Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy by JENNIFER ALLISON Page A

brow furrowed with worry.
    Why does she keep looking at Mom that way? Gilda wondered.

12
    The Spell
    E ugene led Gilda and Mrs. Joyce into a room filled with mismatched objects, ranging from grandfather clocks and rocking chairs to paintings and pottery. A spicy, pungent aroma permeated the air. Gilda felt anxious as she caught a glimpse of herself, Eugene, and her mother in an eye-shaped mirror that seemed to observe the three of them from a corner of the furniture-stuffed room.
    â€œI use most of the space here to restore furniture and keep my extra stock,” Eugene explained. “The main shop is in the antiques district of the city.”
    How could we move in here? Gilda wondered. There isn’t any room for people!
    â€œI realize it looks cluttered,” Eugene said, “but everything here is cataloged. Every artifact belongs in a very specific place in the house.”
    Sounds like he’s worried that Mom and I might mess up his collections, Gilda thought.
    â€œSome of these pieces are actually too valuable to sell,” Eugene added. “They’ve been in this house for generations.”
    As if in response to Eugene’s comment, the glittery chandelier overhead flickered. The room fell dark for a moment, then the lights flashed on again.
    â€œAs you can see, the house has a few electrical problems,” said Eugene. “But that’s the norm for an old house in this city.”
    â€œOr it could be evidence of spirit activity,” Gilda suggested. She was curious whether Eugene believed in ghosts. After all, he had taken her mother on a ghost tour.
    â€œPlenty of people in this town would agree with you,” said Eugene. “But as a wise man once told me: ‘There ain’t no ghost but the Holy Ghost.’ ”
    Gilda decided to ignore this comment because she had always found talk of the “Holy Ghost” quite baffling. Didn’t the existence of the “Holy Ghost” support the possibility that other, non-holy ghosts might also exist? Her eye suddenly fell on a glass-topped coffee table filled with a collage of interesting objects—spotted conch shells, sand dollars, an old silver cross, and something unusual that gave Gilda a vaguely creepy feeling—a piece of bone that looked very much like part of a human skull.
    â€œIs that real?” she asked. The bone appeared to be a portion of a jawbone, with teeth still attached.
    â€œCourse it’s real,” said Eugene. “That’s a jawbone.”
    â€œI mean— whose jaw is it?”
    â€œIt’s most likely from the skull of a Timucua Indian. Someone found it ages ago when this house was first built here. It’s been in this house for generations.”
    Gilda had an uneasy feeling. “Shouldn’t a human skull bone be buried in a grave somewhere?” she asked.
    â€œWell, sure. But this one belongs to the house.”
    But what if the spirit of the person to whom that bone belonged doesn’t like having part of his or her head in a coffee table? Gilda mused. After all, that bone must have been buried here before the house was built.
    Eugene disappeared into the kitchen and emerged with a silver tray of Ritz crackers topped with an unusual fluorescent-green sauce. “You have to try my datil-pepper jelly,” said Eugene. “Making jelly is a hobby of mine, and this is my latest concoction.”
    Again, just when I think I don’t like Mr. Pook, he comes up with something surprising. Who would expect a middle-aged man to spend his spare time making lurid green datil-pepper jelly? Yes, Mr. Pook, I give you points for one of the more unusual hobbies I’ve encountered.
    â€œI don’t think Gilda’s ever had the opportunity to try datil peppers before,” said Mrs. Joyce, biting into one of the crackers. “We certainly don’t have them up in Michigan.”
    Eugene explained how the datil pepper was a traditional