The old woman was standing on the covered porch, almost as if she’d foreseen Jessica coming. Lightning struck as Madame Hortensia led Jessica inside to the little velvet table.
“Cards or palm, m’ija? Or did you like the runes last time?”
“No, not the runes. And not the palm. . . .” Jessica didn’t think the lines on her hand could have changed very much in the last few weeks. Should she have Madame Hortensia do the cards again? Everyone on them had the same color hair.
“How about something new? Tea leaves? Or the I Ching? Or the numbers?”
“The numbers? What’s that?”
“It’s a new one I just learned. You combine all the important numbers of your life to make a master number that tells you everything you need to hear,” Madame Hortensia said.
“Okay. Do I get a discount on that one, too?”
“Sure. Eighteen dollars.”
Jessica handed over the money and waited impatiently for Madame Hortensia to remove a pencil and a notepad from her mystical box. She’d driven over right after work to beat out any housewives needing their own fortunes read. She needed to find out what was supposed to happen before she did anything else.
“Okay,” said Madame Hortensia. “What year were you born?”
Jessica told her, and the old woman wrote down the number. “Tan jovencita. That makes you . . . twenty-six, no?”
Don’t remind me, Jessica thought.
“Now, what is your birthday?”
“April sixteenth.” Jessica saw her write down “516.” “Um, Madame Hortensia, April is fourth.”
“Mande?”
“April is the fourth month of the year. It’s four, not five.”
The old woman fixed her with the same sort of look Mami used to give her for having a smart mouth. “I’m not using the number of the month. I’m using the number of the House under which you were born.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Jessica blushed and decided to leave the fortune-telling to the professional from here on out.
“What time were you born?”
“I don’t know. I think it was late at night.”
The old woman looked at her impatiently again. “Before midnight or after?”
“Let’s say before,” Jessica said quickly.
“Ándale.” Madame Hortensia wrote “1130” under the other numbers and a “2” under that. What was the 2 for? Jessica wondered. For p.m., maybe?
“Okay. Now, what is your favorite number?”
That one was easy. “Six.” She’d always liked its swirly shape.
Madame Hortensia wrote all the numbers in the column and started to add them up. “One . . . nineteen,” Jessica heard her whisper. “Carry the . . . four . . . chinelas . . .” She erased a sum and added again. She wrote a few more digits, then counted on her fingers and finally wrote a single number — a 3.
“Okay. Esperame un momentito, m’ija. I’ll be right back.” Painstakingly, she got up and hobbled to what must have been her bedroom.
Poor Madame Hortensia. Jessica hoped she wasn’t interrupting the old lady’s medicine schedule or anything like that.
Much to Jessica’s surprise, however, she came back into the living room carrying a laptop.
“Madame Hortensia! You have a computer!”
“Of course I do, m’ija.”
“But . . . why?”
“Well, I have a business to run here. I sell my soaps on eBay. Also, I have clients in other cities, and I do readings for them over e-mail.”
Jessica felt silly for underestimating her. Madame Hortensia opened her laptop on the table, typed into it rapidly for a moment, then peered at the screen.
“Hmm.” She went back to her piece of paper and studied it intently. She took her pencil and erased the 5 in 516. She changed it to a 4, then recalculated everything. She changed the final 3 to an 8, then consulted her monitor again.
“Ándale — here we go.”
By then, Jessica was dying of impatience.
“Okay. As far as your health goes —”
“Madame Hortensia, please, can we skip the health?”
“Oh, okay. Next is your lucky numbers, then. You want to write these down, m’ija?”
“No. Madame Hortensia, can we please skip the lucky numbers, too?”
The old woman looked up at Jessica’s face. “M’ija, why don’t you just tell me what it is you want to know?”
What Jessica really wanted to know was whether or not her parents were on the way to divorce. But the last time she’d been here, the old woman had told her to let her parents work out their own issues. So Jessica decided not to ask and moved on to the next most pressing problem in her mind. “I want to know if I’m going to get promoted.”
