The Ghost Belonged to Me (15 page)

“All right,” I yelled out over the train noise. “Rear up, Blossom! I know you're in here.”

And above a pile of swaying crates Blossom's head rose. Her hair was a bird's nest, and planted on top was a sad old straw hat. She appeared to have passed a sleepless night. I gave her the kind of out-of-patience look that Uncle Miles often gave people.

And she said, “I can go where I please. I got twenty-eight dollars of my own money.”

“I don't doubt that,” I told her. “You got it selling trips through our barn. And what'll your mama think when you turn up missing?”

“She don't care,” Blossom said. “It's just one less mouth to feed to her.”

“How come you're stowing away among the coffins and the baggage if you're so flush with money?”

“I was afraid they wouldn't sell me a ticket, and I didn't know what it might cost. Besides, I'm guarding this box here. I'm going to help you see Inez safely to her rest.”

“Many thanks for that,” I sneered, “but I guess Uncle Miles and I can handle those arrangements.”

“Maybe you can,” she replied, “but all I know is that the Brulatour fellow was nosing around this baggage car late last night, and where was you then? He'll steal your thunder if he can and Inez too.”

“Blossom, you're the champion busybody of the world. I don't see where you fit into things at all.”

“You have the Gift and could see Inez's spirit with your own eyes and hear her words too. I ain't receptive, but I got some wisdom you don't. I know what it's like to be lonesome, like she was.” She turned her face away. Though her chin looked firm, her mouth quivered. And I saw that I had maybe said the wrong thing.

“Well then, as long as you're here, you better come back to the chair car with me and Uncle Miles.”

“And get flung off the train by the conductor for not paying? No, indeed.” Blossom shut her eyes and shook her head.

“Oh come on, Blossom, like as not he won't even notice you.”

“Some people can see me clearer than you can, Alexander. You can see a dead girl easier than a living one. But I reckon you will change in time.”

“That's a silly thing to say, Blossom,” I told her, but in a way I knew it wasn't. “They'll only catch you when we pull into New Orleans.”

“They didn't catch me at Carbondale,” she replied, and her head sank below the packing cases. I handed the sandwich down to her, which she took.

Heading back through the train, I was determined to tell Uncle Miles that Blossom was a stowaway. But I lost my resolve since nothing much could be done about her short of New Orleans anyhow.

He thought I'd been absent longer than necessary, so I got him talking to take his mind off that. “What are we going to do when we get down there?”

“Do? Well, first and last we're goin' to keep that Brulatour feller from makin' a public spectacle and hoggin' the attention. And we're goin' to put up at a quiet place that takes payin' guests and then scout around to find the graveyard where the Dumaine folks is laid away. Then we're goin' to stick Inez in with them. And of course I will be showin' you somethin' of the city.”

“How are you going to do that, Uncle Miles, in a place you've never been before?”

“Why, boy, I been to New Orleans! There and back on a riverboat. I been everywhere I ever wanted to go and two or three places I never even wanted to see! I have lived a long time, Alexander, and most of it with itchy feet.”

“Oh,” I said.

“I was down in New Orleans in—lemme see—eighteen hundred and ninety-one. It was the time the Black Hand murdered the police chief, and then they was all lynched in Congo Square. The Black Hand is a gang of outlaws and like as not they still flourish, as anything evil will down there.

“Oh, there is lessons to be learned in New Orleans you won't find in your school books, Alexander. It is a town entirely give over to fleshly pleasure, a free and easy place, full of people walkin' abroad who anywhere else would be in jail or a madhouse. High livin' and low livin', good drink and bad women ...”

Uncle Miles shook his head and seemed to go off into a reverie. “Music day and night,” he mumbled. “The cars clatterin' and the women callin' from the balconies, and the boats hootin' over the levee. I guess it's about as fine a place as I know of.” Then he nodded off to sleep and didn't stir till we were under the canopy of the New Orleans depot.

