Fran shook her head. “No—I mean, yes, I have, but Eric hasn’t mentioned him and I’d appreciate it if none of you would bring up his father today, okay? I don’t want anything to spoil the day for him.”
Eric and most of the other children wandered over to watch a group of balloon-toting clowns breeze by. One of the clowns stopped to make balloon-dolls for several of the children. Fran saw this and smiled. “Just...look at them will you? Everything’s still new to them. Even with what’s happened to them, they still laugh and giggle and...I don’t know...hope, I guess. Remember when you were that young? How nothing bad ever followed you to the next morning? Moment to moment, with a new excitement each time; that’s what I think ‘childhood innocence’ is. Maybe something bad happened this morning, but now...now’s fun, you’ve got a ball to bounce or a model plane to fly or a doll to pretend with, and the day’s full of mystery and wonder and things to look forward to and...and—”
You’re babbling. Shut up.
They scattered shortly thereafter, instructed to meet back at the south entrance at six p.m.
Fran and Eric rode the merry-go-round for the third time that day, but from the way Eric acted you’d have sworn this was the first time he’d ever been on it. Fran envied him his joy, but was at the same time aware of how precious it was, and knew by the wide smile on his face and the gleeful shimmer of his eyes that she’d made the right decision to leave Ted and take Eric to the shelter where he wouldn’t have to worry about Daddy coming at him with the belt or his fists, or be forced to cower upstairs in his room while Daddy thrashed Mommy into a whimpering, broken, swollen zombie who shuffled around, whispering, never looking up, afraid of the violence the next five minutes might or might not bring.
Since they’d moved to the shelter two weeks ago, Eric—who before had been a good fifteen pounds underweight, nearly skeletal—had begun eating again and laughing again and was able to sleep soundly for the first time in his short life. God, how she cursed herself for having waited so long, for having kept Eric in such a brutal, hateful, terrifying environment!
At first it was just a couple of slaps every now and then, and Ted was always sorry afterward, so Fran allowed herself to believe that he really was going to get better about things, that he was going to get some counseling, but then he went on graveyard shift at the plant, sleeping during the day, refusing to see a counselor on the weekends, and as Eric grew older Ted’s violent outbursts grew not only in number but in brutality—a couple of slaps turned into a bunch of slaps, a bunch of slaps turned into fists to the chest, stomach, and face, which evolved into slamming her against walls and choking her, sometimes knocking her to the floor where, until the night she’d sneaked out of the house with Eric, he’d begun to give her a couple of kicks to the side—
—she was, for a moment, so numb with the weight of her thoughts that she didn’t even realize the merry-go-round had stopped, then she noticed that Eric was standing outside the circular gate of the ride talking to a little girl who looked to be around seven or eight.
“Eric!” she called to him. “You stay right there.”
Better watch it, you, she thought. That’s how kids wind up with their pictures on the sides of milk cartons. “I only turned away for a minute,” says the mother/father.
She exited through the gate, sprinting to where Eric and the little girl—who looked vaguely familiar to Fran—were still standing.
“Hey, you,” she said, taking Eric’s hand in hers.
“Hey, you!” he replied, giggling.
The little girl seemed to hear someone calling her, said a quick good-bye to Eric, then turned and ran—but not before shoving a piece of paper into Eric’s hand.
“Who’s your friend?”
“I dunno,” said Eric. “She was telling me ‘bout her hand.” He offered the piece of paper to Fran.
It was some kind of special fair pass. On the front were the words: “Good For Two Free Readings!” The back read:
Each line, be it in a hand or face, masks another; lines hidden within lines, a secret Hand beneath the surface of the one with which you touch the world and those you love. It is only in the secret lines on the hidden hand that your true destiny can be mapped, and only one who possesses Certain Sight can make an accurate reading. If you’re content with mere showmen, then please take your business to any of the fortune-teller tents—but if you want the truth, see Madame Ariadne.
“So, kiddo—wanna get your palm read?”
