Part 10 (1/2)

I held the envelope high over my head.

”What is . . . No, when will . . .”

I dropped the envelope.

”This is just too hard,” I said, raising my face toward the rafters. ”Please. No, I understand. All right, I'll try just once.”

I clutched the envelope to my breast, closed my eyes, and swallowed hard. Then, in a clear voice, I said, ”'Where has my dear mother gone?'”

I opened the envelope and nodded in confirmation.

”Who wrote that? Raise your hand, please.”

Timothy timidly placed his hand in the air.

”Sir,” I said. ”The spirits have a message for you.”

He worked his way forward through the crowd, nearly to the edge of the stage. I approached the footlights and knelt, so that I would be at his eye level. I gave him my most beatific smile.

”Brother,” I said. ”Your dearest mother, Mary Margaret, has been in Summerland these past three years since pa.s.sing over. She wants you to know that she is safe, that pain is only a memory, and that she attends unseen to your welfare.”

Timothy's face positively radiated joy.

”She urges you to live,” I said. ”Live!”

He nodded, his eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears.

I gave him a wink. He had played his part well.

Then I stood, smoothed my vest, walked back to the table, and took the next envelope. I held it over my heart for a moment, while gazing out at the crowd. I spotted Judge Grout, hunched in a seat toward the back. His chin was cupped in his hand and he was listening as intently as if he were trying a case.

”'When will Martha come back to me?'” I announced.

I opened the envelope and gave a knowing nod.

”Who asks the spirits this?”

No hands went up.

”Come now, someone asked this question.”

A man in a shopkeeper's ap.r.o.n far in the back raised a pale hand. I pointed, and all heads swiveled to look at him.

”This is your question, sir?”

He nodded.

”Sir, I hesitate to give you the answer the spirits have imparted. Are you prepared to learn the truth?”

”Yes,” he said, almost a whisper.

”Your beloved Martha will return to you only when you quit your drinking,” I said. ”The choice is yours. That is all the spirits have to say.”

The shopkeeper's chin dropped to his chest.

”Oh, this is a fraud!” a cowboy, with a carefully tended chinstrap beard and auburn curls down to his shoulders, declared. He was sitting in the front row, slouched in the chair. His arms were crossed defiantly. ”These two must be in on it.”

”How could they?” the old man who had collected the envelopes asked. ”They were sealed and pa.s.sed directly from our hands to hers. There was never the possibility of fraud.”

”It's a trick,” the cowboy said.

”How?” the old man asked.

”I don't know. . . .”

I smiled at the doubting cowboy.

”Believe, brother,” I said. ”Just believe.”

I took the next envelope, and then I frowned.

”Who wants to know if he will regain the use of his right arm?”

A left hand went up in the balcony.

”I'm sorry, the spirits are silent. I advise you to find a doctor you trust, study the Good Book, and put your faith in Jesus Christ.”

I took up the next envelope, clasped it to my heart, and stared at Judge Grout. The table rapped sharply, three times. Pause. Then three more urgent raps.

”The spirits are signaling a particularly important question,” I said. ”They tell me the individual who submits this question wishes to remain anonymous, so I will not ask him to hold up his hand or otherwise identify himself after the spirits have answered the question.”

”Then how will we know it's a real question?” It was the doubting cowboy again.

”I guess you won't,” I said. ”Now, please, I need silence-and faith-in order to commune with the spirits.”

I swallowed hard.

”The question . . . ,” I said. ”Oh, my. The question is from a father who wants to know if he is to blame for the death of his little boy.”

I opened the envelope.

”That's all,” I said. ”There are no names or other information on the slip of paper. But the spirits know.”

I stared at Judge Grout.

”The spirits say that this poor man has tortured himself for too long for the death of his son. Too long has this man, a respected and learned man, believed that he failed his precious eight-year-old son, Thomas, who contracted scarlet fever and pa.s.sed over three winters ago.”