Christopher keeps his eyes on the pale, dusty stretch of road that will soon be delivering us to the small artist community of Bilby, Arizona and the home of one Brandywine Seaver, psychic quiltmaker.
“Which sister?”
“Hmmm?” I say, distracted by a handmade roadside sign that reads, hand-dyed exotic underwear for sale.
“Which sister has the dreams?”
“Oh. Five.”
“Ah. Should have guessed. And what has she predicted?”
“Dad’s car accident. The horse that fell on Ella.”
“A horse fell on Ella? When did a horse fall on Ella?”
“When she was seventeen. Toy horse. Doesn’t matter. My point is, I’m not saying people can’t have psychic ability. But in general, anyone who takes money from the sad and desperate is inherently suspect.” I flip through my notebook, glancing again at the newspaper article about a spinster and her psychic quilt, which she was convinced was her roadmap to love. “And this particular instance of psychic whatnot is obviously a steaming crock of—”
“All right,” Christopher says. “I get it. Whatever happened to objectivity in journalism, anyway?”
“Like government intelligence, baby.” I give him a sideways glance over the top of my sunglasses. “Contradiction in terms.”
“Ba-doo-boom-chaaa.” Christopher smirks as he delivers the comedy rim shot sound effect that marks all our age-worn routines. He pulls The Blueberry to a stop in the driveway at 442 Copper Trail. I check it against the address on my clipboard. This is Brandywine Seaver’s house.
“Brandywine,” I say, flipping the papers back down. “If ever someone was born to deceive the masses, this chick is it.”
Christopher pivots toward me in his seat, which ain’t easy for a guy his size. He’s not fat, but he’s got some bulk to him, and when he turns on me, I feel like a kid about to be scolded.
“Look, cut the smart-ass shit. I’m tired of playing the nice guy while you cut people to shreds.”
“I don’t cut people—” I say, about to once again defend myself on the incident with that shyster malpractice attorney—who deserved everything he got, by the way—but Christopher holds up a hand to silence me.
“Be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” I huff, and hop out of The Blueberry, stumbling a bit as my Keds connect with the gravel driveway. I hear Christopher chuckling behind me, following up with his standard, “For someone so close to the ground, you sure have a lot of gravity issues, McKay.”
“Ba-doo-boom-chaaa,” I mutter, slamming the door behind me as I regain my balance. I tuck the sunglasses up on top of my head and check out our location. It’s a medium-sized two-story log cabin set into the base of the foothills, which rise up behind it like bodyguards. The property is marked by a white picket fence surrounding a rock lawn painted green. The rock lawn itself isn’t that unusual in Arizona, where water conservation is always an issue. The green paint, however, is a little too precious for my taste. There are two walkways laid out with flat white rocks—one leading from the driveway to the house, and the other winding around to the back, where it cuts a path through a mass of palo verde and creosote and heads for the foothills. There’s a sign at the corner of the picket fence that reads, rentals available, inquire inside.
“If she’s so psychic, shouldn’t she know where the prospective renters are?” I mutter.
Christopher gives me a warning look as he hoists the tripod bag over one burly shoulder, so I present him with my toothiest I’ll-be-good smile, carefully climbing the three steps to the porch and get zapped as I hit the buzzer. I yelp, then put my fingertip in my mouth to soothe the pain. I can hear Christopher chuckling behind me.
“You’re the reason they upped the insurance rates at work, aren’t you?”
“Bite me,” I shoot at him over my shoulder. I’ll own that I have a tendency toward the klutzy, but I can hardly be blamed for faulty electrical wiring. I internally forming a wittier follow-up when a tall woman wearing jeans and a white button-down shirt steps out onto the porch, letting the screen door slam behind her as she holds out her hand to me.
“You must be Carly,” she says.
I pause. I’d been expecting flowing crepe dresses, long straggly Woodstock hair, eau de patchouli and costume jewelry. Instead, with a light touch of makeup and graying blonde hair pulled back in a thick braid, Brandywine Seaver looks very much like a bank teller on Casual Friday.
