by Barbara Hall
The rain had come and gone by the time they made their way back out onto Jackson Square. The street musicians were coming out again, and a few fortune-tellers were setting up shop.
Simone said, “Oh, we have to have our tarot cards done.”
Poppy shook her head and said, “I don’t believe in that.”
“Neither do I,” said Simone, “but it’s a hoot. We have to do it while we’re in New Orleans. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Simone chose a woman with Coke-bottle glasses and a small dog situated on her lap. They sat in lawn chairs next to her, and the woman said, “The heat’s back.”
“Excuse me?” Simone said.
“The heat. It’s back.”
“Oh, yes,” Simone agreed. “Does that mean anything?”
“It means summer’s coming.”
She started shuffling cards with tanned, pudgy hands, their backs riddled with age spots. The dog remained so still in her lap, Nora thought he might be dead.
“It’s ten dollars to have your palms read, fifteen for the tarot, and we’ll take it from there if you want more. Who wants to go first?”
“I do,” Simone said.
As the woman dealt out the beautiful, mysterious cards, she said, “It’s important to remember that these cards do not predict the future. They simply present you with possibilities which you may embrace or reject. Tarot teaches us how to deal with various opportunities. It is not what’s going to happen. It’s what may happen. Understand?”
“Yes,” said Simone.
“Because you are in control of your life. Don’t ever forget that. You are what you are because of the conscious and subconscious choices you have made.”
Simone stifled a yawn, then said, “No offense, it’s been a long day.”
The cards looked crazy and frightening. Nora was certain that nothing good could come of this conglomeration, but as she laid them out one at a time, the card reader looked unalarmed. She stared at them for a long time, lighting a cigarette and blowing her smoke straight up into the air, toward the clouds. She said, “Well, you have a lot of opportunities coming your way.”
“Who doesn’t?” Simone said.
“A lot of people don’t. Sometimes the cards are consistent and unvaried. They suggest a smooth course. But you? You’re in for some ups and downs. Just remember, there are no tragedies in life, only opportunities.”
“Okay,” Simone submitted. “Let’s hear about them.”
The card reader pointed and said, “These are all cards of the minor arcana. You already have money, you have luck, you have pain, and you have peaceful resolution. But here is a card I want to focus on. The Hermit.”
“That’s not me,” Simone said. “I am so not the Hermit.”
“Girl, do you have a hearing problem? These cards aren’t literal. The Hermit is the wise spirit within us. Everybody has that. Some folks don’t listen to it.”
She drummed her finger on the picture of a man, head bent, staff in hand, holding out a lantern.
“He stands at the precipice but he does not step over it. The Hermit is the ancient spirit who lives in us through the collective unconscious. The universal mind that guides us through the darkness with clear light. It is the deepest part of ourselves, the part that knows what to do in times of decision. When we encounter the Hermit, we should take it as an indication that the answers we seek can be found within our own hearts.”
Poppy looked up and said, “That is true of any encounter.”
“Yes, but the tarot tries to alert us to a situation in which we will have to use those forces.”
“Go ahead,” Simone said.
The reader pointed to another card and said, “This is the Wheel of Fortune. It’s rare that you get these two cards together, as they are both part of the major arcana. This card represents the circular nature of time. What goes around comes around. The sphinx at the top represents success and good fortune. The devil at the bottom is there to keep us alert, to help make us aware that all things are subject to change.”
“Oh, this is nonsense,” Poppy said. “And it’s pagan. The tarot cards are based on ancient pagan rituals and beliefs. It’s blasphemous.”
The card reader suddenly looked in her direction and said, “You have your own penance to pay. Try not to interfere.”
Poppy just stared at her. Nora looked back and forth between them, wondering what to do.
The next card the reader pointed to looked pretty dire. It showed a man facedown with several swords in his back. It was called the Ten of Swords.
“This doesn’t look good,” Nora heard herself whisper.
“Every card is good,” the reader said, “if you choose to see it that way. The Ten of Swords represents a potentially difficult situation. A card predicting loss and release. A new awareness that the difficulty is finally past. It seems negative, but it is a card of hope and an indication that troubles will not be permanent.”
“No troubles are permanent,” Poppy said.
“Tell me more,” Simone insisted.
“This is the card of judgment,” the reader said. “It says that a judgment will be found in your favor. Judgment speaks of a time of reckoning, a time of bringing to light those things which were hidden. What is your judgment of yourself and your own self-appraisal?”
“I don’t know,” Simone admitted.
“Whatever is up in the air, it will come down on your side. But it will mean nothing until you judge yourself, until you absolve yourself of what you know you have done. Justice does not come from the outside. It comes from inner peace. You cannot find the answer you are looking for on the outside.”
“Why not?” Simone asked.
“I told you, all scores are settled within one’s soul, within the psyche. You may have justice on the outside, but it is in here,” the reader said, stabbing her own chest with her index finger. “This is where we find peace.”
Her little dog barked and Simone said, “Is that all?”
