by Keziah Frost
“Easy for you to say. Have you met my mother?”
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” Norbert looked at Gigi over the tops of his lenses to communicate his sense of humor to her, even though he couldn’t see a thing when he did that.
He resumed, “I do know from your cards that she won’t make it easy, Gigi, but this is a life lesson for you. You need to take responsibility for your part in this. It’s not all her. You have been allowing it.”
“But—”
“When you are ready to truly grow up, you will set a boundary and not allow it to be crossed.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m sorry. The cards don’t lie.” Norbert pointed to the Jack of Clubs and the Three of Spades. “The message in your cards today is this—you will only grow into who you are when you get far away from your early influences.”
Gigi looked glumly at the Jack of Clubs. He held his club tight in his fist and frowned at the little hills of dirty snow beyond the window of the Good Fortune Café.
Gigi left annoyed, yet pensive.
Norbert felt the weight of his own influence. He felt that familiar fear of the power he had so recently attained to alter destinies. But even more, he felt gratified. People listened to him intently. He helped them. It was what he always wanted.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Eight of Spades:
You are challenged to withstand criticism.
One afternoon in early December, there was a great snowfall. The stuff was piling up in crystalline hills, and the snowplow with flashing yellow lights was rumbling down Harrison Street, splattering slush to the left and the right.
Norbert, arriving home at four o’clock in the near darkness, had tucked Ivy up in her cozy basket and come out to shovel the sidewalk. It was glorious. Norbert loved to shovel snow. It was the best winter workout, and he loved to do hard, physical work.
Father Jim from St. Edmund’s called across the street to him, “Be careful there, young fella! Wet snow is heavy, you know!”
Norbert waved and smiled. “Don’t worry about me! Doctor says he wishes he was as fit as I am!” Then Norbert regretted saying it. Was this pride? He never thought he had anything to boast about. His young, plump physician really had looked at Norbert’s labs with what seemed like envy mixed with admiration, and had said those very words. Norbert was lean and strong, and the young doctor had given him an enthusiastic “clean bill of health.”
The pastor, far from correcting Norbert on his commission of one of the seven deadly sins, only laughed and said, “In that case, come shovel at the rectory when you’re done at your house! Only kidding, Mr. Zelenka. Only kidding! The parish takes care of that for us!” And the pastor plodded off through the snow toward the rectory.
Father Jim Donohue was a man known in Gibbons Corner for his taste for golden candlesticks, daily fresh flowers for his altar, and costly millefiori paperweights for his enormous mahogany desk.
Norbert had defended him and St. Edmund’s to the Club: “Yes, but remember the food pantry.”
“Yes, but remember that’s all volunteer work and donated food from merchants,” Carlotta had countered. “The church just allows the volunteers to use the space. The churches like to appear to be helping people, while really they are just self-serving.”
If there was one thing Carlotta could not stand, it was hypocrisy.
Norbert judged no one but himself.
He paused on the sidewalk and caught a snowflake on his gloveless finger. He admired how the light glinted off it so delicately, and he watched it melt into a drop of water on his fingertip. He thought once again of Mrs. Applegate, his fifth-grade teacher: No two snowflakes are alike. Each one is beautiful. And each one of you must discover your snowflake nature.
And what was it Birdie had said, back in May at the art gallery? We are here to grow into who we are.
He had had a good day telling fortunes, he reflected, as, exhilarated, he continued shoveling the sidewalk in front of two neighbors’ houses, and their walks, as well. He had assured a worried woman that “something lost will soon turn up,” and he had informed a lonely man that “one who admires you greatly is hidden in plain view.” Everyone seemed to be happy with him.
Perhaps he had discovered his snowflake nature. Perhaps he was growing into himself.
The reluctant fortune-teller had become an increasingly self-assured one, as he saw the benevolent influence he was exercising through the power of his soft voice and kind heart. And so the readings went on, day after day.
* * *
A woman of about fifty slid into the booth across from Norbert. She was not scheduled for a reading.
