I collected the three other buttons from the corners where they had rolled. The sweater still bound me at the armpits. I struggled out of it, bundled the buttons and the candle stub on the kitchen table into it and looked around for a place to hide it for a while. The kitchen was about to be busy; no place in it was safe from disturbance. Opening the door to Cleonie’s and Perdita’s room, I dropped my bundle just inside.
The new arrivals were climbing out of their vehicles outside. The previous Sunday, I had helped Miz Verlow put out the refreshments. I meant to do it all by myself today but the weird visitation from Mamadee’s voice, and the ghost giant in the fog gave me greater impetus; the long list of responsibilities put off both the immediate shock and the consideration thereof. I raced into the parlor, where the coffee urn stood ready to go, and plugged it in. Then I hurried back to the kitchen. By the time the guests had been shown their rooms and had time to relieve and refresh themselves, I was supposed to have everything needed in the reading room, arranged around the coffee urn on the big piecrust table: cups in their saucers, coffee spoons, little plates and napkins. There was tea to make, the hot water jug to fill, cream and sugar cubes, lemon slices, and plates of sweets and savories and little crustless sandwiches left by Perdita in the refrigerator, for me to array. Nothing was larger than a bite or two, so as not to spoil anybody’s supper.
Mama drifted in first. She made a sad job of pouring herself coffee. She too was still trying to absorb the voice and its utterances. Her cigarette shortage added to her restlessness. I was not surprised to have her frown at me over her cup as she raised it to her lips.
“I’ll pour for the guests, Calley. Go somewhere else. Children should be seen and not heard.”
I had not said a word. I hoped that her hand steadied before she actually had to pour for someone other than herself. Turning to leave, I nearly ran into Mrs. Mank.
“Oh Lord,” Mama said. “Calley, apologize for stepping on Miz Mank’s toes!”
Mrs. Mank smiled coldly at me and even more coldly at Mama. “No harm done, Mrs. Dakin.” She clearly articulated the “Mrs.” “This little girl is a busy little creature, isn’t she?” Mrs. Mank continued. “I expect that she has more to do.”
“Yes, she does,” agreed Mama, with open pleasure at the thought.
Though I was very curious to see how Mama and Mrs. Mank would get along, I was also aware that Miz Verlow needed me. I could almost hear her in my head, calling my name.
Outside, around the back, Miz Verlow was stacking her trolley with luggage. I ran up to her and helped her push it up the ramp into the back hall.
“I hope you grow fast,” she said. “I caint wait for you to be able to sling some of these bags for me.”
I stood straighter and tried to look bigger. The implication that I was going to live in Miz Verlow’s house long enough to do any growing thrilled me.
She stepped back from the trolley to take a breather.
“Miz Verlow,” I asked, “did you ever see a ghost?”
The question did not seem to surprise her.
“I might have.”
That was as good as an admission to me. “What size was it? Can ghosts be different sizes?”
She shook her head at me. “Slow down, little girl. I said that I might have. That doesn’t make me an expert.”
Which meant she didn’t want to tell me. And also that likely ghosts did have different sizes.
I veered into yet another question. “Do Florida newspapers print bitcharies about dead people in Alabama?”
Miz Verlow chuckled. “Obituaries, you mean?”
I agreed that that was what I meant.
“Only if the dead person in Alabama were very important or died in a very unusual way.”
What if Mamadee was not as important as she had seemed, or pretended to be? Of course, we had no idea how she died, if she had.
I tried another tack. “Is there another way to find out if a person is dead?”
“A phone call to that person’s address might suffice. Or to a friend or acquaintance.” She changed the subject. “You are very good at making voices.”
I shrugged.
“I thought you might be. Fennie mentioned something—” Miz Verlow didn’t finish. “Your mama says you were the fussiest baby ever.”
Everything that ever happened to Mama was the mostest, we both knew, so I made no response. I was distracted with the speculation that Miz Verlow had just hinted that I might call Mamadee’s number and use somebody else’s voice to inquire as to whether Mamadee was still in the land of living or had gone to her eternal reward in Satan’s fiery embrace. I thought of calling one of my Dakin uncles. One of the uncles, one of the aunts, would know for certain sure if Mamadee was dead yet. I would have to ask an operator for a number.
Miz Verlow continued, “You hear extraordinarily well, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I agreed as softly and humbly as I could.
Ida Mae Oakes always told me bragging on a gift was crass.
“Must be hard to concentrate,” Miz Verlow said, as if we were talking about finding the right size of shoe.
It had taken me most of my seven years to get as far as I had, learning how to shut out enough of the world so I could think. Of course I knew, by the time that I was three or so, that I heard quite a lot more than other people, and that other people didn’t seem to know how to imitate sounds the way I did, more or less naturally. Ida Mae Oakes stuffed my ears with cotton balls to help block out some of the relentless noise, and then I did it for myself. Later still, I figured out that I could sleep by accepting the noise, attending it closely until I floated away on it. When I told Ida Mae, she said that she was some relieved, what with the price of cotton balls always rising, and the boll weevils, and had I noticed how rough and red her hands had gotten from picking cotton and all? She made me laugh until the grits shot right out my nose.
I still thought, maybe sometime I would meet somebody who heard as much and as well as I did, and they would be good at making the sounds they heard as a matter of course. The closest I have ever gotten to a person like me have been the autistic savants I have encountered: I know of half a dozen who are blind and on first hearing can play any music on the piano, and adapt any music to any style, all without a moment’s instruction or practice. I think now maybe it was an accident that I can see. That said, I could—and can—hear the imperfection of my own mimicry. I am not a musician nor a chanteuse, but something much more like a record player. And as for acuity of hearing: The noise of the world is not only distracting; it can be outright painful; it can be deathly exhausting.
But I just nodded to Miz Verlow.
She said my name, “Calley?” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “Calley, can you hear the dead?”
I blinked at her. Her question explained far more than I could answer.
“Yes, ma’am,” I told her, “but it ain’t worth hearing.”
She looked shocked. “You mean that you don’t understand it?”
I pressed my lips together. I felt like I had blurted out a secret. I was not about to tell her that I had seen Mamadee in the mirror as well.
Miz Verlow looked at me appraisingly for a moment.
When I didn’t say anything more, she turned back to the trolley. “I think you can take this little one.”
It was a small suitcase, an overnighter, and not heavy, at least until I was several steps from the top of the backstairs. But I managed. By then, I was wishing I would hurry up and grow bigger faster too.
Bobbing around inside the parlor again, clearing the used crockery to a tray, I heard Mama’s step on the verandah and caught a glimpse of Mama, pacing there. Mrs. Mank was with her. The two of them smoking—Mrs. Mank’s cigarettes, I had no doubt, as Mama would not have shared her last cigarettes with a dying soul. I listened closely but they were not speaking to one another. They seemed merely to be having a peripatetic and companionable smoke—a younger woman in black, an older woman in shades of grey. A couple of other guests were also so occupied but those individuals were strolling to the beach, trailing their wisps and puffs behind them.