“I worry about you,” said the reader. Her eyes seemed abnormally large behind the glasses. They seemed capable of seeing something on another plane, in a parallel universe. Now that the dog was awake, his eyes seemed to bear the same trait. Nora shivered and pulled her sweater around her shoulders. It was hot, but a chill had settled inside her and she couldn’t stop shaking. “I worry,” the reader continued, “because you are not open. At this moment, you are closed to possibility. And anyone who is about to face this many challenges needs to be open. Otherwise, it will turn to pain.”
“I’ve had pain,” Simone told her. “The thing about it is, it doesn’t kill you. It just hurts. These days, if something doesn’t kill you, it doesn’t impress me.”
“Well, all right.” The reader sat back and sighed. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”
Simone gave her twenty and told her to keep the change. They walked back across Jackson Square, silently contemplating what had just happened, wondering how to respond. Nora thought she should laugh, but no one else seemed to favor that idea. Finally Simone said, “What an obnoxious old hag.”
Poppy said, “What did you expect, Simone? It’s voodoo nonsense. That’s her way of feeling powerful. Pretending she has answers she doesn’t. Ascribing some sort of mystical authority to a bunch of playing cards. It’s completely amoral.”
“You mean immoral,” Nora corrected her. “There’s no such thing as an amoral world.”
Poppy stopped walking and looked at her. “Where did you hear that?”
Nora felt momentarily confused, and then she realized she was quoting Leo Girardi. Her attempt to steal his philosophy had given her away.
“I don’t know . . . it’s just something I heard once.”
Poppy stared at her long and hard. Her eyes were dark and piercing, and any notion Nora had that Poppy wouldn’t mind her connection with Leo went up in smoke. She felt frightened and desperate to hide her actions.
“Let’s stop talking about it,” Simone suggested
. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to Nola. It shouldn’t be crowded. It’s still early by New Orleans standards.”
The restaurant Nola was right up the street in the Quarter. It was, in fact, already crowded, a large group of people hanging around the bar, waiting for tables. But Simone spoke briefly to the maître d’, and suddenly a man in a suit came out, and then the sous-chef himself, and they were being led like royalty to the finest table in the house.
“Emeril’s a friend,” she told them as they sat down.
“Who?” Nora asked.
“Emeril Lagasse. He owns this place, as well as several other places in town. Possibly the best chef in the country. I’d judge him that way, anyhow. I have said so in articles. That’s why I get treated so well.”
“I thought food critics weren’t supposed to identify themselves,” Poppy said, as if the special treatment unsettled her some.
“True,” Simone said, “but it’s too late in this restaurant. They already know me.”
The waiter brought over complementary champagne and appetizers, a delicious crab concoction that Nora ate so quickly she was startled to find it gone. She had never tasted anything like it. It was so good it brought tears to her eyes. Looking over, she saw that Simone had barely touched hers.
“Did you like it?” Nora asked.
“Of course. It’s fabulous. But I have this eating problem.”
“Don’t you eat anything?”
“Enough to stay alive, I think.”
“Did this happen after the rape?” Poppy asked.
“No,” Simone said. “It had started before then. It’s just gotten worse. I think because it is my work, and because I feel like such a fraud, making my living the way I do. Even when I was modeling, I could eat. But being a restaurant critic has kind of done me in. It’s hard to explain.”
Simone eagerly sipped at her champagne and lit a cigarette. She glanced nervously around, as if expecting to see someone she knew. Suddenly she said, “Oh, dear God, girls. How did we end up like this?”
Nora and Poppy looked at her, knowing what she meant but not wanting to acknowledge it, and certainly not wanting to talk about it.
Poppy said, “Things aren’t so bad. I am not unhappy.”
“But it is not how we envisioned ourselves. Remember in school, when we felt like great things were in store for us? I guess UVA made us feel like that. Everyone there acted as if they were so anointed, so privileged. I guess we were. I guess I felt those expectations hovering over me.”
“But you were born privileged,” Nora said, hoping that didn’t sound too insulting.
“I was born to money,” Simone objected. “We never had any kind of pedigree. My father just went to some half-ass college in Arizona. He always longed to be taken seriously as an intellectual, someone with taste and dignity. The movie industry lets you pretend you have that. But he knew he was on the outside looking in. Lately, he’s been replaced by young Harvard MBAs. His job has dwindled down to nothing. He knew his lack of education would catch up to him eventually. He’s still rich, but he’s not part of the elite. He’s not in the club.”
“Well, the club sucks,” Poppy said. “My father was always in it, and I can tell you the kind of thing that goes on there. Not good. You should consider yourself lucky.”
“Oh, I do,” Simone said. “And there’s nothing like almost dying to make you feel like the luckiest person on earth. I know I have learned lessons, but I don’t see why I had to nearly die to be taught. Wasn’t there an easier path?”
Poppy said, “God has a divine purpose for our lives, and it is best not to question it. You just have to have faith.”
“Oh, Poppy, you know I love you. But this religious horseshit is starting to annoy me. Since when did you believe in this crap? Why give up your power like that? Why hand it over to some bearded guru in the sky, who fucked things up in the first place? Tell me, what is the divine purpose for Quentin Johnson? What does that wise one have in store for him?”
