High Spirits [Spirits 03] (15 page)

      
“I do not!” My stout declaration might not have been especially heartfelt, but I didn’t want Flossie to know that. “I set aside this whole morning so we could have a nice time shopping and having lunch and stuff.”

      
She finally turned around. I was right. She was crying. I let her arm go so she could dig in her handbag for a hankie. As she mopped her face under her veil, she said thickly, “You sure?”

      
“I’m sure.”

      
I don’t think she believed me, but at last she said, “Okay, then. Thanks, Mrs. Majesty.”

      
“Daisy,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. Flossie Mosser genuinely did need some friends. Jinx had her believing she wasn’t even worth a morning out with the girls, for heaven’s sake! Well, a morning out with me, which amounted to the same thing.

      
“Daisy,” she said, coming across as a dutiful student.

      
“Good.” Relief flooded me.

      
“But sewing’s not the only thing you’re good at. You’re a good person,” she said, still sounding a trifle thick. “And you’re pretty, and you dress good, and you can talk to dead people, and all that stuff. You’re ... you’re ... you’re the best.”

      
Oh, brother. “Thanks. But I’m far from the best.”

      
“You are, too.”

      
We’d made it to the elevators, and I pressed the button. Deciding not to argue my merits with Flossie—she should talk to Billy for a minute or two, and she’d change her mind in a hurry—I said, “Do you need mainly day wear, stuff to wear around the house, or evening wear?”

      
The elevator stopped, and for once I was grateful for Flossie’s veil. Vivian Blake, one of my least favorite people, was womanning the elevator that day. Not that there was anything really wrong with Vivian, but I’d known her since first grade as one of the biggest tattlers and storytellers in Pasadena. I didn’t want her to get a glimpse of Flossie’s black eyes, or she’d surely tell the tale all day long to anybody who got on her elevator.

      
I smiled charmingly. I was an expert at that. “Good morning, Vivian.”

      
“’Lo, Daisy.” Vivian eyed Flossie’s remarkable costume with an avid eye.

      
I decided the best thing to do under the circumstances was pretend to ignore her. Speaking to Flossie in a confidential manner, as if we were the closest of good buddies, I said, “I’m sure we can find something perfect for you at Nash’s. I know your clothes are the height of fashion in Paris, but we’re a little more subdued here in Pasadena.” I gave a light-hearted laugh and prayed Vivian would spread a story about Daisy Gumm (which is who I was in the first grade when I met her) bringing a rich friend—or possibly a client—all the way from Paris, France, to shop at Nash’s.

      
I don’t think God will get me for that one. Vivian was truly a confirmed gossip. And Flossie, as we’ve already discussed, needed help.

Chapter Eight
 

Flossie and I left Nash’s a couple of hours later, having spent a good deal of Jinx’s money. More power to us, I say!

      
“You’re sure Jinx won’t mind you spending so much?” I asked for about the fiftieth time.

      
“Naw. He’ll be happy.”

      
From what I could see through her veil, Flossie wore a dazed sort of expression on her battered face. I don’t think she’d ever had so much fun shopping before. I had, but that’s only because I had lots of good friends and none of Flossie’s problems.

      
“You want to go out to lunch now?”

      
“Sure. Thanks.”

      
“Quit thanking me, Flossie. I’ve been enjoying myself.” That was true for the most part. After the first half-hour or so, anyhow.

      
It actually had been kind of nice to be able to buy whatever struck my—well, Flossie’s—fancy. And really, since Flossie deferred to me at every turning, it actually
was
my fancy being called into play. I’d never been able to do that before.

      
When we were through, though, Flossie was set—from the inside out. We didn’t shirk our responsibility when it came to undergarments, stockings, shoes, and hats. No longer was Flossie to wear rolled-down flesh-colored silk stockings. No, sirree. Granted, one of the pairs of cotton hose we purchased was flesh colored, but they were thicker than silk and went better with the new and subdued image she strove to achieve. For the outer woman, we’d bought a lovely shepherd-check suit in brown and cream with long sleeves and a matching belt (in case she decided to visit town or ride a train somewhere during the day) and a serge and cotton number in black with a long, braid-trimmed collar that continued below the belt onto the small peplums. If it weren’t for her bruises and her yellow hair, Flossie would look positively normal! We’d also bought three (three, for heaven’s sake, but she said it was all right) housedresses for indoor wear, in case she decided to dust the furniture or anything like that.

