The Reluctant Fortune-Teller

by Keziah Frost

  Birdie said, “She senses something about you, Carlotta. Cats are intuitive.”

  Carlotta answered, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Myrtle rubbed her head and neck along Carlotta’s skirt, trilling.

  Birdie exclaimed, “Aw! She’s singing!”

  Carlotta, continuing to focus on her breath, felt her heart rate slowing down. She glanced sideways at the vermin. It was just a domestic cat, after all, she told herself. She could tolerate this. She looked quickly away again.

  Norbert said, “You know why she avoided everyone else and went to you, Carlotta? It’s because we were all trying so hard. Cats avoid people who stare and gesture at them. They find those things threatening. You didn’t take any notice of her, so she felt safe going to you. I read an interesting article about this in Reader’s Digest.”

  “Oh,” said Carlotta, smiling and looking sideways at Margaret. “Reader’s Digest.”

  Norbert was such a lowbrow. It was a pleasant distraction to be reminded of her own intellectual superiority.

  Myrtle rolled on the couch and squinted at Carlotta. Carlotta could almost hear her say, “I’ve got your number, sister.”

  Birdie, as every year, was in charge of the mulled wine. Warm and sweet. Carlotta found it went down especially easily this year, and she felt Myrtle willing her to drink to excess. But she would not. She never did.

  Carlotta had brought her lime sheet cake, always a crowd-pleaser, and she cut and passed that around. Christmas, reflected Carlotta, was all about delectable food.

  The conversation began with the weather, as it must. The fluctuations in temperature from unseasonably warm to record-breaking cold. You had to be ready for anything in this climate. Polite and nonintrusive inquiries about family members near and far.

  “And Summer?” asked Margaret. “Has she found her young man yet?”

  Carlotta thought of Summer, who insisted on spending Christmas Eve and Christmas Day alone. It was odd behavior. Carlotta did not approve of odd things. But she mentioned none of this to her friends.

  “Oh, Margaret! Young women today don’t pine after marriage like Jane Austen characters, you know. Summer is a modern, independent young woman! She’s quite happy.” Mentally, Carlotta added, I hope.

  Margaret took the hint and did not pursue that line of questioning. Carlotta reflected that the truth was, Summer did not confide in her about matters of the heart. If Summer had any matters of the heart to confide. She hoped that Summer was finding her way, although she had an odd sense that all was not well with her granddaughter. Best not to think about things one could not control. Much better to turn one’s thoughts to Norbert and his fortune-telling. After all the work she and the Club had put into him, it was bitter indeed that he was denying them the pleasure that was their right.

  Never admit defeat.

  “Norbert! How is business at the Good Fortune Café?” asked Carlotta. She would love to get him to admit some problem he might be having in his new “career.” If he would open the door just a crack for her to jam her foot in...

  Norbert’s fixed smile flickered.

  “Anything we can help you with? Any...difficulties lately?”

  “I seem to be managing, Carlotta, thank you.”

  “Ah. The apprentice thinks he has outgrown his wizard, so to speak?”

  “Carlotta,” interfered Birdie, “I think it’s already settled that Norbert is a professional now.”

  If Carlotta blanched, she couldn’t help it. “You want to beware of hubris, Norbert.”

  Norbert asked, “Who is Hugh Bris?”

  Carlotta said, “Hubris is not a who. It’s a what. It means ‘excessive pride or self-confidence.’”

  “Defiance of the gods, Norbert,” added Birdie.

  “Not,” Carlotta laughingly hastened to explain, “that we are gods.” She warmed to her work. “But the point is,” Carlotta continued with great kindness, “hubris invariably leads to nemesis.”

  Margaret clasped her hands and said happily, “Norbert, now you are going to ask—where is Nemesis! Go ahead!” The little woman could hardly contain herself. How excited she must be, thought Carlotta, to be in the know and finally have someone else be at a loss in literary allusions.

  “No, I know what ‘nemesis’ means,” said Norbert. “You’re saying that if I don’t accept your direction, I’ll find myself in a disaster of my own making.”

