by Bill Myers
Mr. Lowry adjusted his reading glasses. He began to read the note out loud. “ ‘Krissi, you know how much Philip is changing? Well, I think he’s depressed. Like, big time. He tries to look like he has it together, but I think he’s losing it. He even went to a psychic yesterday. That’s messed up. As if a lady in a turban really knows anything about the future. That just shows you how desperate he must be. I think he needs you now more than ever . . .’ ” Mr. Lowry stopped. “I think that’s about enough,” he said, crumpling the note in his hand.
Yeah, Scott thought, enough for Philip to want to skin me alive.
8
The white FedEx truck stopped in the middle of the road, its flashers on. The driver, wearing shorts, clutching a clipboard and an eight-by-ten flat envelope, hopped out. She hustled to the building and rang the bell.
The door opened. “Yes?”
“Hi. Package for — ” The driver paused to scan the label, then added, “For a Rita Thomas.”
At the sound of Rita’s name, a brief spike of fear surged in Madame Theo’s heart. Instinctively, she peeked up and down the street to see if anyone might overhear the conversation. She knew she couldn’t be too careful.
“Yes . . . thank you, that’s me,” Madame Theo said, reaching for the clipboard. She kept inside the door, her heart still jumpy.
“I’ll need your signature right there,” the driver said, pointing toward the bottom half of the form. “And, if you would, print your name next to it . . . on the second line.”
Madame Theo carefully filled in the required information with the pen attached to the clipboard.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” the driver said, making small talk while Madame Theo took her time signing the document as if she were creating a work of art. “I hear they’re calling for rain.”
“We could use some, couldn’t we?” Madame Theo said, putting the finishing touches on her masterpiece. She looked up. “Here you go.”
“Thank you very much,” the driver said, retrieving the clipboard. Using a handheld scanner, she swiped the bar code on the label, typed in the date and time on the side of the scanning device, and then holstered it like a gun on her belt. She started to hand over the envelope when, for no apparent reason, she stopped and took a good look at Madame Theo.
Madame Theo, her hand extended to receive the package, returned the gaze. She raised an eyebrow wondering what was wrong. Why didn’t the FedEx lady give her the envelope?
“You want to know something funny?”
Madame Theo pretended to be interested. “What’s that?”
“It’s just that your face looks really familiar.” The woman tucked the clipboard under an arm. She made no further effort to release the envelope. “Aren’t you on TV?”
Madame Theo felt her face flush. Where is this going? “Yes, such as it is,” she answered, her posture matter-of-fact. “We’re on in the middle of the night, for now, that is.”
“That’s it,” the driver said with a broad smile. “The other night I couldn’t sleep. My husband was out of town, and I always have a hard time falling asleep when he’s away. Anyway, that’s when I must have seen you on TV.”
Although not an impatient person, Madame Theo was growing restless. She was dying to review the material from her former lawyer. She kept an eye on the package, like a vulture eyeing its next meal, and forced a smile. “I’m glad to know there’s at least one person in the audience watching. Now, if you don’t mind, I had better get back to work.”
Perplexed, the driver tilted her head to one side.
“Is there something wrong?” Madame Theo asked.
“Actually, before I can leave this with you,” the driver said, withholding the envelope, “I’ll need to see some form of picture ID from you, ma’am.”
“Excuse me?” Madame Theo’s heart skipped several beats. “I . . . is that necessary?”
“You see this little orange sticker?” she said, holding up the package as if presenting evidence to the jury. “I can only leave this with the person who’s named therein.”
“So?”
“You signed this as Rita Thomas.”
“Indeed. That’s me.”
“But last night, on TV, you were Madame Theo.”
Madame Theo tucked a loose strand of hair back underneath her turban. She was beginning to see where this was going and started to steam. Why did her lawyer put Rita’s name on it? He, of all people, should know a move like that would cause complications. Now what?
“You see,” the psychic said in a soft, confidential voice, “Madame Theo is my . . . my stage name. So I’ll just take that and we’ll move on, okay? I’m expecting a client any moment.”
“I still need to see some form of ID,” the woman said, her tone pleasant but firm. “Driver’s license. Passport. Just something with a picture. It’s company policy.”
Madame Theo sighed.
“I’m sure you know we do this for your security. Must be important stuff if it’s got one of those orange stickers.”
What was the point of arguing? Madame Theo ducked back inside the room, fished her wallet out of her frumpy, oversize bag, and returned to the door. With a flip, she opened the flap and presented her California driver’s license.
“Nice picture,” the FedEx lady said, studying the two-by-three plastic card. “Says here you’re Theodella Smith.”
A nod. “Naturally, in my line of work, I go by Madame Theo. But, yes, that’s my full name.”
The FedEx ser vice woman handed back the license.
“What about the package?” Madame Theo asked, expectant, trying not to sound too anxious.
“I’m really sorry, ma’am. Unless you have another picture ID bearing the name of Rita Thomas, I’ll need to return this to the station.”
