The Poe Consequence

by Keith Steinbaum

“Go on,” he muttered. “I’m listening.”

  Madame Sibilia placed her hand on the one horizontal card, an Eight of Swords, lying across the Ten of Cups.

  “The second card shows an immediate influence of something that will exist in your near future,” she said. “By crossing the Ten of Cups, it will affect your life’s path.”

  “What does the Eight of Swords mean?”

  Madame Sibilia’s demeanor remained somber. “When a black Eight of Swords reveals itself in this manner, there is serious difficulty ahead. Perhaps an accident of some kind.” She appeared ready to say something else, then her shoulders sagged and she fell silent.

  Warren sat up in his chair. “What kind of accident?”

  “Let us continue,” she said, “so that we may understand.”

  When Madame Sibilia pointed in the direction of another card, he recognized the character immediately.

  “This third card is The Devil. It represents your destiny.”

  Warren swallowed hard.

  “You seem like a nice man, Mr. Palmer. But I see violence in your future. And evil. A strong attraction to evil.”

  Warren shook his head, flustered, unable to recall when he had told her his name.

  “That’s ridiculous!” he cried. He took a deep breath to regain his composure. “I didn’t come here to listen to this doom and gloom nonsense, all right? The person you’re talking about sure as hell isn’t me.”

  “I told you before, Mr. Palmer, I was going to tell you all that I see,” she said.

  “And you see evil and violence, for me, huh? Do you scare everybody like this? I came here to see about a job opening I hope to get. But this has been very depressing and I’m damn upset about it.”

  “Do you wish to continue?” she asked.

  “Let’s hurry through the remaining cards, all right?”

  Madame Sibilia proceeded to the fourth card, a red-suited Six of Cups.

  “This card represents past influences that affect present events,” she said. “You grew up in a home with strict morals. You’ve taken on those same characteristics in your own life and in your family. You resent what you see as a moral breakdown in society. You long for what’s referred to as ‘the good old days.’ ”

  “Now that’s more like it,” Warren exclaimed. He looked down at the black-suited card that came next. “Please continue.”

  “The fifth card is a reversed Four of Wands. In this situation, it stands for recent past events. There’s a dark cloud here, sadness of some kind, over someone very close to you. A health problem, perhaps, or a disappointment with someone in your family.

  “My wife, Michelle, died of cancer last October,” he replied.

  Madame Sibilia closed her eyes for a few moments, nodding her head. She advanced to the next black-suited card. “The sixth card is a reversed Nine of Swords,” she said. Pausing, she glanced at Warren with an expression that seemed almost sorrowful, reminding him of her earlier warning about his future. “I see isolation. Wandering and despair in the afterlife. An angry restlessness.”

  “Here we go again, he complained. “Wandering and despair in the afterlife? What the hell does that mean, anyway? That I’m destined to become some sort of ghost? A restless, wandering ghost? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Madame Sibilia gazed into Warren’s eyes. “Death doesn’t always bring a peaceful conclusion, Mr. Palmer.” Her voice was calm, yet her message, terrifying. “There are some who believe when a person dies they are given a choice of two pathways into the next world. They take the form of separate lights, and they are quite different from each other.”

  Warren remained silent, too numb to respond.

  Madame Sibilia continued. “When someone’s soul is disturbed, when it’s unsettled, there is another light that veers away from Heaven, a darker entrance, that one may choose to take.”

  “And where does that lead?” he asked. “Hell?”

  “Not Hell,” she answered. “But a place where one may wander forever. If these spirits finally achieve serenity, they can find their way back to the light of eternal peace.”

  “Is that what a ghost is?” he asked.

  “Some of these restless spirits, or ghosts as you call them, remain in one place where their souls are secure, like a house, or an area of land. They are often harmless. Others…others may attempt to violate. These are the dangerous ones.”

  Warren didn’t understand. “What do you mean, ‘violate?’”

  “Invade the sanctity of someone’s mind and body,” she replied. “Poison their emotions. Control what they see, and hear…and think. Some even have the power to kill.”

  “For what purpose?” he asked.