 

 

People move different down in New Orleans. That was the first thing I noticed about the place, before we were even off the train. They bounce and sashay along like they're in a musical play on the stage. There was a brass band playing on the platform, and the bandsmen shuffled their feet in time to their song. They were playing “Nearer My God to Thee” in ragtime.

When Uncle Miles heard the music, he was on his feet, squinting out the open window. “That's one of them burial society bands!” he said, banging his fist on the window. “And looky over there past them gates. They got a horse-drawn hearse backed up. Look at them purple plumes on them horses!

“Well, Alexander, that big-mouth Brulatour and his newspaper has got us outflanked. He'll turn the whole thing into a vaudeville act.

“I was in hopes we'd be left to go about our business in peace, but they're too many for us. Seemed like we was the only family Inez had, Yankees though we are, and not even Catholics. I took it as a sign when she appeared to you, since I've felt bad carryin' the old captain's guilty secret these many years. I wanted to do right by her before my time was up.”

The train had come to a halt by then, and people were crowding down the aisle. But Uncle Miles sat in his seat, and I'd never seen him look as whipped. Frail even. I cast about for something to perk his spirit. But all I could think of was that Blossom in the baggage car was the only ace in the hole we had and hardly worth mentioning.

Brulatour's big straw hat bobbed past the window, and he was shortly to be seen surrounded by his newspaper brethren. There were some ladies crowding around him too, in big hats with parasols or fans. He was bowing and scraping to them. In New Orleans they put their socializing before business.

Which is not Blossom's way.

 

 

 

 

“
K
eep a-walkin' and don't get drawed into that Brulatour mob,” Uncle Miles said when we got off the train. But nobody marked us as we dragged our valises toward the gates.

I had my eye out for Blossom and saw her right away up by the baggage car. She was on the platform, holding the bandanna full of her traveling gear behind her. She seemed to be passing the time of day with the men who were unloading the train. I never saw her look any more innocent.

Farther off, I noticed one of the big coffins from the train being eased into the fancy hearse. And that offered something heartening to say to Uncle Miles. “If that hearse is for Inez, they have got into a mix-up over the boxes.”

“Oh there is my brother now who I have come down to the station to meet,” Blossom sang out and pointed a finger at me. “And that fancy box with the handles up in the baggage car belongs to him!”

“Things is happenin' pretty fast,” Uncle Miles muttered to me. “Who is that peculiar-lookin' little gal?”

I told him she was one of us, since there was no time to go into detail. Then I peered over my shoulder to see if Brulatour was bearing down on us. But he was still in the knot of his confederates and admirers.

Between us, Blossom and I could just heft the box. “Cut out,” Uncle Miles said. “I am just behind you.” And I guess Brulatour was so sure of his triumph that he didn't check his hearse, for we saw it clopping away as we climbed up into a jitney. Our driver strapped Inez's box on the back.

Uncle Miles asked him if he knew where St. Charles Avenue was. The driver told him it was hard to miss as it was the major boulevard of the city. “Then see if you can find Mrs. Pomarade's Colonnade Guest House on it, for that's where we're puttin' up.” The driver replied that Mrs. Pomarade was as hard to miss as the boulevard. And then we drove off through the steamy brick streets of New Orleans.

Blossom had no more experience riding in jitneys than I had. But she straightened her hat, crossed her ankles in her high-topped shoes, and put on quite a ladylike display.

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” Uncle Miles said, peering past me at her.

“This here is Blossom Culp,” I said. “She stowed away in the baggage car and is from Bluff City.”

“A Bluff City girl and I don't know her?” said Uncle Miles, very puzzled.

“My people are not in a position to have much carpentry done,” she told him, very dignified. There was a show of understanding between them from the first minute, and I felt somewhat left out.

“I take it you have run off,” he said, “which is liable to be a worry to your folks.”

“Very little worries them,” she replied, “and roving is in our blood.”

“Now that,” Uncle Miles said firmly, “is a thing I can understand. It appears you worked a switch with a couple of bodies. That bein' the case, how'd you do it?”

