Burning September

by Melissa Simonson

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  People always lectured me about Caroline as if I didn’t even know her. I let him rove about, pausing here and there, sucking in whatever vestiges of Caroline that still hung in the air.

  The text was from Kyle. Sorry for the late response. I was in court all day, then a few meetings. I can stop by for the character letters later on. Nine okay?

  I guessed nine was as good a time as any. Three hours away; Jeff would be gone by then. I sent off an affirmative text and blinked up at Jeff’s back. His nose hovered about an inch away from one of the photos on the mantel.

  After searching for something to say for a while, I settled on a lie. “I told her you said hi. She says it back.”

  He peeled his glasses off and wiped the lenses on his sleeve. “Thanks. I hope she doesn’t think it’s weird that I’m here with you.”

  Why the hell would she, I thought. It was her crackbrained idea. “I’m sure she doesn’t. So, I have her notes here.” I shuffled through the thick folder on the coffee table. “And I’m really lost on what Professor Rasmussen was saying in Critical Studies the other day. It all sounded like gibberish. I felt like an idiot all through the lecture.”

  He joined me on the couch, flipping through the sheave of Caroline’s old notes, and I sincerely hoped the sight of her penmanship didn’t evoke any more hero worship.

  ***

  Warm night air wafted through my open front door. I sat cross-legged on the carpet, leaning back on my hands. Chewing my bottom lip. Slitting my eyes at the tarot spread. Caroline never liked the Celtic Cross, said it was too common, so I’d opted for her favorite. The Planetary spread. Eight cards.

  How can I help get my sister out of this clusterfuck had been my question.

  From my experienced eye, it wasn’t looking good.

  Trump cards at both the top and bottom of the tiered spread hinted that higher forces were at work, and the outcome would have little to do with the people involved. The majority of pentacles indicated successes or failures, all things material.

  The Empress in position one related to the asker. Me. Flattering, though not so accurate. But the main thing capturing my attention was the outcome card. Seven of Cups, Debauch, signifying delusion, guilt, lying. Promises unfulfilled. Deceit.

  I cleared the spread with one bare foot, a little harder than necessary. Smashing the cards into the carpet, eyes cinched shut. What the hell did they know anyway.

  And then I felt stupid for going through the same motions Caroline had. They hadn’t helped her any.

  So why did I keep going back to them? Old habits? Caroline taught me how to read them so long ago, it had become second nature.

  The crunch of gravel under the heel of a shoe gave me a two-second heads-up, but two seconds isn’t long enough to screw your head on straight and react in time. Or clean up the tarot cards and turn off the embarrassing music.

  Kyle put one foot over the threshold of my wide-open front door and rapped the wall with his knuckles. “Knock, knock.”

  I felt my face flush tucked my legs under myself. “It’s only eight. What are you doing here?”

  “Interrupting a séance, looks like. Want me to shut the door?”

  “No. The A/C’s broken.” I sat up straight. “It’s a mess because someone just left. I thought I’d have time to clean up before you got here.”

  A few rays of dying sunlight illuminated his silhouette in the doorway as he walked inside. “Someone?” He arched an eyebrow. “Boyfriend? This is pretty…. ‘romantic’ lighting.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. It’s just hot. Lights give off heat. Turn the switch all the way up if you like.”

  He didn’t, just picked his way over and sat next to me, looking ridiculous on the floor in his dress shirt and tie.

  “I have those character reference letters on the coffee table for you.” I tilted my head in their direction.

  He rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie, squinting at the tarot cards as he reached for the pile of reference letters. Under the dim light and the shade of his eyelashes, his irises were navy instead of their normal ice blue, gazing at the documents. “Great.” But his brows contracted during the few moments it took to read everything over. I was about to ask what the problem was, when his eyes snapped back over to my tarot spread. “What’s this?”

  “Tarot cards.”

  “I noticed them the last time I was here. You…play with them a lot?”

  I laughed. “You don’t play with tarot cards. It’s not poker or blackjack.”

  He flipped one over, examined the ornate gold cup on a filigree background. “Then what’s their purpose?”

  I adopted the mystical tone I’d heard Caroline use at the fair. “They tell you a story. You ask the question; they give you the answers.”

  “Can you read mine?”

  I dropped the Caroline act. “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “They’re not real, you know. It’s not like I believe in them.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I asked you to read mine.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “For fun.”

  We stared at each other for a while before I gave up on finding any other motive. I snatched the card from his hand, collected the others into a pile, shuffled, straightened them so the corners aligned, and set the deck in front of him. “Cut the cards.”

  “How?”

  I shifted so we sat face to face. “However you want. I usually cut it into threes.”

  “Three it is.” He did so quickly, eagerly, and sat back.

  I collected the sections and put them back together. “What’s your question?”

  His brow furled. “What do you mean?”

  “Usually there’s a question involved. Something the cards can answer or shed light on.” I waited for a couple beats. “If you don’t want to come up with a specific question, I can do a simpler spread. Past, present future. It’s quicker. I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing.”

  “Not really, but let’s have it.”

  I pulled out three cards, upside down, backside up, so Kyle could see them better when I turned them over.