Poppy gave no answer to that. Nora sensed that she certainly had one but had lost her desire to share it with the non-believers. A waiter took their order and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the lively chatter in the restaurant.
“Boy, that Margaret Marquez-Pratt is a piece of work, isn’t she?” Simone eventually said.
“She’s tough,” Nora agreed.
“You ought to sick her on Clifford Braxton,” Simone said. “He’d come back to town and pay his taxes and a few other people’s to boot. And he’d leave that waitress slut in a by God New York minute.”
“I’d just as soon hire a hit man,” Nora said.
“No, you wouldn’t,” Poppy interjected. “You don’t really hate Cliff. You say you do, but you don’t. You want him to come back. You’d take him back tomorrow.”
“Poppy, how can you say that? It’s completely untrue.”
“Then, why do you still wear your wedding ring?”
Nora blushed and looked down at the wide gold band on her hand. It was a hard question to answer. In a way, she felt she had no legal right to take it off until they were really divorced. But she recovered from her embarrassment long enough to say, “Why do you still wear yours?”
“Because I still have hope,” Poppy answered.
“You think Adam is coming back to you?”
“I left him,” she said simply. “And I may go back. It doesn’t look good, but it could happen. I pray for it.”
“What do you pray for?” Simone asked. “That he’ll find Jesus?”
“No. That Jesus will find him.”
“Wait, Jesus doesn’t lose people, does He?”
“I don’t want to have this discussion. You’re just being glib.”
“I’m always glib. You know that.”
Their food came, and it was so unbearably delicious that they couldn’t talk while they ate. Nora feasted on some tender duck that fell away from the bone and a soothing pile of creamy polenta mixed with a tangy collection of greens. Poppy devoured her catfish, and even Simone made some progress with her lamb.
“Oh, this is delightful,” Simone said. “The lamb is tender and petulant, while the mashed potatoes are sensually flavored with garlic and rosemary. They are nicely complemented by a mango relish, giving an ethnic quality to an otherwise thoroughly American meal.”
Nora giggled. “Are you serious?”
“It’s how I’m supposed to talk about food. I told you my job was ridiculous.”
“But how can lamb be petulant?”
“It can’t, of course. I’m just expected to find creative adjectives. You have no idea what it’s like to do this day after day. I feel like such a liar. I want to say, it’s food, it’s dead meat, it’s mushed-up vegetables, it turns to shit in a matter of hours.”
This got a laugh out of Poppy, and she pushed her plate away.
“That article would get some attention,” she said.
“Believe me, one day I’m going to have a breakdown and write it.”
“Well, my food was great. I never get to eat like this,” Nora said. The champagne had gone to her head and she felt happy, despite the previous tensions she had sensed circling them like a flock of buzzards.
Poppy and Simone giggled some more, drinking their champagne. They were finally starting to relax. Nora was starting to feel better about being here, about her decision to come to New Orleans. She was suddenly visited by the memory of Leo’s kiss, and she could do nothing to stop her face from flushing.
“But seriously, here’s a question,” Poppy said. “Did you know the guy or not?”
Simone’s smile faded and she said, “Quentin Johnson?”
Poppy nodded.
“I didn’t know him. I told you, I talked to him briefly at the club.”
“Actually, you didn’t tell us that. You told Margaret.”
“Well, I figured you’d hear it at the trial.”
“So, you weren’t with him or anything.”
“No,
Poppy. For God’s sake, he asked me for the time and he offered to buy me a drink, which I declined. That’s it. Does that mean I deserve to be raped?”
“No one’s saying that,” Nora volunteered quickly.
“I think Poppy might be saying it.”
“No, no. Of course she isn’t. Look, Simone, even if you were dating him, even if you went back to his apartment, whatever, you still had the right to say no to him. It doesn’t matter at all if you knew him or not. Rape is rape.”
“Yes,” Poppy said. “Of course, that’s true. I was just wondering.”
“Well, try to stop wondering,” Nora said. She felt herself shaking with anger. She had never spoken to Poppy that way. For some reason, she had always been afraid to.
“All right, forget I said anything.”
Another pall fell over the evening. They skipped dessert. Simone tried to pay the check, but she was told the meal was on the house. Finally they left, after touring the restaurant to thank everyone involved.
They walked back to the hotel in silence. Nora tried to think of other things, but there was no comfortable place to let her mind rest. The thought of her children staying with her mother made her nervous. Any thought of Cliff was out of the question. Thinking of her meal just made her remember the awkwardness, and the way Simone had barely touched her food. The only thing that cheered her slightly was thinking of the days on Vinegar Hill, when they were all careless and confident of their connection to each other. The days when they didn’t question that connection. The days when friendship was enough. Now there seemed to be standards and restrictions. She felt she had to earn her right to be among them, and she wasn’t sure how she was doing.
They parted inside the courtyard, each claiming to be terribly sleepy. Simone said, “Well, the trial is at nine A.M. tomorrow. We can have a quick breakfast and take a cab together.”
“Do we get to be in the courtroom?” Poppy asked.
“Yes, but I don’t. As a witness, I can only be there for voir dire, the jury selection and closing arguments. And, of course, my testimony. I’m relying on you guys to take notes and tell me what happened.”