by Bill Myers
Philip’s brain was on maximum spin. If true, if Christian ity was holding him back, then everything Becka and Scott, and more recently Ryan and Julie, believed was a lie.
“Are you still with me, Philip?”
His eyes flickered. “I’m sorry, yes. It’s just . . . just so much to take in all at once.”
Madame Theo smiled. “I know, son. We’re almost there. The fourth card is what I like to call the counselor, for it is in the position to provide advice,” she said. She brought a finger to the side of her head, adding, “You may elect to follow this advice or ignore it at your own peril.” She flipped over the card.
A dry swallow and then Philip spoke. “What’s . . . uh . . . the old guy with the lantern mean?”
“That’s the hermit.” Her fingers lingered on the surface of the table.
Philip waited for the implication. “And?”
“The other side is trying to reach you, Philip.” Her voice wavered ever so slightly, as if treading on sacred ground. “Hear me, son. You must meditate and open yourself up to the divine spirit guide that’s active in the other world.”
“Then what?”
She shook her head. “I can’t say for sure. Only you can identify the direction in which the streams of life forces move you. But you must listen . . . listen . . . listen.”
Philip blinked. Open himself up to what? Or better, listen to whom? And what if he did? What then? Before Philip could answer his own questions, he heard a knock at the door.
Madame Theo looked up, startled. “I’m sorry. This is most unusual.” She crossed the room and opened the door.
Philip looked over his shoulder. As far as he could see, it was a delivery ser vice of sorts. He strained to hear the conversation. The voice on the outside said something about an exception had been made even if she didn’t have proper ID for Rita Thomas, whoever that was.
Thirty seconds later, Madame Theo set a white FedEx envelope on the end table next to the incense pot. “Our time is almost gone,” she said, quickly returning to her seat. Her mood appeared significantly impatient. “Uh, now where was I?”
Philip raised an eyebrow. “The fifth card, I think.”
She exhaled. “Yes. Thank you. I view this as the likely outcome of future events, if you follow the advice provided by the hermit.”
“It’s a sun,” Philip said, noticing a line of perspiration forming across Madame Theo’s forehead. “Are you okay?”
She seemed startled by the question. “Yes, fine. Now,” she said, fiddling with the edge of her turban, “the sun is a sign that your future . . . will be bright, filled with joy, warmth . . . uh . . . and good things. It’s all there for the taking.”
“But?”
“But,” she said, her eyes darting toward the package and then back to the table. “But . . . you must rely solely on your own energies, insights, and . . . uh, on your inner strength if you are to succeed.”
Philip felt a growing sense of uneasiness spread across his chest. Something had put Madame Theo on edge. But what? She seemed fine, until, that is, the package arrived. Why? Why the sudden restlessness?
“There you have it,” she said abruptly. “That will be twenty-five dollars.”
“Sure thing.” Philip reached into his pocket and clutched two bills. “Got change for thirty?”
Madame Theo took the money and then disappeared into the back room. Once she was gone, and in spite of the fact it was none of his business, Philip leaned to his side to inspect the package. Maybe it held a clue that would explain the change in her behavior.
With a squint, he made out the name Rita Thomas on the shipping label. That’s odd, he thought. Why did somebody draw a red line through the name and cross it out?
Beneath the red line, a message had been scrawled: a.k.a. Madame Theo — okay to deliver per district dispatch.
10
Wednesday night, a hard, steady rain fell from the darkened sky, accented occasionally by streaks of yellow lightning. Krissi, Ryan, and Becka sat in a booth in the back corner of a local hamburger joint. A handful of stray fries and several crumpled sandwich wrappers stained with special sauce was all that was left on their trays.
Becka drained the last of her chocolate shake. She eyed the clock on the wall: it was almost 8:30 p.m. “Looks like Philip is a total no-show,” she said, wiping her hands on a napkin. “What’s with that? He knew we were getting together at 6:00 for the movie, right?”