  A hush fell over the Christmas party. Margaret’s face fell.

  “Let’s sing carols!” she suggested, and she was up and passing around sheet music.

  The carols they sang were French and English. “Il est né le Divin Enfant,” “Joy to the World,” “Ding Dong Merrily On High” and “Jingle Bells.”

  Carlotta sang in a loud and ringing soprano. Birdie waved her arms as she sang as if she could feel the music with her fingertips. Margaret, tone-deaf, sang in a monotone with plenty of gusto. Norbert was a strong tenor. Their voices joining together served to drive away tensions and unite them—mind, body and spirit, as Edith might have said, had she been invited. Which she most definitely was not.

  Throughout the evening, Carlotta took on the role of explaining the Club’s little in-jokes to Norbert, filling his mug of mulled wine to the brim, and pressing food on him. He needed to understand that if he was included this evening, it was on her sufferance. Even if she had tried to block his invitation. He didn’t need to know that. She would keep tight control over his sense of belonging. Next thing you know, they’ll be lobbying to make him a member of the Club. Carlotta made a mental note to be ready to combat that move if and when it should come.

  “And now!” cried Margaret. “It’s time for the Christmas Grab Bag!”

  Everyone had put their wrapped presents in the red-and-gold cloth sack that Margaret had created for the purpose. Carlotta explained to Norbert, “The rules are simple—you pull a present from the bag. When all the presents are pulled, we open them. Then you have an opportunity—but only one—to ‘steal’ a present from someone else and give that person yours. The only stipulation is, you cannot take back the present you yourself brought here tonight.”

  “Margaret actually explained the rules to me already,” said Norbert.

  This man was so annoying. You couldn’t tell him anything.

  “And it’s time to begin!” exclaimed Margaret.

  As “Silver Bells” played on Margaret’s stereo, one by one the merrymakers plunged their arms into the trove of gifts, turned their heads to one side to show they weren’t being influenced by wrappings, and pulled out a selection.

  Margaret pulled elegant silver-and-white paper and ribbons off a box that turned out to be concealing a copy of Reader’s Digest, along with a coupon for a two-year subscription. Margaret lowered her chin and looked over her glasses at Carlotta.

  “Yes! You guessed it, Margaret! That’s from me! That ubiquitous source of wisdom, written at a ninth-grade reading level. Watch out that Norbert doesn’t snatch it from you when we get to stealing gifts.” The silence that met her witticism caused Carlotta to reflect. How annoying, when one makes a joke, and it falls flat because people are worried about hurting feelings. Birdie and Margaret turned to Carlotta with expressions that showed how humorless they were. Christmas was all about gag gifts, wasn’t it? Norbert was the butt of the joke, and he was smiling. But then, when wasn’t he smiling?

  Margaret was leafing through the magazine and actually seemed to be interested in it, and that was irritating, too. What was wrong with people?

  “How is Reader’s Digest a comfort item?” challenged Margaret.

  “Margaret, it’s reading that is our greatest comfort, always,” countered Carlotta.

  “Huh!” said Margaret. “Look at this. Here’s an article about making intelligent jokes: ‘How to Be the Wittiest Person in Any Gathering.’”

 
“What?” said Carlotta, knitting her brows. “Can I see that?”

  “No way,” said Margaret. “It’s my gift. Thank you, Carlotta.”

  Birdie was next. Off came plain white paper and a white bow.

  “A tea cozy! Oh, how sweet!” she said, turning it around high in the air for everyone to see.

  But this was a peculiar tea cozy. It was black and white—and in the shape of a cat—a fat black-and-white cat, just like Myrtle. How hideous. How odd.

  “Who is it from?” asked Carlotta and Margaret together.

  Norbert spoke up. “Uh, I brought that one. I hope you like it. Or, uh, that someone here will like it.”

  Birdie and Margaret both said at once, “I like it! I love it!”

