And This Is Laura

by Ellen Conford

  My family was exactly as unthrilled as I’d told Jamie they would be. It was kind of strange. Here I’d gotten what I wanted most of all: an outstanding quality that would make me noticed even among my overachieving family and that would make my family notice me. Well, they noticed me, all right—but their reactions were not exactly those of wholehearted admiration and awe.

  Douglas was furious. My mother seemed more and more worried every day. My father frowned and shook his head a lot. Jill thought it was okay, but the throngs made it too hectic around the house for her to rehearse, or memorize lines, or do her homework, or anything. In short, nobody said, “How lucky we are to have a gifted medium like Laura in the house!”

  One problem was that the appointment scheme didn’t work.

  Even though Jamie started out by scheduling only eight appointments an afternoon, other kids came anyway, hoping to get “squeezed in.” If we didn’t let them in, they milled around the front lawn and refused to leave until they were sure the readings were over for the day. This made all our neighbors unthrilled.

  There didn’t seem to be anything we could do about it, so we declared Saturday afternoons “open” and I would just do as many readings as I could from one to five.

  It cut down a little on the weekday traffic, but not enough to make a noticeable difference to my family. Jamie suggested extending the weekday hours from four to six, but I quickly vetoed that idea. I was having enough trouble trying to convince my parents and Douglas that after all, it was only for one hour a day, and if Destiny had chosen me to be a brilliant psychic, who was going to be foolhardy enough to thumb their nose at Destiny?

  “Kool-Aid! Hey, anybody want Kool-Aid?”

  I stuck my head out the door again.

  Dennis walked carefully toward the stairs balancing a tray full of little paper cups. I closed my eyes, afraid to look.

  “Steve Freeman,” Jamie said to the boy in front of my door, “you’re next. Go on in.”

  As I closed the door I could hear Dennis chanting, “Delicious, nutritious and good for you too. Ten cents a cup, drink it all up.”

  “Clever kid,” Steve commented. I motioned him to the chair. He sat down and leaned forward eagerly.

  “Yeah. Well.” I pointed at the sign Jamie had put on my wall. It read: “THE MANAGEMENT ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANYTHING. DONATION: $1.00.”

  “That’s for legal reasons,” Jamie said when I asked her about it. Since she seemed to be the authority on everything connected with the Prediction Business, I didn’t question her any further.

  “Now,” I began, “you understand that I can’t promise you that I can see into your future, that I might not see anything at all?”

  Jamie and I had agreed that I had to be very honest about my readings and explain all this in advance, so nobody could complain afterwards. There was no charge if I couldn’t give a reading.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  “And you know that whatever I tell you might not be right, that I’m not accurate one hundred percent of the time and there might be different ways of explaining what I see?”

  “Right, right, I understand that too.” Steve was very impatient to get started.

  “Okay. Do you have a particular question you want me to try and answer, or do you just want a general reading?”

  “No special question,” Steve said. “Just tell me what you see in my future.”

  “Okey-doke.” I sat back on the bed, propping myself against the wall with several throw pillows. I relaxed my body completely and closed my eyes. I concentrated on Steve’s face, picturing it in my mind, not trying to force anything. Pretty soon—I guess it was pretty soon, because I’m never sure how long it actually takes—an image began to form.

  At first it was all jumbled parts, but then pieces began to float together to make a whole, like a jigsaw puzzle being assembled under water.

  It started with just a long, dimly lit corridor, nothing more. After a while I could see figures advancing. I couldn’t see them clearly for quite some time. As if from a long distance, they slowly made their way toward me. It seemed like a line of people, a parade—maybe soldiers marching. No, not quite. They trudged down the corridor coming closer to me. It was almost as if I was standing right there, observing, although I was nowhere in the picture I was watching. Finally they came close enough to be seen clearly. There were six men, two of whom were carrying a long, flat object. What they were carrying was draped in a white sheet.

  I came out of it with a little shudder.

  Steve’s eager face peered down at me. Only then did I remember I had been doing a reading for him. I stared, horrified at his lively, searching eyes. That was his body I had seen draped in a sheet. It must have been. Was it possible that he was going to die? Had that been his funeral?

  “What is it? What did you see in my future?” Now he looked worried and no wonder. My face must have reflected the terror I felt.

  I could barely get a word past my lips. “Nothing,” I choked.

  “You saw something. I know you did.”

  I shook my head. “Sick,” I gasped. “I think I’m sick. Please.”

  “All right,” he said doubtfully. “I hope you feel better. Should I put the dollar on the desk?”

  “No, no! Just—no charge if I can’t do it.”

  “Okay. Maybe next time.” He let himself out of my room and I sank back against the pillows. My heart was pounding in my chest; I wondered briefly if I could be having a heart attack. It was horrible, terrifying. Steve was going to die and I knew it and he didn’t. This was not at all the kind of future I expected to see into.

  Jamie burst into my room and slammed the door.

  “Laura, what’s the matter? Steve said you were sick.”

  “No more readings today, Jamie. I can’t.”

  “But we just started. We’ve got to—”

  “No,” I insisted. “No. I don’t want to do any more today. I don’t know if I ever want to do any more!”