“Hi, Ms. Seaver. Thanks for having us.”
She takes my hand in both of hers and smiles. “I’m glad you could make it. And, please, call me Brandy.”
“This is my videographer, Christopher Evans,” I say as Christopher steps up behind me. He puts the light kit down and holds his hand out to Brandy.
“Good to meet you, Christopher,” Brandy says as she shakes his hand. She holds eye contact with him for a second, exuding warmth, then looks at me. “My client will be here at about one o’clock, so you’re in plenty of time. Shall we get started?”
We follow Brandy into the cabin, which smells of wood, oranges and cinnamon. The ground level is a big expanse of space. Against one wall is a sofa, chair, coffee table, and a bookcase; crawling up the opposite wall is a stairwell leading to a loft, which I assume serves as Brandywine Seaver’s bedroom. There’s a large stone fireplace that goes all the way up into the ceiling; behind it are the kitchen and dining areas. But mostly, the space is about the quilts. An L-shaped workstation takes over one corner, harboring three mis-matched sewing machines and what looks like a half a dozen different quilts-in-progress. Everywhere you look, there’s fabric, batting, finished quilts folded in piles and hanging on stands. It looks like a Jo-Ann Fabrics in desperate need of a clearance sale.
“Forgive the mess,” she says with an easy smile. “The quilts are an entity all their own, and they tend to take over.”
Brandy motions for me to sit on the couch as she eases comfortably into an overstuffed chair. Christopher floats around us setting up lights, framing his shot, hooking Brandy up with a wireless lav mic, doing his camera guy thing. I flip through my notes and scan my questions so we can wrap quickly and get out, which is my producer thing. The locations and the stories change, but the routine never does. Producing for television is just another widget-making job, no matter how you slice it.
“This should be fairly painless,” I say, launching into the standard spiel I perform for interview subjects unused to being on television. “Just a few basic questions. Answer naturally, like we’re just two people having a conversation.”
Her smile widens. “Which is exactly what we are.”
I take a moment. “Right. Try to look at me and forget the camera. Christopher won’t be offended.”
She nods and winks at Christopher. Christopher tucks himself behind the camera and gives me a quick wave. “Ready. Rolling. Shake your groove thang.”
I look at Brandy and reference my notebook, starting off with the standard softballs to put her at ease. Where is she from, how did she end up in Arizona, how did she get started quilting, blah blah blah. She answers all the questions affably, naturally comfortable in front of the camera. I lean forward.
“So, how does the whole thing work, exactly?”
“Well,” she says, hesitating as she constructs her answer. “I make the quilts without knowing who they’re for. Sometimes a quilt will only have been done for an hour when the client who owns it calls. Sometimes I’ll have a quilt for years before the owner shows up.”
I nod and keep quiet. Brandy pauses, and then jumps in to fill the empty conversational space, the way they all do if you wait long enough.
“See, I get the images, a sense of the fabrics and stitches, but I have no idea what it all means. I finish the quilt, and put it away. When a client calls, I go through the quilts until I find the one that belongs to that client.”
“And how do you know which one belongs to which client?”
She shrugs, smiles. “I just…
know.”
Ahhhh. I see. “And how much do you charge for these quilts?”
“Well, it varies, but a quilt with a reading typically runs between twelve- and fifteen-hundred dollars.”
Ka-ching. “And how many of these do you sell in an average month?”
Brandy grins. “Depends on the month.”
“Do you keep in touch with clients? Do you know how many of your predictions have actually come true?”
Brandy’s head tilts a bit. Her smile remains relaxed, but something clicks in her eyes. “I hear from clients every now and again. I haven’t done a scientific survey of my accuracy, if that’s what you’re asking.” She leans forward. “But, you know, it’s not like I’m giving them lottery numbers or anything. The quilt gives them the information they need at that point in time. It’s about their path, you know?”
I smile and think, No. Christopher clears his throat, a warning. I glance at my watch. “Well, that’s about all I’ve got—”
“You don’t believe me, do you?” she asks suddenly.