  Carlotta looked at each of her friends in turn. Had they all taken leave of their senses? Who would want such a detestable item in their kitchen?

  The real Myrtle had flounced off to try to sleep on Margaret’s bed, as if she couldn’t stand the infernal racket of Margaret’s party, so she was unaware of the compliment of Norbert’s gift. No doubt the loathsome beast was lying on top of someone’s coat. Myrtle would have selected Carlotta’s specifically, from spite. It made Carlotta’s skin crawl just to think of it.

  “Norbert next!” cried Margaret. Norbert’s present was the biggest box. It turned out to be a flannel blanket—patterned with obese black-and-white cats.

  Carlotta started at the sight of it. What was going on here? No one was making eye contact with her.

  Norbert was enthusiastic about the dreadful thing. “So warm!” he said, rubbing a corner of it on his face. “So soft! I really like it!”

  “That was from me!” volunteered Margaret.

  “Carlotta next!” said Birdie.

  Carlotta tore into the striped paper and opened the box—to pull out a cookie jar. In the shape of a pudgy black-and-white cat.

  “That’s from me!” said Birdie, eyes twinkling.

  “Well, obviously, it’s from you, Birdie. There’s no one else left, is there? I guess I see what’s going on here.”

  Three pairs of innocent eyes turned to her.

  Then Margaret, Birdie and Norbert erupted into laughter, and although there was not a single thing funny, Carlotta forced herself to laugh, as well. Not to laugh would be to show that she was offended, and she would not give them that satisfaction. It was one thing to make a joke at someone’s expense. It was quite another to have people make jokes at one’s own expense.

  “Well,” said Carlotta, cutting into the laughter, “I guess it’s time for stealing gifts. And I,” she said, standing and walking to Margaret with her hands out, “am stealing Reader’s Digest.”

  “You can’t!” chorused Margaret and Birdie. “You can’t steal the present you brought. It’s the rule!”

  “And I say, I’m not taking home a Myrtle-themed present—not even to give to Goodwill tomorrow. So we will dispense with the usual rule this year.” That was their consequence for ganging up on her. Why some people thought it was funny to make fun of people on Christmas was beyond her.

  Norbert and Birdie were more than happy to keep the gifts they had pulled from the bag.

  Margaret accepted the Myrtle cookie jar from Carlotta and gave up Reader’s Digest. The cookie jar was “precious,” she said.

  * * *

  Carlotta’s thoughts were dark that evening when she returned home to Toutou. Never, in all the history of the Club, had she experienced such treason. Always, she had been the uncontested leader of a compliant group of friends. She was the unchallenged leader because she worked tirelessly to keep her friends intellectually stimulated and happily occupied. This sudden rebellion after so many years of dedication on her part pained her. She was left melancholy and bitter by this evening’s experience of being the object of the joke instead of its perpetrator. The humiliating loss of loyalty was due to one factor, and one factor only: Norbert Zelenka. It seemed that Carlotta was out, and Norbert was in. Carlotta rued the day she had taken him under her wing to help him, out of the pure goodness of her heart. For just one dark moment, she wished that he would receive his comeuppance: she wished him ill.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ace of Clubs:

  Powerful forces for good are at work. Time spent alone may help you to align yourself with them.

  Christmas day in Norbert’s little white bungalow was just the way he and Ivy liked it: quiet and cozy. He’d been grateful to be included in the Club’s revelries, and felt that he really had true friends in Gibbons Corner, at last. But a day of tranquil reflection was what he most craved on this sunny and frigid day. He observed to Ivy that even the squirrels remained tucked up in their nests, not caring to venture out in these temperatures.

  He thought of the few Christmases he and Lois had had together. How she had loved the lights and the presents! She had always made holidays special for Norbert. Each year, she bought him incredible gifts that he would never have thought of buying for himself, things he didn’t even know he wanted until he saw them nestled in sparkling tissue paper under the Christmas-tree lights. A telescope for stargazing. Bird feeders and birding books. How could she know, before he knew himself, that he would love these things? Or did he love them because they were from her? For his part, Norbert had always been perplexed by Christmas shopping. How could he guess what Lois might want? He’d consulted his aunt Pearl the first Christmas.