  “Why? Laura, what is it? What happened?”

  “I saw Steve dead!” I shivered violently. I pulled myself to the edge of the bed and sat hunched over as I described the reading. Jamie sat down next to me and put her arm around my shoulders.

  “Laura, take it easy. Don’t you remember what I told you? Remember the giant bird and the football player? That doesn’t necessarily mean that Steve is going to die. It could mean a whole lot of other things.”

  “Like what? What could that possibly mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know. That’s just it. We can’t tell yet. But there are lots of things it could be besides a funeral.”

  “You can’t think of one other thing! I don’t care, Jamie, I don’t want to see things like that, whatever they mean. It’s too scary.”

  “All right. Okay, why don’t you take some time to rest and have a nice cup of tea. Try to calm down and be reasonable. I’ll hold them off for a while.”

  “Send them home. I’m not doing any more today.”

  “Laura, try and—”

  There was a knock on my door.

  “What is it?” Jamie called impatiently.

  The door opened and a strange man stuck his head inside.

  “Laura Hoffman?”

  “I’m Laura Hoffman. What is it?”

  He stepped into my room and closed the door.

  “Lieutenant Cohen. Police.” He flashed a wallet at me, which I guess contained his identification, but I was too startled to examine it.

  “Police?” I echoed. “What do you—do you want me?”

  Jamie stared at him and then at me, with complete bewilderment.

  “You and my son are classmates,” he said.

  “Oh, you are Barry’s father?” Jamie asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Thinking about my reading for Steve I was suddenly struck with an awful premonition of disaster.

  “Barry!” I cried. “Is something wrong? What happened?”

&nbs
p; “There is something wrong,” he acknowledged. “Oh, no.” I closed my eyes, afraid of what he was going to tell me had happened to Barry.

  “Do you know that what you’re doing is illegal?”

  My eyes flew open.

  “Illegal!” cried Jamie.

  It took a moment to catch up with what was happening. I was so relieved to hear that Barry was okay that at first I didn’t understand what his father was saying to me.

  “That’s right. Fortune-telling is against the law. You’re taking money, aren’t you?”

  Jamie pointed to the sign. “Donations,” she said. “Voluntary donations.”

  “Donations, love offerings, whatever you want to call it.” Lieutenant Cohen shrugged. “It’s money. That makes it illegal. I’m not with the Bunco Squad, but—”

  “Bunco Squad!” I repeated.

  “Yeah, you know, rackets, con games, swindles—”

  Jamie was indignant. “This isn’t a con game! Laura really is a psychic. What kind of a dumb law—”

  “Look,” he said patiently, “it may be a dumb law, but it is a law. As I say, I’m not with the Bunco Squad, but when Barry told me about the—what do you call it—reading?”

  I nodded.

  “The reading you gave him, I thought I’d come and see you. Unofficially, of course.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sakes, if the police don’t have anything better to do than—”

  “Jamie!” I warned. There was no point in making a big fuss over this, because I’d been determined to go out of business anyway, at least temporarily. It was perfectly fine with me to be told I couldn’t do any more readings.

  “Thank you for warning me,” I said to Lieutenant Cohen. “As a matter of fact, I was thinking of giving it up. But not because it was against the law. I mean, I had no idea it was against the law.”

  “I thought you might not know,” he said. “Barry didn’t either, and he was very upset when I told him. He was afraid you’d think he’d turned you in or something like that. I tried to explain to him I only wanted to protect a friend of his from getting into trouble . . .”

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “I really mean it. It’s just as well this happened.”

  “Barry made the basketball team, didn’t he?” Jamie asked abruptly.

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Cohen replied. “Yes, he did.” He looked at me for a moment, his eyes searching mine. I didn’t want to lower my gaze. He might think I was a fraud or something if I couldn’t look him straight in the eye.

  Finally he said, “You really think you’re psychic?”

  “She doesn’t think she’s psychic,” Jamie retorted. “She is psychic.”

  He shrugged, as if it really didn’t matter one way or the other. “Okay. Okay.” He gave a little wave of his hand and left.

  Jamie looked deflated. “It’s a shame,” she grumbled. “It’s just a shame.” She sighed. “I guess I’d better go and tell the kids to go home.” She shook her head and mumbled something I didn’t hear.

  I followed her into the hall.

  There had been an unusual hush, maybe because some of the kids recognized Barry’s father, or maybe because Steve told them I was sick. But as soon as we came out, everyone started yelling questions at once.

  Jamie finally succeeded in yelling “Quiet!” loud enough to have an effect. When she achieved this, she announced in a bitter voice, “We’ve been raided.”

  They began shouting again.

  “I said shut up!” she screamed. “You will have to go home. Laura can’t give any more readings or they’ll throw her in the slammer.”

  At last she managed to convince them that there would be no more predictions today, and the disgruntled crowd began to disperse.

  Douglas and Dennis stood in the front hall, watching everyone leave. Dennis looked positively doleful. Douglas was holding a big tray of something and stopping everyone he could grab before they got to the door.

  The last person shook his head at Douglas and left. Douglas looked up to where I stood at the top of the staircase.