      
When we exited Nash’s, not loaded down with parcels since we’d had the foresight to have them sent to Flossie’s address which I still didn’t know since she didn’t seem to want to tell me, Flossie was clad in her shepherd-check suit and cream-colored hose, discreet and sensible walking shoes and a broad-brimmed brown hat that went splendidly with the suit, along with a brown handbag to match. She’d slung some veiling over the hat so people wouldn’t stare at her black eyes, but I figured that was only fair. She’d eaten up my advice on how the well-dressed, modest young woman should look. And darned if she didn’t look like a well-dressed, modern young woman now! I was proud of myself. And Flossie, too, of course.

      
“Do I really look all right?” she whispered when we sailed out into the February gloom. Sometimes—often, in fact—Pasadena can get warm in February, but that day the sky was overcast and it looked as though it might actually rain, which didn’t happen much in our fair city.

      
“You look wonderful,” I assured her, glad to be speaking nothing but the truth. She did look great.

      
“I can’t thank you enough, Daisy.”

      
“You’ve already thanked me quite enough, Flossie.” I said it with a laugh, but I meant it. Her overwhelming gratitude was getting me down. “You want to visit the Tea Cup Inn again? Or would you rather have luncheon closer to where we are?”

      
“Gee, I dunno. I’m not too familiar with Pasadena.”

      
“Well, let me see.”

      
We stood on the corner of Colorado and Fair Oaks, watching the cars zip past while I thought. I’d have liked to visit the library again to see if there were any new thrillers, but I doubted that Flossie would enjoy that. Besides, I didn’t want her to have to walk a lot. As she’d tried on clothing, I was privy to several more of her bruises, and I knew she must hurt.

      
As far as I was concerned, Jinx Jenkins could roast slowly over a hot pit and still not reap sufficient punishment for what he’d done to Flossie Mosser.

      
Just as I was about to open my big mouth to suggest we walk down to Pico—provided Flossie was up to the jaunt—and dine at a Mexican restaurant called Mijare’s that Billy and I loved, the musical strains of a street band smote my ear.

      
It was fate! It
had
to be fate!

      
Forsaking Mijare’s, I bethought me of a vegetarian lunchroom near the corner of Colorado and Marengo Avenue and grabbed Flossie’s arm. Gently, of course.

      
“Let’s go down here. There’s a little place where we can get a pretty good salad and sandwich.” If I had a choice, I wouldn’t eat vegetarian stuff, but that music meant only one thing: the Salvation Army band was out and about! And where the Salvation Army band was, Johnny Buckingham was sure to be nearby. This wasn’t because he was a captain in the Salvation Army, although he was, but because he played the cornet. He’d played the cornet with the John Muir High School marching band, and he’d adapted his expertise now that he served in the army of Christ, or whatever they called themselves.

      
“Sure,” said Flossie, ever obliging.

      
For only a second I dared wish that the rest of the world could be so accommodating, but that didn’t last long. If the rest of the world followed my example, its citizens would all be languishing in jails somewhere. Or consorting with gangsters’ molls.

      
But I didn’t want to think about that.

      
Our progress was kind of slow, due to Flossie’s injuries, not to mention her new shoes, and I prayed the whole way that the band wouldn’t abandon that corner for another one before we got there.

      
I needn’t have worried. They’d attracted quite a crowd by the time Flossie and I drew near. Some folks were listening happily, some were even joining in when they knew the hymns being played, and a couple of the listeners were looking kind of guilty. I wondered if Johnny’s flock would grow.

      
As we drew closer, Flossie’s footsteps began to drag a little. At first I chalked this slowness up to sore feet, but when I glanced at her to see how she was holding up, I realized there was another cause for her hesitation. She didn’t think she was good enough for the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army, for crumb’s sake! Gee whiz.