  Madame Sibilia’s expression was calm, but her eyes blazed with an unnerving power.

  “Revenge.”

  He stared in silence, wondering, again, what he had to do with any of this.

  “Even good people are familiar with evil deeds, Mr. Palmer. Our lives present many opportunities to learn of such things and use this awareness on others from the afterworld I’ve described. These acts of evil can be nurtured from knowledge that is real or imagined. It doesn’t matter.”

  Warren learned back in his chair. Edgar Allan Poe had written about such evil. “You said before there are some who believe in different pathways to the next world. Are you one of them?”

  Madame Sibilia’s hardened visage displayed a trace of a smile. “I’m quite sure of it.”

  “And this might happen to me?” he asked. “An angry ghost entering someone’s soul? Intent on doom and destruction?”

  She waited several moments before answering, “Yes,” she whispered.

  Warren took a deep, silent breath. “Let’s go to the next one,” he said.

  “The seventh card is a reversed Wheel of Fortune. It describes your present position with personal things like job and family.”

  “I’ve applied for a teaching job at U.S.C. Can you tell me anything about that?”

  “I’m sorry, but in this card I see bad luck.”

  Warren’s shoulders sagged. Without a punch being thrown, he felt beat up. He knew he shouldn’t believe her frightening scenarios, but the constant barrage of troubling news was upsetting nonetheless. He stared with a feeling of emptiness at the card that came next.

  “The eighth card is the Sun card,” she said. “This can be interpreted as a symbol of love, devotion, contentment from others.”

  “Thank you, Sun card,” he said. “I welcome you like a long, lost friend.”

  “It also shows you to have a positive influence on other people.” Madame Sibilia raised her head and looked at him. “People like…Bill and Joanne.”

  Warren’s eyes widened at the mention of Michelle’s parents, who he’d be meeting tomorrow in Phoenix before returning home. A frightening realization occurred to him, transcending any lingering doubt. She’s for real.

  “How do you know about them? Are they all right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Palmer,” she answered. “They’re fine.”

  Warren looked at the next card, and, still wary, wondered what this female purveyor of darkness would say next.

  “The ninth card is a reversed Star. This represents your troubled emotions, like bad dreams, or anxiety in situations you have yet to face.”

  Warren bolted out of his chair. “Enough!” he shouted. “I’m out of here!”

  “Please wait, Mr. Palmer,” she said, her expression maddeningly calm. “The tenth card is vital to understand.”

  Warren looked at Madame Sibilia for several seconds before glancing downward. His eyes grew wide and he had difficulty pulling them away. A card entitled, “Judgment,” contained an image of an angel blowing a horn over a man, a woman, and a child-like figure in an open tomb. The picture felt like a dagger to the heart. The woman and child reminded him of Michelle, and their son, Seth, and seeing them in a tomb with a man, who he feared was himself, gave Warren a sickening feeling of claustrophobia.

&nbs
p; “I don’t want to know about that card!” he roared, backing toward the door. “I don’t want to know!”

  Madame Sibilia followed him to the open doorway as he hurried down the stairs.

  “A new beginning, Mr. Palmer!” she cried. “The Judgment card shows a new beginning! You were directed here to learn this!”

  At the bottom of the steps, Warren looked back and saw Madame Sibilia standing just inside the doorway, looking down at him. For a brief moment he thought about asking her what she meant by “a new beginning,” but he was too upset. Directed here to learn this? The woman was a nut-case.

  Warren rushed past the open gate into the obscurity of the darkened, soundless alley. He hesitated, unsure which direction to take, then turned left and broke into a jog through the unfamiliar landscape. He wanted to reattach himself to civilization again, to see a face and hear a voice. As he ran from one alleyway into another, the welcome sound of a spirited saxophone seemed to appear out of nowhere, causing him to stop in his tracks and close his eyes in gratitude. Turning his face upwards, he inhaled the air as if he’d been a drowning swimmer rescued from an unforgiving sea. His throat felt devoid of any moisture and his damp shirt clung to his body. His head ached, throbbing to a steady rhythm of pain. He wasn’t sure what street he was on or how he got there, but he knew what he needed; a good, stiff, drink. He resumed running, heading toward the music.

