The Reluctant Fortune-Teller

by Keziah Frost

  Summer opened her eyes in mock horror.

  They both laughed, and Marisol amended, “I guess that’s an exaggeration, huh?”

  Summer shuddered, secretly thinking that it might not be an exaggeration.

  “The fact is, you influenced me for the better. I have no idea what I would have done if I hadn’t fallen in love with Spanish.” (Summer did not mention that she had also fallen in love with Marisol. That schoolgirl crush had passed, but not the admiration or the gratitude.) “I might not have gone to college. I wouldn’t have the confidence that I could do anything especially well. I’d be a different person. I’ll never know.” Summer took a bite of her Mediterranean falafel wrap, as they contemplated how the small things in life affect the big things.

  “Speaking of influencing lives,” said Marisol, “how is your Girls’ Group going?”

  Summer and the know-it-all school social worker co-facilitated a “mentoring group” for girls.

  “It’s okay. It’s no big deal.”

  Summer knew her ulterior motive in taking on this responsibility was to get a window into the bewildering minds of fifteen-year-old girls—to understand her own mind at that age.

  “Well, I think it’s a big deal. You give up your plan period once a week to listen to high school sophomores talk about their feelings and their home problems? I wouldn’t do it. I need my plan time. I’m not selfless like you. You’re a really good person.”

  “I am not a good person,” said Summer, bristling.

  Marisol laughed easily. “Okay. You’re not. Whatever. Is something bothering you?”

  Summer hesitated. Could she talk to Marisol? They were the only ones in the restaurant.

  “Do you remember...when my parents died?”

  “Of course I do. How could I ever forget that?” Marisol’s big brown eyes were warm and caring.

  “Well.” Summer considered what she could say next. Could she say, I killed my parents, actually. Did you ever suspect that, Marisol? No, she could not. As she searched for words, Marisol scanned her face, and must have seen the hopelessness there.

  “Oh, Summer. Summer, what’s wrong?”

  “Never mind,” said Summer, pulling back. She had no right to cause anyone else pain by unburdening herself. “Don’t mind me.”

  “You’re not okay, are you? Something’s not right. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Summer said, “Oh, I’ll be okay. It was ten years ago, you know. A very long time ago now.”

  “I’m sure a person never gets over a thing like that. It was so senseless.”

  You have no idea, thought Summer.

  In a rally worthy of her grandmother, Summer managed a convincing smile. She told Marisol a funny anecdote from her classroom. They laughed.

  They ordered the cashew vanilla fudge, one order, two plates.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ace of Clubs and Eight of Clubs:

  When these two cards appear together, you receive a business offer that carries with it enormous power to change the trajectory of the future. You must consider carefully, staying true to yourself.

  Norbert’s fortune-telling extended beyond the tourist season.

  It was a Tuesday afternoon in October. Norbert’s readings were now intuitive—not in the ESP sense, but in the easy-to-do sense. One reading had built upon the other until he had come to feel very professional and competent in his new, late-life career.

  The querent was a short, brown-haired woman with furry eyebrows and a bulbous nose. She was wearing an odd combination of old brown-and-yellow clothes. With her quick movements and her furtive glance, she put Norbert in mind of a small, watchful, active animal. She seemed to be full of good humor, and her little brown eyes were bright.

  “Well, Norbert Z,” she began, “what do the cards have to say about me today?”

  Norbert received the seventh card from her little paw and placed it at the end of the horseshoe spread.

  “May I have your first name, please?”

  “Edith,” she said, watching him. “And if it helps, my birthday is February 11, 1938. I’m an Aquarius.”

  “Very well, Edith,” said Norbert, surveying the cards. He knew nothing about astrology, one of the subjects he had avoided his whole life, so made no comment on the little woman’s Aquarian birthday. However, the cards gave him a message quite out of the ordinary. Of the seven cards, four were aces.

  “I see a lot of power here,” began Norbert, and he wondered if he were mistaken. This woman looked eccentric and destitute, not powerful. “The cards speak of immense resources and even of magic. A great deal of mental and spiritual force. The power must always be harnessed and challenged so that it is used for good purposes. It is the power to build and heal, but also the power to destroy. You can do so much good with it, if you use it with proper intentions.” Norbert glanced at Edith to check if this were a “hit” or a “miss.”

  “And?” she encouraged.

  Norbert saw that she was not surprised. It was as if she said, Tell me something I don’t know.

  “And...” he continued. “You have the Four of Hearts, here. This is a very good card. The Four tells of an important gift—it could be a material gift, or it could be a great service, or a special favor. Next to the Four, there’s the Seven of Clubs, which tells of a business partnership. And on the other side of the Seven, you have the Jack of Clubs, which can represent an unremarkable or dark-eyed man, one who seems unexceptional at first, but has the potential to be interesting and beneficial to you...”

  Norbert’s voice trailed off, as he recalled that in a reading a few months ago, when he was receiving psychic lessons, the Jack of Clubs represented Norbert himself.

  He looked up at Edith, who was observing him as if she expected him to react to the punch line of an obvious and very funny joke.

