Page 29 of The Christmas Spirits on Tradd Street
“Et tu, Brute?”I stood slowly, recognizing defeat. “Fine. I’ll go take off their outfits and apologize. Although I think if we all told them how adorable they looked, they might be more excited about wearing their costumes.”
I directed this last bit at my mother and Jayne, but they were both shaking their heads sadly, as ifIwere the delusional one. I continued. “We might as well take our Christmas card photo in July or October, because apparently it doesn’t matter that we’re not all dressed according to a Christmas theme.”
“At least the photo can’t be used as evidence against you when the animal-cruelty people show up,” Jack said with mock seriousness.
I picked up the discarded red velvet pantaloons and threw them at his face, knowing that he couldn’t catch them because he was holding a child in each arm.
“I’m going downstairs. Let me know if you all change the theme entirely and I need to put on a bathing suit and flip-flops for the photo.”
When I reached the bottom of the staircase, the dogs were nowhere to be found. Either Mrs. Houlihan was giving them a treat in the kitchen or they were avoiding me. I sensed a movement from behind me in the upstairs corridor. I turned to look, but despite the sudden chill, the hallway was empty. At least I knew the dogs weren’t hiding fromme.
Taking a deep breath of what I hoped was courage, I turned and began climbing the steps, taking care not to disturb the draped magnolia-leaf garland Veronica had helped me throw together that morning for the photo. It was filled with plastic pomegranates, lemons, mixed pinecones, and cinnamon sticks so that the plastic stems of the magnolia leaves weren’t noticeable. I’d made Veronica promise not to tell Sophie that the fruit was all fake and we’d used superglue to attach it all. I’d at least stopped at using a hammer and nails on the antique banister, knowing that Sophie would have thrown me into the cistern if I’d put one single tiny hole in the wood. Personally, I didn’t care how Colonials had decorated their staircases. I wasn’t interested in smelling rotting fruit wafting about the house for a month.
“Hello? Is anybody there?” I waited for a moment, and when I didn’t hear anything, I started back down the stairs, relieved that I’d done my duty and could report to Jayne and our mother that whatever was lurking in the upstairs hallways didn’t want our help.
A cold breath on the back of my neck made all the hairs on my arms stand at attention. I clutched the banister, getting ready for the inevitable shove from behind. Instead a woman’s voice, as piercing and cold as ice, blew into my left ear.Lies.The “S” sound reverberated in the air like the hiss of a snake.
I jerked my head around, almost losing my balance. A woman stoodon the top step looking at me with angry eyes, the color of them obscured by shadow. She wore a low-cut emerald green ball gown with a corseted waist and voluminous skirts indicative of the late eighteenth century. Her rich brown hair was unpowdered, coiled in long curls around her face, and swept high on top of her head with a flourish of entwined ribbons that matched her dress. A large brooch in the shape of a peacock, its eyes and feathers sparkling with colorful jewels, gleamed from the bodice of her dress, and I had the distinct impression that she wanted me to notice it.
As I watched she turned her head until it dipped at an odd angle, allowing me to see her small, perfect ear, the long expanse of her neck. And an angry welt standing out in crimson relief against her pale skin.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
The front door opened behind me, and the vision of the woman wavered, then vanished, but not before I saw the anger in her eyes soften to sadness. And noticed again the raw red welt that encircled her neck like a noose.
“Melanie?”
My father’s voice called from behind me. I gripped the banister because I was too shaky to trust myself not to fall as I turned around. “Hi, Dad,” I said, walking slowly down the stairs, accidentally dislodging a pomegranate. It fell over the stairs, landing with a hollow thwack as it hit the floor below, then rolled for a few feet before stopping.
He didn’t smile back. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking behind me at the stairs.
“Nothing,” I said. “Just arguing with JJ over what he should wear for the photo.” Ever since the incident at the plantation mausoleum, my father had been staring into dark corners and paying more attention to Sarah’s babbling. I just wasn’t convinced that he was becoming a true believer; I thought he was either deciding that his family was destined for a freak show or just gathering enough evidence to debunk our psychic gifts completely. Despite any sincerity he’d shown Jayne by listening to her explanations, I still couldn’t completely exonerate him for my lifelong embarrassment and reluctance to admit my abilities. I still sawthem as a flaw, an ugly scar I wasn’t eager to show the general public. Or lifelong disbelievers like him.
“Well, you’re pale as a ghost.” He smiled as if he’d made a joke. “I’m allowed to say that, right?”
“Why wouldn’t you be?” Still shaken by my encounter, I wasn’t yet ready to let go of my resentment. Eager to change the subject, I asked, “Where’s the photographer?”
As if in answer, there was a brief knock on the door. When my father opened it, I was surprised to find our handyman, Rich Kobylt. “Sorry—I rang the doorbell a couple of times, but I don’t think it’s working again.” He looked past my father’s shoulder to meet my eyes. “I’d be happy to take a look at it again....”
“No,” I said abruptly. He’d already adjusted it several times, at a cost that would have bought me about one hundred new, modern doorbells if Sophie would allow it, but I knew there was something wrong with the doorbell that couldn’t be fixed by ordinary means. And I suspected that Rich knew it, too. He’d once admitted to me that he had a little bit of a sixth sense, and I continued to humor him without revealing that he was absolutely right.
I looked at him now with dread. “Why are you here? Did I forget to pay an invoice?” There were so many from Hard Rock Foundations, it wouldn’t be impossible that one could have been overlooked, despite my intricate and involved filing system that ensured every bill was logged and slotted for payment on the appropriate date. Jack had once complimented me on my system, saying the planning of the D-Day invasion paled in comparison.
He hitched up his pants. “No, Miz Trenholm. Not tonight. Your daddy was looking for a photographer, so I volunteered my services.”
I looked at my dad, not trying to hide the horror on my face. “You said you were hiring a buddy of yours who’s a professional photographer!”
“I did—and he called me this morning and told me he’s got the flu and didn’t want to get anyone sick. I happened to mention it to Rich, and he said he could help.”
Rich cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. I’m the official photographer at all my family’s gatherings—including weddings. I take a pretty good picture, if I do say so myself.”
I tried to block out the image of a roomful of Kobylts all with baggy pants and no belts and felt myself involuntarily shudder. I attempted a smile, the last hope for a beautiful Christmas card photo completely obliterated by images of blurred faces and mismatched outfits. “Well, then, I’m glad you could step in. I’m not sure if I could get us all dressed and together in one place again.”
“I hear you,” Rich said. “It’s a real production with a big family, especially if little kids and pets are involved. My sister-in-law even dresses up her dogs in the most ridiculous outfits for their Christmas card photo. They look so depressed I’ve refused to take their picture anymore. Unhappy dogs don’t say a lot about my picture-taking capabilities, you know? I told her next time she did that to those dogs, I was calling the ASPCA.”
The three dogs chose that moment to emerge from their hiding place in Jack’s office, running toward Rich as if he were coming to spring them from prison. Nola, dressed in a red velvet dress that was a grown-up version of Sarah’s—I’d known better than to push for a hair bow or Peter Pan collar—followed close behind as Rich gave me an accusing look. “Now, that’s just pitiful.” Three sets of sad canine eyes looked at me as if the dogs were practicing for thoseASPCATV commercials. I almost expected Rich to burst out singing, “In the arms of the angel...”
Nola bent down to remove the dogs’ outfits. “I think Mr. Kobylt might have a point, Melanie. How about I ask Dad to put that stuffed round red reindeer nose on your front car bumper and antlers on the side windows and we’ll call it a day, all right? I can’t imagine your car will complain.”