Krissi sighed. She looked away and said, “I guess he completely bailed on me.”
“You try his cell phone?” Ryan asked.
“Yeah. I even called and left a message after school reminding him,” Krissi said, playing with a burned fry. She tossed it onto the pile. “No answer at his home, either.”
“Can you blame him?” Becka asked. “I mean, Scott told me all about what happened at study hall. He’s got to be pretty upset.”
“Still, he should have called,” Krissi said, miffed. She swiped a loose strand of hair from her face. “It kind of makes me mad, you know? I mean, how rude is that for him to just blow me off like this?”
“So,” Ryan said after a long moment, “what’s with Philip going to see that tarot lady, anyway?”
Krissi shrugged. “Beats me. I know his dad’s been putting tons of pressure on him about college — ”
“But . . . a fortune-teller?” Becka interjected. After school, Scott had caught up with her and told her everything — Philip’s angry meltdown in the cafeteria, the crazed look in his eyes, and how Scott had never seen Philip so nervous and flipped out.
“Sounds bogus to me too,” Ryan said. “I just don’t picture Philip, you know, falling for such a ridiculous — ”
Becka jumped in. “Ryan . . .”
He winked. “Okay . . . let’s just say, something else must be seriously wrong with him to see, um . . . Madame Whacko.”
“Ryan!” Becka said with a punch to his shoulder.
Krissi thought about that for a second. She shifted in her seat. “Well, honestly, maybe he’s confused about . . . about us too. Like, about our future together. I mean, with his dad putting on the pressure for college and all that, maybe he’s been afraid of making a commitment.”
Becka stole a look at Ryan. She knew the feeling. She had tons of questions about what would happen between her and Ryan. She also knew there were better ways to deal with those concerns than to consult a psychic. The occult was nothing to mess around with. After all that had happened — at the mansion, with Krissi, in the park — surely Philip understood that much, didn’t he?
Something else was bothering her about Philip’s strange behavior. Z had said that fooling around with tarot cards could be lethal.
Was Philip in danger?
Becka glanced across the table, framing her next question as carefully as she could. “Krissi, you don’t think Philip is . . . like . . . suicidal do you?”
Krissi paled. “I . . .”
As if on cue, her cell phone rang. Krissi almost jumped out of her seat. Flustered, she snatched it from her purse, pushed Talk, and said, “It’s Krissi.”
Krissi noticed Becka watching her as if studying her face to figure out who the caller was.
“Philip!” Krissi said, her eyes darting between Becka and Ryan. “What’s going on? Where have you been? We missed you at the movie. I’ve been so worried — ”
Krissi fell silent as she listened, imagining her face morphing into a picture of disbelief, hurt, surprise, and then anger.
“Whatever!” Krissi said a little too loud. She bolted upright and then scrambled out of the booth. She stood, her back to the table, with her right finger pressed against one ear and the phone against the other ear.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you . . .”
“Listen, Krissi, I’m just really confused about so much these days,” Philip said.
“As if I hadn’t noticed.”
Philip cleared his throat. “I . . . I just need some time to so
rt stuff out.”
“Yeah, but what about us? You know, you and me against the world and all that stuff?”
“You know that hasn’t changed — ”
“Right . . .” Krissi rolled her eyes. “Then why didn’t you show tonight? I’m really hurt if you want to know the truth.”
Philip remained silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, Krissi. I don’t ever want to hurt you, really I don’t. But I guess I needed to be alone . . . for a while.”
“And meanwhile, what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, I kind of hoped you’d understand my need for some space.”
Krissi’s voice raised a notch. “Sorry, Philip. I’d like to understand, but I don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Just tell me this. How long do I need to stick around to find out if this relationship is going to go somewhere?”
“I don’t know,” Philip said, his voice growing distant. “And I guess I don’t know why you’re coming down so hard on me.”