“Hello,” said Norbert, smiling as ever. “If you would like a reading, the procedure is that you sign up for a time slot at the counter.”
“I most certainly would not like a reading,” hissed the woman. “I won’t take up much of your time, Norbert Z,” she said, and she pronounced his professional psychic name with contempt. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Her rage blasted Norbert like a hot sandstorm. Norbert felt her blinding fury and knew there was nothing to do but brace for the onslaught.
“You gave my daughter a so-called reading. She was coming just for fun. You told her to have boundaries with her mother. What the hell? We used to have a beautiful relationship. She never made a move I didn’t know about. Now she’s withholding information from me! And I’ve done nothing wrong! What right do you have to do what you are doing here? There oughta be a law to stop unscrupulous people like you.”
The unhappy mother hesitated a moment between crying and continuing her attack. She went on. “Does it make you happy to ruin families’ relationships? To play on people’s vulnerability? Who, exactly, do you think you are? What kind of a person are you?”
Her voice trembled as she pronounced these last words. She slid out of the booth and rushed out of the Good Fortune Café.
Norbert was deeply troubled by this woman’s visit. He had become used to the image he saw reflected in his customers’ eyes, and that image was of a man appreciated, validated and even respected. As the words “What kind of a person are you?” echoed in his mind, Norbert was shaken. To be the target of such a burst of anger made him feel vaguely guilty.
Who, indeed, did he think he was, advising people on issues he really knew nothing about? The angry woman left him with a feeling of apprehension that was difficult to shake.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Three Queens:
Strong personalities make for stimulating company.
Carlotta decided at the first-year anniversary of her son’s death that Christmas would still be Christmas. Charlie and his wife had died together on December 30, ten years ago. It was the most soul-wrenching loss of her life.
However, to give in to her feelings by refusing to participate in Christmas would be to draw attention to her private grief. Carlotta was not a woman to be pitied. Many things could she accept from people: admiration, allegiance, jealousy and even resentment—but never sympathy. To indulge her own buried grief and sadness would be to “make a big scene,” and to encourage people to talk about it. It was too private to discuss. With anyone.
Therefore, Carlotta prepared to run the Club’s Christmas party, just as she did every year. She was needed to run things. It was her raison d’être. The preparations leading up to the Club’s Christmas gathering involved three preliminary disagreements.
The first argument centered on the mutual antipathy between Carlotta and Myrtle, Margaret’s enormous black-and-white cat. Margaret wanted to host their soirée intime, as Carlotta called it. (The unpleasant encounter with the French-speaking tourist behind them, Carlotta was back to sprinkling French into everyday conversation.) Margaret loved Christmas more than anything in the world, and decorated her condo lavishly every year. It was the
perfect place for their little party, and yet somehow every year, it was never her turn.
“It has to be my turn sometime, Carlotta.”
“But, Margaret, my allergies,” Carlotta said in a singsongy voice that implied Margaret should know all about her allergies.
“Oh, allergies, my eye,” said Margaret. “You don’t have any allergies, and you know it. What you have is a phobia, pure and simple. You’re afraid of cats.”
Carlotta laughed. “Really!”
“Really! And the way you get over a fear is to face it. Not to avoid it.”
Carlotta said, “It’s not a fear. It’s a dislike. Yes, I’ll be honest with you, Margaret. I don’t like Myrtle. She is the worst kind of narcissist. She’s always slinking around and trying to get her own way.”
Birdie, with her odd way of looking through a person, put in, “Who tries to get her own way?”
Margaret hooted.
Carlotta shot a glare at Margaret and gave in on this first argument. “Fine. Margaret’s place, then. I’ll put my aversion to Myrtle aside, for your sake, Margaret.” Let no one say that Carlotta had to have her own way.
Margaret beamed. “Now as for presents!” she exclaimed.
Carlotta then began the second argument: “I thought we could dispense with presents this year. After all, we all certainly have everything we need or want.”