The answer to that one came to the fortune-teller immediately. “Well, of course. Why not? You’re a smart girl. You’re good with numbers. Eventually, your boss will see this and promote you.”
“I meant, will I get the promotion that’s available right now? I haven’t been able to talk to my boss, and I need to know what he’s going to say before I buy any more new work clothes.”
Madame Hortensia sighed and closed her laptop. She leaned over it and gestured for Jessica’s hand. “Dámelo . . . déjame ver.”
She studied Jessica’s palm for a few moments, tracing the lines with her index finger. Then she said, “He will say . . . what he’s meant to say. If this job is right for you, then he’ll say yes.”
What? What did that mean? Jessica looked down at the line Madame Hortensia had left off at. Was there a mole or a wrinkle or something that would mean plain yes or no?
“M’ija, what I’m telling you is that you will do what you’re meant to do. If it’s the right job you’re asking for, then yes, you’ll get it. If it’s not, then you will look for something else. But you will end up with the right job.”
Jessica sighed. “Okay, then, what about the guy?”
“Which guy?”
“The blond one — the bolillo. The one you said I have to give a chance to. I think I got my sign, so I’m not going to see the mexicano anymore. But is the bolillo the man I’m supposed to end up with? Is he . . . the man I’m going to be with for the rest of my life?”
Madame Hortensia examined Jessica’s hand again. “The answer’s the same. If he’s the man you’re meant to be with, then you’ll be with him. But if he’s not, then you will look for the real one.” She pushed the hand back gently.
For the first time, Jessica began to think that maybe this woman didn’t know any more about the future than anyone else.
The cards, the runes, the lines on her hand . . . none of it really meant anything, did it? She’d already wasted enough money on coming here, and nothing the fortune-teller said really told her what she was supposed to do. Why did she keep coming back, then? She wished she knew. If Madame Hortensia didn’t really know what was going to happen, then no one did, and Jessica was destined to mess everything up, just like before, when she’d tried to have a real art career at the Centro and date a real artist. And both those things had turned out to be fake, proving she didn’t know how to make the right choices on her own.
The old woman sat studying Jessica’s sad face for a while and then sighed. She put one hand on her card box and one hand on the crystal ball next to it and pushed them both aside, to the edge of the table, so that there was nothing between her and her client anymore.
Then she leaned over and put her wrinkled, callused but soft hand on top of Jessica’s. “M’ija, do you know why people come to see me?”
“So you can tell them what to do?”
“No. So that I can give them permission to do what they want.”
She smiled gently at Jessica’s confused expression, then went on.
“Married women come here and ask me if their husbands are cheating. In five minutes, I can tell if they want me to say, ‘This card means you will leave him,’ or if they’d rather hear, ‘This card means you will work it out and st
ay together.’ Pregnant women come here to ask about their babies. They need the cards to say, ‘You are doing all the right things. You will be a good mother.’ Women come here over and over to hear the cards say the same things. ‘Yes, you are right to be angry, or sad, or confused. Keep on doing what you’re doing. You’re doing the right thing.’ ”
Jessica’s mouth fell open as she listened to the older woman’s words. Once again, someone was shocking her with the real, honest truth. Why was Madame Hortensia giving away her secrets like this? Didn’t she know that she’d be missing out on money?
“M’ija, you’re a smart, pretty girl. You have a good job, plenty of men are interested in you, and you have a family that loves you.”
Jessica interrupted. “I know. But —”
“Even though your parents are having problems,” the old woman added as if she really were psychic, “they love you, and they will always love you, even if they end up breaking up. So don’t worry.”
“But,” Jessica said again.
“No, m’ija. That’s it. Houston, we have no problemas. Verdad?”
Jessica had to nod reluctantly at that.