Christopher clears his throat again, and is undoubtedly relieved when the doorbell rings. He undocks the camera and gets some handheld b-roll as Brandy greets her client, a middle-aged woman named Alice who didn’t mention when we spoke for the pre-interview that she would be wearing an “I (heart) my Schnauzer” sweatshirt. Brandy lays Alice’s quilt out on the floor, puts a tape in a recorder and hits the red button. The reading is your standard psychic con job—a series of vague references from which anyone with sufficient motivation could construe meaning if they try hard enough.
And fifteen-hundred bucks is one hell of a motivation.
Close-ups of the quilt. Quick interview with Alice. Exteriors of the house. The widget is made.
“I’m gonna go back in and say goodbye,” I say to Christopher as he finishes packing the camera and related detritus into The Blueberry.
“Behave yourself,” Christopher warns as I go inside, where I find Brandy rummaging through a pile of quilts under a table in one corner of the house.
“Hey,” I say. “We’re just about done here, so…”
She holds up her hand, telling me to wait. I hug my notebook to my chest and look at my watch.
“Ah! Here it is!” She pushes some stray strands of hair away from her face and reaches her arm way back into a large box. She looks like she’s birthing a calf. When she pulls her arms out, she’s holding a quilt. She snaps it out and lays it on the floor. The base of it is white, with shimmery blue fabric running around the edges like a wavy ribbon. The ribbon double-helixes through the middle, too, broken up by little blue boxes with images inside. One box holds a book, another holds a frog. A third has what looks like a tin can holding three paintbrushes. It’s funky, pretty, unique. I like it.
I wouldn’t pay fifteen hundred bucks for it, though.
I glance up and see that Brandy is silently watching me. I jump in to fill in the conversational gap.
“Pretty,” I say.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
“What do you think about all this? I mean, really.”
I pause, constructing an answer. Brandy leans forward, her hands on her knees, her expression friendly. “Don’t worry. You won’t offend me.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Are you sure?”
She smiles. “I’m tougher than I look.”
I glance out the window. Christopher is loading The Blueberry and way out of earshot. I turn my focus back to Brandy.
“I think it’s a brilliant hook to move your product.” I gesture toward the multitude of quilts surrounding us. “Of which you have quite a lot. Do I believe that the quilts are imbued with a mystical quality that allows you to tell the future? No. Do I think it’s a little unethical and a lot immoral to take fifteen hundred bucks out of the mouths of schnauzers to move your stock? Sure. But, you know, it’s a capitalist society and it’s not your fault there’s a sucker born every minute so… God bless, I guess.”
I surf the momentary high that always comes from saying exactly what I’m thinking, but Brandy’s prolonged silent stare dulls the rush. Most people get offended, or think it’s funny, or… something. Brandy just stares.
I shrug away an uncomfortable feeling in my shoulders. “You asked.”
“That I did.” She kneels down at the edge of the quilt, pulling the tape recorder from a shelf and setting it beside her. “And now I’m sure.”
“Hmm? Sure of what?”
“That this one is yours.”
“Sorry?”
“The reading should only take a few minutes.” She gestures toward the floor. “Have a seat.”
This is definitely the weirdest bribe attempt I’ve ever seen, and I once came home to fifty pounds of frozen rib-eye steaks on my doorstep.
“Look, you don’t have to sell me on anything. It’s a feature story. Total softball. I won’t make you look bad, I swear.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that. There’s no driving the Universe; only riding it.” She smiles at me beatifically. I step back a bit.
“Carly,” she continues, running one hand over the quilt in her arms, “you may not believe in this process, but I do, and I’m absolutely certain this quilt is yours. It’s been here waiting for you for, gosh… when did I make this?” She rolls her eyes up toward the ceiling and her lips move as she whispers to herself, then her eyes descend back down to me. “Twelve years.”
I stare, expressionless, for a moment. Does she really expect me to believe this quilt has been waiting for me for twelve years? Please. But, since I’m pretty sure I can smell crazy cooking on the back burner and I make it a rule not to mess with crazy, I play along.