  * * *

  “A Hurricane,” he managed to say, his voice rendered weak and raspy.

  Warren’s eyes never left the hotel bartender until she placed the magical rum concoction within reach of his unsteady hands.

  “If you don’t mind me asking sir,” she said, “are you all right?”

  Warren closed his eyes and guzzled the drink for several moments, relishing the cool rush of liquid salvation sliding down his throat in search of a direct route to his brain.

  “Now that I’m here, I’ll be okay,” he replied, continuing to clutch his drink. “Why do you ask?”

  She looked at him, offering a slight, hesitant smile. “I was wondering if you had the flu or something,” she said. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  He had never seen a forest, but in the neighborhood where he was from, his imagination was no less inspired by the wonder of those telephone poles.

  “Like rifles to the sky,” he whispered to himself. “Ready to shoot down some motherfucker’s ass.”

  “Who ya talkin’ at, Face?” Hawk asked, sitting on the ground to his left. “Weed got you seein’ shit, homie?”

  Alejandro Torres, born twenty-one years earlier in East L.A., acquired the gang name “2Face,” because his natural angelic expression turned into a vicious snarl during those early fights arranged to test his manhood. As the years passed, and his boyish appearance matured into a dark, rugged handsomeness, the “2” was dropped in favor of just “Face.” His eyes, however, highlighted the most memorable aspect of his appearance, resembling a pair of mysterious black coins that portrayed a different side to each gender. For the foxy women, las chicas caliente, his gaze caused them to turn their heads a second and third time, searing them with his animalistic sexuality. For men, his penetrating stare instilled an uneasy intimidation, a sense that those two dark searchlights could see right through you.

  Face kept his attention on the overhead view. “Just chillin’, Hawk,” he answered, after a long moment of silence. “Look at that sky up there. It’s beautiful, man. Ain’t seen a friendly sky for a long time.”

  Hawk laughed as he reached into his shirt pocket. “What the fuck you talkin’ ‘bout, ‘a friendly sky?’” he asked, striking a match to another joint. “Have some more of Hawk’s kick-ass mota, Face. You’ll be flying’ to the friendly skies, man!” After a few minutes Hawk rose to his feet. “I need a fuckin’ beer. You comin’?”

  Face took another deep, satisfying drag. After exhaling, he watched the smoke drift away before answering. “Be there soon.”

  Face returned his attention to the sky. Through the lens of his marijuana haze, he no longer visualized the telephone poles as rifles, but as giant stiff-armed stick figures lined up and down the street. Tilting his head at another angle, he imagined them to be dark wooden pillars supporting the weight of the city sky. The beautiful L.A. sky. From May to March he’d spent ten long months at a detention camp somewhere in the mountains. He had missed those telephone poles, and the cable wires, too, criss-crossing above his head like Etch-a-Sketch designs.

  Etch-a-Sketch. He remembered that little red toy. Fuck, yeah, he remembered. The way he grew up, it was easy to recall the few things he got when getting nothing was a way of life. The only thing he got regular was his old man’s fist. He was real good at giving when it came to that. Face took another deep hit, hoping to block out any thoughts of his father. Instead, a distant memory resurfaced as he fingered an old scar, reminding him of the day he paid a painful price for the discovery of a distinctive power he inherited, his gift that he wouldn’t come to understand until later.

  Glancing back at the deepening purple sky, Face approached the comforting sound of broken glass echoing through the abandoned, outdoor parking lot as another empty beer bottle shattered against the graffiti-tagged wall. All that was left of the old structure were numerous areas of chipped blacktop and an assortment of straw-colored weeds jutting from the cracks. Without any nearby streetlights, this darkened, out-of-the-way section of the neighborhood acted as a favorite hangout for the Diablos to plan war strategy or just get high. Tonight was a cause for both.

  “Got more beer, Kush?” Face asked, joining the others.

