Free The Spirit Room by Marschel Paul Page B

The spirit, if there is one, will use my pointing finger to spell words on this alphabet paper in front of me.” Izzie rested her hand on the large sheet a moment, then touched Payne’s little finger again, snake nose to snake nose. “Clara will write the letters down and we’ll see what it spells as we go.”
     
    Taking a huge, deep breath and releasing it, Izzie closed her eyes. Clara did the same, but then Clara tilted her head up and slowly, carefully, slightly raised her eyelids to see if everyone really had their eyes closed. Weston, with too much stinky pomade in his hair, had his eyes half open and was staring right at her. Double rot . He was going to ruin the whole thing. Just as Clara was about to say how important it was to be still and concentrate the way Mrs. Fielding had taught them, she heard Papa.
     
    “Weston, come on, now, shut your dang eyes. I told you I’d buy you drinks later.”
     
    Everyone opened their eyes and looked over at Weston. He chuckled and apologized. While everyone did as they were told this time, eyes closed, fingers touching, Clara waited impatiently for one of them to ask for a spirit and for Izzie to perform. The fire crackled. Now and then a carriage or a wagon jangled by outside. Then Clara felt Weston raise his pinkie finger and tap it around randomly on hers. That wasn’t right.
     
    “Couple a sissies.” Payne’s voice was gruff and loud. “I’ll ask for the spirit. Any spirit here want to talk?”
     
    Well, if there were any spirits coming by, he’d have scared them off with that kind of tone. Weston’s finger settled down.
     
    Izzie kept rock still, eyes shut. Finally, oh finally, she got going. She started breathing heavy and rotating her head just so. Clara wanted to burst she was so proud of her sister. She wanted to stand up on her chair and say, “Papa, look! She’s just like Mrs. Fielding! Like Anna!” But she didn’t. She held her arms stiff, her back straight, and looked down at her paper, pen, and ink, ready to break from the circle and begin writing at the perfect moment.
     
    After a while, Izzie raised her right hand ever so slightly, shook it around in the air, jittery, then let it fall back like a dead bird. Now everyone’s eyes were open and watching the show. Izzie did this with her hand, not two or three times, but ten. That was too many. These men were going to want to go get their free drinks if she didn’t get on with it. At last, she popped open her eyes and snapped out her pointing finger in a funny jerk and swept it over to the H in one rapid-fire move. Scrambling for her writing tools, Clara dipped the metal tip pen into the inkwell, and wrote the H. She knew the rest already. It was Hilda, Payne’s dead wife. She had to wait for Izzie, though.
     
    I-L-. Before Clara even wrote the D, Payne smiled. “Ah, Hilda.” Grinning, the Norwegian looked over at Papa. “Frank, a big surprise, it’s my wife Hilda here come to talk to me.”
     
    Clara stayed with her ink and paper, didn’t turn around to see Papa this time.
     
    “You can ask her questions, Mr. Payne.” Clara said.
     
    He tapped his fingers on the table. “You all right over there, Hilda?”
     
    Y-E-S, then J-O-H-N.
     
    “You got something to say to me, dearest?”
     
    I-A-M-S-O-R-R-Y. Izzie paused while Clara finished.
     
    “I’m sorry,” Weston, leaning toward Clara, read it out. But, that was her job. She’d have to speak up faster.
     
    “What for?” Payne’s smile simmered down. Now he watched Clara’s paper.
     
    S-T-E-A-L-I-N-G
     
    “Stealing,” Clara blurted out before inscribing the G, proud to get it so quickly. But Hilda Payne stealing wasn’t anything Papa had told them about. It was supposed to be something like “Sorry for leaving you so early.” Izzie was going to get Papa hopping mad for this stealing business. Clara’s temples grew moist. Their first try at being mediums and Izzie had to go in her own muttonhead