“But what—” Helen began, and then realized that she was talking into an empty phone. “What?” she said vaguely to the cat, hanging up slowly, and the cat yawned widely, eyes shut. “I guess I’d better hurry, then,” Helen said, picking up her dinner plate and looking at it absently. “They want me,” she explained, and set the plate down before the cat, who looked at it, startled, and then began hastily to bite at the slice of cold chicken, eyeing Helen with disbelief. Then the door slammed shut behind her and the cat settled down comfortably, finishing off the chicken first, going on to the cottage cheese in the salad, even tasting delicately at the lettuce. When nothing remained on the plate but lettuce and a slice of pineapple, the cat abandoned it and leaped softly onto the table, where he finished off the cream in the pitcher, took a lick at the butter, and then moved gracefully down and into the overstuffed chair, primped himself briefly, and fell beautifully asleep.
Helen Spencer, racing down the street with a completely meaningless sense of urgency, and no hat, ran onto the fair grounds, panting, between wooden booths advertising fish ponds and grab bags, lemonade and hot dogs, pony rides and homemade fudge; she made her way, pushing, through the little groups of women and men and children who fussed around the booths, the early comers, the ladies who had baked the home-baked cakes and contributed the embroidered aprons and donated painted ashtrays to go into the grab bag, the children ducking away from grown-up hands, standing big-eyed before the baseball-throwing concession and the little train made of borrowed wagons hitched to a jeep.
“Helen, hurry—there’s a line waiting already.”
“But what?” said Helen breathlessly as Mrs. Brandon took her arm and led her firmly across the lawn. “Where?”
“Come along, we’ve got to get something for your head.”
Helplessly Helen, realizing that she had forgotten to comb her hair, pattered along behind Mrs. Brandon, asking at intervals, “What?” or “Where?” They came up behind a row of booths, going carefully between cartons and boxes where additional supplies were kept, and finally Mrs. Brandon raised a curtain on the back of a booth and said, “Here, now, as soon as we can get you dressed you can start, because if we keep these people waiting any longer, heaven only knows what they’ll do, the Armstrong girl’s been here fifteen minutes already!”
The booth held two chairs, one on either side of a bridge table, a heap of bright-colored cloths, and nothing else. “We just need to tie these around you, any old way,” Mrs. Brandon said, putting Helen forcibly down into one of the chairs and coming at her with a scarf of flaming scarlet, “and someone is going to bring some earrings and necklaces, but of course you can start without those. The Armstrong girl—” She stood off and looked at Helen, at the scarlet scarf wound around Helen’s head. “You look real nice in that color,” she said, “you ought to get a hat or something, let me see. Blue around your shoulders, and you’ll be sitting down, so there really isn’t any need for anything like a skirt or anything, we can throw this blue shawl over the table and that’ll hide you, and now, where did they put the cards?”
“Cards?”
“Wilma said they’d be right… here. Now, why don’t you just glance over them and I’ll run outside and check your sign and then I can tell the Armstrong girl to come right in.”
“Cards?” Helen said, appalled. Fingers shaking, she opened the deck of cards Mrs. Brandon handed her and stared at them in bewilderment. “But…” she said, but Mrs. Brandon had already gone and outside her voice said dimly, “And you can go on in, in just a minute, as soon as the Gypsy Queen is through—ah—communing with her spirits.”
“But I don’t know how—” Helen said, going to the front of the booth and parting the curtains, “Mrs. Brandon, I—” She broke off, looking back into the faces staring at her; in front of the booth was a waiting line that seemed to reach into the far distance, and, glancing down, Helen saw at her side an enormous sign, painted in bright reds and greens: “Madame Mystery. Knows All, Tells All, Reads the Future and Explains the Past. Fifty cents.”