  “Any magic words before you start?”

  “Nope. I just flip them over. I’m not very fancy.” I turned the cards over and started from his left, but did a double-take once I saw the card in the future position. My nostrils flared. It was a little too familiar. I pointed at the card in the past slot. “Past. Ten of Pentacles.”

  “It looks bad. It says ‘Worry’.”

  “It’s not bad. It’s next to the Eight of Wands. Wands and Pentacles get along.”

  His face screwed up in confusion. “Like they’re friends?”

  “Like the Wand can invert the meaning of ‘Worry’. Normally it’d mean something like financial loss or poverty, since Pentacles are all to do with money, but beside a Wand, it’s more like long bouts of labor. Working hard building a business, or going through a lot of school or whatever.”

  “Sounds right. And the Eight of Wands? Why does it say swiftness?”

  “Wands are all about energy, loads of it. Swiftness means what it sounds like. Lots of rapid events, activity, goal-reaching. Boldness.”

  “That’s promising.” He reached for the final card, the familiar one in the Future position. “And this one?”

  “The Empress. She’s a Trump card. Means love, beauty. Ultimate happiness. Good fortune. All that crap.”

  “So she doesn’t relate to an actual woman.”

  I felt a wry smile creep up. “No. Not always.”

  “But she can.” He stared at The Empress, her long silvery blonde hair, blue eyes, sparkly scepter. I wondered who he imagined she could possibly represent. Whoever it was didn’t seem to be the answer he’d hoped for.

  “Yeah.” I studied him studying The Empress, his head bent over, wrinkles etching around his eyes and mouth like she was some complicated calculus problem. “Don’t thin
k about it so hard. They mean nothing, the same way the month you were born has no influence over your personality. And even if you did believe in it, it’s a good outcome. Some old biddy at the fair would be jazzed to see these cards. Probably would have tipped me afterward.”

  He smiled, handed me The Empress. “You’ve read cards at the fair?”

  “Not me. Caroline. I don’t think I’d be any good at it. She’s quicker on her feet. Better at bullshitting. Knowing me, I’d get stage fright in the middle of a reading and screw up the whole charade.”

  “You did fine with me.”

  I swept my hair behind my neck. “I have my good days, I guess.”

  His eyes lingered around my fingers dragging through waves of unkempt sections. “Didn’t look like too good a day when I walked in. I’d hazard a guess that you don’t have too many good days anymore.”

  “Well you didn’t get your fancy law degree by being stupid.”

  He nodded, and we marinated in another long bout of silence before he shook his head as if coming out of a deep fog. “What the hell is this?”

  “What’s what?”

  He waved his hands in the air. “This music.”

  “Old school Taylor Swift.”

  The look he gave me rivaled the one he’d given The Empress. “I’d have never pegged you for a Taylor Swift fan.”

  “I like all kinds of music. Even the stuff that makes people arbitrarily think you’re lame.” I gathered the tarot cards and put them into their box.

  “I don’t think you’re lame. I think you’re an enigma. Tarot cards, Taylor Swift, sharp wit. What’s next, sword juggling? Are you double-jointed?”

  I made to haul myself to my feet, but he was on his, offering a hand. I grudgingly accepted and headed for the coffee table. “Professor Rasmussen included all her contact information in her letter, if and when you need to set something up. She’s a really well-respected head of the USC art department, so…it’s good news.”

  “Is she the one who taught you how to do that?” He nodded at the easel in the corner, on which I’d stretched a layer of scratchy canvas. From a distance, the red, ripe strawberries I’d painted on the white background looked like the residue of a gunshot wound. Blotchy with gore, seeds morphing into brain matter and bits of flesh.

  “No.”

  He walked closer to the painting, the outside wind ruffling the papers lightly in his hand. “Well, you’re really talented. It’s impressive. I don’t know anyone who’s got as much skill.”

  The only person I knew who had impressive skills in that area was currently living in a psych ward. “Caroline’s better.”

  “How did I know you’d deflect a compliment?”

  “Because you know everything?” I glanced into the kitchen, unsure of what to do. He seemed comfortable enough, and surprisingly, I didn’t want to get rid of him. If he planned on staying a while, common courtesy dictated offering refreshments of some sort. Tea. Coffee. Crumpets. What do you feed lawyers? “Are you hungry or something? I was going to make dinner soon…”

  “I just came from a dinner.”

  I snorted. “With the woman you hope isn’t The Empress?”

  A solid, silent five seconds passed before he tipped his head back and laughed.

  I raised an eyebrow. “You looked at that card like it was a death sentence.”

  “That’s a little dramatic.” He smacked the papers against his leg, smiling at his feet.

  “What’s dramatic is how seriously you took that stupid card.”

  “Well it was one of those French places. Weird food, tiny portions. Low blood sugar made me temporarily out of touch with my faculties.”

  I clucked my tongue. “Excuses, excuses. Is the ‘tiny food’ thing a hint? I can make something.”

  The set of his jaw made me sure he was chewing his tongue, and both his pupils whizzed between my own. Caroline would title that picture Man Deep in Thought. I often got the impression she could read minds, the way she knew the answers to my questions before I’d even gotten all the words out. Maybe I was channeling her this time, because I read his thoughts as easily as if they’d been tattooed on his forehead. I was the too-young little sister of a murder case client. I may have been of legal age, but what would his boss think?