“Wha’s that?”
Fran turned over Eric’s hand, sticking the tip of her finger into the middle of his palm. “A lady looks at your hand and tells you what’s gonna happen to you.”
“Aw,” he said, grinning. “I saw that on a TV show. It was neat.”
“Does that mean ‘yes’?” She couldn’t resist tickling his palm.
“Stop!”
She did. “Wanna go?”
“Sure. It’ll be like on TV.”
* * *
The interior of Madame Ariadne’s tent was not what Fran expected— no crystal ball or beaded curtains, no candles or spicy incense or stuffed ram’s head or shelves overflowing with philtres and potions; if anything, the interior more resembled the white sterilized rooms where a veterinarian might examine a family pet: white rolled-tile floor, white partition walls, chairs, and a table upon which sat—most surprising of all—a computer. Next to the computer was something Fran assumed was a flatbed scanner.
“This is Weird City, kiddo.”
“Like on X-Files!”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Eric laughed, then a door opened in one of the back partitions and Madame Ariadne entered. If things didn’t feel off-kilter enough, Madame Ariadne—instead of being a weathered, sinister Maria Ouspenskaya clone—looked to be no older than thirty-three, her cheeks flushed as if she’d just finished a good aerobic workout; judging from the light grey cotton warmup suit she wore, that was probably the case.
“Well, hi,” she said, brushing a thick strand of strawberry-blonde hair from her eyes and kneeling to face Eric. “My name’s Ariadne. What’s yours?”
“Eric.”
“Ah, that’s a good name.”
“Uh-huh.”
She offered her hand. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Eric.”
Eric looked at Fran, who gestured Go on.
He shook it. “Hi.”
It happened so quickly that Fran almost missed it; as soon as Eric’s hand was enfolded in her grip, Madame Ariadne visibly flinched—not in such a way as to cause Eric any alarm, but to the eyes of an adult it was clear that she’d felt something that startled—maybe even frightened—her.
Fran cautioned herself to be careful, that this could be part of an act—scare the parent with some crap about “bad vibrations,” then con them into a more complicated and expensive reading.
“We have a pass for two free readings,” said Fran.
“I know,” said Ariadne, smiling at Eric and releasing his hand. “This isn’t a scam operation, Fran. The pass says free and free it shall be.”
“How did you know—?”
“So, Eric,” said the fortune-teller, “how would you like to go first?”
“‘Kay.”
She led him to the table, then took her place behind the computer and typed in a few commands, activating the scanner. “Eric, I want you to take your—are you left-handed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought so. Take your left hand and press it down on the glass right there.”
“On the box?”
“Mmm-hmm. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. It’s just going to take a picture of your hand.”
“Promise?”
Ariadne’s smile was spring itself. “Promise.”
Eric pressed his palm onto the scanner. Ariadne took a plastic cover device and placed it on top of Eric’s hand, which now was completely hidden from sight.
“Arm’s in a box,” he said to Fra
n, grinning.
“Oh, boy.”
“Hey, Eric,” said Ariadne cheerfully, “did you know that each part of your hand was given to you by an angel?”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Uh-huh. As a reward for their love and friendship, God allowed each angel to add one small part to the hand of every human being; thumbs, lines, bumps, every part of your hand’s a gift from an angel.” She winked at him. “I read that in a book when I was a little girl. I don’t know if it’s true, but I think it’s kinda neat, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
There was a slight hum, a slow roll of blue light from under the cover, and it was over.
By now Fran was standing behind Ariadne, staring at the computer screen as a holographic copy of Eric’s hand—composed mostly of grid lines—appeared on the monitor.
Ariadne playfully poked Eric with her elbow. “Now watch this—it’s so cool!” She hit a key and a dark blue line rolled down from the top of the screen, passing over the grid-hand and changing it to a three-dimensional, flesh-colored hand that looked so real Fran almost expected it to reach out and tweak her nose (a favorite past-time of Eric’s).
