The Reluctant Fortune-Teller

by Keziah Frost

  Carlotta told Summer every detail of Norbert’s financial problem, Ivy’s accident, and the Club’s benevolent interest in helping him.

  Summer marveled. “Whoever would have thought of such a solution?”

  “It was all very natural,” said Carlotta modestly. “Creative inspiration always is, you know.”

  “I love how you find a way to help this guy out, while at the same time providing entertainment for the Club. So tell me more about these so-called ‘psychic lessons.’”

  Carlotta basked in her granddaughter’s admiration, like a lioness in the sun. Summer’s enthusiasm was very gratifying.

  “Gramma, this is so cool. I’d love to have my cards read! I’ll go see your psychic—you know, just out of curiosity. Where is he setting up shop?”

  “Oh,” said Carlotta with intentional mystery. “I have a very special place in mind for him. But first things, first. We are putting him through a rigorous course of study before we will allow him to read for the public. Once he shows that he has learned enough, I’ll see that you get a complimentary reading.

  “Now let’s talk about you, dearie. How are things in your life these days? Enjoying your summer break?”

  “Yep!” Summer shone her happy-girl smile at her grandmother. She had no reason to tell her grandmother that she spent the sunny summer days alone, in her apartment with the shades drawn. “But I’ll be happy when school starts, too. I can’t wait for the first day of class. I know I’m so lucky, to have a job that I love. What does Aunt Birdie always say? ‘Gratitude is the secret to happiness’? It really is, isn’t it?” Summer studied her grandmother’s face, to be sure she was buying the happy story. She seemed to be. She always did.

  “No young man in your life right now?”

  Classic Gramma. She’s hoping for a scoop. She’ll be disappointed.

  “No one serious,” Summer answered coyly. No one casual, either, for that matter, she added mentally.

  Summer pushed a chip around the guacamole bowl.

  “Gramma, it’s the ten-year anniversary coming up.”

  Her grandmother regarded the blue sky over their heads, as if checking for rain.

  Summer felt the barrier go up. There was no way Gramma was going to let her talk about this. Not in public. Not in private. Not anywhere, and not at any time.

  “Summer, you’re biting your lower lip again. Do stop. You know it makes a scab, and then you chew on the scab, and it never heals. Why do you persist in gnawing at yourself? You’re such a pretty girl.”

  “Okay, Gramma. I bite my lip. Thanks for pointing that out.”

  When the waiter came to take their order, Gramma lit up as if he were the one person in all the world she most needed to see right then.

  The waiter was James Barnett, a guy Summer had gone to school with. Of course. You couldn’t go anywhere in this little town without running into people you went to school with. They had the obligatory conversation, comparing notes about who from their class was doing what and living where.

  Gramma chose the bean burrito, and Summer, the veggie burrito, “no cheese, no sour cream.” James hurried off to put their order into the kitchen.

  Summer caught Gramma looking calculatingly at her, and knew she was wondering what might have passed between her and James.

  Nothing, Gramma. Nothing at all.

  “Did you and James ever—?”

  “No, Gramma.”

  “Because he seems quite smitten with you.”

  “Hmm. You’re basing that on how he asked me for my order? Or on the way he placed the silverware on the table?”

  “Oh, Summer, you know I just worry about you.”

  “You mean you think I’m lonely.”

  “Well, you don’t seem to get around much. As far as I can tell, you’re practically a hermit, except for work.”

  “Thanks, Gramma. I’m a hermit with a bloody lip. Any more compliments?”

  “I’m only saying that a young and pretty girl like you should be enjoying life.”

  Summer bowed her head for a moment to stop herself from glaring at her revered ancestor.

  “So, about my mom and dad.”

  Gramma looked around distractedly.

  “There are things about that night that we never talked about—”

  “Do you need to see a therapist, Summer? I’ll pay.”

  “You already sent me to a therapist right after it happened, remember?”