Madame Theo shook her head in disbelief. She was jammed between the desperate need to get that package and the reality that she, decades ago, had erased all traces of her former self, the lovely Rita Thomas. She didn’t have a single item with Rita’s name on it. Certainly not a picture ID. What if somebody broke in, snooped through her stuff, and stumbled on it? She’d be through. Or what if she were raided by the police?
Like the last time?
Still, Madame Theo had to find a way to put her hands on that information. With it, maybe she’d be able to convince her producer, Fred Stoner, to end his relentless push to syndicate into Los Angeles.
She tried another approach. “I . . . well, can’t you make an exception? After all, I am on TV. You can trust me.”
“You could be one of the Beatles,” the driver said with a guarded smile. “Still, as long as there’s an orange sticker, we have no choice but to verify your ID.”
Madame Theo started to feel dizzy. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll tell you what,” the driver said, extending a business card. “That’s the dispatcher’s number. Call him. I doubt it, but maybe you can work something out. Sorry. Gotta run.” With that, she turned and dashed to the truck.
Within seconds, Madame Theo was at her desk. She dialed a private number and waited for an answer.
On the fourth ring, her lawyer muttered, “Zack Zimmerman.”
Madame Theo clutched the phone against the side of her head. “What kind of stunt are you pulling, Zack?”
The bell sounded, signaling the end of fourth period. Contrary to what he had envisioned, Scott discovered he was still alive. The floor hadn’t swallowed him. The walls hadn’t crushed him. And he hadn’t been publicly stoned for what he had done — at least not yet. Somehow he managed to survive the snickers, the catcalls, and the sneers from the students while Mr. Lowry read his note.
Philip was another matter. The instant the bell rang, he ducked out the door and, like a phantom, disappeared into the crowded hallway. Scott, with Krissi in tow, pushed his way through the mass of bodies and headed for the cafeteria. Getting there was like trying to make his way through rush-hour traffic.
Krissi tapped Scott’s arm. “You
think he’s mad?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Well, it wasn’t like we were trying to be mean — ”
“Doesn’t matter,” Scott said. “Didn’t you see the look on his face while Mr. Lowry started reading?”
Krissi sighed. “Yeah, I feel really bad for him.”
A moment later, they reached the food line, grabbed trays, silverware, and napkins, and then slinked forward to select their lunch choices. Philip, coming from the opposite direction, walked toward them. With a shove to Scott’s shoulder, he said, “Boy, you sure can’t be trusted, can you?”
Scott knew he deserved the rebuke and didn’t shove back. As a kid, whenever Scott would get into a scuffle, his dad would say, “Remember, son, blessed are the peacemakers.” Now was one of those times he needed to practice a healthy dose of grace.
“Did you ever think,” Philip said, his eyes puffy, “about asking for my permission before talking behind my back?”
Scott held his tongue. For one of the first times in his life, Scott had nothing to say.
“Well, did you?”
Krissi, however, spoke up. “Come on, Philip. I asked Scott about yesterday because I’m concerned about you. How did we know the teacher would do that?”
“Krissi,” Philip said with a sigh, “I really do think this is between Scott and me. You and I can talk about things later, okay?”
Scott started to apologize. “Man, I . . . I’m — ”
Philip cut him off. “A creep, that’s what you are, Scott Williams.” Philip inched closer. “In fact, you’re the biggest chump in the world.” With that, Philip turned and started to leave. Three steps away he paused, then turned back around. “What kind of Christian are you, anyway?”
9
The sun struggled to poke a hole through the gray clouds that hung, like a thick blanket, low in the sky. It would be raining before long, of that Philip was sure. He pulled his convertible to a stop and parked directly in front of Madame Theo’s Palace. Thanks to Scott and Krissi’s blunder, he no longer felt the need to hide what he was doing from friends at school.
By the time lunch was over, the buzz in the hallway was about Philip and the TV psychic. The rumor mill was working overtime. Everywhere he walked, he heard whispers and felt as if people everywhere were now talking behind his back. And once, while using the bathroom, he had overheard some punk telling his buddy a joke about Madame Theo:
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Madame Theo.”
“Madame Theo who?”
“If you were psychic, you’d know too.”
It wasn’t even funny, Philip thought, dismissing the memory.
He raised the top on his convertible and, checking his watch, noticed he was right on time for his hastily scheduled appointment. After today’s meltdown at school, he knew he needed to get some clarity. And so far, in spite of what the others might say about her, Madame Theo was right on the money. His mind drifted back to the three-card spread she had dealt during his initial session.
According to the first tarot card, she predicted his star was on the rise. The next day he won the debate against the best team in the region. At first he had wondered if it was a mere coincidence. In light of the current developments, he wasn’t so sure. Last night, he was contacted by a recruiter from one of the colleges he was really interested in. Somehow they had gotten wind of his performance and quickly arranged an increase in their scholarship offer.
The second card, the one with people leaping from the tower, indicated he should make some drastic changes. That’s easy, he thought. After today, he could see that he needed to cut things off with Krissi and especially with Scott. Philip was convinced they’d do nothing but hold him back. Or worse. Their friendship could keep his star from rising further and might even contribute to his downfall.