Madame Hortensia smiled kindly and went on. “You keep asking me what’s going to happen to you, but I can’t tell you what you want to hear any more than your mother or sister can because you yourself don’t know what you want. And I’m running out of lucky charms to sell you.”
Jessica thought that over. It was true. All the questions Madame Hortensia had been asking had been her attempts to discover what Jessica wanted to hear. And it was true — Jessica didn’t even know herself.
“But something I can tell you for certain,” said Madame Hortensia, “is that everything’s going to be okay for you. Because as soon as you decide what you want, you’re the kind of young woman who will find the way to get it. That, I can see without any cards or magic numbers.”
She got up and hobbled around the table. With a hand on Jessica’s shoulder, she steered her to the door.
“But . . . ,” said Jessica as the woman prodded her through the doorway. “But —”
“Enough, m’ija. I have customers waiting. And you . . . you have your fortune to make.”
36
Jessica strutted into the office wearing a silver suit with a pink silk shirt and oxblood stilettos. Today she was going to get what she asked for. She didn’t care if she had to camp out in Mr. Cochran’s office to do it.
“Jessica, do you want these last few SpeedSlim bars?” Olga asked.
“No thanks. Do you know when Mr. Cochran’s coming in?”
“It should be any minute now.”
Jessica took her seat, rotating her chair so that it pointed to his door.
“You sure are getting your desk clean over there, Olga,” said Rochelle. Jessica looked over. It was true. Olga was throwing away old papers and putting all her Beanie Babies in neat little stacks.
The door to their department’s section opened. It was Mr. Cochran. Jessica stood up. So did Olga.
“Mr. Cochran, can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Sure, Olga. Come in.”
She closed the door behind her. Jessica fell back into her chair, supremely annoyed. What did Olga want? A bigger monitor so she could see her solitaire games better?
Immediately, she was ashamed of herself for thinking such a catty thing. She turned to Rochelle, who was sitting there serene as ever, reading an online article about reversing the effects of menopause.
“Rochelle, can I ask you something?”
“Mm-hmm. What do you need, sugar?”
“We haven’t talked in a while. I was wondering . . .” How should she put it? “Do you still not want a promotion?”
Rochelle laughed. “Girl, are you still thinking about that? No, I sure don’t. I have enough on my plate already as it is.”
Mr. Cochran’s door opened. Olga walked out stiffly, with Mr. Cochran right behind her.
“Don’t worry about shutting down your computer, Olga. The ladies will take care of that for you. Just take your . . . your purse, there. And your umbrella. And your tennis shoes, that’s fine. We’ll take care of the rest and have it couriered over to you.”
Jessica and Rochelle stared as Olga grabbed her personal belongings. “All right, Mr. Cochran. Thank you. Have a good one.” She turned and walked to the door. At the last minute, as if it were an afterthought, she turned and waved at her co-workers of three years. “Bye, Rochelle, Jessica. Y’all have a good one.” And then she was gone.
Mr. Cochran had left the office right behind Olga, and he still hadn’t come back half an hour later. While they waited, Jessica and Rochelle didn’t get any work done at all.
“It was probably all the online bingo she was playing,” Jessica whispered.
“No,” Rochelle whispered back. “He wouldn’t have even noticed that.”
“Maybe Tech Support noticed it and told him.” Jessica said it but couldn’t believe it would’ve happened without Xavier giving her a heads-up.
“No, I don’t think so. I just can’t see that making a difference to him one way or another, as long as she was sitting there when he needed her.”
“Maybe she asked for a raise.” Jessica hated even saying that aloud. If Mr. Cochran would fire Olga for asking for more money . . .
“Uh-uh,” said Rochelle. “She just got her two-year raise in May.”
“Well, then what? Why else would he let her go? Unless she quit. She did ask to see him. And now that I think about it, she didn’t look too upset.”
“Why would she quit, though? That’d be stupid.” Rochelle frowned in concentration. “Maybe she was having an affair with someone at McCormick, and Mr. Cochran found out about it.”