“Oh, golly,” Helen said. Blindly, she made her way back to her chair and sat down, staring without comprehension at the deck of cards. As they spread out before her she saw one named “A sick person,” with a picture of an invalid in bed attended by a doctor and a nurse, one named “The ring,” picturing a bride and groom, one of a cupid, a broken mirror, a train, a house. Briefly, the thought of her quiet living room, her cat, her magazine, came across her mind, and if she had not been a person of good humor and good sense she might very well have tiptoed softly out through the back of the booth and fled home. In a small town, however, one does not unnecessarily leave the Mrs. Brandons marooned without a fortune-teller for their fairs, and Helen straightened her shoulders and tightened her lips, and called upon her memory and whatever good fairies were watching her, and said loudly, “Let the first seeker of truth come forward.”
The curtains at the front of the booth parted and the Armstrong girl came in, moving cautiously in the dim light. Since she was a high-school junior in the school building where Helen taught fifth grade, she recognized Helen and smiled a little, saying, “I never knew you could tell fortunes,” as she sat down. “I love having my fortune told,” she added unnecessarily.
Helen pondered in what she trusted was the identifiable gypsy manner, her hands on the cards and her head bent. (Armstrong; Sally, was it? Susie? Not too bright, anyway—hadn’t she failed geometry last year?—one of the cheerleaders, Helen rather thought; interested in that red-haired Watson boy.) “Choose a card,” Helen said finally with vast authority.
The Armstrong girl giggled, debated with her hand hovering over the cards, and pounced at last. “This one,” she said. Helen turned it over. “The clouds,” she said, regarding the stormy landscape pictured on the card. “Well.”
The feeling of being left out, of being always the one left alone at home, never regarded, never considered, never remembered, swept over her suddenly; here was a girl who would never, obviously, know that feeling, and, without thinking, Helen said, “You will never be lonely. You’ll never be hurt. The trouble in your life will be small.” (What troubles could she have, after all, a girl who couldn’t pass geometry but had a redheaded young man?) “The invitation,” Helen said, turning over the next card, “of course you know what that is?” The girl nodded, smiling. “You will have your wish about the invitation,” Helen said, “and it will be one of the happiest occasions of your life.” The girl leaned forward eagerly. “Will Mother let mego?” she asked, breathless. With great solemnity Helen turned over another card. “The stone wall,” she said. “Well, you will be allowed to go, I think, but only because your mother knows that she can trust you to behave yourself and do as you are told. If you should disobey—come home late, or something—” She turned over another card. “The lightning. Well, you can count on getting into all kinds of trouble. Serious trouble,” she said, raising her head to regard the girl ominously. “Terrible trouble.”
The girl nodded, wide-eyed. “Am I going to get married?” she asked after a minute.
Helen turned up another card. “Broken mirror. Well. Not to the person you are thinking about now. You’ll be older in another few years, and what looks so appealing to you now may then seem only a childish fancy. You will someday find”—she hesitated—“the man of your dreams,” she finished grimly.
After all, she thought, there was nothing here that didn’t make sense. And every girl thought she had a man of her dreams. Dr. Atherton wouldn’t look much like a dream man to a sixteen-year-old, but who—Helen wondered while the Armstrong girl dwelt lovingly on her own future—was thinking about Dr. Atherton? I’ve known him since he had his first skate coaster, Helen thought; I’ll be so happy when he finally settles down with Mrs. Miller.
“How old will I live to be?” asked the Armstrong girl.
“The flowers,” Helen read. “Very old. You will be… hmm… wise, and respected, and have many grandchildren an
d you will have a fine life.”
She paused, and the Armstrong girl gathered herself together reluctantly. “Well,” she said. “Thanks so much, Miss Spencer.” She started for the entrance to the booth and then stopped. “Look,” she said, turning, “can you tell me just anything more about that dance? That invitation, I mean?”
Agreeably Helen turned up another card. “The moon,” she read, and lifted her head and grinned at the Armstrong girl, who grinned back. “Say, thanks,” the girl said, and left.