Eric squealed with delight. “Izzat mine? Izzat my hand?”
“It sure is,” said Ariadne. “And it’s a good, strong hand, with strong lines. See that line right there? That means you’re a good boy, and this line means you’ve got lots of imagination—I’ll bet you like to make things, don’t you? Like models, and draw, and build things with clay.”
“Oh, yeah!”
“I knew it! The lines never lie. This line right here—ah, this one’s very special, because it means that you’re going to grow up”—she gave Fran a quick, secretive look—“to be someone really special—even more special than you are right now. Oh, you’ve got a good life ahead of you, Eric. You should be so happy!”
“Oh, boy!”
This went on for a few more moments, until the little girl from the merry-go-round came out of the same door from which Ariadne had entered and said to Eric, “You want to come and watch a video with me? I got The Great Mouse Detective.”
“Mouse Detective!” shouted Eric. He turned to Fran. “Can I, Mommy? Can I go watch Mouse Detective?”
Fran was once again struck by the notion that she knew this little girl from somewhere. “I don’t...I don’t know, hon—”
“That’s one of my daughters, Sarah,” said Ariadne. “I’ve got a little play room set up for her right back there. Toys, books, a TV/VCR unit, and—God!—tons of Disney videos—I swear she’ll bankrupt me with those things. I’ll have them leave the door open so you can keep an eye on them.
“He’ll not be out of your sight for one second, Fran. I swear it.”
Fran looked down at Eric. “You really want to watch the movie?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay, then. But be polite.”
The only thing faster than light is the speed at which some children rush to watch a Disney video—a principle that Eric and Sarah proved a second later: Whoosh-Bang!—Disney rules.
Fran stood in silence for a moment, watching the two children through the door as they took their seats in front of the television.
“That’s quite a collection of bruises on his face, Fran,” said the fortune-teller. “Ted must’ve really clobbered him.”
A breath in, a breath out; one, two, three; then Fran whirled toward Ariadne and said: “How the hell did you know my name?”
“The same way I know that you’ve been at the Cedar Hill Women’s Shelter for the last fifteen days. The same way I know that both you and Eric were in Licking Memorial’s ER sixteen days ago because the two of you ‘fell while taking in the groceries.’
“The same way I know that Ted spotted you at the free clinic five days ago and followed you back to the shelter.”
“He what?”
“You heard me. He—don’t get panicky, he didn’t follow the group here today. He’s on swing until the first of next week, but you have to believe me when I tell you that he is going to be waiting for you outside the shelter sometime in the next eight days, resplendent in his remorse.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“Do you think I’m trying to scare you? You’re damned right I am.”
“How did you—?”
Ariadne hit a key, and Eric’s hand disappeared, replaced by scrolling records: Fran’s birth certificate; the date of her high school graduation; a copy of her marriage license; Eric’s birth certificate (complete with foot- and hand-prints made at the hospital); her student loan application for college tuition (check returned, full amount, student withdrew from school before deadline, no monies owed); copies of police reports (three domestic calls, no charges filed); and several hospital records detailing treatments given to one Francine Alicia McLachlan and Eric Carl McLachlan, some together, most separate—including at least two doctors’ handwritten notations, nearly indecipherable except for “abuse?” and “possible mistreatment.”
“So?” snapped Fran, trying to keep the anxiety from her voice. “You or someone who works with you is a hacker, so what? Anyone with a computer could get this information these days.”
“True enough,” said Ariadne. “But would they also know that you once came very close to killing Ted while he was asleep?”
Fran blanched, shocked into silence.
“December 22, two years ago,” said Ariadne. “He’d lost his temper and started pounding on you, and Eric came running downstairs and put himself between you and Ted—something he does quite a bit, doesn’t he?—and Ted pushed him down. Eric fell against a coffee table and the corner missed his left eye by less than half-an-inch. Five stitches in the ER took care of the gash, and in the cab on the way home Eric said he wanted to go away because Daddy scared him. Ted was already asleep when you got home, so you put Eric to bed, waited until he was asleep, then you went to the downstairs hall closet and took out Ted’s .357 Magnum, put in one bullet, then wrapped the muzzle in an old towel to muffle the sound of the shot—”
“Stop it!”
