Ancient Forces Collection

by Bill Myers

  He jerked the shirt over his head, jumped into the pants, and then rushed down the stairs, pausing for a split second to steal a look in the hallway mirror. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and noticed his bloodshot eyes looked battered. The nasty headache thumping between his temples didn’t help matters.

  He darted into the kitchen and flung open the cabinets, hoping to grab something quick. It was Monday morning and he wanted to cruise by Madame Theo’s store to check things out. He knew the only way to squeeze that in before school was if he could escape before his dad cornered him. On the second shelf he spied an opened box of Pop-Tarts. Perfect.

  “Oh, good, you’re up,” his dad said, coming into the kitchen from behind him.

  Philip’s heart sank. He snatched the Pop-Tarts, turned, and careful to avoid eye contact, muttered, “Um, hi, Dad.”

  “You’re not going to school like that, are you?” he asked, adjusting his tie around his neck.

  Philip’s head pounded at the question. “Dad, since when did you become the clothes police?”

  “Ah, watch it there, buddy boy,” his dad said with a slight edge in his voice. “I guess you know your shirt looks like a wrinkled prune.”

  “It’s the new style,” Philip said with a little more sarcasm than he actually felt.

  “When we were kids,” his dad said, taking a step forward, “I’ll have you know we had to wear a uniform to school. And our shoes had to be polished.”

  “Dad, that was before the flood.”

  “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing,” Philip said. He tossed the box of fruit-filled, rectangular, perfectly manufactured nutrition on the table. He spun around to face the refrigerator, yanked open the door, and strangled a bottle of milk. With a sharp twist, he wrenched off the lid, grabbed a glass from the counter, slopped the milk into the glass and, in his hurry, onto the counter.

  “Oh, that’s just great, buddy boy,” his dad said, fastening his belt around his waist.

  “Sorry — ”

  “What am I, the maid?”

  “Dad, I said I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

  His father walked to the coffeemaker, reached for the coffeepot, and started to pour a cup. He cleared his throat. “Tell me, Philip, what are your thoughts about college?”

  Philip spoke with his mouth full. “Dad, don’t go there. I don’t have time to — ”

  “We’re talking about your future, son,” he said, still pouring a cup of coffee. “Now listen. I spoke with the dean of students at the University of Berkeley and they — ”

  Philip cut him off. “Can’t this wait?”

  “I’m not just saying this because you’re my son,” he said, ignoring the remark. “But a kid like you, with your grades, can write your own ticket. I realize in many ways you’re a lot like me. You’re tall. You’re handsome. You’ve got brains. And you especially want to keep your options open. I don’t blame you for that.”

  Philip blew an impatient breath.

  “Still, I know you’ll love Berkeley, son.” He took a sip of his coffee. “What I can’t figure is what you have against it.”

  With each passing second, Philip felt hopelessly trapped in a conversation he didn’t want to have, certainly not now. Couldn’t his dad understand that maybe, just maybe, he wanted to go somewhere else? Somewhere where the teachers wouldn’t be asking, “So you must be the son of blah blah blah.” The jackhammers drilling between his temples didn’t help. He wolfed down the rest of his Pop-Tart, spied the clock on the microwave, then stood to leave.

  His dad looked up over the edge of his coffee cup. “Where are you going, anyway?”

  “School, remember?”

  “This early? You don’t usually leave until — ”

  “Dad, please, give me a break here. I’ve got stuff to do.”

  “Let me guess . . . you’re giving Krissi a ride,” his dad said, placing the cup on the table in front of himself. “She can take the bus, son. This is important — ”

  Philip almost snapped. “Dad, this has nothing to do with her.”

  “Then why can’t you stay and talk for a few minutes? I thought you’d be interested to know what the dean said.”

  Philip snatched a paper towel and wiped up the spilled milk. “We’ll talk later, I promise.” Philip ducked out of the kitchen before his dad could say another word.

