Jilly-Bean (Jilly-Bean Series # 1) (6 page)

“Not sponge, ginseng! Gin-seng, Dad,” added Aunt Jean in a painstaking voice, emphasizing each syllable as though her father were slow-witted.

Granddad Crossland fell back into smiling silence, disengaged from the chatter around him. Moments later he rose, passing arthritic fingers across his forehead. His steps were a bit unsteady. He was panting and murmuring words too low to be heard, and his face was contorted in pain. His back looked rounded and bent as he leaned the weight of his body on a cane that he often used to help him walk. The cane thumped softly on the carpeted floor as he steadily made his way. He then raised his voice, speaking loudly over the murmur of the guests: “I need some water from the fridge.”

Aunt Jean and Uncle Phil exchanged a meaningful glance, and without a word, Uncle Phil got up to help his father-in-law find his way.

“Oh, I just love what you've done with your garden, Jean,” interjected Mrs. Paradis.

“It's nothing, really. I pick up odds and ends here and there.”

“Here we go again!” cried Adam: “Another one of Aunt Jean's yard-sale discoveries.”

“Take for instance the gazebo near the pond. Believe it or not, I picked it up at a flea market in Gravenhurst last year. The gnomes I picked up at a yard sale and the garden furniture at a country auction. Now,” she added with dramatic flair, “have you ever seen another garden like it?”

Everyone agreed they had not.

The buzz and the murmur of the guests continued. Jillian tried to keep focused on the chatter, but a weight of tiredness settled on her, and she yawned. The train ride from Kingston had left her exhausted. Her mind was in a whirl. Too many faces and too many voices.

“
Jillian, wake up!
”

She looked up.

“What— are— you— studying— at— school?”

She murmured vaguely, “I'm planning to go into medicine at Queen's University.”

“Ah, a girl in medicine!” said the voice, which sounded too loud and had managed to turn a few heads in their direction. The man was leaning back in his chair; his fetus-like belly floating high above his body as if suspended in air and disconnected from the rest of him; his long legs were kicking vaguely at the coffee table in front of him as he regarded her comically. “In the Middle Ages women healers were branded as witches by the church and state. Did you know that?”

Jillian was gazing at the man in disbelief. “I'm sorry, what is your name?”

He extended his hand, “John Mueller, and my wife over there is Joyce.”

“Well, Mr. Mueller, we've come a long way from the Middle Ages. I'm planning to specialize in orthopaedics.”

“Nonsense. Medicine.” he replied, “You'll be exposing yourself to all sorts of germs and infectious diseases. Now, law; that's the ticket!” She guessed correctly that Mr. Mueller was a lawyer. “Why don't you go into corporate law?”

Mr. Sparks, who had been quiet for most of the evening, spoke up. “My dear man, don't be a fool. Why would this young lady, an innocent, want to dirty her hands in the corporate world and defend corporate criminals? You know the expression: 'Lawyers are liars',” he announced with a grin. “Stick with medicine.”

“I protest!” exclaimed Adam. “I'm no liar.”

“Jillian has a good head on her shoulders,” her mother intervened. “She'll do well in whatever she chooses in life. Girls are a lot different today than in our generation. She's a Libra.”

Adam, who was stuffing his mouth with soft bread and paste, put on the look of someone confronting an enigma. “What does her month of birth have to do with it?” he asked in a garbled-sounding voice.

“It has everything to do with it,” retorted Aunt Jean.

“Well, Jillian,” said Mr. Paradis, “you want a career and be independent, right? Certainly medicine is a noble ambition, not a profession that women one hundred and twenty years ago could ever aspire to. But things are different now; you wouldn't believe how far women have come. If you don't seize the opportunity when it's presented to you, you'll find that the dreams you've always had will lose their power to influence.” Here he winked at Jillian in amusement mingled with a tinge of sadness. He looked around the room and then, dropping his voice to a near whisper, added, “Once we find we can't attain our dreams, we settle for second-best.”

Mrs. Mueller flashed a mournful smile: “I knew a girl— can't remember her name now— prettiest little thing— went into medicine, and it's such a shame that a sweet child like that should spend her days and nights bending over microscopes analyzing blood and pee samples.”

“Oh, y'all thinking of Melinda ... Melinda Hanson?” added Mrs. Sparks in her Texas drawl.

“Yes that's her.”

With a spice of satisfied malice in her tone, Mrs. Sparks added, “now, y'all may recall, there was talk of an
entanglement
of sorts,” she broke out into a rueful smile; “such a great disappointment to her mother.”

