Keeping Mum

The way Celestine tells it, its commonplace. Everyone has the friend of the family. That odd person, related to no one, but permanently appended, without explanation.

"You know, like what's-her-face living at Nana's upstairs..."

"Or, Uncle Tomick, who's nobody's uncle..."

"And what about the Twins from Norfolk..?"

Well, it's something like that apparently with old Aunt Patsy.

"She comes once a year, for an overnight from goosey night to Halloween."

"--goosey night? who calls it that? you mean Devil's Night!"

"If you saw, Aunt Patsy, you'd call it that," says Celestine.

True enough, having finally seen her, she looks like a mother goose character, complete with babushka and hunched back. The eyes twinkle, but they are set so far back that it's impossible to recall a color other than the black of the pupil staring out. The face in all these years hasn't changed. Just like in the black and white photographs. It's always been perfectly aged and stiffened into an expression somewhere between derision and vexation.

Whisps of coarse silvered hair escape from beneath the red paisley kerchief that over the years has always remained the same fabric. The rest of her garb is so bland as to pass description. She wears a starched drab dress, and long dark cardigan, so loosely knitted it might pass for cargo netting.

"Doesn't she do anything else? I mean she must, while she's here..."

"No, she really doesn't."

She doesn't eat, or shower on arrival, or go visiting. She gives a curt nod to the rest of us and heads directly up the three flights of stairs to the guestroom. The one with its own bathroom. A sort of suite unto itself on that floor. That's if we see her at all.

"Most times, someone in the family will ask: 'has Aunt Patsy arrived?' ...

'Shh... yes she has.' And it's assumed she's resting."

She doesn't come out until dark, well after supper, of Halloween Night. It's like she waits for the last of the tricker-treaters to depart.

Then we hear her. She's approaching.

She's got a heavy walk, and a sturdy cedar stick with cobra head to steady herself. There's no mistaking the thud. In her other hand she carries a vintage suitcase table. It's a rectangle when she holds it, but by some little twist and lift of flaps the thing is suddenly transformed into an oval, immediately draped in glimmering embroidered tapestry on which she sets her Tarot and crystals.

Then, she beacons with a long-nailed finger, partly obscured by the layers of her fluid garments. Curiosity calls, one by one, upon the gathered. Aunt Patsy delivers messages from the past beyond, and with a shudder foretells the end of current goings on.

"She's so well informed it's like she's living here all along."

I hear steady whispers, from everywhere but suddenly, Celestine is nowhere to be found. I begin to worry and ask, weaving through the couches and chairs. In the dim lights, no one is much concerned, so long as there are plenty of bodies huddled around.

Suspicion overtakes me. Who is this Patsy anyway? I draw closer in again, instead of scanning the perimeters. Suddenly, it's my turn, by default. She leans in mere inches and says in husked voice, "Well, what is this heart's desire, dearie, to know?"

I'm about to open my mouth, when I'm grabbed by the leg from under the tablecloth: "Dorothy!" the unmistakable voice hisses.

Against Celestine's staunch whispered warning, I instead reflexively grasp at Aunt Patsy's face, tearing at the head wrap, hair, and wrinkled skin flaps. This is neither Auntie nor Clairvoyant...

Ugh! the whole room erupts in one gasp. It's... Mom!