Margaret stood up. She was so excited to be able to give her favorite literary quote, apropos of the conversation, for once: “‘Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents!’—Little Women!”
Birdie smiled beatifically at Carlotta. Yes, Carlotta had set Margaret up to be able to deliver her bon mot. That was Carlotta’s generosity of spirit.
“All right, then,” said magnanimous Carlotta. “What shall our theme be for presents this year?”
The three friends pondered.
Birdie reviewed, “Well, we’ve done Art Supply Presents, Dollar Store Presents, Winter Hats, Miniature Things, Theater Tickets, New Biographies, White Elephants...”
Carlotta sat back and let her friends continue remembering themes from Christmases past and move on to suggesting themes they might use this year. She’d give them about four minutes.
Carlotta’s theme, Creature Comforts, was taken up immediately by the Club. Their own ideas paled in comparison. They all agreed that Christmas had become stressful for all of society, and that it didn’t have to be that way. Comfort items, like fluffy socks, fragrant lotions and herbal teas, would be perfect for this year. Simple, easy items, no fuss.
“And finally, for the guest list!” enthused Margaret, thus initiating the third argument.
Carlotta bristled. “What are you talking about? There is no guest list for the Club’s Christmas Gathering. It’s just the Club.”
Margaret looked to Birdie for support. “I thought—well, the Club has become so small—I thought, just for this year—I mean, he’s not in the Club, of course, but he’s become a good friend to each of us—well, I thought we could invite Norbert.”
* * *
The night of the party, it was too cold to snow. The air was clear, and the stars were bright and splashed in profusion across the deep dark sky. Norbert was standing outside Margaret’s condo on Washington Street, craning his neck back to observe the planets, when Carlotta came driving up with Birdie and parked on the street.
Carlotta had not wanted Norbert to be included in their little after-dinner party, but since she’d had to concede defeat on that score, at least she would have the satisfaction of being in charge of him for the evening.
“Norbert! Joyeux Noël, dear!” she said, as she hooked her arm around his, obligating him to be the gentleman who would guide her safely across the salt and ice.
Norbert pointed above them, and asked her if she knew which one of those stars might be Venus.
“I read that Venus and Mars should be visible now,” he said. “Mars is the red planet, of course. I think it’s that one over there.” He swung his arm toward the west. “But that one there—?”
Carlotta was not about to tolerate questions to which her answer would have to be “I don’t know.” That was her policy.
“Norbert, that’s so interesting, but I’m just freezing. Aren’t you? And Margaret is bound to be nervous until we all arrive, so...”
Carlotta watched Norbert cast a last regretful glance at the heavens and then commandeered him and Birdie to Margaret’s condo on the third floor.
Due to Myrtle the cat, Carlotta had not spent much time at Margaret’s place. The decor in Margaret’s home was not tasteful, and reflected Margaret herself. Rather than classic, neutral colors, Margaret chose what she liked: juvenile colors like rose pink and mint green. Rather than sleek empty space, Margaret chose clutter: figurines, too many cushions and walls covered with paintings created by herself and her friends. Margaret’s own paintings alternated between two subjects: flattering self-portraits and floral still lifes. The overall effect of the space was too sweet. It cloyed. It was overwhelming to refined senses. It took some adjustment, aesthetically.
As they took off their coats, the Club and Norbert exclaimed complimentary things about Margaret’s Christmas decorations. On her front door, she had hung a sign she had painted herself: “All is calm, all is bright.” There was a small tabletop tree in ghastly pink, hung with silver tinsel. There were little electric candles everywhere.