At some time during the evening someone brought her a candle, which was set on the table and did little to dispel the gloom that surrounded Madame Mystery; by that time Helen had begun to feel that she had never known anything so well—not the plates she washed and dried at home, not the walls of her house, nor the clothes she wore every day—as she knew the pictures on these cards, the weddings and invitations and sicknesses and unexpected letters. She had told old Mrs. Langdon that her delphinium would surpass itself next year, young Bobbie Mills that his pitching arm would improve; she told all the pretty young girls that they would wait awhile, and look around, before they married, and she told all the plain young girls that they would find husbands sooner than they expected. She strongly advised fourteen-year-old Betsy Harvester not to run away to Hollywood, and refused laughingly to predict whether little Mrs. Martin’s baby would be a boy or a girl. Still, the line in front of her booth continued, and it was not until Mrs. Brandon came in with a paper cup of lemonade that Helen realized that it was growing late, that the fair must be almost over.
“We’re making a fortune,” Mrs. Brandon said, patting Helen affectionately on the shoulder, “they say you’re wonderful.”
Helen straightened her back, and stretched. “Good to rest for a minute,” she said. When she raised her eyes to Mrs. Brandon she blinked; she had been staring at the cards in candlelight for so long that the darkness of the rest of the booth dazed her. Mrs. Brandon went to the entrance and peeked out. “About six people waiting,” she said. “Honestly, Helen, what you’ve done for us.” She paused uncomfortably for a minute, and then said in a rush, “Never got to know you very well, really. Why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow and help us figure out the profits? Like to have you.”
“Why…” Helen said. “Thank you, I’d love to,” she said. Then, hastily, “Better get back to work. Customers waiting.”
“Honestly” Mrs. Brandon said, patting Helen’s shoulder again. “One o’clock, then, tomorrow.” She departed through the back curtain of the booth and Helen heard her stumble against a carton. That will be nice tomorrow, Helen thought, maybe Bill Atherton… “Let the next approach,” she said quickly, drowning out her own thought. After all, even if you’d known a person since he lost his first tooth, that still didn’t give you any right to… “And what do you wish to learn from the cards?” Helen asked, and looked up and said, “Oh,” weakly.
Mrs. Miller smiled. She was a woman who smiled charmingly, and walked charmingly, and spoke and laughed and dressed charmingly; if her charm was lost upon Helen Spencer, it was not because of malice in Mrs. Miller. “You’ve certainly been popular tonight,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’ve been waiting in line for hours.”
Deep embarrassment covered Helen, and she was hopeful that in the dim candlelight Mrs. Miller could not see that Helen, a grown woman and presumably a reasonable person, was blushing cruelly. “I’m only doing this—” she began weakly, and then thought, why am I apologizing? It’s nothing to her, and said, “Are you interested in the future? Do you care to have the past explained?”
Now, most townspeople had had a fling at predicting Mrs. Miller’s future, and although her past was perfectly clear, it had been obscured by the earnest efforts of well-meaning people to cast a blight upon it; Mrs. Miller had been married and divorced and, since she had not been born or raised locally, there was obviously something dangerous about Mrs. Miller; Helen Spencer, who was above petty gossip, detested Mrs. Miller cordially.
“I want to know,” Mrs. Miller said, smiling demurely, “if I should accept an invitation I have received today. A most important invitation.”
So she’s caught him at last, Helen thought, and turned the cards one by one with tight hands, forcing herself to move slowly and gently. Pretend it’s somebody else, she told herself, and said, “Here is the card for an invitation, and next to it the card for marriage.” Mrs. Miller stirred, and smiled. “If it is an invitation to be married—of course, a proposal—it looks as though you must certainly accept. The next card is one for great good fortune. A long journey—perhaps a honeymoon?”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Miller happily.
Probably Bermuda, thought Helen, who had always wanted passionately to go to Bermuda. “There will be few difficulties in the way of your happiness,” she continued mournfully, “and you will be favored by great good fortune.” With finality she gathered the cards together. “How happy you must be,” she said, not without irony.
Mrs. Miller rose. “Thank you very much,” she said. “I’m so excited.” And she ran out.