“You never told anyone about that, did you, Fran?”
“No...I mean, I don’t think I....”
“So I couldn’t have hacked that information from any computer, could I?”
“No....”
Ariadne placed a warm, tender hand against Fran’s cheek. “Listen to me very carefully. I don’t want to frighten you, but I have to. Eric’s in danger.”
Fran’s legs suddenly felt like rubber, and she just barely made it into the chair facing the computer. “Someone...,” she whispered. “I...I must have told someone about...about wanting to kill Ted, and you...you....”
Ariadne placed a finger against Fran’s lips, silencing her, and in a soft voice, the whisper of leaves caught in the wind brushing across an autumn sidewalk, spoke of other things that only Fran knew, intimate details of solitary experiences, hopes, desires, petty jealousies and silly girlhood fantasies extending back through nearly three decades, and when she’d finished (by describing in detail Fran’s first childhood memory of getting her arm caught in the toilet when she was ten months old because she wanted to see where the water went after you flushed), Fran—confused, frightened, and feeling so godawful helpless—was certain of one thing:
Madame Ariadne had...powers of some kind, incomprehensible, unknowable, incredible.
“What...what are you?”
Ariadne leaned over Fran’s shoulder and typed a command. “First you need to see something.”
The screen blinked, display Eric’s hand once again.
“Both you and Eric have Conic hands. See the shape of his fingers? Just like yours—they’re very smooth and taper from the base, gradually lessening toward the rounded tip. The Conic Hand is the Hand of Imagination. Just from the shape of Eric’s hand any fortune-teller would know that he’s very sensitive, often highly emotional—but not emotionally unstable. He’s like you in that way, isn’t he?”
&nbs
p; Fran nodded. “He’s pretty anxious a lot of the time but he tries to hide it because he doesn’t want to upset me.”
“Not surprising.” The image of Eric’s hand turned slightly to the left, displaying the height of the mounts on the surface of the palm. “See this rise here at the base of the middle finger? This is called the ‘Mount of Saturn’—also known as ‘The Mount Which Brings Sadness.’ If you’ve got a Conic hand with a pronounced Mount of Saturn, you constantly worry about the safety of the ones you love, even above your own well-being—which would explain why Eric always tries to get between you and Ted when—”
“—he wants to protect me,” whispered Fran.
“Of course he does; he loves you very, very much.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Eric’s hand turned toward them, palm facing outward.
“Why do you use a computer and scanner?” asked Fran. “I mean, most fortune-tellers—”
“—would whip out the candles and crystal balls and hold your hand in theirs as they made the reading, yeah, yeah, yeah—believe me, I know this is a bit weird. I use this because...because the naked eye—even mine—cannot clearly see the lines within the lines, the—”
“—hidden hand within the hand?”
“Yes. This equipment was designed specifically to reveal those hidden lines, the secret hand.”
Fran looked at the image on the screen. “Okay...?”
“Can you recognize any of the lines?”
Fran leaned in, squinting. “I can see that his life line is really long.” Her mood brightened. “He’ll have a long life.”
Ariadne shook her head. “A long life line doesn’t necessarily mean a person will live to be very old. I mean, sure, in places where it weakens or breaks you can expect some health problems, but a lot of people have life lines that are incredibly short—some fade entirely—and they still live to piss on their enemies’ graves. No, we’re interested in one of the Fate Lines, Saturn—right here, staring at the base of the wrist and going straight up to intersect with its sister mount.” She altered the image so that it now displayed only a flat red outline of Eric’s hand, with the Fate Line of Saturn enhanced in bright blue, the Mount of Saturn in bright green—
In Silent Graves Page 39