  Upstairs, he grabbed his books, his car keys, and then snatched the paper where he had jotted down the address and number last night. He stuffed the note into his front pocket before racing out of the house.

  Once outside, he jumped into his convertible and closed the door with a wham! If he hurried, he’d still have time to cruise by Madame Theo’s Palace.

  Maybe she could help him make sense of his life.

  Maybe the cards would reveal where he should go to college.

  Maybe they’d give him a reason to keep living with a hyper-controlling dad whose hyper-expectations of his brainy son were stifling.

  Maybe.

  Philip hesitated, putting the car in reverse as a new series of thoughts engaged his mind. He didn’t know the first thing about tarot cards, telling the future, or Madame Theo, aside from what he saw last night. Is this crazy or what? he thought. What if she’s just another quack? There was only one way to know for sure: he’d check her out for himself. Maybe good news awaited him in the cards.

  If not . . . well, he refused to think of the alternative.

  Scott Williams worked his way through the lunch line, loading his plate with Monday’s mystery meat, Tater Tots, creamed corn, a carton of milk, and a sickly cup of Jell-O ‘d Crème, which was basically a square of red Jell-O with Cool Whip and a fancy name. He handed the cashier his student lunch card and then headed into the main dining area.

  “Hey, Scott,” Krissi said, batting her perfect, killer eyelashes.“Becka’s got our seats saved . . . over there.” She nodded toward the back wall.

  “Cool. Be right there,” Scott said, scoping out the room.

  When Scott and his sister, Becka, first started attending Crescent Bay High, after years of being away on the mission field in South America, he definitely had to learn about the seating dynamics in the cafeteria. Everybody had their place. True, the pecking order wasn’t written down anywhere official. But anybody with half a brain couldn’t miss it.

  Many of the freshmen sat closest to the ice-cream bar.

  The nerd types next to them.

  The upperclass jocks hassled anyone who dared to approach their table by the windows. The coolest jock, of course, sat at the end. While the cheerleaders were an exception (they could approach the jocks without being tackled), cheerleaders usually filled a table of their own.

  The corner opposite from the jocks was home to the drug-gies and fringe kids, and those who wore black everything. The honor students and those in chess club or on the student council took the center two tables. And, while the most popular kids sat wherever they wanted, they usually picked a table by the far wall.

  He started to walk in that direction.

  The seniors, he noticed, always parked their trays on the table nearest to the faculty lounge as if to imply they would be next in charge if the faculty decided not to show up one day. Scott sat down next to his sister.

  “So, Becka,” Krissi said. She placed her tray on the table and then removed the items, one by one, organizing them into positions as if setting the table for the queen of Sheba. “Did you see Philip today?”

  “Yeah, for something like a half second,” Becka said. “He looked pretty, um . . .” She paused, as if to think of a kind word.

  Scott butt in. “Just say it. He looked like he had a close encounter with a herd of cattle.”

  “Really?” Krissi flipped her auburn hair over her shoulder.

  “Yeah,” Becka said, nodding. “I can’t say for sure, but I’d say he seemed really stressed too.”

  Scott poked at his dessert. “His eyes were all puffy and red like this
gross Jell-O.”

  Krissi appeared to be considering that. “I bet his dad’s been riding him about college again,” she said, placing her napkin on her lap.

  “Could be,” Becka said. “I don’t know. I kind of think there’s something else bugging him. So what about you guys? Is everything cool between you two?”

  Krissi blushed. “Of course. We’re doing great. I mean, sometimes . . . well, when we talk about the future, he, like, gets this faraway look in his eyes.”

  Scott tossed a Tater Tot in the air and scarfed it down. He swallowed. “Speaking of your man,” Scott said a little too loudly, “there he is.”

  Krissi and Becka turned around as Philip approached their table. His hair looked as if it had been caught in a tornado. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. He plopped down next to Krissi without saying a word.

  “Hey, there,” Krissi said. “I missed you. You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” Philip started to shovel lunch into his mouth.