But it was the third card, the death card, that worried him at the moment. If Madame Theo was right about the first two cards, then she was most likely on target with the third. Was he going to die? Was someone close to him going to die? Or, as she had hinted, was there something in his world that needed to end for him to advance in his climb to the top? He needed to know. He needed someone to talk with who wouldn’t mock his desire to know the future.
He needed Madame Theo. Or did he? So far, she seemed to have all the answers. Maybe that was part of what was bothering him. Maybe he was giving her too much credit. What if everything she had predicted about his future was just a coincidence?
Then again, what harm was there in giving her another chance? Philip reached for the handle and let himself in.
“Please, Philip, come in. I’ve been expecting you,” she said, already sitting at the table.
It took a moment for him to adjust to the blast of scented air and the darkness of the room. He took a seat across from Madame Theo and, with a sigh, slumped forward.
“I see a young man with a heavy heart,” she said. Her voice was soft and airy as a feather.
Philip took a deep breath. “I . . . I hope I’m not late.”
She shook her head. “You’re right on time, my friend. Now give me your hands.” She extended her hands, palms up, across the table. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s troubling your spirit.”
For a split second, Philip felt a little alarm go off in the back of his brain. It warned something wasn’t right, a warning that he promptly dismissed. He slipped his hands into hers and tried to think where he should start.
In the quiet that followed, he felt moved to come clean. He confessed his original doubts about her, about the cards, about the whole idea that she could actually discern future events. He told her about winning the debate, about losing his girlfriend — and the fallout with Scott. And he told her about his fears of the death card.
As he spoke, Madame Theo’s eyes remained closed, her grip steady and firm. She seemed to be in a trance. Without warning, she released his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. “This evening,” she announced, dropping her arms below the table, “I believe you’re ready for the next level.”
“Come again?”
“At first, by your own admission, you didn’t believe with your whole heart. Your mind refused to give way to your deeper, inner connection to the spirit realm. I see that has changed.” Madame Theo reached for the deck of tarot cards. “This change is good. This is very good, Philip.”
He smiled at the affirmation.
“I knew when I first saw you, you were destined for greatness,” she added, covering the deck with the palm of her hand.
Philip straightened up in his chair. He liked the sound of her validation. “Um, thank you,” was all he could think to say.
“Now keep in mind,” she said, “each reading relies upon the kinetic forces operating in the universe at the time of the reading.”
“Got it.” Philip vaguely remembered this from their first session.
“Which means your concerns about the death card will either be validated, deepened, or changed, depending on the ebb and flow of the unseen divine forces.”
“Okay,” Philip said, unsure if this was good news or bad.
“Before we begin, let us invoke the goodness of the eternal spirit guide,” she said, closing her eyes, her hands still hovering over the cards.
“Huh? Oh,” Philip said, figuring out that he, too, should probably bow his head. Once again, a little alarm sounded in his mind, although less strongly this time. He shoved it aside.
“May the highest powers be pleased by our desire for good, not harm, to come of this revelation. We stand against the negative forces that might thwart a blessing. So be it.”
Philip peeked with one eye, unsure if it was okay to look. “Uh . . . amen,” he said quickly, uncertain what the right response should be to her quasi prayer. He watched as Madame Theo dealt five cards in a straight row, facedown in the center of the table.
“This is a five-card spread,” she said, setting the
balance of the deck to one side. “The meanings are similar to the three-card spread. But there are differences.”
“How so?”
“We start with the past influences,” she said, turning over the first. It revealed a man and woman standing in a garden. “Hmm. These are the lovers. In the past, you’ve been close to someone special. She has held much influence over you. And now you must decide if you will remain under her influence. Can you think of someone who this might represent?”
Philip immediately said, “Krissi.”
“Your girlfriend, the one you’re broken up with, at least in your heart?”
A nod.
“Good. It appears the cards are confirming your need for a change.” She turned over the second tarot card. “This is your present influence.”
“Looks like a dude in a chariot,” Philip said, tilting his head for a better view.
“Strictly speaking, yes. What it represents has much to do with the tension of opposite forces at work.”
“I . . . I . . . what’s that mean?”
“Could be pointing to a divorce,” Madame Theo said, carefully eyeing Philip’s reaction.
“Wow. My parents are split up . . .”
“That, Philip, must be the opposite forces at work in your life. The cards are saying you must remain steady in the midst of the struggle.”
“I see.” Philip felt his heart racing. He had watched her shuffle the deck. How, then, did the cards know his situation? With each second, Philip found himself longing to understand and to connect with whatever was at work behind the cards.
When Madame Theo dealt the third card, Philip gasped. “That guy looks like he’s been hanged,” he said, his voice cracking midsentence. “What in the world — ”
“Not to worry,” she said, her voice warm as a summer breeze. “The hanged man, which is a hidden influence, simply means you need to put to death outdated ideas or influences or thought patterns and embrace a new, liberating frontier.”
One word popped into his mind. He said, “Christian ity.”
“I’m not surprised,” she said. “For centuries we’ve been persecuted by those of the so-called Christian faith. The tarot is speaking, Philip. You must flee the prison which those ideas hold you in.”
