by Keziah Frost
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” enunciated Carlotta, with surgical precision. “This is an art establishment.” She flounced past the drunken mob, into the air-conditioned stillness of the gallery.
Quel ennui!
How annoying.
* * *
Norbert was just settling down for the night with a cup of Peaceful Dreams Herbal Tea. He enjoyed his evening of solitude with Ivy after a day of readings. In the quiet of his home, he reviewed his day, and the faces of his customers appeared in his mind’s eye: encouraged, reassured, hopeful. That was how they looked when they left him, and that was what helped him to feel that he was doing good. At least he hoped so. He was still not entirely used to the power he seemed to exert over people, and he was a little afraid of it.
Whenever he felt unsure of himself, he thought of Carlotta. After working to make him tell fortunes, she was now working to undermine his confidence in himself. Stroking Ivy’s oversized ears, he smiled. He held no grudge against Carlotta for using the term “shyster” the day of that awkward lunch at her place. He saw that she was desperate to find the words that would control him, and there was nothing he needed to take personally. She was simply a gifted, natural leader. Like all natural leaders, she felt secure with a pack, an army or a club following her, and had developed with precision the skills needed to keep herself always clearly in the lead. The deepest fear of the natural leader was of being deposed, because this leads to a crisis of identity, and to a sense of not being necessary at all. Norbert had come to understand Carlotta very well.
Norbert’s phone rang. The caller ID showed that it was his cousin’s nephew, Zack. Not the person Norbert wanted to talk to before going to sleep. Zack was the unluckiest young man Norbert knew, and his infinite chain of misfortunes had been a drain on Norbert’s savings—back in the days when Norbert had any savings. After Norbert began to have hard times of his own, Zack’s calls had dwindled mercifully to none at all. It had been years since he’d heard the unfortunate fellow’s voice.
“Uncle Norbert?”
“Why, Zack. Hello. How have you been?”
“Hey, Uncle Norbert! I’m glad you’re still—Hey! It’s been a long time. Sorry I haven’t called for a while.”
“That’s all right, Zack.” (It really was.)
“Well, how are you?”
All requests for money began with exactly that inflection. Norbert knew it was not a real question, but rather a required phrase to open a conversation in which Zack would go on to explain that someone stole all of his tools out of his van so now he couldn’t work, or that he was mugged and was knocked unconscious and was out of the hospital but now he had a lot of bills to pay, or that all three of his roommates had suddenly moved out on him and now how was he supposed to pay the rent?
“I’m in a mess, Uncle Norbert.” Zack’s voice went weak, as if he were in pain. “I injured myself and I haven’t been able to work in a while.”
Earlier in Norbert’s life, people had assumed he was wealthy because he gave away money so freely. He could not say no. He did not want to say no. He enjoyed the look of gratitude, the sense of being seen, even if only for a brief moment. He came alive when he was perceived as the person who could solve the problem—the person with the answer. And now he had no money to give. He and Ivy were getting by, but there was no extra in his checking account for philanthropy.
“Uncle Norbert? You still there, man?”
Norbert, the psychic adviser, had been helping his customers to draw boundaries in their personal relationships, and now it was time for him to draw one of his own. He’d never done such a thing before, and didn’t know if he was up to the task. He was temperamentally incapable of being unkind.
“Zachary,” said Norbert, calling his nephew by the name he used when he was a little boy, “do you remember when you and I used to take electronics apart and put them back together?”
“What? Well, I don’t remember too much about that. What I really wanted to talk about was—”
Norbert interrupted.
“It was your favorite thing to do.” Norbert saw, in his mind’s eye, the young and enthusiastic Zachary, and felt love in his heart for that child. “Those were good times, eh? After a while, I didn’t even help you. I’d just watch. You could take anything apart and reassemble it. That shows a lot of intelligence, I always said. You were the smartest thing. And now you are a grown man. You are very capable of figuring out this problem on your own. I have every confidence in you.”
“So...?”
“So give me a call back when you work it all out. I’d love to hear how you managed it. You always do find the way. You are remarkable, Zack. You were born remarkable.”
Norbert, smiling gently, hung up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Four of Spades:
The past must be released, to allow space for the present and future.
Summer’s parents came to her in her dreams. Sometimes they were disappointed and silent, and sometimes they beckoned her to follow them. Sometimes they were furious and frightening, and the dream was filled with a static noise. Today, as the birds sang beyond her darkened windows, her dreams of her parents were lovely.
It was that night again. But this time, it all played out differently, as it so easily might have done. This time, she didn’t go running out the door when Rory honked his horn in the driveway. This time, she stayed in the house, drinking tea and looking at astrology magazines with her mom. Her dad sang Bob Dylan impressions, and they all laughed, and the love sparkled in the air of the room.
She awoke feeling something like happiness. It was the memory of what happiness used to feel like. Was it Saturday? Gramma had coerced her into agreeing to walk Toutou for her every Saturday morning. Summer knew very well that Gramma was as strong and energetic as ever, and she could walk her own poodle. This was only a clever ruse to get Summer out of her apartment and into the daylight and fresh air.