  “Could have fooled me,” Scott said with a cheesy grin.

  Philip glared at him. “Who asked you?”

  “Excu-u-use me for living,” Scott said, raising both hands as if surrendering to the police.

  Nobody spoke for a long minute. Becka swallowed a bite of lunch and said, “So, Philip, what’s the latest on your college scholarship — ”

  He cut her off. “I really don’t feel like talking about it.”

  Krissi and Becka exchanged a concerned look. Krissi turned to him, her eyes softened. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Philip didn’t answer.

  “I mean,” Krissi said, putting her arm around the back of his chair, “you seem so tense — ”

  He brushed away her arm. “What’s this? Pick on Philip day?”

  Krissi pulled her arm back and dropped her hands to her lap. “Nobody’s picking on you, babe.”

  Scott wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I know. You’re worried about the big debate tomorrow, right?” Scott, although two years younger than Philip, was on the debate team with him.

  Philip’s eyes reddened. “Wrong-o, Scott.”

  “Then what’s up?” Becka said softly.

  Without warning, Philip jumped to his feet. “Can’t you guys take a hint? I don’t feel like talking. And if you must know, I’m tired of everybody sticking their nose in my business.”

  A low whistle escaped Scott’s lips. “Speaking of being tired, dude, maybe you should get some sleep, you know?”

  Philip pointed a finger at Scott. “Don’t start with me. You know, you’re just like my dad . . . always telling me what to do with my life.”

  “Hey, it was a joke,” Scott said, shocked by his friend’s overreaction. “I didn’t mean to start World War three.”

  “Come on, guys, just give me some space,” Philip said, then hustled out of the room.

  “Mom, I’m telling you,” Becka said that evening at the supper table, “I’ve just never seen Philip with such a short fuse.”

  Mrs. Williams dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “In what way?”

  “Well, he’s always been a really nice guy. And just about everyone at school likes him,” Becka said. She was momentarily distracted as her dog Muttly started to beg for a treat. “No, Muttly, you’ve already had enough for one day.” She scratched him behind the ears instead. “Anyway, he was really kind of abrupt with all of us at lunch. Not his usual self and all that.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” her mom said. “What does Krissi think?”

  Becka sighed. “She says Philip’s dad is bearing down on him about college. Plus, there’s a bunch of stuff going on between his parents. You remember they’re divorced, right?”

  Mrs. Williams nodded.

  “Well, it has something to do with where Philip will live next month,” Becka said. “Krissi thinks the pressure has been really getting him down.”

  “That’s got to be tough,” her mom said, reaching for her cup of coffee.

  “News flash!” Scott said, barging into the kitchen.

  Becka and her mom turned toward him.

  “You’ve got to come and see this,” Scott said, beckoning with a wave of his hand.

  “See what?” Becka asked.

  “I just got an email from Z,” Scott said, his face glowing with excitement. “Something’s up, big time.”

  Z was a buddy they had met in a chat room on the Internet. Z always seemed to have a mission for Scott and Becka to undertake, usually involving some level of spiritual warfare. But it had been several months since Z sent them on a new adventure.

  “So tell me,” Becka said, starting to get out of her chair. “What was his message?”

  “You’ll never believe it,” Scott said. “Z sent a link to a psychic website and told me to download a video clip of that lady called Madame Theo.”

  “Really? Why?” Mrs. Williams asked.

  “Z said we need to help a friend trust God for the future or something like that,” Scott reported. “Who knows, maybe this person is mixed up with a fortune-teller. Does anybody come to mind?”

  Becka walked over to Scott. “Well, Mom and I were just talking about Krissi and Philip’s situation.”

  Scott looked puzzled. “You think the friend Z is talking about is Krissi?”

  “Could be,” Becka said. “Or Philip.”

  3

  Madame Theo sat alone in the near darkness at a small desk. The desk, cluttered with assorted papers, books on astrology, notes, and a receipt book, was tucked away in the cramped back room of Madame Theo’s Palace, a ground-floor, two-room storefront at the edge of downtown Crescent Bay.