  “I do remember you wouldn’t talk to her. Well, it wasn’t the right time—it was too early. Or she was the wrong therapist, perhaps. Find another one.”

  “Gramma, I want to talk to you.”

  “Of course, Summer. You know you can talk to me about anything. You and I have a very close relationship, dear.”

  Summer closed her eyes and reminded herself to breathe. Gramma wasn’t going to make this easy. But this time, she would not give up. The secret pain in her heart was threatening to engulf her completely, and before it did, she needed to make her confession.

  “I never told you, Gramma... I’m...I’m guilty.”

  Gramma cut her off. “You feel guilty. I understand. But you shouldn’t. Don’t feel guilty. It was an accident. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Gramma’s eyes filled with tears. She applied a napkin and seemed to be forcing the tears back into her eyes again.

  Summer’s stomach clenched with remorse. Gramma had her own burden of grief for her lost son, her lost daughter-in-law.

  “I’m sorry, Gramma. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Gramma lowered her head to rummage through her purse and pull out a lipstick and a small mirror. She expertly applied the color and compressed her lips. She turned her face from side to side, peering at herself. Summer knew from experience that this was how Gramma pulled herself together. Summer watched her, preparing to have a bright smile on her face when her grandmother would snap the compact closed and look up again as if everything were normal.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Seven of Diamonds:

  Your relationships deepen and your connections grow stronger. With understanding comes friendship.

  After the first psychic lesson at Norbert’s house, the Club had continued coming, one professor of the paranormal at a time, to instruct Norbert and to allow him to practice card reading. They found that the ratio of all three (sometimes violently disagreeing) ladies at once to one novice was a bit of an overload. Therefore, they staggered individual visits. This system allowed time in the intervals for Norbert’s independent study of the books: We Are All Psychic, Positive Affirmations and Visualization, Read People Like a Book and The Cards Don’t Lie.

  Following the old adage that practice makes perfect, Norbert, nearing the end of his tutoring sessions and independent studies, was to prove himself to the Club by doing a twenty-minute private individual reading for each of them, just like the readings he would do for customers.

  * * *

  Margaret came for her reading after lunching at home with her enormous black-and-white cat, Myrtle. Myrtle, from a sunny window ledge, had watched without regret as Margaret left. Myrtle preferred to have the condo quiet. Margaret tended to hum, whistle, talk out loud, and ask Myrtle for her opinions, which Myrtle preferred to keep to herself.

  Margaret marched with her customary energy—chin up, chest out, shoulders back—the two long blocks from her place to Norbert’s. Margaret walked everywhere, whenever the weather was decent, and the more she walked, the more energized she felt. On a golden-green day like this, what could be better than to be striding along the streets of Gibbons Corner?

  The trees on either side of the street formed an arch over the road, and the birds were calling and singing merrily.

  She was looking forward to her card reading with girlish anticipation. Norbert had been working studiously to become a fortune
-teller, and really, this was one of the most fun projects Carlotta had ever come up with.

  Norbert opened the door to her firm pressure on the bell. Ivy, who had been barking madly, fell silent at the sight of Margaret. Ivy was used to her comings and goings ever since the psychic lessons had begun. She really was a dear little dog, so petite—she reminded Margaret of herself.

  “Norbert,” exclaimed Margaret, stepping in swiftly. “How are you? What fun! Now, I want to make one thing clear before we begin. I want you to tell me only good things. I am eighty-seven years old, though I don’t believe that myself. How could I be eighty-seven? However, it seems that I am, in fact, eighty-seven. At my age, it’s not wise to get one’s fortune told. What good news can there be in my future? Nevertheless, I want you to find some good news, and leave out the bad. I won’t even look at the cards. I’ll turn around and just listen. Do we understand each other?”

