“I simply worry about what the children might think if they hear such idle prattle,” Arturo said. “It’s not good for them. If I were you, I’d fire them both.”
Alba wondered what idle prattle Arturo was referring to. Perhaps he’d caught Fernanda and Dolores discussing the possibility of a bewitchment, same as Valentín had done that day?
“I don’t have money to hire new workers. And as I said, they’re loyal to the family.”
“You’re too soft.”
Alba quietly headed back up the stairs and went to Tadeo’s room and held his gun in her hands. They’d shot targets with this when they were smaller. She knew its weight, its recoil, the way to clean it. But she’d never actually shot a living creature. Her father hunted, as did her brother. Deer had been served at their table on more than one occasion. But Alba did not hunt.
She stared at the watercolor portrait of her brother on the nightstand and took it with her, along with the pistol.
The gun made her wary. She did not place it by her pillow, as Valentín had suggested, instead tucking it into a drawer, next to the portrait. Then she contemplated the drawer and wondered if she was being stupid. Simply because she had not recognized the cry of an animal did not mean it was a supernatural creature, and her feeling of unease might simply be grief.
She was suddenly afraid not of witches and enchantments but of what her mother or her uncle would say if they should discover that she believed a witch was the reason for their misery. Her uncle, especially, would have unkind words for her.
Arturo was so urbane, so sophisticated, so clever. She dreaded looking like a stupid country girl in front of him. He’d mocked Valentín viciously, and she suspected he’d pronounce an equally harsh judgment against his niece should he know she was planning to go to Los Pinos.
Nevertheless, she knelt by the bed and set down a bowl. Then she dropped a pair of scissors into the dish and filled it with water. She tucked it under the bed and said her prayers.
She slept soundly. In the morning, with the light streaming through the curtains, she reconsidered her behavior. How silly she’d been the previous day, convinced monsters roamed their farm.
She stretched her arms up, opened the window, and contemplated the green fields. The air was fresh and when she knelt under the bed and grabbed the bowl, it was with the intent of throwing the water out the window and forgetting about such ridiculous stories.
But she dropped the pewter bowl and stood with her hands pressed against her mouth to muffle a scream.
The scissors had rusted overnight. They were crusted with brown and red flakes, as if they’d been left out in the rain for many months.
1934: 3
We held a séancethree days after the dance. Some might think it odd to be attempting to communicate with ghosts following the disturbance at the Halloween Ball. But for Ginny, ghosts were not frightful apparitions dangling their chains in the air. She believed in communion with the departed and found comfort in her writing and her sketches, which were supposedly influenced by invisible hands.
When you are frightened, whom do you turn to in your time of need? Who is the first person that springs to mind? For many of us, it is our mother, and it was no different for Ginny, even if her dear mother was dead and buried.
The séance required four people. Carolyn was skeptical about the venture but agreed to join Ginny and me. Our fourth participant was Mary Ann Mason, who could hardly stop giggling about the whole idea. After some shushing, however, we all gathered around the table and waited.
We sat in our room in semidarkness. We didn’t have a Ouija board or any spectacular contraptions—spirit trumpets, spirit slates, or the like—to assist us. Ginny asked us to clear our minds and remain open to any communication. We held hands.
Carolyn and Mary Ann had fortified themselves with sips froma hip flask, and by the time we were to begin they could hardly act quiet and solemn.
“Spirits, are you with us?” Ginny asked.
There was no reply. No sepulchral voice spoke to us. In the dim light, I could see the sharp curve of Carolyn’s smirk. Mary Ann was trying hard not to burst into laughter. I was a bit bored, to be frank. We had spent much of the morning studying and reading, and now instead of heading out we were stuck in our room, with only a candle for illumination.
After a few minutes, I began to wonder if I shouldn’t have agreed to go with the other girls instead. Several of them had departed toward the cinema. I’m sure our companions were of a similar mind. Indeed, I could almost swear Carolyn was about to suggest that we all pile into her car and head out for a drive when a soft knock on the table startled us.
“Spirits, we welcome you,” Ginny said, sounding serene. “Please knock once for yes and twice for no.”
“That’s no spirit knocking, that’s Mary Ann’s knobby knee bumping against the table,” Carolyn said.
“It is not!” Mary Ann replied, offended.
There came another knock on the table, this time louder. We looked at one another, confused.
Ginny smiled. “We welcome you this evening and hope you might share your wisdom with us.”
The knock was repeated. I’m no credulous fool, but I could not tell where it came from. It wasn’t someone’s knee bumping against the wood, as Carolyn had suggested, and it wasn’t a tapping against a table leg. If you had asked me to pinpoint the source of the sound, I might have said it seemed to come from within the walls. The others must have had a similar thought, for the girls suddenly seemed unsettled.
“Ginny, stop teasing us,” Mary Ann said.