“Twelve years. Wow.”
She grins up at me, earnest in the extreme. I smile lightly. “Thanks, really, that’s nice, but I can’t afford…”
She laughs, and I trail off. It’s a brilliant, tinkling laugh, like crystallized sunlight.
Yep. Definitely crazy.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says. “People come to me however they come to me. Some are clients. They want to pay for the quilts, and they can afford to. But if someone shows up here, and I have her quilt, then it’s hers. No charge.”
I glance out the window. Christopher’s leaning on The Blueberry, having a smoke. I look down at the quilt and decide it can’t hurt to humor her. I kneel on the floor. She hits the record button and closes her eyes. We sit there in total silence for what feels like a very long time but in reality is maybe a minute or so. Then she hums lightly and opens her eyes, looking down at the quilt.
“Your world. It’s very structured. That’s what the boxes mean. You like to keep things separated, under control.”
Just nod and smile, I think, and that’s exactly what I do. As she talks, Brandy moves her hands over the various areas of the quilt, her palms down but never actually touching the fabric, always hovering just above as she makes her astounding pronouncements about my life.
My career is in the middle of an upheaval. (Um, not really. If anything, it’s in a rut.) Something about South America. (Hah. I’ve never been south of Rocky Point.) My emotional center is jagged. (I have no idea what this means.) I have to pay attention to the paintbrushes. (I fight a laugh on this one, as the extent of my artistic ability is limited to stick figures and the occasional smiley face.)
“Return the frog,” she says.
“Um. What?”
“Accept the book with the amber spine. Take the cab.”
“Is that like ‘leave the gun, take the cannoli’?” I say before I can stop myself. There is a long silence and I wonder if I’ve offended her, although I’m starting not to care. My knees are uncomfortable from kneeling and I’m debating over whether I should move or not when I hear her say the name, “Mary.”
My eyes widen and my breath catches in my chest. “What did you say?”
She raises her eyes and focuses on me. “Does that name h
ave meaning for you?”
No. Lots of women are named Mary. That doesn’t mean anything. Still, I can’t seem to stop myself from saying, “My mother’s name was Mary.”
Brandy nods, looks down at the quilt. “Ah. Well. That makes sense.”
“Why?” I look down at the quilt as well, as though it would suddenly become something other than a funky jumble of boxes and ribbons. “What about her?”
Brandy watches me for a while, her eyes trying to read mine, I guess. It makes me uncomfortable, and angry, and I’m just about to get up and leave when she speaks again.
“She’s not dead.” Brandy tilts her head slightly to the side, and while she’s looking at me, I get a strong feeling that I’m not what she’s seeing.
“No.” I feel my throat tighten. “We don’t know.”
Brandy watches me for a moment, then her face relaxes in understanding. “She’s just gone.”
“We haven’t heard from her since I was twelve,” I say, wondering why I’m talking about this with the crazy quilt lady. I don’t talk to anyone about this.
“You’re angry,” Brandy announces, her eyes narrowing as she watches me. “Your aura just turned red around your chest and shoulders.”
Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.
I push myself up to a standing position. “I’m not angry, and I don’t have an aura, but I am running up against a deadline, so…”
She looks up at me. “Everything’s about to change.”
“What?” Now, I’m annoyed. Although I don’t know why. I don’t believe in this stuff.
“Oh,” she says, her voice compassionate and her eyes slightly off focus, like she’s staring at something a few feet behind me. “It’s going to be all right, but you have to pay attention.”
“It’s all right now,” I say. “Pay attention to what?”
And then, she blinks, shakes her head, and appears to snap out of it. She shuts off the recorder and starts folding the quilt. I guess today’s crazy quota has been met.
I hold out my hand to stop her. “Look, thanks, Brandy, but—”
“Stop arguing, please,” she says, her voice tinged with weariness. She holds the folded quilt and the tape out to me. “It belongs to you and even if you don’t believe in the rest of it, you got a pretty blanket out of the deal, right?”
The Fortune Quilt Page 3
