ENTER THE PATRON

How did I respond to Violet’s unsolicited display of her clairvoyant powers that first morning at Lake Pleasant? I don’t now perfectly remember, but I got past it somehow, probably by employing the journalist’s strategy of failing to acknowledge that anything exceptional has happened. I must have changed the subject, because we were talking about the origins of the Scalpers marching band when there was a sharp rap at the door and Mr. Jeremiah Babin, evidently expected by my hostess, appeared, having come on purpose to make my acquaintance. I recognized him at once as the distinguished gentleman from the café the night before. He regretted that he hadn’t been informed of my presence, as he would certainly have invited me to join their table if he had. It was agreed that I should do just that for the rest of my visit, unless, of course, I had other engagements. Mr. Babin was respectful of my profession and approving of my mission. “I am at your disposal,” he declared. “You must ask me any questions that come to your mind. I am something of an authority on our residents here.”

“He’s something of a legal counsel to half of them,” Violet observed wryly. “But he won’t tell you their secrets.”

Mr. Babin chuckled at her witticism. “Confidentiality is incumbent upon me.”

“I understand perfectly,” I said. “Journalists have ethical obligations as well.” They both nodded knowingly at this assertion.

In the afternoons, Violet had appointments with “visitors” who craved messages from the next world or advice in this one, as it was known that her intuitions were acute in both venues. While she was thus employed, I made my investigations of the camp. I attended a lecture entitled “Summerland Eternal” by Dr. Albert Weevil at the speakers’ “grove,” enjoyed an excellent concert of Strauss waltzes at the Dance Pavilion, visited the bookstore where I bought the local papers – the camp was served by a surprising number of these, with names like The Wildwood Messenger and the Lake Pleasant Siftings –climbed up to the “highlands” for an ice cream at Gussie’s Tea Room, worked on my notes in the hotel reading room, or passed a pleasant hour catching up on the latest New York and British literary journals with which this bizarre outpost was impressively supplied.

On two occasions Mr. Jeremiah Babin joined me for a stroll around the lake, during which he divulged, at length and in detail, the dramatic story of how he had come to be so importantly connected to the clairvoyant Miss Petra, and how privileged he considered himself to be in that connection.

“I understand she lives in your house,” I commented.

“She does,” he admitted. “And I hope she may never leave us.”

“Then your wife feels as you do.”

“Oh, yes. I think it’s not an exaggeration to say that Miss Petra has rescued my dear wife from a despondency that threatened her very life.”

“How wonderful,” I said.

“Yes.” He nodded, gazing out across the lake at the neat façade of the hotel wherein Violet Petra was perhaps at that very moment rescuing another sufferer. “To have such power,” he mused, “and yet to wear it so lightly.”

I agreed. Violet was a study in contrasts: a lighthearted, silly‑headed, fashion‑conscious child‑woman whose influence was coveted by a bevy of large, prosperous, educated, self‑confident men and women, all of whom willingly entrusted to her – in my view – their sanity.

“Do you think she knows,” I asked her patron, “how much power she has?”

He paused on the path, turning upon me a thoughtful, serious look. After a moment he blinked a few times, as if to disperse an unproductive line of thought. When he spoke, his tone was rueful. “My dear Miss Grant,” he said. “Let us hope not.”

Date: 2015-02-16; view: 722