  “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Norbert Z,” she said, “from all and sundry, for a few moons now, and I’ve come to see for myself the wonders that you work. You’re very good. Now—” she clasped her clawed fingers together and leaned forward “—how would you like to come out to the Center for Deeper Understanding?”

  “How would I—?”

  “You’ve heard of it,” asserted Edith.

  “Uh. It’s that New Age place on Highway Four, just outside of town?”

  Of course, Norbert had seen it many times, a two-story, white-pillared mansion set back off the road, with fruit orchards behind it.

  “Hmph. Is that what the townies call it? ‘That New Age place.’ Listen, Norbert Z, come and see for yourself what we do there. We can use someone with your talent.”

  Norbert was speechless. Was this a job offer?

  “What are you doing tomorrow evening at five o’clock?”

  * * *

  A few hours after Edith Butler’s reading, Norbert, with Ivy rocking along in her carrier, walked with quick steps to Oil Painting with Carlotta.

  Norbert and all the Club members continued working and studying at the Art League. His painting had undergone a great deal of change in recent months. He had moved on from Native-American-derivative-style paintings based in brown, black and red, into a more Peruvian-derivative style. Now he painted his canvases black to begin with, and then used bright colors to paint pipe-smoking shamans, mountain village scenes teeming with people and llamas, and celestial entities sweeping white ectoplasm across starry skies.

  Since the eggplant salad incident, Carlotta had cooled noticeably toward Norbert. She now made a point of asking nothing at all about his readings, and instead spoke violent French to the Club whenever he appeared.

  As Norbert entered, Carlotta was studying the painting of the adolescent Liam: a weeping skull. Glancing from Norbert to Liam, she uttered the first French phrase that occurred to her.

  “Oh, mais c’est trop beau!”r />
  Liam said, “Uh, Mrs. Moon? I don’t understand French.”

  “Oh!” laughed Carlotta. “Was I speaking French? Sometimes I don’t even realize it! C’est trop beau means—How would you say? ‘It’s very beautiful.’”

  Liam looked again at the black-and-white skull. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Bone Joor,” attempted Norbert, setting up his canvas on an easel.

  “Oh, Norbert, how funny you are, trying to speak French. Bon soir—that is ‘Good evening.’”

  “Bone Swar,” replied Norbert. He set Ivy’s basket next to the wall, as far as possible from the turpentine fumes, and she jumped in, turning in circles before curling into her sleeping position.

  Margaret complained, “I don’t know why you want to speak French, Carlotta. It’s too hard.”

  “Chère Marguerite,” responded Carlotta. She gave Margaret a warning look.

  Birdie and the young mother were setting up their work. That joyful feeling of quiet industry was beginning to hum through the studio when Norbert said, “I received an interesting invitation today.”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed the new mother. She had painted the fairy-tale princess’s eyes two different sizes. “Now what?”

  Carlotta was on the spot, instructing, “A painting is a series of corrections. Always remember that. Oil paints, unlike life, are forgiving. Every mistake can be corrected, or else turned into something else that improves the painting even more.” She indicated with a few simple words and gestures how to remedy the mistake.

  Norbert used to experience this type of thing all the time. He would make a remark, and others would carry on as if they hadn’t heard him. However, since he had begun his career as a fortune-teller, he had gotten used to being heard.

  He tried again, louder this time.

  “I’ve been invited to the Center for Deeper Understanding.”

  Carlotta, Margaret and Birdie stopped their work and looked at him.

  “By the Reverend Edith Butler,” added Norbert, lifting his chin. “I believe she is the director of the place?”

  Carlotta choked. “The Reverend?” She shook her head. “Be warned, dear Norbert. Be very careful indeed. We can tell you all about that woman. Edith is an ordained-by-mail kind of reverend.” Carlotta laughed her tinkling laugh. “Oh, yes! You just send away for it! Just respond to an ad that says ‘Become ordained today!—It’s legal!—Perform marriage ceremonies for cash!’”

  Norbert asked, “You know her?”

  “In a town like this—how could we not know her?” asked Margaret. “A long time ago, she was even in our Club.” She stole a glance at Carlotta. “I always liked her.”

  “And,” asked Norbert, “she performs marriage ceremonies for cash?” He thought the marriage business must be slow, to judge from Edith’s raggedy clothes.

  Margaret chortled, “Edith’s an heiress. She has no need for ‘cash.’ She’s as rich as Croesus. She runs that Center for Deeper Understanding—and Butler’s Books on Main Street—at her own expense, just for fun. Her nephew manages the bookstore for her. But she likes collecting titles for herself. And every time she gets a new one, she writes a press release, and we read all about it in the Gazette.”

  Birdie intoned, “Edith Butler. Yes, she was in our Club in the ’70s, when we were studying astrology and palmistry. She left, though, when we switched to psychology. There was some kind of unpleasantness, wasn’t there?” Birdie looked at Carlotta.

  “Forty years is a long time back, Birdie. Mon dieu! I haven’t spoken to the woman in ages. But she can be seen scurrying all around town with her can’t-be-bothered kind of appearance—”

  Birdie suggested, “We can always choose to be kind, Carlotta. Appearances are not so important, are they?”

