Burn bright and fierce, Calley, came the whisper from somewhere over my shoulder.
The shock of the burn wakened me past mere wakening. A wash of energy made me intensely aware not only of the substance of the material world around me, but that I was not sleepy, not the least bit sleepy or tired. I know now that there is nothing supernatural about such a state of mind; I was merely experiencing the clarity and sense of super reality common to those who have stayed awake all night. I suspect that feeling is one of the addictions of the night owl. But then, I took it for the way that Cosima’s ghost must feel in this world.
A glance at the mantel in the parlor showed me that each sock now hung heavy. For an instant, I thought each was filled with a legless foot. I blinked and the socks were merely laden with small mysterious objects. How they had all been filled without my seeing, I could not imagine.
Around the edges of the draperies, I could see that the dark had thinned enough to see through. Christmas Day was at hand.
Forty-four
AT the first mechanical caw-caw! of the doorbell, I nearly fell out of the chair. My sudden movement sent the flame of the taper wavering, at which violent anxiety froze me in place. I could not breathe again until the flame stood up straight again. The only time that I had ever heard the doorbell previously was when I was playing with it. It was one of those old brass bells that made a charming metallic caw-caw! when its exterior wingish keys were turned. Due to the constant exposure to salt, this particular bell was rather hoarse in its chime. I remember the odd seawater taste of it very well. All one morning I had studied the mechanism, and Mama caught me licking it. She advised me that I was never to touch the doorbell again, on pain of having my hands chopped off, let alone lick it, which would cause my tongue to be cut off. Miz Verlow and Cleonie and Perdita never complained at all; indeed, I thought that they seemed to be amused, at least until Mama threatened to cut off my tongue.
The doorbell ground out its salty caw-caw! again. Upstairs, sleepers began to stir in response.
With my finger burnt, finding a way to pick up the candlestick with my dominant hand required considerable caution and effort. The actual gripping of the candlestick intensified the hurt. Fortunately, I was only steps from the door.
I turned the key in its keyhole with the weaker grip of my other hand. The innards of the lock fell over; I tried the knob. It yielded slowly. I thought surely the bell would chime again, angry as the screeching pain at the tip of my finger. The door creaked on its hinges. I peered out at our first caller of the day.
In the cold wind off the Gulf, a woman hunched shivering, her hands shoved into the pockets of a thin Windbreaker. Her face looked frozen—carved of some semitranslucent plastic, like the glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary on the dashboard of Mr. Quigley’s Chevy Bel Air. Through thick glasses rimmed with frost, her unblinking eyes seemed more like eyes frozen in ice cubes than those of a living person. The thickly glossed lipstick around her mouth made a caricature of lips. A fancy gauzy scarf with sequins on it circled her throat. She wore tennis shoes with the rubber toes separating from the dirty canvas fabric.
I let the door fall open and thrust the candlestick at her.
She took her left hand from its sheltering pocket and grasped it. Instantly the candle’s flame guttered and died. Her gaze met mine and her head dipped slightly. Her knuckles were reddened and chapped from the cold, her fingernails blue with it. Like her face, her hands might have been made of holy-mother plastic.
“Merry Christmas,” I blurted.
In a throaty rasp that I only understood because she spoke slowly, she said Oh, is it? Is this—Merrymeeting?
I nodded numbly. She had been heralded by my dead great-grandmama. Like Mamadee, she was uncertain about her location. But I hardly needed to deduce that she was some kind of ghost, as I heard it in her voice. After all, I had been listening to the voices of the dead since birth and it would be peculiar if every passing day did not sharpen my sense of distinction between those voices and the voices of the living.
I am Tallulah Jordan, she said.
I stepped aside; she entered. I closed the door behind her against the wind.
“No one but me is up yet,” I told her. “I’m going to make some fresh coffee.”
I’d like that, she said.
She was either a coffee-drinking ghost or approved of my making it.
In the kitchen, I gestured toward Cleonie and Perdita’s little table. Tallulah Jordan placed the candlestick on it. She scraped a chair away from the table and turned it around and sat in it backward, watching me as I prepared coffee.
“I can do tea, if you’d rather,” I said.
No, no, coffee’s the thing for me. She took off her glasses and polished and dried them on a linen napkin, before putting them back on again.
I prepared the coffee with one hand tucked into my armpit. Awkward as it was, I was less likely to drop something if I didn’t use the hand with the burnt finger. While the coffee brewed, I toasted and buttered some bread. When I put the plate on the table in front of her, she tucked away the toast as if she had not eaten for a week. Or years. She licked her lips. I poured her orange juice to follow her toast. She reached eagerly for the mug of coffee when I offered it.
I took the opportunity to study her while I could. By the noises above us, I knew that we would be interrupted very soon.
Bony chapped wrists and fingers, bony frozen face, her chinos belted with worn woven leather, she looked like death on a bad day. Tallulah Jordan wasn’t just underfed, she was emaciated. Frail. Her hair was stiff and frosted with salt blown off the Gulf. It was black hair, that solid black that shouts dye.
I poured her a second mug, aware of her studying me as I had her.
What’s your name? she asked. What’s wrong with your hand?
“Calliope Carroll Dakin. I’m more Dakin than Carroll.” I didn’t answer the second question.
She almost smiled. She held out her hand and I put my own hand, the one with the burnt finger, in her palm. She kissed my finger. All at once, the pain was gone. She released my hand and I stepped back from her slowly, staring at my finger, and then at her, and again at my finger. The burn was still there but there was no pain.
When I looked up from it again, the candle on the table was burning once more.
I heard Miz Verlow’s step on the backstairs. My gaze was drawn toward the door that she would come through and I tensed like a guy wire.
A cold, bony hand grasped my wrist. I nearly jumped out of my skin. If I had been sitting in that chair by the window again, I would have fallen out of it.
Tallulah Jordan stared at me intently as she gripped my wrist.
Listen to the book, she said in her sandpapery voice.
The door to the backstairs opened at the very instant that my hand fell loose from that grip.
Miz Verlow stopped abruptly in the doorway. Her face drained of color, and she sniffed the air as if she smelled smoke.
“I burned the toast,” I said.
Miz Verlow frowned disbelievingly at me.
I moved toward her, intending to get away and upstairs as fast as I could. She seized my wrist as I passed her, and let go as if she had burned her hand on me, and looked at her palm as if I had burnt her.
“The doorbell,” she said.
There was no question in her voice but I responded as if there were.
“It was me,” I confessed. “I’m sorry.”