      
The Army took in everyone. That’s what they were there for. They took in all the folks who didn’t fit anywhere else, and as far as I’m concerned, their operating principle was much more Christian than that of lots of regular churches, the congregations of which would flinch with horror if someone like Flossie crossed their sacred thresholds.

      
Heck, Jesus consorted with the lowest of the low as well as the highest of the high, didn’t He? So there you go.

      
It occurred to me that it was His consorting with the low that got him into all that trouble, but I banished the thought and reminded myself that I was doing a good deed.

      
Anyhow, Johnny Buckingham had always been a sterling character. He and my cousin Paul were the tops when it came to moral fiber and character and stuff like that. But war does evil things to people (remember Billy?) and Johnny wasn’t the only former soldier to hit the skids when he was shipped back home. Don’t ask me why this is because I don’t know. I understand Billy’s physical injuries, but there are other, inner, soul-deep injuries that I’ll never comprehend, ones that woke him up screaming sometimes in the night. I’ve never been exposed to battle and bloodshed, and I’ve never seen my friends shot dead or blown to bits. While I can imagine how horrid that might be, I don’t
know
what it’s like.

      
Anyhow, I knew for a certified fact, that the Salvation Army would love to get its hands on Flossie Mosser, and I aimed to introduce Flossie to Johnny then and there if I could.

      
Flossie’s self-confidence was truly a fragile reed, but if she could find a good influence—Johnny Buckingham, for example—to replace the bad one—Jinx Jenkins, may he rot in hell—she might just survive her wretched beginnings and demeaning early adulthood and become a worthwhile woman. Maybe. Hey, a girl can always hope, can’t she?

      
And there, as if he’d been sent by God Himself, stood Johnny Buckingham, playing “When the Roll is Called up Yonder, I’ll Be there” with all the enthusiasm in him. I offered up a silent but sincere prayer of thanks.

      
“Um, I don’t know if I wanna stand around and listen to a band, Daisy,” Flossie said, whispering, although there was no need. What with the cornets and the trombones and the tambourines, nobody could hear anything she said.

      
“Sure you do,” I said heartily. “And I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine, too.”

      
Johnny spotted me and lifted an eyebrow in greeting. I could tell he smiled, too, because his cheeks went all funny. Johnny was a great guy. I knew he’d be kind to Flossie.

      
She tugged on my arm a little. “Oh, no, Daisy, please don’t do that!”

      
The poor girl sounded panic-stricken.

      
I tried to brace her up. “Nonsense. This is the Salvation Army. See that guy there?” I pointed to Johnny, who winked at us. “He and my cousin Paul were best of friends. They even went off to war together, but only Johnny came back. Paul was killed.”

      
“Oh.” Even over the band’s lively rendition of the hymn, I heard Flossie gulp. “I’m sorry. That stinks.”

      
“It sure does. Johnny was pretty much of a wreck for a while after he got home. But he found his own redemption in the Salvation Army, and he’s been helping war veterans ever since.” I stumbled a bit over the last part of that sentence because I’d been going to add
and other lost souls
after the
war veterans
part but thought that wouldn’t be tactful. Flossie already knew she was about as low as a person could get. She didn’t need me rubbing her nose into her abasement.

      
She said, “Oh,” again and stopped trying to escape. I’m not sure if she decided she was interested or if she just didn’t want to be seen fleeing from me, but she stood there beside me, docile as a kitten, and listened.

      
So did I. And I also surveyed Johnny Buckingham, wondering if I was doing the right thing. Johnny was a handsome guy, and he was a good man. But did he need Flossie Mosser and her problems in his life?

      
Then I chided myself for being stupid. I wasn’t going to ask the fellow to marry her! I was only going to introduce them and hope Flossie might be moved to change her way of life. Clearly, she needed a change. And if there was anyone who could understand and assist in that endeavor, it was Johnny Buckingham. And the rest of the Salvation Army, too. For all I knew the Army was crammed full of former Flossies.