Abigail Weebe ruffed the cards close to her left ear, cut the deck, shuffled, and ruffed them again. Her husband Chester had taken her to Las Vegas, Nevada, the year before his death and she had seen a dealer in the Desert Blossom Motel do it that way. She thought it looked wonderfully professional and had done it herself ever since. And as current secretary-treasurer of the Ferris Station Ladies' Thursday Afternoon Euchre Society, she felt obligated to handle the cards with a certain amount of flair.

As she slid the cards around the table, she kept up a steady monlogue concerning her sister Veta's recent hysterectomy.

"Twice as big as normal, that's what the doctor said, and he's seen plenty, according to Veta. He left the good ovary, of course, so Veta won't have to worry about growing a moustache like our Aunt Minnie, you all remember Minnie, that married the traveling podiatrist."

By now, the cards had been dealt, hands had been picked up and organized, and bids calculated. Abigail stopped to breathe and Marvella Baxter, at her immediate left, picked up the commentary.

"Well, I don't know," she panted in the manner peculiar to so many heavy people. "My mother had that operation and my father never looked at her in that way ever again.

That's why I'm an only child."

Marvella Baxter was the only member of the Ferris Station Ladies' etc. that had never married. Or anything. She was too large to wear well the floral prints she favored, and her hair was growing progressively bluer with every visit to Jacqui's Beauty Beautique.

It was Marvella Baxter who first realized that euchre was too close to gambling for Presbyterians and that the game needed to change. Perhaps bridge, she had ventured. The idea bespoke of sophistication, and the suggestion was enthusiastically received.
And so, the Ferris Station Ladies' Thursday Afternoon Euchre Society voted unanimously henceforth to play contract bridge. Which none of them had ever played before.

The public library had two copies of Culbertson's book on the shelves, neither of which had ever been checked out. Mildred Reese, the director of the library and sole clerk, was relieved to see that some of Ferris Station's citizens were bettering themselves with pursuits more cultivated than dipping snuff and crushing beer cans against their foreheads at the tractor pull. She was, therefore, happy to consign to the ladies both copies with the return date left open.

Abigail wrote up a rotation list and they all took turns with the books. Since there were sixteen ladies in the society, they were able to play four tables. They would deal the cards face up and discuss the hands until they had gotten the general idea. But, they never really grasped the nuances of bidding that allowed one's partner to infer the strengths and weaknesses of one's holdings, so they modified convention and just announced them, like this:

"One heart."

"One spade."

"Pass. But I've got some club help."

"Two spades. Long string of low diamonds."

It was table talk of the highest order, but it resulted in a game that required less concentration, thereby allowing more time for the social intercourse that was the reason for the existence of the Ferris Station Ladies' etc. in the first place.

The bid had come around to Abigail again and she studied her hand, unsure about her next move. She closed the hand, tapped the cards on the table to re-align the edges, and fanned them open again, as if the tapping might have changed something.

"Oh, Chester," she sighed, "what should I do now?"

She often spoke to Chester. He had passed away three years before, but that made no difference. After talking to him for half her lifetime, she wasn't about to stop now, simply because he was dead.

"You know, Abby," said Sarah Collings, who sat opposite her, "you really should do something about this habit of yours. Might be if Chester could talk back, you wouldn't be so vocal to him." Sarah had majored in psychology at the state university for three semesters before she had quit to marry. It had been a wise decision.

There were general titters at all the tables, except from Marvella Baxter, who always laughed with a single, eruptive "Ha!", like the cry of a crazed karate fighter.

"Three hearts," said Abby. "I know. But I feel better talking to him, rather than to myself."

"Three spades," said Marvella Baxter. "Sure, Sarah. There's nothing wrong with Abby talking to Chester if she wants to."

"Pass," said Sarah, without further comment.

"Pass."

"Pass."

As she laid out her hand as dummy, the fourth at the table, Ulailee Burke, said, "You know, that might not be a bad idea, really talking to Chester. I hear Ruthie Bea is getting real good at communicating with the other side."

Ruthie Bea Hayes was an eccentric, even by Ferris Station's standards. She spent more time on the phone than an inside trader and always seemed to know everything about everybody. Two years before, she had performed at a PTA fund-raiser as Madame Olga, the Gypsy Psychic. She had stared into a crystal ball--the little snow scene had been removed--and made predictions for 25¢ a revelation.

She was right about Jimmy Lee Webster's broken collarbone (she knew he'd recently ordered a motorcycle) and she told Doug Travis that he'd find his Masonic ring (her cousin Alberta was a cleaning lady at the Hide-A-Way Motel out on the interstate. She'd found the ring on a bedside table, checked the guest register, and mailed it back anonymously. Then she'd called Ruthie Bea and told her all about it.) Madame Olga told nearly everybody that they'd soon come into money, and coincidentally, because of a computer error, twenty-seven winning state lottery tickets had been printed on a single roll that wound up in Ed Baker's hardware store. Within the month, Ruthie Bea's reputation as a true psychic was assured.