  “Women like baubles, Norbert,” Aunt Pearl had said.

  He went out and put himself in the hands of the first jeweler he came to. That was the day he bought the gold locket. When she opened it and exclaimed it was the most exquisite thing she’d ever been given, he knew perfect happiness. Even thinking of that moment now could bring that happiness back.

  He wondered what his wife, Lois, would think of his late-life career. Would she be proud of her husband, the psychic? She would be very surprised, certainly. And she would be happy for him: of that, he was certain.

  It was strange, reflected Norbert, how a person’s life can change so quickly. It was only seven months before that Birdie had spied him hurrying home with a box of groceries from the food pantry, and the Club had interested themselves in his financial woes. And now he was employed and free of debt. It felt very good.

  It still surprised him to think of himself as a fortune-teller. He didn’t feel like one. He felt more like a—what did they call it—a “life coach.” He helped people see what they were ready to see and move forward with their lives. He was doing good in the world. He had never been so gratified in his work life.

  The same people who would not notice him as Norbert Zelenka were respectfully consulting him as “Norbert Z.” His new identity gave him access to people’s high regard and to some of the secrets of their lives. And while he enjoyed his new sense of importance, he could not shake a sense of foreboding. People, after a twenty-minute conversation with him, would see their lives in a new light, and turn themselves in a different direction. How could he be sure he was not harming them? Hope saw how he helped people, and how grateful they were to him. But still, how could he know he wasn’t “ruining relationships,” as the angry mother had accused him of doing?

  He was handling a power he did not fully understand.

  * * *

  Christmas Day at Summer’s apartment was just as quiet, but not as peaceful, as it was at Norbert’s house.

  Summer was under a pile of blankets, trying to sleep through the day. She seldom said no to her grandmother, but on this she was unmovable. She would see no one on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Carlotta and Hope celebrated the twenty-fifth together, but Summer remained at home, turning off her cell phone and keeping her eyes closed.

  Every anniversary of her parents’ deaths had been like an electric shock that went on and on, for many days. It started on the days leading up to December 30. It would always be
at its worst on the thirtieth itself. And the pain would continue through the days following, blocking Summer from setting any New Year’s resolutions or goals, and certainly from attending any parties. This anniversary was the worst one so far, or so it seemed to her now.

  She thought with dislike of the school social worker, that silly woman who was always trying to inflict therapy on people who didn’t ask for it.

  “You know,” she had said, “the tenth anniversary can be a big one. Sometimes people don’t expect that. You can get what they call an ‘anniversary reaction.’ Yep, it can be a big one, all right.”

  Summer had shut her down.

  Nevertheless, the know-it-all woman’s words were turning out to be prophetic. Summer felt herself shrinking more than ever into her fifteen-year-old self. She was scared and wanted to call someone. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t seek support from anyone. If she did, people would sympathize.

  I don’t deserve it.

  She thought then of Gramma’s fortune-teller at Hope’s café. Ever since she’d heard of him, she’d felt drawn toward trying him out. Maybe he could give her a message from her dead parents. Isn’t that what fortune-tellers did? Or maybe he could just tell her that her life would be short, and her sadness would not last forever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Jack of Diamonds:

  A young person at the crossroads.

  Some days, Norbert felt drained in his soothsaying role at the Good Fortune Café. He was making a nice amount of money now, but in order to do that, he was seeing too many people. He thought he would talk to Hope about limiting daily appointments to some manageable number, working in more breaks, and even creating a waiting list. Sometimes, at the end of a shift, he felt almost too tired to slide out of his booth and stand up. The burden of the town’s problems rested on his shoulders, and it made him slouch forward and wish to close his eyes. People were beginning to depend on him in an odd and unsettling way.

  Lolly was a customer who had come for her third reading in as many weeks.