Jillian shuddered. She looked around the room and then back at Mrs. Sparks, who was wearing a low-cut dress that revealed her considerable cleavage. Her eyes were caught by a flicker of light from Mrs. Sparks' perfectly round pearls, which were reflecting hues of green and pink. The thick nacre seemed to radiate from within— a stark contrast to the wrinkled pudgy flesh of her neck.

With a leisurely re-crossing of her legs, Aunt Jean glanced at her watch, cleared her throat and announced above the chatter, “May I have everyone's attention?” This was followed by a pause as she looked from one person to the next and then smiled in a way that prepared them for the climax. “Very shortly we shall all be taking our places at a table which has been set up in the barn. The session will be led by Madame Zelda the Gifted. She is a world-renowned medium who will channel the spirits and relay messages from the
other side.
”

There was nervous laughter all around and a shuffling and re-shuffling of feet.

“Madame Zelda is 'gifted'?” announced Mrs. Paradis breathlessly.

“Yes, she most certainly is,” replied Aunt Jean matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Mueller shrieked with excitement: “There will be a witch in the house!”

Mr. Mueller, breathing noisily through his mouth, leaned forward in his chair to whisper in a low rapid voice, “Does Jean really believe in that stuff?”

His wife puckered her lips and gave him a minute nod of her head.

“You better believe it, darlin'. She's incredibly superstitious,” added Mrs. Sparks, looking bored. “She communicates with her dead mother on a regular basis. Thinks nothing better than spending a perfectly good evening sitting in the pitch dark round a table and dead people coming back from their graves and talking to you.” She then raised her voice to a higher pitch: “Downright disrespectful to our Lord Jesus Christ!” She re-crossed her legs and smoothed out her skirt with one hand, looking annoyed.

Aunt Jean, having heard this last remark, stated forcefully that Madame Zelda had mastered the paranormal art and was considered by many to be one of the leading psychics of the day, and she regularly held sessions with clients who communed with loved ones from “
the other side.
”

Jillian remembered that her aunt and uncle were a highly superstitious couple, despite— or was it because of— their respective advanced degrees in philosophy and mathematics. They attached excessive importance to numbers, especially four. As they never tired of pointing out, there had been many circumstances in their lives involving that number. Uncle Phil had been born on July 4, 1944. Aunt Jean's birthday fell on October 31, 1951, and while that date contained no four, her aunt had pointed out more than once that the 3 and 1 in 31 added up to four. Furthermore, Aunt Jean had grown up at 4 Willow Lane. So, they reasoned, anyone could plainly see that the number four was not simply a
lucky
number or mere chance, but that their meeting had been pre-ordained in the heavens and was proof of an ordered universe.

Mr. Sparks murmured sadly that he was not aware of such goings on, or that they even existed, given the widespread education of the masses. He was completely ignorant of “the black arts.” He and his wife were steadfastly religious, “Praise the Lord!” went to church every Sunday, and considered Spiritualism a disgraceful scam and so-called psychics “impostors, every last one.” His wife interrupted his soliloquy, tugging at his arm, and fiercely whispered into his ear to be quiet and not upset their gracious hosts. Then she looked around the room, beaming nervously as she adjusted a few stray wisps of hair that had fallen artfully over one eye.

Hearing this, Mr. Paradis, who evidently fancied himself an orator, saw an opportunity to espouse the rights and freedoms of man. He removed his glasses in slow dramatic fashion, to dab gently at his eyes with a handkerchief as he said he didn't mean to offend the devoutly religious amongst the group and did hasten to remind them that we live in a tolerant society that embraces cultures and religions from the world over, and we should therefore be open-minded to Spiritualism as well.

Just then a clank at the front door echoed through the house, followed by the clicking sound of a woman's rushing footsteps on a hardwood floor. Moments later there appeared a small stout woman, dressed in a sombre long black robe, with gold chains around her neck. Her face was heavily painted, and she peered at everyone in turn through heavy-lidded watchful eyes. Jillian found her dramatic air seemed strangely out of place in rural Oakville; it would have fitted better in a stage production of
Dracula
or some world from the past. Her sensitive nose was assailed by a pungent sweet scent that wafted through the living-room.

