The Clairvoyants(12)

“We got up to two-fifty,” I said. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into that.”

We’d been eleven and twelve—bored that summer. It was disarming to be the focus of Del’s attention, her spotlight pointed on you, pressuring you to perform, to be who she wanted you to be. She was relentless about getting her way, annoying and a burden at times. But she also knew how to draw me in, to make something seem an adventure.

“Remember Mrs. Parmenter?” Del caught the red drop in her mouth, her eyes bright.

“She gave us ten dollars,” I said.

Our grandmother’s neighbor, Mrs. Parmenter, had shown up at the pool shed door. She wore a scarf over her head and dark sunglasses, and she wanted to contact her husband. We knew none of the details of his death at that time, only that he had passed away that winter, and though I did wonder why she would come to two children rather than visit the medium at the Spiritualists’ camp, I brushed my concerns aside. She cut the line of children and stepped, a little unsteadily, through the wooden doorway smelling of gin and perfume, her lipstick dark and carelessly applied. The shed was tucked behind a privet hedge and faced a lane that led out to the main road. It housed the pool pump, life jackets and rings, cleaning supplies and tools. Towels smelling of chlorine hung on pegs, and folding lawn chairs, their slats bright green and white strips, were stacked against a back wall. The shed was naturally dark, with only one window we’d covered with a striped beach towel. Our candle was an old red glass citronella, stolen from a patio table. We were no-frills—no jewelry or fancy scarves. Mrs. Parmenter took in the croquet set, the galvanized metal tub we’d turned upside down to use as our table. We’d placed three low folding chairs around it.

“Here’s five dollars for each of you,” she’d said. “Let’s get started.”

I had given Del a cautionary look, but she’d taken the money from the woman’s shaky hand and tucked it into her shorts pocket. It was dusk, and the sky beyond the curtained window was alive with last light, the darkness encroaching from the woods that backed the gravel lane. The shed flickered with shadow, with the eerie twilight. We lit our candle and Mrs. Parmenter sat down. She wore a narrow skirt and had to sit with her legs folded to the side. From her purse she removed a heavy, man’s gold watch and tossed it down onto the galvanized tub.

“This was his,” she said. “I thought you might, you know, need it.”

“Perhaps,” Del said.

She moved the watch out of the way, and we put our hands down flat on the galvanized surface, fingertips touching, and instructed her to do the same. Mrs. Parmenter’s nails were long, the polish chipped. Del told her to close her eyes. She tilted her head at me—the oldest, and therefore considered the most responsible—her mouth a flat line.

“Why? So you can trick me?” she said. Then her expression changed and she complied, mumbling what sounded like an apology.

Her perfume was suffocating in the warm shed, an amorphous presence. Del summoned the spirits in her best medium’s voice, a copy of Reverend Earline Morrissey’s at the Spiritualists’ camp. She said we wanted to hear from Mr. Parmenter, would he be willing to talk with us. And then Mrs. Parmenter interrupted Del, her eyes still squeezed shut.

“Oh no,” she said, her voice harsh. “He doesn’t get to talk. I want to give him a message. You let me know when he’s here.”

Del and I had exchanged a look. We’d never done this with an adult before, and the problems were immediately evident. Inventing anything seemed like lying, yet saying nothing would reveal us as shams. I pressed Del’s finger with mine, giving her a warning to stay silent.

“I sense he is present,” she said, ignoring me, proceeding with our usual script.

“I want a sign,” Mrs. Parmenter said. And then outside a bird called, an evening songbird, and Mrs. Parmenter stiffened, hearing it. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

“He’s here,” she said, giddy and girlish. “He used to whistle like that. That tuneless sound. Yes, I know you’re here, sweetheart.”

Del’s body trembled with nervous laughter, and I struggled to keep my own in check, my voice level.

“Yes,” I said. “He is waiting for your message.”

He wasn’t there—none of the dead showed up at our séances. I played along with Del and felt guilty for our lies. Some of the children were suffering, confused and unappeased by the priests and ministers who insisted their loved ones had gone to heaven—a place I sometimes equated, wrongly, with the astral plane, and which they imagined as a cloud-filled oasis in the sky.

I expected Mrs. Parmenter would say how much she missed her husband, how much the children missed him. Already the oldest girl had come to us seeking him out. “Daddy,” she’d said, “you promised you’d take me to the Civic Center for the Ice Capades. You promised.”

Mrs. Parmenter seemed to gather all of her strength. “My darling,” she said, her voice wavering and sweet. “Father March says that you’re in hell, and I hope that’s true. I wouldn’t expect a priest to lie. I want you to stay there and know how much you’ve hurt—no—how much you’ve destroyed your lovely family. You stay there and think about that for eternity. You just settle in, the way you do, with your goddamn cigarette and your bourbon straight and your pressed boxer shorts and your ‘just heading out to the office,’ and that fucking plaid cap on your head, and you fucking rot there.”