by Mike Miller
Still moving briskly, Ruth made her way through a very different population, largely although not exclusively African-American: lone bulky men in sporting vests or content families out fishing despite the weather surrounded by the appropriate webbed lawn chairs and umbrellas and coolers, an anomalous enough scene in the January gray. The sun was managing to maintain a thin, filmy presence, occasionally brilliant where it touched the wet boards or gently breaking waves. Children leaned against the rail and spoke confidingly to each other while their parents tended to business, looking after their lines, searching their coolers.
Ruth checked her watch once again to find she’d been walking for over an hour; she stood still, hands thrust deep into her coat pockets, earning stares from the others out that way. Right there internally reiterating her simple, perfectly reasonable request of God, specifying yet again exactly the kind of clear answer she expected, an answer without any preposterous uninvited advice or mean Delphic ambiguity.
So she was actually going to do this. Reversing direction a second time, this crazy woman striding determinedly nowhere, she started back energetically enough but observant now, feeling out the atmosphere, not exactly thinking except to appreciate the faint sunshine and tolerable wind. Passing by the same fishing families and unkempt hazardous beaches and recent construction, past the querulous gulls and the few tiny scudding sailboats cutting the horizon.
Once back at the boardwalk proper she slowed and commenced a fresh search. So many of these places were shut for the winter months. And then it was difficult to remember who you’d been to before, even recently, because the women were as weirdly identical as their storefronts, they all had the same middle-Eastern complexions and hand-painted windows and pseudo-spiritual knick-knacks and practically the same names. A better alternative was to peer up the short cross streets, back towards the decaying municipality behind the tourist facade. And there protruding from a doorway halfway down one such street, across from a massive casino parking garage and next to a tiny Mexican restaurant, stood another of those hand-painted sidewalk boards advertising “Tina – Special Ten Dollars” with the outline of a palm in bright purple and the familiar list of prices: full deck, partial, palm, or crystal ball.
Ruth answered this shoddy appeal with her practiced pantomime, a woman struck by a sudden novel whim. She pushed through a heavy glass door crisscrossed with a string of jingle bells; their noise effectively covered her automatic self-deprecating laugh.
The expected cramped space, crammed with white resin patio furniture, dominated by a middle-aged, exceptionally stout woman with the usual dusky skin, wearing a pleated gauze skirt that spilled over her knees in a river of rich claret. A central round table, draped with a cloth of gold, bore a pedestal in the shape of a woman’s hand, the tapered bronze fingers caressing a cloudy glass globe, the object surprisingly small, about the size of a baseball.
“You like a reading?”
“Sure.” Ruth said, playfully humoring this person, bent on indulging in a mild adventure. Together they scrutinized the posted prices. “Let’s try the full deck.” Full deck was fifty dollars here, too.
“Full deck, okay.” The psychic, presumably Tina, extracted the deck from somewhere on her person; the cards were edged in gold and well worn, soft to Ruth’s hand as she obediently shuffled and cut them into three somehow inadequate piles.
“Think of one thing you wish for.”
Complying, Ruth envisioned her wish and demand as one with an excited intensity, as if truly poised on the brink of the unfathomable. That familiar flick of the cards, intricate ancient images unveiling their symbolic messages. “I see you are a good person.”
“You bet.”
The important thing was not to succumb to frustration, not to let her justified irritation obstruct that precious answer.
“You’re going to live a long life. No big health troubles.” Flip, tap. “You’ve had sadness recently about an older person, a relative maybe? You are very intelligent. You should work with children; this is what you were meant to do with your life, you know this?” Looking up at her client with approval, one woman to another.
Betray nothing.