I wish I hadn’t come, Helen thought. I wish I’d washed my hair; now, I am not going to tell any more fortunes and I never want to see these cards again and why am I making a fool of myself here when other people… I wish I’d done my nails. I wish I had enough money to go to Bermuda by myself and settle down there; maybe I can apply to be transferred to some school in—say—Ruritania.
She turned over the cards miserably, one by one; the ring, she thought, the bridge, the sunlight. Someone came into the booth and she said without looking up, “No more tonight. I’m tired.”
“Fine,” said the voice of Bill Atherton. “I already know my future.”
“Oh,” said Helen, perceiving that it was beginning to seem that she could say nothing else. Of course, she thought, he would come in right after her; they came together, and she probably insisted gaily that they must have their fortunes told; I’m only surprised that they didn’t come in together.
Helplessly she surveyed several possible remarks (“How nice to see you; I understand you’re getting married”; “Mrs. Miller just told me; congratulations to you both”; “Will you both come someday for tea?”) and intelligently remained silent. “I’ve come to the rescue,” he said. “You’ve been long enough in the clutches of the gypsies.”
Helen laughed, almost naturally. “It’s been fun,” she said.
“Then,” he said, taking the cards from her, “I’ll tell your fortune, just for a change.” He spread the cards before him and looked at them, frowning. “I see,” he said ominously, “a lady who is fond of gaiety, and people, and laughter.”
“I know who that is,” she said.
“Do you? I also see a lady who is lonely, and sad, and anxious to go far away.”
“I know who that is.”
“The first lady is awaiting a champion to defend her against black despair.”
“I hope you’ll be very happy,” Helen said.
“The second lady has finally learned to accept the inevitable, and bows to it.”
“Certainly,” Helen said. “I—”
“The second lady,” he continued smoothly, “is, as everybody knows by now, leaving this town as fast as she can, and for a good reason.”
“I thought Ruritania,” Helen said.
“But the first lady,” he said, overriding her, “will probably live happily ever after. Eileen Miller,” he said carelessly, as though it were of no importance whatsoever, “is leaving here tomorrow to go to Siam.” He gathered the cards together. “She’s had word from her future husband. He’s a missionary.” Then, for the first time, he looked directly at Helen. “Do you know,” he said, “that tonight is the first time most of the people in this town have had any chance at all to talk to you easily?”
“But I—”
“Especially,” he said, “me. Now, let’s go play darts. You’ve done enough damage tonight.” And he threw the cards into a corner.
At home Helen’s cat, disturbed by some obscure cat-prescience, stirred on the chair and arose, yawning prodigiously. Perhaps he heard a mouse, or perhaps he recognized that his mistress had never been out so late in her life; at any rate, he slipped down from the chair and out into the kitchen, where one leap brought him onto the stove and the remains of the cold chicken. Thoughtfully, without fear of interruption, he selected a chicken leg and fell to work.
PORTRAIT
THAT WAS THE WAY she talked, and I used to listen, and watch her sitting with her legs swung over the arm of her chair, talking and smiling but not laughing. I don’t think I ever saw her laugh.
Go walking through the valley,
go walking through the valley,
go walking through the valley,
as we have done before.
… There was a child dancing in the garden and I went out and spoke to it.
“Child,” I said, “you are stepping on my flowers.”
“Yes,” said the child, “I know.”
“Child,” I said, “you are walking on my garden.”
“Yes,” said the child, “I know.”
“Why?” I said.
“I am dancing,” said the child; “can’t you see?”
Go in and out the windows,
go in and out the windows,
go in and out the windows,
as we have done before.
… The little boy looked at me and he was crying.
“Look,” he said, “my hands are dirty.”
“Why are they dirty?” I asked him.
“I was digging to get my father,” he said.
“Is your father dead?” I asked him.
“They hanged him,” he said.
“Why did they hang him?” I asked him.
“Because he was alive,” he said.
“Then why were you trying to dig him up?” I asked him.
“Because now he is dead,” he said, “and they can’t hang him again.”
Just an Ordinary Day: Stories Page 15