Free Fine Spirits [Spirits 02] by Alice Duncan Page B

want you having to walk in this terrible weather.”
           “Thank you. That would be very good of you, Mrs. Bissel.”
           “Nonsense. I do so appreciate what you're doing for me, Daisy.”
           What I was doing for her was, so far, absolutely nothing, but I didn't point it out to her. Nor did I reiterate that I wasn't an exorcist. I'd learned long since that people believed what they wanted to believe. If Mrs. Bissel wanted to believe that I could help her rid her home of a spirit (or ghost), so be it.
           Her call made my choice of costuming for the day easier. I put on one of my spiritualist dresses, a dark blue gabardine number that had white trim around the collar, cuffs, and belt, and had a hem that ended a tasteful six inches above my ankles. A dark blue hat, black stockings (in those days, one wore black or white stockings, unless one wanted to scandalize everyone, and I definitely didn't want to do that), and black shoes. A black handbag completed my ensemble, and I'd wear my good black woolen coat. Another funereal ensemble, and appropriate to the weather, my mood, and my profession.
           By the time I was dressed, Billy had made himself some toast and was eating breakfast with Pa in the kitchen. Pa looked up from the newspaper he'd been reading and smiled at me. “You're looking very nice today, Daisy.”
           “Thanks, Pa.” I smiled at him and at Billy, who didn't smile back. I gave a hefty internal sigh, and waited for him to say something rotten to start my day right.
           He surprised me. “You look great, Daisy.” He gave me a sad grin that made my heart ache.
           My poor heart took more abuse than any such organ ought to be forced to take. Which didn't matter any more that morning than it ever had. “Thanks. It's nice to know the men in my life appreciate me.”
           Pa appreciated me. Billy didn't. I didn't say so. Nevertheless, I twirled in front of them as if I were a model at Nash's Department Store, walking down that runway-thing they put up when the society ladies attended fashion shows there.
           “Going to Mrs. Bissel's?” Billy asked, sounding wistful, as if he wished I were going to stay home and keep him company on that lousy rainy day.
           I wished I were, too, but I had to work--not that he'd ever thank me for it. Maybe he'd like my job better when I brought him a puppy. I still had to ask Mrs. Bissel about that. “Yes. That was her on the telephone.”
           “Going to use some kind of anti-ghost poison?” Pa asked, chuckling. “Like ant powder?”
           Good old Pa. He could always make me giggle. “Wish I had some. It might come in handy in Mrs. Bissel's basement.”
           Billy said, “Huh,” and chomped on his toast.
           I didn't snap at him, but instead put another piece of bread in the toast rack and lit the burner. We had a pretty nice gas range (bought with money I earned as a spiritualist, I might add), and it was much easier to regulate the toasting of bread than it had been when we used a wood-burning stove. Ma and Aunt Vi were always thanking me for getting such an up-to-date stove. Pa probably would have thanked me if he'd thought about it.
           Billy had never thanked me and never would, because of his feelings about my spiritualist business. That morning, I tried not to get indignant at him for it. Didn't work. Never did. As far as I was concerned, Billy was pigheaded and unreasonable about my job. Even if he was a wounded war hero, he didn't have to be so darned illogical.
           He was wrong when he said what I did was wicked. Through my work I helped people cope with their grief. Many's the woman who's thanked me after a séance during which I'd told her that her son or husband or cousin or lover was at peace on the other side of life and still loved those he'd left behind. I don't consider easing people's