Outer wraps disposed of, Carlotta was pleased to see that they were all dressed to the nines. She felt quite proud of her friends. Everyone looked very put together. Carlotta and her friends wore midlength dresses with flattering cuts. Carlotta herself was dressed in black, with silver shoes and jewelry. Birdie wore a fluttery forest-green dress that was divine against her red hair. Margaret wore purple, but one learned not to expect perfection; at least the style was becoming. Norbert was also more than acceptable, she had to admit, in his gray sport coat with a white button-down shirt, argyle sweater-vest, chinos and red tie. Margaret pulled a red rose from a vase and stuck it in Norbert’s lapel, and the ladies admired the effect. Christmas, realized Carlotta, was all about beautiful clothes.
Breathlessly, Margaret ushered her guests into the living room. The “simple” Christmas had once again taken on its own force. Margaret, it was plain to see, had knocked herself out. She had made a “simple” gingerbread house from scratch; designed a “simple” cloth sack for the grab-bag gifts; and somehow, despite her petite stature, had hung “simple” garlands everywhere. She was pink with pleasure.
The guests took time to notice and praise everything, while Margaret had her moment in the limelight. Carlotta cast a wary eye at the cat, nasty thing, as it lay stretched out upon a floral footstool, watching with its vile eyes and thinking its hellish thoughts.
Ivy poked her head out of her carrier and took one look at Myrtle. Whatever it was that passed between them caused dear Ivy to duck back into hiding and not show her face again for the rest of the evening.
“Oh!” shrieked Carlotta, as Myrtle pulled herself up to sitting. Myrtle steadily regarded Carlotta.
“Is something wrong, Carlotta?” asked Norbert.
Birdie explained, “Carlotta and Myrtle don’t get along.”
Carlotta objected, “When you put it that way, you make it sound like we’re equals!”
Myrtle shot Carlotta a death stare. Carlotta refused to engage and looked about the room—at the Christmas decorations and her dear friends. And also at Norbert.
Birdie tried to get Myrtle’s attention by jiggling a red ribbon along the carpet. She made kissy noises toward the feline.
Norbert raised his quiet voice to an odd falsetto, most unbecoming for a man, and still the beast stared, unblinking, exclusively at Carlotta.
“We’re all dying to pet you, Myrtle,” implored Birdie. “Why do you only have eyes for Carlotta?”
&nb
sp; That’s when the monster, still leveling her malevolent gaze at Carlotta, rose, arched her back in a yoga stretch, and then, to Carlotta’s terror, began to march deliberately toward her. Carlotta had the distinct impression that the weasel-like creature could read her thoughts. She refused to look directly at Myrtle. She would not give her access. Eyes are the mirrors to the soul—someone wrote that, didn’t they? Where had she read that some people credit cats with psychic abilities? Nonsense, certainly. But the vixen did look at Carlotta as if she knew something unfavorable about her. Could a cat be a vixen? She had already associated Myrtle with a weasel, but that was all right; weren’t cats descended from a kind of weasel? But a vixen was a female fox, wasn’t it? Carlotta’s thoughts raced and tumbled over each other in the most disorderly way as she fought the panic rising up inside her chest with each inexorable step Myrtle took toward her, glassy green eyes never wavering. Carlotta looked down at the pointed tip of her Christmassy silver shoe and back at the approaching animal. But, no, Carlotta would never hurt an animal. Unless it attacked her first. At last, Myrtle reached Carlotta’s feet and sat down, continuing to contemplate Carlotta from up close. When Myrtle leaped, there was a sharp intake of air from Birdie, Margaret and Norbert. Myrtle landed with the grace of a ballet diva on the couch. Carlotta jumped and gave a little exclamation.
“Merciful Heavens!” She quickly regained her composure and commented in a calmer tone, “It startled me.”
Myrtle sat herself down beside Carlotta and faced the room, looking for all the world as though she had come over to gossip with the only sane person here about all the other bizarre characters before them.
Up went simpering cries of “Oh, aw, Carlotta, she wants you to pet her!”
Carlotta focused on slowing her breathing. In through the nose. Out through the nose.
Margaret said, “She never sits with me like that, and I’m the one who feeds her!”
Myrtle shot Margaret a withering look and closed her eyes, like a teenager who has had all she can take from her irritating mother.