The cards expertly overlapping into a crescent; a full deck reading was no simple Celtic cross but a generous peacock display with every card in the deck claiming a position, and that meant you could never interpret the spread for yourself. But probably there wasn’t any meaning, probably it was all guessing and intuition with the cards just a prop, handy to point to and make it all your client’s fault, claim professional distance. Heavy black eyes rose from the reading, prominent and shrewd. “You have a darkness around you, a negative aspect. You know this? This is a very strong cloud, like a weight holding you down to something from a long time ago, in your family maybe?” A swift gaze for any reaction, searching Ruth’s inexpressive countenance. “Your chakas are our of balance. I think this is maybe why you came to see me?”
“Well, I’ve been worried about my job. That’s what I was thinking about. I want to know whether I should just leave and avoid being fired, because otherwise I’m going to be terminated, or if I should stay because I’m in the right, because it’s not fair. If there will be a miracle, I guess.”
“I think you are worrying for nothing. Your career looks good; you have no real difficulties in this area.” The dark eyes intrusive and insistent, just like all of them. “This is not where your darkness is; this shadow is in your heart, not your wallet.” The surprisingly thin lips slipping into that generic smirk.
“I wish that were true. Anyway, tell me something? Is there some kind of school where you all learn this? Or a guild, or what?”
Tina actually did look a little startled at that. “No no no. You must find a teacher and this takes many years to learn. And for you, you have to concentrate on this imbalance, because this is why you think about the wrong problem, you think about anything else in order to run away from the real trouble.”
“No sale.” Once again Ruth simply dropped the cash, rose, and exited. One hundred bucks, but it was over; there would be no more psychics for her ever. “Come on!” Frustrated, insistent, she almost said it aloud. Well, no more intermediaries; Ruth would directly confront her God.
She regained the boardwalk and immediately entered Caesar’s, dim inside with one of those bleary, busily patterned hotel carpets, a few lackadaisical couples and the occasional lone addict sparsely populating the gaming tables. As usual, bar the Asian enthusiasts, most of the daytime players were at the slots, most of them past retirement age; they all had that typical glazed and obsessed expression, living automatons. Everything material on the casino floor – clientele, machines, tables, lights – blended into an elusive confusion, virtually disappearing into the garish ambience itself, into the whirling and winking and scrolling of six-figure progressive jackpots and that unmistakable sound of a thousand xylophones striking at random.
Ruth strolled the floor with a critical eye, feeling her way, awaiting enlightenment. Not a theme machine, Star Wars or Vampires or any other idiocy to confuse the issue with contrary concepts, and certainly not a Wheel of Fortune with those dull rows of sevens and bars and cherries that chimed as if they were actually worth something when they weren’t. Anyway the money part was irrelevant to her at the moment, and luck not at issue because luck discounts merit or meaning. This was strictly about the clear voice of God.
Although once you really looked at the faces focused on those revolving symbols, saw the concentration directed towards that infinitesimal chance, you realized these players were actually supplicants immersed in desperate prayer, that it was all about personal redemption, about getting one’s ultimate due. Especially those with no hope left barring the miraculous. So that was the exciting, deceptive hope blowing through this place, the fantastic idea that here your life could be revalued, justified; you could receive that heavenly confirmation you always knew you deserved, show them all, make it come out right while after all.
>
Ruth paused near a likely machine of simple celestial signs, positioning herself behind the shoulder of a tiny fragile woman with white poodle curls, and watched as the woman rhythmically depressed the Play Max button. This particular machine took five quarters, so if you failed to bet all five lines you could get cheated out of a jackpot. It was one of the newer machines without so much as a vestigial lever. Ruth lingered, watching carefully as the computerized rolls spun and the illustrated heavens blurred together, the victorious golden stars, full-faced suns, and creamy crescent moons gradually slowing into promising versions of Stanley’s silly cartoons. That idea made Ruth smile. The elderly woman at the machine waited with a tiny, patient frown as the lines fell into place one after the other, the last and determinative row with a reluctant mechanical jerk. And there really was a perfect row of three crescent moons shining across the center line. Fake money fell in a lovely electronic cascade of sound, colored lights played while the automatic display racked up a decent few hundred credits.