“Why? Because you’re not the same guy I used to know . . .”
“How’s that?”
“Where’s the Philip who used to make me laugh and cry at the same time?”
Philip hesitated. “He’s just a little lost right now.”
“Still,” Krissi said, stealing a look at Ryan and Becka. She lowered her voice. “As far as I’m concerned, our relationship is as good as over!”
Krissi snapped the phone shut and collapsed into her seat.
Philip had been driving aimlessly in the rain for hours. He had a vague awareness that it was a little after 8:00 at night. Parked under a railroad bridge, he sat somewhere out in the country away from the problems back in Crescent Bay. His eyes were drained of their tears, his mind was filled with confusion, and his heart was running on empty.
He squeezed the phone against his ear until it hurt. Did Krissi really hang up on him? Was it really over? Numbed that she had, in fact, cut him off, he sat in a daze thicker than the fog blanketing the road ahead. The phone slipped from his hand onto the front seat next to him.
He had just lost his best friend.
The one who stuck by him when his parents were breaking up.
The girl who always seemed to lift his spirits.
The person who seemed to know and care so much about him. A hole formed in the pit of his stomach. Krissi refused to understand — or couldn’t understand — his situation. Either way, she was leaving him in the dust.
Maybe breaking up was for the best. Wasn’t that what the tarot cards pointed to? According to Madame Theo, Krissi was in the way of his growth, his future fortunes, and his destiny. She was holding back his rising star. Or was she?
Could the cards be wrong?
The more he tossed the situation over in his mind, the more the whole tarot thing seemed so subjective. Even Madame Theo said that he needed to listen to the divine cosmic forces or whatever. Maybe that’s where he made a mistake. Maybe he didn’t do a very good job of listening. Worse, if he had heard wrong, then he had just played the fool and burned the bridge to the most important friend in his life.
Philip slapped the dash with his right hand.
Several painfully long seconds passed. It seemed to him that the more he struggled to take control of his future, the worse things were starting to become. Fighting back a fresh round of tears, he decided to get home. Besides, having noticed it was 8:34, if he hurried, he’d be able to catch Madame Theo in her new time slot on TV.
He reached for the keys to start the car. With a whine, the engine conked out. He tried again. Same thing. On the third try, the engine caught. He engaged the transmission, flipped on the wipers, and pulled onto the two-lane road, where he hadn’t seen a car in the last thirty minutes.
Philip leaned against his door and drove with one hand draped over the wheel. The wipers flopped from side to side as the lightning flashed across the night sky. He had gone about two miles when the convertible sputtered, stalled, and stopped. The wipers continued their rhythmic thump as he coasted to the curb. Now what? He scanned the gauges and spotted the problem.
He had run out of gas.
Philip pounded the steering wheel with both hands. “Why? . . . Why me? . . . Why now?”
He snapped off the lights, hopped out of the car, and slammed the door so violently the windows shook. He started to wander home in the pouring rain. What choice did he have? He wasn’t about to call his dad — or Krissi for that matter.
Within minutes he was soaked through to the skin. His shoes were waterlogged and his hair matted against his forehead until he could have passed for a drenched rat. The deluge of anger surged within him with each step.
Philip lifted his face against the wet blackness and screamed, “God . . . I need answers!”
Nothing but the jagged flash of lightning answered him.
Figures, he thought. Where was God when he needed him? Where was God when his mother decided to split in the middle of the night? Where was God when his dad was bearing down on him? Where? Nowhere, that’s where, he decided, shrugging off a chill.
As he strained against the storm, he realized he didn’t have the strength to press on. He’d never make it. Furious, Philip kicked the ground, turned, and headed back to the car where he had left the cell phone. Once inside the car, he swallowed his pride, dialed a number, and prayed for a small miracle.
Come on, Scott, answer the phone.
Scott sat at his desk in his bedroom and suppressed a yawn. He stared at the computer screen. He had just finished telling Z about the disaster with Philip at school and was waiting for Z’s take on the situation. Z’s answer finally appeared.