  “Drat,” he said, with mock irritation. “And I just put up fourteen more hot dogs.”

  9

  THAT WEEK MR. KANE called an extra rehearsal; the performance was only two weeks away. It was just as well that I couldn’t give any more readings, because I had to stay late Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.

  Not that we didn’t know our parts. We did. In addition to our own parts, Beth and I and Jean Freeman knew practically the entire play by heart—everybody’s parts. There was always a prompter in the wings with a full script, but most of the time if anyone had a minor attack of amnesia, Jean or Beth or I could cue her before the prompter.

  Mr. Kane had postponed assigning understudies until rehearsals were well underway, because he didn’t want anybody trying to learn two parts at once. He said it would be much easier to memorize the part you were going to under-study after you were completely sure of your own lines, and after you became familiar with the play.

  I guess he also wanted to see who the fastest memorizers were, because he made Beth Jean’s stand-in, and me, Beth’s. It was perfectly logical to have Beth take Jean’s role if she got sick, but I’m sure the only reason I understudied Beth was because I knew her lines perfectly. I couldn’t act them, but I could say them in the right places.

  “If you get sick, I’ll kill you,” I threatened Beth, when we found out about all this.

  “And if Jean breaks a leg,” Beth joked, “your prediction will come true. I could be the star after all.”

  “Don’t say that!” I shuddered. “That means I’d have to take your part.”

  (To show you how vital my regular role of Nancy was, I had no understudy.)

  Rita asked Mr. Kane why everyone didn’t have a stand-in.

  “Only the major roles have stand-ins.”

  (Not very much of an explanation, I thought.)

  “And what if both Jean and Beth get sick?” asked Rita.

  “They would not dare,” he said grimly.

  Every day that week the first thing I did when I got to school was to check Steve Freeman’s desk. It was the first place my eyes rested as I entered homeroom. When he was there, I heaved a sigh of relief. The one day he came later than I did, I experienced such a wave of panic that Jamie had to practically hold my hand until he arrived. Once I knew he was safe I was able to relax until the next morning.

  The following Monday I got to school later than usual. It had snowed during the night. Dennis had heard the weather forecast in the afternoon and had thoughtfully brought all the windshield deicer we had in the garage into the house, in case we were so snowbound that we couldn’t get to the garage. It was considerate of him—and you can’t really expect too much logic from a seven-year-old, so I don’t think it was fair for Douglas to harp on the fact that if we couldn’t get to the garage because of the snow, how did Dennis expect us to use the car at all, and if the car was in the garage overnight, why should it need the deicer?

  As it turned out, we could get to the garage. It was ten degrees out at seven a.m. and it was a very icy walk up the driveway, but there was barely two inches of snow on the ground. The station wagon, however, wouldn’t start, which meant that my father’s car, left out all night in front of the house, did have to be deiced.

  “See, you did need it!” Dennis told Douglas triumphantly.

  The only thing was, Dennis could not remember exactly where he had put the three cans of deicer.

  My mother insisted we all had to be driven to school or risk frostbite, as there were gale-force winds which made the wind-chill factor down around 20 below.

  We looked everywhere Dennis thought he might have put the stuff until finally, exasperated, my father said to just get him a bottle of rubbing alcohol, it would do just as well. Only my mother couldn’t find a bit of rubbing alcohol in the house, and she assumed that peroxide wouldn’t work.

  My father said, no, peroxide wouldn’t work, it had to be
alcohol, and did she want him to use the scotch or the bourbon to deice the windshield? She said neither one, because with the streets so icy if he skidded or something driving us to school or going to work and a cop came along and smelled the whole car reeking of scotch, there was bound to be a bit of trouble.

  By this time Dennis had led us all over the house in search of the deicer, which he was certain he had put in an extremely safe place, if he could only recall what it was.

  At that moment Jill remembered she had bowling that afternoon. She grabbed her bowling bag from the debris in the corner of the dining room. “There it is!” She pointed at three aerosol cans lined up in a neat little row.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Dennis brightly. “I remember. I put it behind Jill’s bowling bag.”

  Which is why I got into school barely three minutes before first period bell.

  The room was buzzing. Everyone seemed to be conferring with their neighbors, then turning to other people to compare what they’d heard. I had no idea what it was all about.

  Jamie waved to me frantically as I hurried to my seat.

  “Jean Freeman was in an accident yesterday,” she told me, in an electrifying whisper. “And Steve was too. In the car.”

  I looked over toward Steve’s seat, as if she might be wrong and he might actually be sitting right there, the same as usual. But he wasn’t.

  “The whole family,” Jamie went on. “They were driving back from Connecticut and they were on the parkway, practically home, and they veered off the shoulder or something and there was this huge, seven-car pileup—”

  “What happened to Steve?”

  “He’s okay. He’s in the hospital but he’s okay. They think he has a concussion.”

  “Thank God,” I breathed. “At least he’s not dead.”

  “No, he’ll be okay. Jean is going to be in the hospital a while, though. She has internal injuries, whatever that is. They don’t think it’s too bad, but they can’t be sure.”

  “It sounds bad,” I said, shaken. “How did you find out?”