  “What, is that inappropriate, or something? You’re worried about ethics? You, the man drinking on the job?” I couldn’t help a laugh.

  “That was light beer. It hardly counts. Now, if it were whiskey, that’d count as drinking on the job. I love whiskey.”

  I gestured for him to follow, calling over my shoulder as I headed into the kitchen. “I’m fresh out of whiskey. Might have some rum left over from the last time Caroline made mojitos. I was thinking of making omelets and home fries. I like doing breakfast for dinner.”

  “A woman after my own heart.”

  My head was in the fridge, so he couldn’t see my smile. “And I hate French food.”

  “Amen.”

  NOVEMBER

  Hey,

  It went okay with Jeff. He spent most of the time mooning over you, which I should have guessed, and you already knew. Got all sentimental over Burning September. Told me how this one time at some art gallery your dress got stained with whiskey, so you just tore off the bottom and turned it into a mini, and everyone kept raving about it all night, and you told them all it was imported from France, specially made for you, when really you just got the thing from some flea market. Then he waxed hormonal about how every time he went anywhere with you, men fell all over themselves when they saw you, but you never even noticed, that’s how humble you are. Don’t worry, I kept a straight face. Anyway, he went over some of the things from Critical Studies, so I think I understand a bit better. Then I painted a bunch of stupid strawberries, and he went around taking weird photos of the living room. Like close-ups of the healing crystals and the ruffles on the pillows. I’m sure he’ll have them hanging on an altar in his living room any day now. He asked if you’d be weirded out that he was over. No idea why he’d even say that, he’s acting like you’re his girlfriend or something. You never dated him, did you?

  Then Kyle came by, and I gave him the stuff Professor Rasmussen gave me. I read his tarot cards since he caught me in the act. Wonders never cease. Never thought attorneys would be interested in that crap. Especially not this one. He acts like everything’s a huge joke half the time. Hope he doesn’t act that way in court, cracking stupid jokes for the jury. He’s hard to get a handle on, but I think I like him for the most part, and he seems to know what he’s doing.

  It’s getting to be a real pain in the ass, having no car. I have to get up at the crack of dawn and hang out at school all day, since it’s not worth taking the bus back home when I’ve got classes all spread out during the day.

  I’ll see you tomorrow, and no way in hell am I smuggling in a ferret.

  I closed my laptop, zoning out in the music breezeway while I should have been studying, when I noticed a pair of boots in my peripherals hadn’t moved on past the way other shoes had.

  “I should file stalking charges.”

  I tipped my head against the exposed brick wall and blinked up at Professor Lawlis. He wore his oddly grim smile and a sport coat covering a wrinkled Dead Kennedy’s T-shirt. “You can’t prove anything. A judge’ll take one look at me and laugh you out of the courtroom.”

  He did a palms-up. “It’s always the quiet ones who wind up doing the most damage.”

  Ha. Not in Caroline’s instance.

  I closed my notes and climbed to my feet. “Do I really bother you?”

  His thin lips crunched together, almost disappearing into his stubble as he shook his head. “You don’t have a class?”

  “Not for a few hours.”

  “Why don’t you go to a coffee shop or something? It’d be more comfortable.”

  “I don’t have a car and didn’t feel like walking in this heat.”

  “Well.” He glanced around the empty hallwa
y. “I guess the polite thing to do would be to invite you into my classroom.”

  “You don’t look like the type who follows common courtesy rules.”

  “No. And I’m not usually the type who takes in stray puppies.”

  “I’m starting to get a little insulted.”

  “Nothing wrong with puppies. They’re cute.” He heaved out a sigh. It seemed like hard work. “Well, come on in, then.”

  And I almost felt like a stray puppy, following him inside and down the flight of stairs to the heart of his classroom.

  “How come you don’t have a car?” he called over his shoulder, left leg thumping hard every other step. “You live in the dorms?”

  I didn’t have a car because the police had impounded Caroline’s under the guise of it being some type of evidence. I knew there wouldn’t be any. What car wouldn’t have trace amounts of gasoline in it? But arguing with cops had turned out to be less than fruitful. “My car’s been impounded for a while.”

  “Can’t pay to get it out?”

  I snorted. “No. The police impounded it for evidence. It was my sister’s car. I probably couldn’t get it out if I tried.”

  “Can’t your sister?”

  “She’s…” I sank into the first row of seats. “She’s at Breakthrough Recovery Center. She tried to kill herself. They think she burned down her ex’s house when he was inside. That’s why they took her car.”

  “Hmm.” He lowered himself slowly into a lone swivel chair at the head of the classroom. “Good reason to have to take the bus, I guess.” Like it was just one of those things, arson and murder. Unfavorable yet unsurprising.

  “Yeah.” I dropped my backpack and massaged the tender valley it had carved into my shoulder blade.

  He shifted in his seat, cracking his neck. “How old is your sister?”

  “Twenty-five. She went to this school, too. Art major.”

  He grunted. “An artiste. What’s her name?”