Scott, keep in mind, not all tarot readers know what they’re doing. It’s a highly subjective field. Many are simply guessing about possible outcomes based on what they perceive the client wants to hear.
But I thought you said tarot cards were lethal.
Yes, they can be. Turning to tarot opens a person up to very real dangers.
See. So I was right to have warned Philip.
This time, Z answered Scott with a question of his own. The words crawled across the screen:
Scott, the Bible says unbelievers will know we are Christians by our what?
By our love. But that’s so unfair, Z. Philip’s fooling around with tarot cards. They’re dangerous. You said so yourself.
When we are wronged, what does Jesus want us to do?
I guess turn the other cheek.
Scott shook his head, upset by the direction of the conversation. After all, Philip was the one who kicked him out of the car. Philip was the one who yelled at him in front of everybody in the cafeteria. Philip was the one who was being a jerk. Still feeling defensive, he fired off another response:
Yeah, but, Z, Philip is the one who’s gone off the deep end. Not me.
Scott waited. After a long pause, Z typed back:
You can be theologically correct about tarot cards, Scott, and still have no heart in it. Maybe what Philip sees in you is judgment and condemnation.
What am I supposed to do?
Just love him.
How?
Scott waited for a response, but none came. That was like Z too. Half the time it seemed Z wanted Scott and Becka to figure things out on their own. Scott yawned, stretched his arms, then signed off and folded his arms. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Secretly, he had hoped Z would have at least applauded him for trying his best and then told him to drop the whole thing. The clock next to his bed indicated it was 8:44. With another yawn, he shut down the computer.
Scott scratched the back of Cornelius’s head for several seconds. It had been one of the longest days of his life, at least emotionally. First, the study hall fiasco. Then the confrontation in the cafeteria, not to mention all the little jabs he had overheard in the hallway throughout the rest of the day.
He covered his mouth as another yawn emerged. He still had a pile of homework to do, but that would have to wait until
he grabbed a few minutes of rest. He turned out the lights and then crashed against his pillow. He closed his eyes as the dull patter of rain against the roof serenaded him to sleep.
Within seconds, he heard a window on the other side of the bedroom blow open. He propped himself up on one arm. He quickly scanned the darkness. Against the flash of thunder, he saw a faceless intruder sneaking across the room. It was just steps away, moving in his direction. Scott’s heart spiked.
The figure, hunched over and cloaked, made no noise as it drifted like a phantom to the edge of the bed.
“Who’s there?” Scott asked, suddenly feeling fully awake.
No answer.
A crack of lightning lit up the intruder’s features. For a split second, Scott caught a glimpse of her face. He knew this woman, but he had no idea why she had trailed him home.
Scott found his voice. With a croak, he said, “What . . . what do you want with me?”
11
Her long, bony forefinger was as thin as a twig. With a jab, she punctured the night air in Scott’s direction. A harsh crackle roared in the distance followed by several flashes of light. The drapes by the open window flailed about like two sails in the wind, beating against the mad rush of angry air.
The ghostlike figure leaned over his bed. Her eyes glowed like two hot charcoals. Her skin, a washed-out mixture of ashen and gray, seemed to hang from her bones. Her breath smelled of rotting garbage, and the wraps of her turban appeared mummy-like.
Scott’s heart zoomed as his mind raced to find answers. All he managed to say was, “Madame Theo?”
“Silence!” She poked his side with her bony finger.
Scott jumped backward, rubbing the spot she had pierced. It burned as if her finger had been dipped in acid. “What in the world — ”
“He’s mine . . . all mine.”
“Who . . . who is?” Scott asked, still dazed by the encounter.
“Philip.” Madame Theo circled the bed, running, floating, flying. With each revolution, she poked Scott again and again, shouting, “Philip . . . Philip . . . Philip . . .”