After that night, the night that it happened, Gramma had taken her into her home on Clarence Avenue, and had finished raising her and had guided her into college. How old had Gramma been then? She must have been seventy, assuming the care of a fifteen-year-old girl. Not every seventy-year-old would have felt equal to the task. How had she managed it? She was a tough old bird, and the best person Summer knew.
Gramma had been attentive and affectionate and actually seemed grateful to have the responsibility of raising Summer. She had always been one to keep her mind and hands busy. They had been close before “it” happened, but afterward they had forged a strong bond that endured to this day.
Toutou would be waiting for that walk. Summer hated walking around town. She feared that when people looked at her, they must see right through her, to her guilt.
She swung her legs over the side of her bed.
No one knows. It was ten years ago, and still no one has figured it out. Even Gramma doesn’t know what I did. If she knew, she wouldn’t love me the way she does. Everyone in town knows how Charlie and Barbara Moon died. But no one knows I killed them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two of Clubs:
There is yet time for you to take a different path.
It was the end of August, still summer, yet with a hint in the breeze of the autumn to come, and the fortune-telling trade was going well. Norbert had been doing readings for two months, and already felt strangely at ease in the role.
A scruffy-looking youth looked up at him gravely when Norbert, pointing to the Two of Clubs, told him, “There is yet time for you to take a different path.”
A young woman with a nose ring became pensive when he signaled the Eight of Diamonds and told her, “You have something good in your life. Do not let it go.”
Norbert had the satisfaction of helping people to think about the direction of their lives and to discover their own powe
r to change it. Norbert also had the satisfaction of buying himself a decent pair of shoes.
* * *
As Margaret and Birdie had begun to visit him, he had begun to return their visits, just briefly passing by, bringing avocados from the Lucky Pig, or flowers from his garden. Norbert, holding a bunch of tiger lilies, stood on Birdie’s doorstep feeling a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. He’d been in Birdie’s garden when he came to the garden party, but he had never entered her house. If there were a haunted house anywhere in Gibbons Corner, Norbert supposed this would be it. Norbert, however, did not believe in haunted houses, or in spirit visitations of any kind. But he did believe in Birdie. He saw in her a genuineness that he did not see in many people.
Birdie swung open the door and welcomed him into a home that was airy and full of sunlight. There were green plants everywhere, and there was a comfortable cross breeze flowing throughout the space, making it feel like part of the great outdoors. He had expected enclosed dark spaces and Victorian antiques, but there was none of that. If spirits lived here, he thought, they must be nature spirits.
Tetley, Birdie’s ancient parrot, sat on his perch and sharply regarded Ivy, who peeped around with interest from her carrier.
Birdie took the lilies happily, and put them in water in a clear vase right away. “Lilies are for purity. That’s what Carlotta always says.”
Norbert’s attention was arrested by the large parrot perched near the window, peering at Norbert first through his right eye, and then through his left.
“Norbert,” said Birdie, “meet Tetley. Tetley, this is Norbert.”
“Hey there, woo-hoo! How ya doing?” rasped Tetley.
Norbert turned to Birdie. “How did you train him to do that?”
Birdie, smiling, said, “First you’d better answer him, or he’ll keep asking.”
“Oh!” said Norbert, feeling silly. “I’m fine, thank you, Tetley. Uh. How are you?”
Tetley responded with a perfect imitation of a phone ringing.
Birdie signaled for Norbert to have a seat near a large window, and she seated herself across from him. Ivy was out of the carrier and on Birdie’s lap in a flash.
“I’m so glad you could stop by,” said Birdie. “I could have dropped it off at the café.”
Birdie produced a hand-crocheted cream-colored collar with a large crimson flower, and fastened it around Ivy’s neck. She had estimated the size perfectly. Ivy accepted the present with good grace, and appreciated the extra attention it brought her.
“And so, Norbert,” said Birdie, as if continuing a conversation that had never started, “you are using your gift. You have come to understand that there are unseen hands at work in all our lives. You have opened the door to your spiritual side.”
“I don’t know about that, Birdie. If you mean the card reading, well, I just pretty much go with the odds, and it seems to work out. What I do focus on is helping people.”
Birdie seemed to be listening to something that made her smile gently.
“You are still resisting it.”
“Not at all! I’m not resisting anything. I just understand...I don’t know...randomness.”
“Randomness?”
“Yes. Like statistics, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
“Well,” said Norbert, glad to inform Birdie on a subject he had been good at in school, “the card readings, they ‘work’ by way of randomness.”
“Hmm?” asked Birdie.
“It’s like this—say I get the idea before I start my readings on a given day that I’m going to say a certain thing to three different customers today. We can just pick anything at all, like—” Norbert scratched his head “—well, ‘The pressure at your job has been building steadily and they keep putting more on your plate.’ Let’s say that’s the statement. Now, that is a very common experience these days. Chances are, if I say that to three people, it’s going to be true for at least two of them. And the third person will probably try to make it fit somehow. The third person might say, ‘Oh, you’re seeing the job I just left, or, oh, I think you’re seeing my spouse’s job,’ or something like that.”