“Who, Olga? No way!”
By lunchtime, they still hadn’t found out what had happened. But Jessica couldn’t worry about that anymore. She had to meet her mother for lunch and try to convince her to go back home.
37
Jessica hurried out of the building and drove to Joe’s Mexican Restaurant, a dumpy little place near Mami’s work. She found parking, then went inside and saw that it hadn’t changed at all since the last time she’d been there several years ago. At the door, the hostess was still stationed behind a glass case of dusty Mexican candies. On the back wall, there was still a jukebox playing Tejano favorites. On the side walls, there were still Christmas decorations from the 1970s, along with various depictions of the Virgen de Guadalupe. It was as though Jessica had gone through a time machine back to her childhood.
Mami was there waiting for her, at a quiet booth in the corner. Jessica took a salsa-stained menu from the hostess, then went to join her mother. She stood up to receive Jessica’s hug, then they both sat down. Before Jessica could say anything, the ancient waitress ambled over.
Mami took her time ordering, asking about all the ingredients in the tacos and if the tortillas were fresh. By the time the waitress had gone away, Jessica was impatient to discuss what they needed to discuss.
“How’s your work?” her mother said.
“Fine.” Jessica left it at that. There was no use getting into all the details of what was really going on with the new broker position. Her mother, like Rochelle, would only wonder why Jessica wasn’t happy being a secretary for the rest of her life. Plus, she had only about forty-five minutes left in her lunch hour. Best to cut to the chase.
“Mami, what’s going on? Have you talked to Papi yet? When are you going back home?”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t ready to discuss any of that yet, apparently, because she acted as if Jessica hadn’t said it. “The reason I asked you to lunch was to talk about you, m’ija.”
Although Jessica was frustrated by her mother’s avoidance of the issue, she had to take the bait. “About me? What about me?”
“M’ijita, I know I can’t tell you what to do. But I want you to stop seeing this painter.”
Jessica’s mind raced. Did her mother mea
n Guillermo? Of course she did. But how did she know? Jessica had never told Sabrina, so it couldn’t have been . . . Oh, damn, Jessica suddenly thought. Loudmouth Toby and his nosy, tattletale mother.
“I don’t know who you mean, Mami,” she said. “If Mrs. Jimenez is telling you stories about —”
“Jessica, please. That’s enough.”
“Enchiladas verdes?” said the waitress, setting the plate in front of her mother and a plate of chicken tacos in front of Jessica.
When she was gone, Mami fixed Jessica with her most serious eyes. “Your father and I have done the best we could for you. We both worked hard in order to buy you nice clothes and then send you to college. And now you’ve had a good long time to run around with your friends and live in your own apartment.”
How, Jessica wondered, had the conversation turned into this? She was there to find out what was happening between her parents. And instead, her mother was sitting here giving her a guilt trip over a man who wasn’t even in her life anymore.
“It’s time,” Mami continued, “for you to start thinking about the rest of your life. About how you’re going to live.”
What was she talking about? Jessica already had a job, an apartment, and a car. How did this relate to whatever Mrs. Jimenez must have told her about Guillermo?
“You have to think about who’s going to take care of you,” her mother said.
“I’m already taking care of myself.”
“Jessica, please. Let me finish.” But instead of finishing, Mami sipped her coffee and looked at the gold and silver tinsel garland draped above their heads.
Jessica took the opportunity to eat some of her chicken taco. Joe’s didn’t serve quesadillas. And they didn’t give her guacamole or sour cream. As she chewed the boiled chicken in its beans, tortilla, and meager amount of cheese, Jessica felt like a child again. Back in the first house they’d had, near the rice plants, when she was very young. Before Papi had gotten promoted at the bottling plant and they’d moved to the house in the Heights.
When her mother had collected sufficient thoughts, she said, “M’ija, pretty soon you’re going to get married. You need to make the right choice.”
Houston, We Have a Problema Page 21