“At best, we will make ourselves look ridiculous.”
The old lady motioned for her to lean closer. She placed a finger on the midpoint between Anna’s eyes.
“You must open your mind. You are locked up everywhere.”
“I was taught to use my rational mind. I collect facts and make inferences from them. I am impervious to any brand of esoteric mumbo jumbo.”
“Yes, you’re a hard worker, but there are shorter paths toward the light. Ones where your little gears spin but get no purchase. Where even the words you like so much are useless.”
They entered a cluttered room with drawn curtains. In the half-light, Anna could make out easels stacked together and orderly rows of embroidery frames: this was the art therapy studio responsible for the smears and daubs on the walls of the facility. Perfumed candles flickered on a tiny round table, mixing their vile scent with the smell of turpentine. Around the table were some figures Anna recognized — Jack, the young pianist, and Gladys in her inevitable pink angora — as well as some less familiar figures to whom Adele introduced her: Gwendoline, Maria, and Karl. Gladys, wearing a pair of rhinestone-studded glasses, rose to give her a kiss. “Here is our old soul!” Anna drew away from the assault. Maria, an octogenarian with a face half hidden behind thick lenses, gave Anna a gaze intended to petrify. Gladys motioned her to keep quiet. “My friends, let us welcome our newest participant! We have already agreed on the agenda. We’ve decided to put off Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff until later. Although I adore the Russians.” Maria reminded everyone of the predilection of the dead for exactitude, aiming her remarks at Anna, who was clearly lax. Gladys took off her glasses, and her eyes shone with excitement. “Jack is a little disappointed that he won’t be able to talk to his idol. That will be for next time. Today we are going to summon Elvis Aaron Presley! Did you know that I have the same first name as his mother?” Anna suppressed a laugh. As a rationalist, she was in the minority; she would keep her sarcasms for later. She settled Adele into her seat before taking the last vacant chair, next to the pianist. He winked at her with his good eye. He seemed to be enjoying the evening. She had to try and do as much: it would be an unusual Christmas, without the cheapness she had somehow imagined she would be sharing with these end-of-life outcasts. Gladys wriggled impatiently, eager for the séance to start.
“After studying your case at length, Miss Roth, we have assigned you an angel. Gabriel will be your protector in this world. You are the messenger.”
“According to whom?”
In her tobacco-ravaged voice, Maria objected to the negative vibrations coming from the young newcomer. Adele was clearly enjoying the outraged expression on Anna’s face.
“Let it go, dear girl. I am under the wing of Mehael, the liberator.”
The participants all held hands. Anna consigned her left hand to Mrs. Gödel’s cold, raspy one, and her right to the nervously drumming Jack. How does one relax in the land of absurdity? She was hungry. All these old fogies would easily last until midnight to see Christmas in. Father Christmas must have given them all amphetamines. Her eyes shut, Gladys was chanting: “Aor Gabriel tetraton anaton creaton.” Anna let her mind drift away from these imbecilities. Elvis Presley? From the amateurishness of the flower studies on the studio walls, no one had apparently summoned Van Gogh.
Gladys woke her up. “Rock and roll, Anna. Don’t be the old lady in the bunch!”
From the sidelines, Adele and Anna watched the braver souls scamper to the strains of a fox-trot. A gentleman had paid his respects to Anna, but she had declined the invitation. Adele tapped the rhythm with her foot.
“I so loved to dance.”
“Really? I always avoid it. It makes me feel ridiculous.”
“People dance the way they make love. Look at those two! They are so attractive. Nowadays, young people don’t know how to dance together. And we’re surprised at the high divorce rate!”
A pair of septuagenarians twirled in front of their table. Conspirators, they floated with an ageless elegance. Anna thought back to all the parties where she had sat on the sofa and watched the other adolescents on the dance floor. Leo, his hair falling over his eyes and wearing a wrinkled T-shirt and jeans, danced as though it were his last chance. He enjoyed loud music and agitated his limbs vigorously and without much control. With one hand, and jittering all the while, he rolled the skinny spliffs that helped him forget his impending return to boarding school. He had never needed anyone. Anna was always waiting for the next song before deciding whether to leave. The song that might make her feel like taking the floor. She was still waiting.
“There is a kind of sadness inherent in every party.”
“You are happier being a spectator. And you take your sarcasms for insight. The fact is, my young lovely, you’re just chicken!”
The music petered out when the dining room staff had cleared the last of the tables. The waitresses had gamely tried to make their outfits festive by wearing red felt hats and metallic garlands that scratched their necks. Instantly, there was a commotion at all the tables. Piles of packages appeared from nowhere. The gratified sound of dentures clacking gave way to exclamations and the sound of paper being torn. Adele handed Anna a brown paper bag tied with white ribbon. Inside, Anna found a cardigan made from spectacular poppy-colored wool. Delighted, she slipped it on immediately.
“Do you like it? I knitted it myself.”
“I’ve never gotten anything so beautiful. You shouldn’t have gone to all the trouble!”
Anna thought back to the dress she had bought for Thanksgiving: strange how a simple rag can impact your fate. She had let the Frenchman return home without making useless promises and hung the red dress in her closet with her other regrets.
She was impatient to give Adele her own present. She had thought about it hard in the weeks before Christmas and, after an afternoon of wandering the feverish streets of New York, had entered Macy’s where, turning a corner, she came to a full stop in front of a sumptuous bathrobe. She had barely looked at the scandalous price tag; her father’s envelope would be put to good use. She returned to Princeton exulting over her find, with its bronze brocade and cashmere lining. She could easily imagine Mrs. Gödel, triumphantly imperial, in this dressy outfit. Adele let out a breath as she unfolded the robe.
“How splendid! You are not being reasonable, this must have cost you an arm and a leg!”
“Two, if you really want to know. But you will look extraordinarily fine in this housecoat.”
“Housecoat? What will people think up next? I am in shock. It’s much too much.”
“You’re not going to cry, are you?”
They smiled at each other. Gladys spoiled the moment by barging in on them. She had prepared each of them a present. Anna was embarrassed; she’d brought Gladys only a box of chocolates. Preparing herself gamely to go into raptures, she opened the offering, which was wrapped in delightful pink paper. Inside was a container that gave off a sour, unappealing smell. She hugged Gladys without inquiring whether it was fruit preserve or hair tonic. The old lady gave off the same smell. Gladys went back to distributing packages, the huge pom-poms on her sweater bouncing. Adele brandished her own present: an assortment of embroidered handkerchiefs in revolting colors.
“You were lucky.”
“Well, I avoided Elvis Aaron Presley, for one thing. He must have had a concert tonight … up there. And who was that Asakter? I didn’t understand what he said.”
“A wandering soul. Wherever they see an opening, they pounce on it. They are always ruining our séances.”
“You’d think the dead would have better manners.”