  “The customer’s always right, Margaret,” agreed Norbert. He was smiling as usual. His home had a sweet, homey cottage-y feel to it, with its florals and lace. Margaret appreciated its feminine charm, although she was surprised a man would feel at home here. She knew he was a widower, and wondered if his wife had picked out the flowery upholstery and the rose-covered china in the breakfront.

  Margaret sat with her back to Norbert. She heard Norbert’s voice, gentle-soft, as if he were speaking with great concern and concentration.

  “I see a woman, shrewd and sensitive, and with her, I see strife between people who love each other.”

  “Norbert! What did I tell you?” Margaret tried to stomp her foot, but it did not reach the floor. “If you don’t come up with something good right now, I am leaving.”

  “Ah, but right here, I see the potential for healing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Ah... Do you know who this sensitive woman might be? Someone very close to you?”

  Margaret sighed. “That’s my daughter Vivian. I called her this morning. Today is her sixtieth birthday... Norbert, can I tell you something in confidence?”

  Norbert assured her that she could.

  Margaret had never told the Club about the depths of her estrangement from one of her three children. There are things you just don’t tell your dearest friends.

  Margaret turned around in her chair to face Norbert. This was not a conversation she could have facing the wall.

  Norbert listened to the contents of Margaret’s secret heartache, the version of her life that her best friends didn’t know. Margaret had not been a good mother—that’s what her daughter Vivian maintained. Margaret had never wanted to get married in the first place, but in 1952, there was nothing else she could do on reaching the advanced age of twenty-three. If she’d been Catholic, she could have become a nun. But unfortunately, her family was Methodist, and in the ’50s, no one changed religions—at least, no one that Margaret knew. The morning after her marriage, she realized she had made a terrible, irreversible mistake. She then had three children, as one did. She had loved them, truly, but she had never wanted to have them or raise them. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She struggled against her nature for as long as she could. She pretended to feel what other mothers seemed to feel: unrestrained love for house and home. But all she wanted was to be independent, single and free. She stayed with her husband until Mary, her youngest, was eighteen. While Mary and Gary seemed to harbor no ill will, Margaret’s eldest daughter, Vivian, had been nursing rage against Margaret since she was a teenager.

  “Norbert,” said Margaret, “I tell her, ‘Vivian, dear, I can’t even remember any of this anymore. You’re going back to the 1960s, for Pete’s sake!’ And she says, ‘For you it was just the ’60s. For me, it was my one and only goddamn childhood, Mother.’ Every time I talk to her, I’m stunned. I feel so awful, Norbert. I just don’t get this—this therapy generation. Why does she want to hold on to blaming me for the past? What can I do about it now?”

  Norbert and Margaret sat in the little white house and talked.

  One of the most generous things one person can do for another is to just listen intently.

  Margaret emerged from Norbert’s house believing she could mend her relationship with Vivian. Norbert had shown, through the cards and his careful listening, that Margaret and Vivian were very close to beginning to build a bridge.

  As soon as she returned home, Margaret called Vivian; she got her voice mail. She left a message:

  “Vivian, dear, it’s Mother. I’ve been thinking... I’m sorry. Please call me back. I love you.”

  * * *

  Birdie’s reading was scheduled for the afternoon, and she had been happily anticipating it all day. Through the weeks of psychic lessons, Birdie had grown in appreciation of this quiet and modest man. There was something about him that made her feel that there was more to him than Carlotta and Margaret suspected. Norbert, thought Birdie, was the real McCoy.

  She arrived after lunch, jingling faintly as she walked in. There were bells on her ankle bracelets, and her light red hair was wrapped gypsy-style in a pale green scarf. Ivy, always a one-person dog until now, had come to adore Birdie over the past few weeks of intensive lessons. Birdie held Ivy in her arms and accepted her kisses while Norbert studied the cards. The Queen of Spades was at the top of the horseshoe. All the rest were face cards, as well.

  Norbert wrinkled his brow and rested his chin in his hands.

  “Stumped, Norbert?”