“Ah, here is the lady of the hour, Madame Zelda,” announced Aunt Jean as she quickly made her way toward the new arrival, her skirts flowing and her thin hands stretched out in greeting. Her voice was breathless, and she embraced Madame Zelda as if they were old friends from many years back. “I can't tell you what an honour and pleasure it is to have you grace us with your presence this evening. I know how very busy you must be, with your numerous clients,” A few guests got up to greet Madame Zelda, while others remained standing respectfully apart, studying this odd specimen with curiosity. Jillian stayed seated in her chair, fascinated and at the same time repelled, scrutinizing Madame Zelda's heavily made-up face: her thin lips painted in crimson red, her high cheekbones and her black, cat-like eyes smeared with matching black eye-liner. What a peculiar woman! Madame Zelda looked around nervously and spoke very little, and when she did, her voice came in a faint whisper that was barely discernible above the low chatter from the guests. Oddest of all, she spoke without moving her lips and moved slowly and anxiously, watchful of the impression she might be giving.

“You may recall that witches were burnt 350 years ago,” whispered Adam in Olivia's ear.

“I've never had the pleasure of meeting a real psycho— I mean psychic— in person,” mumbled Mr. Mueller under his breath and then broke out into a full belly laugh. Having murmured this jest, he bit his lower lip and winked at Jillian. Unfortunately his voice had risen sharply on
psycho,
and the offensive word had been just loud enough to reach Madame Zelda's ears. She shot the pair a swift glance, which quite startled them both and caused them to look anxiously about. Madame Zelda paused and produced from her bag a small object which looked like a pipe with an ornate gold tip. She then lit it with a match and started puffing quickly, exhaling blue smoke and waving it away with her hand as smoke rings floated up towards the ceiling. As she inhaled she fixed a glassy eye on Mr. Mueller.

Mr. Mueller's wife tapped him gently on the shoulder and scolded him in a hoarse whisper: “Please, that's enough. She heard you.”

“What? I have a right to speak my mind,” he said defensively, his voice cracking. He got up from his chair and looked around for an exit, then halted abruptly as he found the door leading out into the garden.

The moonlight quivered through shifting leaves as the guests made their way, with some trepidation, under the gaze of garden gnomes with short chubby arms and expressive sinister faces, to the adjoining barn, which was nearly lost in shadow except for the flickering light cast by a garden lamp-post along the path. The oak trees rose gnarled and dark, their skeletal limbs lifted up as if in appeal against the clear night sky. The air seemed to belong to a different time for this ritual from a different century.

Jillian felt someone place a cold hand on her wrist. There was some pressure like a needle.
She jolted up suddenly, nearly jumping out of her skin, and turned around to see Madame Zelda whose face was in darkness and appeared menacing. She was gripping at her arm and wouldn't let go. Madame Zelda then took a few steps forward, and by the light of the lamppost, Jillian could view distinctly the old lady's pinched features: a play of light and shadow fell on the old lady's face. She looked ancient— her hollow cheeks seemed to sink back into her jaw and her mouth was tight and closed: altogether a sinister face. “Don't be afraid of the dark,” she said softly.

“What?” Jillian was seized by a queer uneasy feeling that the old lady could see right through her. How strange it seemed that Madame Zelda was reading her thoughts. But that was not possible, she told herself. A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the whispering aspen. Jillian could feel herself trembling, and while she smiled uneasily at Madame Zelda, she also let out a faint cry as she managed to tear herself free from the old woman's grasp and make her escape, pushing past her. As she ran on ahead, she peered anxiously about in the darkness. No one else seemed to have noticed the incident. Her heart raced wildly as she caught up with her brother and Olivia, who were well ahead of the crowd and nearing the barn. She felt a rush of relief.

She reached the barn feeling breathless and panting, as though she had been running. She drew deep gulps of air into her lungs but stopped when she encountered a pungent smell of horse dung and feared she would choke on the stench. “Oh, God! We're having the séance in here?” she cried out in disbelief. The air inside was stale and felt sticky, and the heat made it worse. The others arrived shortly after, falling one by one into the barn— most now covering their mouths and noses with Kleenex. “Good graciousness!” cried Mrs. Sparks, “Do y'all smell that poo?” They now stood under great arching wooden roof beams. Moonlight poured in through the slats like an electric searchlight. Jillian slowly let her eyes wander around. The barn had once been a stable but was now empty except for potting-trays and composted soil and was mainly used by Aunt Jean as a storage shed. A single lonely lightbulb placed near the front entrance dimly lit the interior. A large round table made of distressed wood had been brought in from the main house and set in the centre, and a hand towel had been placed over one small window to block the outside moon.