Birdie, untroubled, said, “And what would give you the inspiration to give that particular message to three people that day?”
Norbert wondered why Birdie couldn’t keep up.
“It’s not an inspiration. It’s a decision.”
“You think it’s a decision.”
“No. I know it’s a decision. I decide it, in my head.”
“You decide it because it’s been given to you.”
“Given to me? By whom?”
“Given to you by Spirit. Because Spirit knows that three people are going to come in who need to hear that message.”
Norbert sighed. Birdie was a lovely and interesting person, but she didn’t understand how rational his psychic readings were.
“Well, if you’re bad at statistics—and I’m not saying you are, of course—well, then, you believe in the paranormal because you don’t understand randomness. Do you see?”
“I see,” said Birdie, “that you are a good man, Norbert. And I have it on good authority that you will continue to get opportunities to grow into your spirituality.”
Regardless of his disagreement with Birdie’s perspective, there was no denying that her focused and personal attention made him feel good.
On leaving, Norbert had to resist the odd impulse to pay Birdie twenty dollars for her reflections.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Four of Clubs and Ten of Hearts:
You have people who love you unconditionally, although you may not realize it.
Summer stopped by Carlotta’s house on the way home from school one afternoon.
She longed to get home and shut her apartment door on the world. She wanted to get to her couch and wrap herself up like a cocoon in a blanket of silence. In three months it would be December 30. Why, this year, did she need to keep track of the days leading up to the awful anniversary? She couldn’t help it. At home and at school, she watched with dread as the calendar pages turned, turned so quickly, as if that date were hurtling toward her through space like an asteroid. She feared the approach of winter like never before. Her need to isolate herself had intensified, if that were possible. But she couldn’t let many days go by without touching base with her grandmother. She parked in the driveway and put a bright smile on her face before getting out of her car.
Her grandmother’s eyes lit up with joy at the sight of her. They sat on Gramma’s patio, soaking in the glory of a warm, early fall day.
She thought she’d point the conversation in the direction of her grandmother’s new Project again. That should get her going, so she wouldn’t ask too many questions about Summer’s nonexistent social life.
“Gramma, I’m thinking of seeing your psychic for a reading—you know, just for fun.”
“I wouldn’t bother, dear. It would be a complete and total waste of your time. And he’s not my psychic. He’s just a gimmick to boost business in Hope’s café.”
“So you’re saying he’s bogus? You mean you have a charlatan working at Hope’s place? Does she know he’s a fake?”
“Oh, Summer, how you put things. I didn’t say he was a fake. I said...” Gramma took a long drink of water. “Have you been seeing much of your friends lately? How is Marisol?”
Marisol was Summer’s former Spanish teacher and her only friend, really. Summer didn’t have much time or energy for socializing. Marisol was just the right kind of friend: a mentor with a very busy life, too busy to need anything that Summer couldn’t give: anything like frequent contact, answers to texts, or consistent, personal connection.
* * *
Miss Fernandez had looked straight at Summer and remarked, “You have a very good accent.”
It
was seventh grade. Summer looked up with surprise from the columns of Spanish words she and her classmates were repeating in turn after the teacher.
Summer was an unremarkable student, and had never been singled out this way. The result of this unexpected compliment was that she immediately fell in love with Spanish and with Miss Fernandez. The other kids didn’t try at all to imitate the teacher’s accent. This was middle school. It was not worth the risk of being mocked by their classmates, so they repeated the vocabulary words with inflections as exaggeratedly American as possible.
After that one bit of praise, Summer focused on Spanish single-mindedly, as if it were the only thing in life that mattered. She wrote out all the homework exercises from Hablamos Español, and did the extra credit, striving to get Miss Fernandez to point out her talent again.
From middle school on, Summer’s career aspiration was to be a Spanish teacher—like Miss Fernandez. Fortune smiled on her after she graduated from college, and she was hired in the foreign language program at Gibbons Corner Senior High School—just next door to the middle school where she had fallen in love with Spanish and Miss Fernandez only nine years before.
Summer enjoyed her work, but she also had the persistent feeling that she was an impostor. She was playing the part of Miss Fernandez. Like Miss Fernandez, she wore the latest styles and she owned cute shoes in every color. She organized her class much the way Miss Fernandez organized hers. Her teaching style came straight from her role model, and not a day went by when that early encourager was not in the back of her mind. She wondered if others could see that she was faking it. How could they not?
From time to time, Summer had lunch at the Green Buddha Diner with Marisol Fernandez, now that they were colleagues. In the sun-drenched and plant-filled vegan eatery, Marisol had been moved to a tearful smile when Summer told her how much that lightly offered compliment (long forgotten by Marisol) had influenced the trajectory of Summer’s life.
“You never know,” said Marisol, raking her fork through her Indian curry bowl, “how your words or your attention are affecting another person. It’s scary to be a teacher sometimes. I think, what if I’m having a bad day? I could say something that a kid will never forget. I could change a future, or break a spirit.”