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 cries and turns toward Madame De Cassin. “What’s happening?”
The spiritualist snatches her hand away, leaps to her feet. Jessie hears something heavy clatter on the floor. Madame De Cassin stoops, whirls, and sprints across the room. Light blooms as she stands at the gaslamp, turning up the flame. Her face is drained pale, her brown eyes wide. Jessie has never seen the spiritualist look frightened before.
“Is it really true? Mama was here?” Mr. Watkins says, looking around. “Mama?”
Li’l Lucy’s teeth chatter. Mr. Heald looks pinched.
“My mother passed away a month ago,” Mr. Watkins says. “And that strange presence, did you feel it? On the Overland, I felt a strange presence, too. A strange presence, I tell you, and a vision that changed the whole world just for a moment. She said, ‘Beware, my son.’” He seizes Jessie’s arm. “What does she mean?”
“Sure and what does it mean?” Jessie demands, turning to Madame De Cassin.
“Let’s go downstairs,” the spiritualist says. “All of you, come on.” She herds them out of the sitting room. The others go as Jessie turns off the gaslamp, crushes the smoking piles of incense in their burners, plunks a silver snuffer over the smoking candle. The spiritualist takes Jessie by the arm and resolutely closes the door to the sitting room behind them. “Let no one in there. Do