So Ruth searched the vicinity for an identical machine, and right on cue a wizened man in a natty brown jacket – an angel? - rose and courteously held the low back of the swiveling stool steady as she seated herself. Ruth nodded rather numbly and smiled at him.
“Good luck.” And he drifted away.
She fed in a twenty out of habit, scanning the prize list. You needed three triple stars for the biggest payout, plus there was a wild card, a comet. Ruth connected to her God again, imploring Him for that honest answer, just the truth, and bet the maximum. One chance, no do-overs. The heavens spun, merging briefly back into the primordial chaos before separating out into identifiable cosmic components, each one sliding obediently into its righteous place in the slots universe.
A full sun and another, and then a third. Of course a third. The blessed shock of an actual, indisputable response. The sun would shine, everything would be okay, and so have faith.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Now everything starts to accelerate and then it shatters. I was just through the door of Thom’s outer office one evening, barging in as usual because I never learn, when I saw Donny Mealy in with Thom. Saw rather than heard, because no one was speaking, and maybe that was what made me hesitate and then instinctively back up to the threshold. Even with the lights off in the outer office I was visible but even so I froze because the significance in Mealy’s posture was unmistakable, a suspicious intensity in his back and shoulders and the tilt of his head, and then because he was just standing there too long.
“It’s me giving you advance notice, that’s all. Charity starting at home and all.” Startling me, Mealy’s voice unctuous and bullying but most of all plain silly, almost a little embarrassed.
Thom’s response was immediate and thoroughly exasperated. “I have absolutely no idea what it is you’re trying to say.” I couldn’t see him but I could imagine his expression of polite, even amused annoyance, those eyebrows reaching for enlightenment. I stayed there stupidly blocking the exit. Winter dark concealed the freezing city outside, deepening our unconscious intimacy.
“I’m saying sometimes things get exposed unexpectedly so it’s not a good idea to be associated with the wrong people even if you’re completely innocent.” Mealy remained rooted to his spot on the carpet, framed by a far window that faced the identical window of the identical office opposite. The two rooms were connected by a stone frieze of toddlers at play fully visible only from those two private chambers, a fitting metaphor for the City Hall culture of secret immaturity. “Especially when you’ve got family to protect. And even say you just cut all ties, even then immediate public exposure is going to do some damage.”
“Right. And?” Purely furious.
“And again I’m just speculating here but if I’m guessing right, then say Columbus goes ahead, then there’s an element of mutual consideration. It’s a natural human response. You see what I mean?”
Columbus?
A minor pause. “Not even remotely.”
“In that case I recommend you give it some thought.” Mealy started towards the outer office and I turned and fled down the corridor more silently and rapidly than I would have guessed possible. Past the open door of Mealy’s own offices where a slight blond woman waiting there looked up at me, startled. She had an expensive-looking briefcase on her lap and a confident but impatient expression. I continued at a less remarkable pace, placing her. Yet another seat at Manetti’s table, which made three, and her being there was no coincidence. I hurried straight down and out onto Market Street, welcoming the fresh night, excited to fit it together.
So what did we have? That threat had to reference Ruth’s involvement in PhillyCares, beyond doubt then a dubious enterprise. But at this point even Thom probably couldn’t dampen her passion, what with the organization’s vulnerability and her delusional intention to remodel the whole questionable enterprise into some kind of personal throne of glory.
So okay, Manetti probably had something on the charity; that was reasonable, and it didn’t bode well for Ruth’s humanitarian ambitions.
So Manetti and Mealy – what was the connection there? And Manetti apparently had an interest in seeing Columbus succeed. But - Columbus? And anyway Columbus was already succeeding, so why risk this stupid crap with Thom, especially when he was known to be in favor of it anyway.
That didn’t make any sense.