  Carlotta insisted, “I am kind. But come on. Brown-and-yellow cardigans and long skirts and saris and whatnot—she’s always been an odd bird.”

  Birdie said, “I always thought she looked like a skylark.”

  Everyone looked at Birdie.

  Birdie added, “Or something.”

  Carlotta brought the conversation back to Norbert’s invitation. “Anyway. Attention, Norbert. Fais très attention. That means ‘Be very careful.’ One’s reputation is very important. Unlike an oil painting, once your reputation is besmirched, it is very difficult indeed to repair it. It is unwise in the extreme to be involved with disreputable people.”

  “Of course, that’s true,” agreed Norbert. “But is Edith Butler disreputable? I understand that people come from all over the country to study at the Center for Deeper Understanding. It’s famous nationwide for yoga retreats and courses on astrology, numerology and stuff like that.”

  “I rest my case!” Carlotta declared. “C’est ridicule!” Carlotta tossed her head, looking to Margaret for support.

  “Reedeekyool,” repeated Margaret, obedient. “But why should I say ‘reedeekyool’?”

  Birdie came to Margaret’s assistance. “Oh, ‘say’ is how you pronounce ‘c’est,’ or ‘it is,’ in French. So c’est ridicule means ‘it’s ridiculous.’”

  “It certainly is,” affirmed Margaret. “French is too hard. Speak English, Carlotta.”

  * * *

  When Norbert telephoned Edith to say that, on further reflection, he could not consider telling fortunes at the Center because he had a business arrangement with Hope Delaney at the café, Edith said, “Oh, Norbert Z, I don’t want you to read fortunes here! I want you to be our new past-life regressionist!”

  Norbert objected, “I don’t even know what that is.”

  Edith chuckled and said she would explain all about it in person. When Norbert hesitated, Edith said, “Bring your entourage, Norbert! Bring what’s-her-name and her Club. We’ll do a group past-life regression for all of you—free of charge—a two-hundred-dollar per person value.”

  Edith sounded so excited about doing it, Norbert didn’t want to repeat that he had no idea what “it” was. When he presented this bargain to the Club at the Art League on Wednesday afternoon, they met the offer with enthusiasm.

  “I’m in!” exclaimed Margaret.

  “I’m willing,” said Birdie.

  “I’m shocked!” said Carlotta. “Shocked! This is the twenty-first century. How can you all be so silly? Past lives! A bunch of self-indulgent nonsense, that’s what that is.”

  “Oh, Carlotta,” said Margaret, “it doesn’t matter if it’s really true. It’s just for fun!”

  “So now we waste our time on things that are not even true?” fumed Carlotta.

  Birdie quoted, “‘Whatever satisfies the soul is truth.’—Walt Whitman.”

  Margaret challenged, “If you don’t want to go, Carlotta, don’t.”

  Carlotta did not expect that bit of treachery.

  “Do not worry, Margaret. I will not only go—I will drive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Four Jacks:

  You will attend a strange gathering and experience amazement.

  Carlotta’s sedan coasted smoothly down Highway Four toward the Center for Deeper Understanding. Her passengers—Margaret, Birdie and Norbert—were appreciating the beauty of Gibbons Corner in the fall. The leaves had begun to change color. As the sunlight filtered through them, their town was even more charming than in summer. The whole world all around was gold and red, and there was a faint aroma of wood burning in fireplaces in nearby homes and cottages.

  As they rolled along, Carlotta said, “How about a round of literary quotes?”

  “Sure!” the group agreed.

  “I’ll begin, shall I?” said Carlotta. Without waiting for assent, she began:

  Alice laughed: “There’s no use trying” she said; “one can’t believe impossible things.”

  “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was y
ounger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”

  Norbert was impressed that Carlotta could recite such a long prose quotation. He thought that he could never manage it. But then, she’d been practicing for years.

  “Oh, Carlotta,” said Margaret. “I think you picked that quote on purpose to ruin our fun. You just enjoy being cynical.”

  Showing off, Carlotta took another turn. “‘A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.’—Oscar Wilde.”

  Margaret, looking at the woods on both sides of the highway, quoted, “‘I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree.’—that World War I soldier. What was his name? I forget.”

  There was a pause as everyone tried to remember. He died on a battlefield in Europe, they did remember that. No, the name didn’t come.

  “I’ll remember it later when I’m not trying, I know I will,” muttered Margaret.

  “Or when we can look on the internet, we’ll Google it,” said Carlotta, proud of her technological savvy.

  Birdie, going on with the game, contributed, “‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’—Shakespeare, in Hamlet.”

  Norbert, who had been troubled about finding a literary quote somewhere in his brain, brightened up. “I know a Shakespeare quote: ‘Lord what fools these dreamers be.’—Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  Carlotta clicked her tongue. “Oh, Norbert, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong. It’s not ‘dreamers.’ It’s ‘mortals.’ ‘Lord what fools these mortals be.’”

  The Club usually didn’t challenge misquotes. But then, Norbert was not a member of the Club.

  “Oh,” said Norbert, disappointed. “But the quote is about those people all sleeping in the woods. I thought it was ‘dreamers.’”