Blossom held up her bandanna bundle. “I had a pencil stub in this poke,” she said. “And last night I come across a shipping label on the floor of the baggage car. One of them that says This End Up. It was a blank one, and it come to me I might put it to use. So I lettered on it Body of Inez Dumaine, New Orleans. My spelling is good, and my lettering is even better.” Blossom folded her hands primly in her lap.

“Yes, go on,” Uncle Miles urged her.

“Well, I had me a look around at some of the other coffins being shipped south and tried to figure which they'd unload first. I picked one, peeled the label off it, and stuck my new one on. It wasn't a sure thing, but it worked.”

“Well damn me to hell,” said Uncle Miles, staring at her in deep admiration.

“So when we pulled into New Orleans this evening, I nipped out of the baggage car and through the car where they eat and eased down out of the train when nobody noticed. Then I stepped up to where you seen me on the platform. There wasn't nothin' to it.”

“Alexander,” Uncle Miles jabbed me hard in the ribs. “There sets a girl with all her wits about her.”

I said nothing.

Mrs. Pomarade's Colonnade Guest House, while needing paint, was an immense fine place with a leading glass front door behind pillars. There was only a small sign in the yard to tell it was a private hotel. A maid answered. She took a long look at the three of us and nearly shut the door. But Uncle Miles boomed, “Tell her Miles Armsworth from up yonder.”

We all pushed the box into the front hall. The maid didn't like that, and later when she learned what it contained, she took fright. We were shown into a sitting room being dusted by another maid. She worked her feather duster and her hips together in a snappy rhythm. And she was singing at the top of her voice, “If you ain't gonna shake it, what'd you bring it for?”

Presently, a very unusual-looking big woman stepped in from the hall. I'd never seen anything to equal her appearance, and haven't since. Her face was made up very clownish, and there were brush strokes painted above her eyes to represent lashes. She wore a large and lacey dress, mostly yellow, and high-heeled shoes with no backs to them. There was a variety of combs in her hair, which must have been the reddest in America.

“Why Miles Armsworth!” she said, “Aren't you dead? The girl said you was from up yonder, but now I see she only meant Bluff City. It's grand to see you, you old b—”

“Sophie,” Uncle Miles interrupted, “can you put us up?”

“I can put you up, but can I put up with you? That's the question.” She laughed immoderately at her joke. “Who are these young'uns? You don't mean to tell me that at your time of life you—”

“This here is my great-nephew, Alexander. Say how do you do to Mrs. Pomarade, Alexander. And this here is Miss Blossom Culp, who is—ah—travelin' with us.”

“My stars,” said Mrs. Pomarade, “quite a party!”

“There's one more to our party,” Uncle Miles said. “Out in your hall is a box with Inez Dumaine in it.”

Mrs. Pomarade looked behind her in some surprise. “Not
the
Inez Dumaine I been reading about in the
Delta Daily
? The poor thing who—”

“The same,” said Uncle Miles.

“That's not a very big box, considering, is it?” Mrs. Pomarade said.

“In fifty years' time you won't make quite such a big package yourself, Sophie,” remarked Uncle Miles.

Mrs. Pomarade showed Uncle Miles and me up to a room. Then she took Blossom off with her. These two must have confided in one another off on their own, for Mrs. Pomarade thereafter seemed to know all about our business. When we were alone, I said to Uncle Miles, “Was that Mrs. Pomarade an actress at one time?”

“Very likely. She's had a busy life,” is all he said.

We washed up and he peeled off his overalls. Then he was ready to go down to dinner in his blue suit. He told me to change into a clean shirt, which coming from him was something of a surprise.

We cooled our heels downstairs in the sitting room long after the dinner gong went. A few other guests shuffled into the dining room, but there was still no sign of Mrs. Pomarade or Blossom.

“Nobody's ever in a hurry down here,” Uncle Miles observed. “Time don't meant nothin' to them.”