  “There’s no card here talking of events. It’s all face cards—nothing but face cards. It’s all personalities. I haven’t seen this before.”

  Birdie smiled expectantly.

  “Not everything is in books, Norbert. What comes to you?”

  “What comes to me? Well, just a question. Who are all these people?”

  “Yes, who are they? What comes?”

  Norbert’s eyes went round and round the horseshoe, from one face to the other. He glanced up at Birdie, questioning.

  “You don’t need a hint, Norbert. Receive it as it comes, without judging or critiquing. I know you are hearing it.”

  Norbert started. “Hearing it?”

  Birdie said nothing, letting Ivy settle on her lap and drop off to sleep.

  Norbert looked down.

  “The Queen of Spades is you, I feel—subtle, sensitive and perceptive. Normally, with all these face cards, I think I would tell the querent that they are surrounded by people, and will be going to social events, and be meeting new friends, all that sort of thing. But something stops me from saying that. That would be wrong here.”

  Birdie wasn’t going to provide any more help.

  “It’s the oddest thing, but since you said ‘hearing it’... A word keeps repeating over and over in my mind. I don’t want to say it, because it’s silly. But it’s as if I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s stopping me in my tracks.”

  Birdie was waiting.

  “Spirits.”

  Norbert shook his head. “I can’t believe I just said that. But that’s the word that keeps going around in my head, like my mind is stalled there and it won’t let me say anything else. All these face cards are...spirits that are all around you.”

  The mantel clock ticked as Birdie rested her beringed hand on Ivy’s sleeping body. Norbert shifted in his seat. Had he made a mistake?

  “Norbert,” said Birdie at last, “you have seen in your cards something that Carlotta and Margaret have not seen in me in all the years they’ve known me. I can share very little of who I am with others.” Birdie lowered her voice confidentially as she spoke, although there was no one but Ivy to overhear. “When I was a child, my parents thought I had imaginary friends. They would hear me talking when they thought I was alone. But I was talking to my friends, the spirits. Later on, they discouraged it. They didn’t want to see the part of me that talks to entities. And I am going to have to ask
you to join with me in keeping this one secret. My friends could never relate to this side of my life. Carlotta has been a good friend to me, Norbert. She has always included me, while others have considered me...different. But she can never know about my life with spirits. She would want to make me her next ‘project.’”

  “Wait,” said Norbert. “You’re not saying that you actually see and talk to dead people?” Norbert was doubting her honesty and her sanity. It was one thing to memorize card readings and pretend to tell fortunes. It was a very different thing to have disembodied “friends.”

  “All the time,” answered Birdie. “My house is full of them, my garden is full of them, and they come to me wherever I am.” She seemed so calm, as if she were talking of ordinary things.

  “Wait,” said Norbert again. “Are you like those medium-people on TV?” Norbert had seen them, and thought they were full of baloney.

  “Not at all like anyone on TV. This is a gift that is conditional, Norbert. Anyone who uses it for financial reward or to get attention will lose it. The famous mediums don’t really have it. If they ever did, the gift left them when they decided to cash in on it. I never, ever, want my spirit friends to stop talking to me. That is why I don’t discuss it.”

  “Why do you like to have spirits talking to you?” asked Norbert. He thought that if he ever saw a spirit, he would make an immediate appointment with a doctor.

  “Because they have always been my friends, Norbert. They look out for me, they are interesting and caring, and they give me messages all the time.”

  Birdie was a beautiful and gentle person, with a soft and lilting voice. Norbert knew she was not lying; he was humble enough to consider that he might not know everything there was to know about so-called “spiritual” matters—or anything else in this world or beyond it. Maybe Birdie was what they call “the real McCoy.”

  “You should be the one setting up as a psychic—not me.”

  “No, Norbert. I told you already. This is not a gift to be used for profit. You are safe, using your gift to tell fortunes, because you are doing it to help Ivy and to help others, not to make yourself grand. And you do have your own gift.”