the boat encountered trouble. She—she drowned, as did her sister.”

Mr. Davis bowed his head for a moment. When he raised it, fire glinted in his eyes. “You lie!”

I stood, shaking my head. “I tell the truth. She wishes you to know one more thing. She was pregnant.”

He shook his head. “No. You are making this up to get back at me for not giving you any crumbs of information. You are not only a fraud but a cruel little girl.” He turned to my father and poked him squarely in the chest. “And you, her own father, the king of lies. I demand my p*****t back—now.”

For a moment, as my father towered over Mr. Davis with one arm raised, I thought Pa might start a brawl.

Instead, my father gestured the client to the door. “As you wish, sir.”

When he opened the door, a raised voice reached me from across the hall in Tennie’s parlor. “You witch! You charlatan! You w***e! How dare you tell me my wife is dead? You know nothing.”

A man so resembling Mr. Davis that they had to be brothers flung open the door and stormed out. The two men swore oaths and vowed to see their wives safe in New York as they stomped down the stairs, Pa following in their wake. Tennie and I could only stare at one another across the empty hall.

“I didn’t know you had a client,” Tennie said.

“Nor I you.” I filled her in on what had taken place during my session, which was much the same as hers.

Neither man—and they were brothers—would supply the slightest bit of information, but we both were visited by their wives. The younger hadn’t reacted any better than my client.

“Pa will be mad.”

Tennie nodded silently. “That’s two dollars he’s out.”

“And more, two important men hate us.”

“We will talk about this later,” was all Pa said to us when he returned to the second floor.

To his credit, he didn’t take his anger out on us during business hours, not even after he dropped Tennie and me off at home and went back out into the rain to meet friends at the tavern.

But I had hardly fallen asleep that night when I was shaken violently awake.

“Come here, you ungrateful wretches,” Pa growled, hoisting Tennie and me out of bed.

The stench of hot, bitter ale assaulted me as he yanked me to my feet. When my father glowered down at me, I expected to see the glassy, unfocused gaze of a drunk. Instead, his eyes were clear. He knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t care. My legs trembled, and I fought the sudden urge to urinate.

“Embarrass me in front of two bigwigs, will ya? I’ll learn ya ta speak out to our payin’ cusm” —he hiccoughed— “cussomers. What’d I do ta deserve daughters like you?” My teeth rattled as he shook me, heedless of my fear, as though I was one of his horses to be broken under his will. “Answer me.”

I had learned long ago not to respond when he was on one of these tirades, but Tennie, only ten years old, hadn’t become wise to that yet.

“Pa, we didn’t lie—”

The crack of his hand against Tennie’s mouth was like thunder in the silent house. Tennie clutched her bleeding mouth with only the slightest mewl of pain. Behind us, the rustle of straw and Utica’s slight whimper said the other siblings were awake and trying desperately not to attract attention.

“You could’ve lied to ‘em,” Buck yelled. “Or if you had to tell the truth, give it to ‘em another way. How hard is it to say, ‘Mr. Davis, you mi’ wanna telegram New York. The spirits are sayin’ there’s been an accident with a boat from Ireland’? They prolly told everyone what cheats we are. Wouldn’t be surprised if we have ta close up shop within the week. All because you two have no tact.”

I cowered between the bed and the wall, trying to protect Tennie with my body. We both knew what was coming. Once he raised his arm, one blow was much like the last. I couldn’t even tell what he used this time. A piece of firewood? A cold iron? He was nothing if not creative. I concentrated on the cold, half-rotten floorboards as I held my arms over my head, trying to shield myself from the worst of the blows.

My head was still ringing when I woke in the morning, still crouched over Tennie in a pool of my own blood and piss. Or maybe it was hers. It hardly mattered. We were alive, and thank the Lord it was Sunday so we didn’t have to go to work. My arm throbbed, but I thought little of it. This was not the first time it had been broken, nor was it likely to be the last. Maldron set my arm and wrapped it in a sling, and Polly helped make us presentable for church.

As we were leaving, Mr. Whiteside, who ran the telegraph office, flagged us down. “This message just came for you, Mr. Claflin.”

I stood on tiptoe, despite the pain that shot up my legs, so I could see the note.

MR. CLAFLIN. DEEPEST APOLOGIES TO YOU AND GIRLS. HAVE CONFIRMED WIVES’ DEATHS. WILL REIMBURSE YOU TENFOLD. LOOK FOR CHECK IN MAIL. MR. EUGENE AND MR. WILLFORD DAVIS.

“Well, I’ll be damned. You were right,” was all he said.