afternoon, Izzie had told her she was afraid Papa was up to no good and he’d spent even more borrowed money on some surprise. “He’ll get us all in trouble,” Izzie had said. She might be right, but maybe not. She never gave Papa a fair shake. If only Izzie and Papa could get along, everything would be more cheerful.
The door opened and there he was, standing tall and smiling like he had just caught the biggest trout in Seneca Lake. His coat was brushed off and tidy, his spectacles wiped clear of smudges, and his sideburns trimmed neat. He looked like he did the day his gristmill had opened for business in Homer. He and his friends had celebrated by drinking ale inside and outside the mill building all day long. He got so tipsy and silly that Mamma finally came and dragged him home to bed. Before he finally went to sleep, he sang to her for an entire splendiferous hour.
“Come in, my two peaches.”
Stepping away from the door, Papa swung his hand out into the room and bowed, welcoming her and Izzie like they were two princesses coming to court. Two peaches. Bowing like that. He had something big in mind, all right.
The winter sun spilled brilliantly in through three tall, narrow windows on one wall. The room was longer than wide, smelled a little smoky, and was warmed by a fire blazing in a hearth opposite the door. The wood of the mantel was fancy, carved with ribbons, bows, and bunches of grapes. There wasn’t any furniture at all except for the empty ceiling-high bookcases along the walls to their right.
But what was the surprise? There was nothing here except cleaned-up Papa, and a fire. She looked at Izzie to see if her sister understood what Papa was up to, but Izzie was like an iceberg stuck at the door. She hadn’t even stepped inside yet.
An odd smirk on his face, Papa watched them carefully. Suddenly he strutted across the room and leaned on the fireplace mantel, stretching an arm along the top. He held still for a long moment, like he was posing for an ambrotype. Tarnation, what was it?
“Well, girls.” He swept his arm around. “This is where you’ll become famous mediums. This is where the spirits will come and visit all those who enter. It’s your very own place. We’ll call it the Spirit Room.”
“Just for us, Papa?” Clara spun around. “Izzie, we’re going to be famous mediums!”
But Izzie, still the iceberg, wouldn’t budge.
“Where did you get the money for this, Papa?” Izzie asked.
“None of your business. You ought to be proud I’m backin’ you, givin’ you a real chance to do somethin’ with yourself besides marryin’ the first thing in trousers that asks.”
Clara cringed. That did it. They were both going to rile now and, just like night comes after day, a yelling fit was about to explode. Clara turned her back to them and walked toward the windows. She’d wait it out over there where she could see the comings and goings below on Seneca Street. But before Clara even got half way to the window, the door slammed.
She swiveled around. Izzie was gone. Papa stood still, his mouth hanging open a little. He kept his pose at the mantel, almost like Izzie had never been there at all nor said anything at all. He stayed like that a moment, then, shoving his hands into his black frock coat pockets, he rambled across the bare floor to her. “Your sister will come around. I’ll bet my boots on it.” Breaking into his Papa grin, crooked teeth showing, pewter-gray eyes clear, big ears rising up, he pointed back toward the fireplace. “Come back over here, Little Plum. Let me tell you what I have in mind.”
<><><>
A FEW DAYS LATER, Clara sat with Izzie and Euphora at their pine table in the Blue Room. After Clara had finished the fifty shirts, she got a new tall stack of seamstress work from the tailor. They were going to be sewing for at least a week, attaching petticoats to chemise tops and ruffles to the
The door opened and there he was, standing tall and smiling like he had just caught the biggest trout in Seneca Lake. His coat was brushed off and tidy, his spectacles wiped clear of smudges, and his sideburns trimmed neat. He looked like he did the day his gristmill had opened for business in Homer. He and his friends had celebrated by drinking ale inside and outside the mill building all day long. He got so tipsy and silly that Mamma finally came and dragged him home to bed. Before he finally went to sleep, he sang to her for an entire splendiferous hour.
“Come in, my two peaches.”
Stepping away from the door, Papa swung his hand out into the room and bowed, welcoming her and Izzie like they were two princesses coming to court. Two peaches. Bowing like that. He had something big in mind, all right.
The winter sun spilled brilliantly in through three tall, narrow windows on one wall. The room was longer than wide, smelled a little smoky, and was warmed by a fire blazing in a hearth opposite the door. The wood of the mantel was fancy, carved with ribbons, bows, and bunches of grapes. There wasn’t any furniture at all except for the empty ceiling-high bookcases along the walls to their right.
But what was the surprise? There was nothing here except cleaned-up Papa, and a fire. She looked at Izzie to see if her sister understood what Papa was up to, but Izzie was like an iceberg stuck at the door. She hadn’t even stepped inside yet.
An odd smirk on his face, Papa watched them carefully. Suddenly he strutted across the room and leaned on the fireplace mantel, stretching an arm along the top. He held still for a long moment, like he was posing for an ambrotype. Tarnation, what was it?
“Well, girls.” He swept his arm around. “This is where you’ll become famous mediums. This is where the spirits will come and visit all those who enter. It’s your very own place. We’ll call it the Spirit Room.”
“Just for us, Papa?” Clara spun around. “Izzie, we’re going to be famous mediums!”
But Izzie, still the iceberg, wouldn’t budge.
“Where did you get the money for this, Papa?” Izzie asked.
“None of your business. You ought to be proud I’m backin’ you, givin’ you a real chance to do somethin’ with yourself besides marryin’ the first thing in trousers that asks.”
Clara cringed. That did it. They were both going to rile now and, just like night comes after day, a yelling fit was about to explode. Clara turned her back to them and walked toward the windows. She’d wait it out over there where she could see the comings and goings below on Seneca Street. But before Clara even got half way to the window, the door slammed.
She swiveled around. Izzie was gone. Papa stood still, his mouth hanging open a little. He kept his pose at the mantel, almost like Izzie had never been there at all nor said anything at all. He stayed like that a moment, then, shoving his hands into his black frock coat pockets, he rambled across the bare floor to her. “Your sister will come around. I’ll bet my boots on it.” Breaking into his Papa grin, crooked teeth showing, pewter-gray eyes clear, big ears rising up, he pointed back toward the fireplace. “Come back over here, Little Plum. Let me tell you what I have in mind.”
<><><>
A FEW DAYS LATER, Clara sat with Izzie and Euphora at their pine table in the Blue Room. After Clara had finished the fifty shirts, she got a new tall stack of seamstress work from the tailor. They were going to be sewing for at least a week, attaching petticoats to chemise tops and ruffles to the
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