Encouraged by her success, Ruthie Bea had recently begun dabbling in spiritualism. She conjured up, so she said, Edna Heeley's late husband Alvin, who advised her to sell her stock in a pharmaceutical company, which she did. A week later, the company had recalled three lots of over-the-counter vitamins that had been contaminated with oil from a capsule-filling machine, and its stock took a nosedive. Edna Heeley had been amazed and grateful that she'd sold when she did. That the stock had recovered within days went unnoticed.

Word spread--in Ferris Station, just try to stop it--and more and more people came to see Ruthie Bea for readings and to deliver and receive messages from beyond the veil. And by now, Ruthie Bea was herself convinced that she really was a medium.

Shortly thereafter, she had hung Madame Olga's shingle from a lamppost in front of her house. "Madame Olga, Psychic & Medium," it read. "Knows All, Tells All. Sees the Past, Sees the Future. Free Will Donations Accepted." And below that, there were little decals of several major credit cards.

"Well," continued Ulailee Burke, rousing Abigail from her thoughts, "what do you say? Want to go see Ruthie Bea?"

Abigail paused to consider this carefully. "I don't know," she replied quietly. "Maybe the dead would prefer to keep their secrets to themselves." She dropped the subject and smiled. "Let's see, Marvella, your lead, wasn't it?"

The game continued uneventfully, with no further mention of Chester or Ruthie Bea.

The following Thursday was to be the annual luncheon of the Ferris Station Ladies' etc. for the election of the next year's officers. As always, it would be held in the banquet room of the Ferris Station Waffle House, with entertainment provided by the general membership for the new officers' pleasure. And, at the previous Friday's committee meeting, the ladies had unanimously decided to invite Madame Olga to do a reading for Abigail Weebe to see if she might actually talk to Chester. If she could, they reasoned, she'd be thrilled. And, if she couldn't, they would all just laugh it off as a joke, no harm done.

The next week, the group met as planned and enjoyed a delightful luncheon of Belgian waffles with strawberries, sausage patties, buttered grits, and peach half, with choice of beverage. After the meal, officers for the following year were elected. Which didn't take long. As nominations were called for, Marvella Baxter stood and moved that the current officers be reinstated for the next year. The motion was seconded by Sarah Collings and passed with not a single dissenting vote. There was polite applause, with ritual, mumbled thank-yous from the new officers re-elect.

Ulailee Burke tamped out her cigarette in the syrup that remained on her plate, then stood and cleared her throat.

"Madame President, officers, and ladies," she said, "as you all know, last week, there was considerable discussion about Abby's talking to Chester. We thought it only right that we do something to resolve the issue of communication with those on the farther shore one way or another. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Ferris Station's very own connection with the departed, Madame Olga!"

There was general applause, except from Abigail Weebe, who sat slack-jawed and mortified. She could find neither the words nor the wind to speak, and so, remained silent.

Ruthie Bea, in her gaudiest Madame Olga costume, adrip with gold-plated chains, large hoop earrings, and a brilliantly-colored scarf wrapped around her head, sidled in through the accordian-pleated vinyl door that partitioned the banquet room from the rest of the establishment. She slunk like an otter to the table where Abigail sat and pulled up a chair for herself at one corner. She placed a crystal ball--by now, she had a real one--in front of her and asked for someone to dim the lights. As the room darkened, she gazed at Abigail, mistaking her shock for awe.

"Do not be afraid, Abigail Weebe," she said with her best Hungarian accent. "The spirits speak only to me and can do you no harm. I will now contact my guide into the ether, Chief Running Cloud." She waved her hands around the crystal ball as if she were treading water.

"Oh, Chief Running Cloud, come to me, I beseech you. Come to me." There was silence. She waved more vigorously. "Oh, Chief Running Cloud, are you there?" Still nothing. "Something is wrong. I can feel it. There is a strong presence in the room. I feel...another medium is here. A very powerful medium. And she is preventing me from reaching my spirit guide."

She turned to the audience. Venomously, she spat at the stunned ladies, "Who is it?"
Eye contact with one. "Is it you?"

Her victim, Marvella Baxter, went "Ha!" and turned away.

At that moment, the pleated door slid open and a waitress plunged through sideways. She had been refilling napkin dispensers from a huge, filmy plastic bag that she gripped in her teeth. She held a bundle of napkins in each hand and the plastic bag was empty. Backlit, it seemed to glow from within.

"Jesus God A-mighty!" cried Ruthie Bea without a hint of Hungarian. "Ectoplasm!" And she slumped to the floor.

The lights came up and the meeting adjorned without formal declaration.

Later, Ruthie Bea swore that she'd fallen into a psychic trance. Most of the witnesses felt it was a common faint. But, as the Ferris Station Chronicle & Examiner --published bi-weekly-- later reported, on the whole, a good time was enjoyed by all.

Not long after that, Ruthie Bea took down Madame Olga's shingle, declaring that she would no longer squander her talents on the unappreciative.

The Ferris Station Ladies' Thursday Afternoon Euchre Society still plays at bridge, except that, since that incident with the Rotarians, they meet on Tuesdays now.

And Abigail Weebe still talks to Chester.

He hasn't answered yet.