  She folded her thin, bony fingers together and rested them in her lap. Although it was three o’clock Monday afternoon, the drapes were drawn tight. She preferred candlelight to sunlight.

  Her forehead was a wrinkled knot — not from age, but from the concern that had troubled her ever since Fred Stoner mentioned syndication into the Los Angeles market. While his excitement was unmistakable, he didn’t know about her past. How could he? She had never told him about her years in Los Angeles.

  It wasn’t really any of his business, right?

  Besides, that was decades ago.

  When she agreed to work with Fred, she never guessed the past would come back to haunt her. Now, like a frightened cat, she found herself backed into a corner. Fred was a natural promoter. One of the best she’d ever seen. He wouldn’t stop until Madame Theo was on national television.

  How, then, could she insist she didn’t want to be seen in Los Angeles? Fred was sharp. If she made up some phony reason, he’d press her until he knew the truth. That was the kind of guy he was. And, since the local television station was interested in syndication, she knew she’d have to confront the demons of her past sooner or later.

  Unless she decided to drop the whole thing and not agree to the syndication. Of course, Fred would be furious. He’d say she could forget about her TV show. He’d say the station wanted ratings — especially with the revenue that ratings and syndication would bring.

  Either she went all the way or not at all. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Spirits, speak to me as you did before. I’m listening. Is this the direction I should take?” She opened her eyes and followed the flame of a candle as it danced to the cadence of an unseen current of air. Watching the movement produced a trancelike state. In the tranquility of the moment, a name from the past came to her mind. He was the one person who might know what to do — if she could reach him.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, excited at the inspiration from the other side.

  She reached down and opened the bottom desk drawer. Under a stack of papers, she found what she was looking for: a well-worn sheet of paper. Although it had yellowed around the edges with time, the list of phone numbers was still discernible. She laid the page on the desk and smoothed it out with the palms of her hands.

  At the bottom of the page she spotted a handwritten nam
e and number scribbled in pencil. At the sight of his name, a fount of memories gushed to mind. Had it really been thirty years since she had first jotted down his name? She picked up her phone and then dialed. What choice did she have?

  She brought the receiver to her ear.

  “Law offices of Jacobs, Barnes, and Zimmerman,” the voice of a young woman announced after the second ring.

  “Yes, I’m calling to speak with Zack Zimmerman.”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  Madame Theo hesitated. “Just tell him . . . an old friend.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the receptionist said, her voice professional but clipped. “Mr. Zimmerman is very busy. Can I take a message?” As she spoke, Madame Theo heard the ring of other phones in the background.

  “I . . . well, listen, can’t you tell him it’s urgent?”

  “I’m sure it is,” the receptionist said with a touch of contempt. “All of his calls are urgent. But if you won’t give me a name, I can take a message — or put you through to his voice mail if you’d like.”

  Madame Theo considered that. She knew Zack’s style. If she left him a message — voice or otherwise — he might not get it for days. High-profile defense attorneys were usually juggling more cases than they could handle. Zack was no different. He’d be swamped. But she needed him now, not in a week. She just had to speak with him directly.

  Madame Theo took a long, slow, cleansing breath. “Okay, then, please tell him . . . Rita Thomas is calling.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available. Please hold.”

  Afraid she might drop the handset, Madame Theo squeezed the phone against the side of her head as tightly as her crooked fingers could handle. She was so focused on what she was about to say, she paid little attention to the nondescript sound of Muzak playing in the background.

  Thirty seconds later, the familiar, thick voice of Zack Zimmerman filled the earpiece. “Rita? Is that really you? I thought you were dead.”

  Philip pulled his car to the curb, turned off the engine, and then sat for a long minute. Although he was as motionless as a mannequin, his heart raced to keep up with the questions flooding his mind. Was he really going to do this? What were the odds that a little stack of cards could give him the answers and the hope he craved?