Thom was back at City Hall agonizing over this shit, no doubt slouched down in his chair, chewing his knuckles. Making light of it even to himself, but thinking, plotting. Facing one of those situations where doing nothing constitutes a dangerous decision in itself, all because he’d married a self-important idiot.
The FBI was investigating something at City Hall but probably that concerned the administration and was otherwise irrelevant.
Okay, let me digress wildly and consider a symbol not only of the city but also of redemption and renewal. I’ve always cherished this minor obsession with the Ben Franklin Bridge: its lovely blue span, simultaneously familiar and remote, like all bridges promises a clean rebirth in another place, the weight of the past abandoned. With the American dream, first you have to run away. Sometimes, says the bridge, it’s the only way; otherwise you’ll never figure it out in time through so much obstruction and confusion. Move through space instead, that’s why it’s there.
About fifteen years ago they commemorated the seventy-fifth anniversary of the bridge by opening the traffic lanes to pedestrians, the entire length taken over with the expected accoutrements of municipal celebration stretching across the Delaware: podiums and folding chairs, souvenir and refreshment stands, a plethora of honking classic cars, horrible alleged works of art, an Uncle Sam on stilts, face painters and balloon artists and fiddlers and all that sort of tedious diversion. One lane was assigned to buses for shuttling the footsore back to their respective home states. I thought it all generally disappointing, but then my sense of occasion is often out of proportion to reality. When I want to celebrate I want unrestrained joy, not obligation; when I grieve I want ashes and wailing, not casseroles and platitudes.
But I took proprietary pride in the size of the crowd flowing in through the various Center City arteries; at Arch Street everyone was funneled into one pleased, compact mob, pressed through narrow wooden barricades guarded by mounted police to be ultimately released at the foot of the bridge itself. Here you had a choice: take the narrow, elevated pedestrian lane or walk the thronged roadway with the masses? I peered up against the sun at the raised walkway; it seemed to be floating in the empty heavens, terrifyingly remote and perilous, a world away from the familiar bricks and trash of the river slums. I can bear heights but I don’t love them; I opted for the crowded street-level alternative.
That walk to New Jersey proved unexpectedly strenuous but I plodded with determination, anticipating a return trip on one of those convenient, air-conditioned shuttle buses. The crowds made it difficult to navigate the limited pedestrian space between all th
e vans and vendor tables and snaking cables and miscellaneous crap lining the route. I ignored as much of that as possible, instead peering out through the ironwork at the blank sides of old factories and warehouses, smudged rectangles of brown and black, pocked brick walls marked with soiled white. The river, once I was over it, seemed sedate that afternoon but as powerful as ever, its color a silvery-gray that shifted to brown after you stared at it a while. A tubby ferry was chugging its way over to New Jersey for some reason, and another was heading back towards civilization. Of course there I was marching to Camden myself, trapped by my own stubborn intention. Amiably pondering brilliant, practical old Mr. Franklin himself, how he would have approved lending his moniker to a bridge; likewise Walt Whitman, whose namesake span I could just make out to the south. Literature and liberty create each other, together they create civilization, and all three are bridges.
That afternoon, standing right over the middle of the Delaware, I felt at home, so although I was only a couple of years out of school, for the first time I seriously wondered if I’d ever find a permanent place anywhere or never reach Ithaca. But wasn’t that the point? Wasn’t that better? Maybe I needed to stay in sync with the zeitgeist, always speaking from this very minute. Of course that was romantic youth. What eventually happens is that the everyday hypnotizes me and I forget my rootless nature until something makes me realize I’ve been carefully undermining my own foundations all along. Forgetting is my version of lying.
This time, Crystal had made me remember.
Another of Ruth’s dictums: “America is a country founded on an appreciation of human ignorance. That’s the real American motto: But I Might Be Wrong. That’s our greatness; that’s all that really matters. Anyone who’s never realized he might be wrong about something fundamental is an idiot. Anyone who’s never questioned his own politics shouldn’t be allowed to vote.”