  “Got your gold mama’s milk right there, homie,” he said, pointing to a large cooler on the ground. “All that time away, you forgot who’s got your back?” Kush adjusted the angle on his baseball cap, pushed his hands down low into the baggy pockets of starched khaki pants, and swaggered his way over to the cooler.

  “Tonight’s the night, man,” Cat remarked, loud enough for the other six to hear.

  “What other way to show respect for our camarada?” Cherry said. “Apache was killed a year ago, man. We gonna honor him right.”

  “Payback!” Kush shouted, handing Face his beer.

  “Payback!” Player repeated.

  “Payback gonna be a bitch!” Swat added, pretending to fire an assault rifle.

  “To Apache!” Face yelled, raising his beer bottle high.

  “To Apache!” everyone shouted back.

  “We ain’t through gettin’ our heads right,” Hawk said, removing a folded paper from his pocket. “Get your motherfuckin’ asses over here.”

  “You got what I think you got?” Face asked, smiling.

  Hawk chuckled. “Hell, yeah, Face,” he answered. “Gonna speed you to those friendly skies you was talkin’ ‘bout.”

  On that April evening, as darkness settled in, the next order of business pertained to the memorial for Apache on the sidewalk outside the yard.

  Cherry’s trembling hands lighted the saint-covered candle. “Te estraño, Apache,” he said, his voice a balancing act between solemnity and anger.

  “We all miss him, Cherry,” Swat added.

  “Vaya con Dios,” Kush whispered, telling Apache to go with God as he placed a beer bottle next to the flickering glass encasing.

  Player set a handful of flowers next to the other items. “We ain’t never gonna forget you, Apache,” he said.

  In the cool, reflective silence, as the six other Diablos surrounded the candle’s meditative flame, Face turned around to contemplate the ultimate legacy to Apache’s artistic gift. Extending more than half the length of the yard, at a height close to seven feet, the old, white cinder block wall had been transformed into a masterpiece: a self-portrait of Apache, set in the time of the Old West. Wearing nothing but a moccasin-colored cloth around his waist, and a green and red-feathered headband encircling his wavy, black hair, the muscular warrior-artist sat atop a mighty stallion charging into
battle. As several bloodied cowboys fell victim to his bow and arrow mastery, the smiling, confident face of Carlos “Apache” Diaz represented victory over the enemy.

  “We got the Indian warrior in us now, vato,” he told Apache, using a Spanish slang expression for a friend. “Protectin’ our yard for all the homeboys.”

  “You gotta believe it always, Face,” Apache replied. “The wall represents what we’re about. Courage and strength, man.”

  “For every goddamn battle we fight, Apache. Courage and strength.”

  The passing of a year’s time did nothing to calm Face’s uneasiness over Apache’s death as he contemplated how that indestructible feeling he inherited over the completion of the painting had eroded into an unsteady footing. None of the others would have believed that Face felt vulnerable, but he did. Tonight, as he gazed upon Apache’s work, the painting not only seemed less protective than before, but an eerie feeling of hostility also seemed to have emerged. He sensed a bigger battle in store, even more significant than the ones fought against their sworn enemy, the North Rampart Lobos. Apache’s soul was forceful and present, but Face didn’t believe that was enough to defend them. He felt the approach of another spirit. A different kind of warrior. An uncommon type of war

  * * *

  A separate gathering, less noble in purpose yet just as meaningful to the different gang members involved, occurred later that evening a mile away.

  “Hey, pendejo,” King growled, addressing his fellow Lobo with a ridiculing expression. “Two fuckin’ six packs? That’s all you took off with? Hell, that ain’t no party, stupid. You got shit for brains, or somethin’?”

  “Gimme a fuckin’ break, man,” T-Moe replied. “That 7/11 asshole didn’t take his eyes off me.”

  “This ain’t gonna gimme no goddamn buzz,” King complained. “Fuckin’ Budweiser’s like water to me, man.”

  “You drink more of that shit than anybody I know,” Bone said, laughing as he passed a joint. “That’s why you’re ‘King,’ man. Always drinkin’ the ‘King of Beers.’”

  King responded with a loud belch. “God damn right, vato.”