Property of / the Drowning Season / Fortune's Daughter / at Risk

by Alice Hoffman

  “Wait a minute,” Jessup said. “Don’t start pulling this guilt shit on me. Maybe I want to be somebody, Rae—this is a chance for me.”

  “Oh, really?” Rae said. “What about me?”

  “What about you?” Jessup said, surprised.

  She hung up on him. Even after she turned on the cold water in the shower and stood under the spray, Rae could still hear the crash of the phone receiver hitting against its cradle. She stayed in the shower until she was shivering, but after she turned off the water, she felt too exhausted to move. She sat down in the tub and cried. It wasn’t so much that Jessup had left her, it was that after seven years together, Rae felt as if she had never had him in the first place. Outside, the bamboo that grew near the apartment building swayed in the hot wind; when the stalks rubbed together you could swear you heard singing. How could it be that Jessup now seemed like nothing more than a stranger who had telephoned from the desert? Unless he was someone she had dreamed up, and in that case Rae had been sleepwalking for seven years. And she could sit in that empty bathtub from today until tomorrow, and that still didn’t change the fact that only the most dangerous of men would go off and leave you in Los Angeles, to wake up alone.

  Outside the front door of a bungalow on Three Sisters Street was a white arbor where roses bloomed all year long. It certainly wasn’t Lila Grey who took care of them; it was all she could do to remember to water the potted geraniums out on the patio. Her husband, Richard, was the one who took care of the yard, and the truth was, he didn’t have much luck. The lemon tree out back was crooked, ivy crept into the windows, the hibiscus dropped its salmon-colored flowers on the walkway.

  The entire block seemed ill-fated; once it had been an estate belonging to three young women, a gift from one of the early directors to his sisters. But the gift had not been enough for them; they’d withered there, grown old and sick, and finally they’d refused to leave their house. When the block was sold at auction in the thirties, the grounds were so overgrown that bulldozers had been brought in, leveling everything. Bungalows were built, and as the neighborhood slipped—more crime and more roofs that needed patching—the one thing that remained constant was that it was nearly impossible to grow anything on Three Sisters Street.

  But Lila’s husband was a BMW mechanic, and he insisted that plants had to be simpler than a German-made car. He refused to give up. During the heat wave, when the city allowed hoses to be turned on for only an hour each day, Richard became a maniac for water. He scooped out bathwater and soapy dishwater with a metal pail and rationed a little for each of the trees. He joked that working with plants was a part of his heritage—his father was a Shinnecock Indian who had long ago been a migrant worker, his mother a Russian Jew who could never keep a begonia alive on her window sill. When Richard was nine, his parents bought a gas station on the North Fork of Long Island, and Lila knew that the only things that had ever grown there were wildflowers and weeds.

  Sometimes, when Richard was out mowing the grass, Lila could look out the window and actually see the grass turning brown beneath the blades. She had the urge to run outside and beg him to give up: they could brick over the lawn, extend the slate patio, chop down the twisted trees and use them for firewood on rainy winter nights. But Lila forced herself to keep quiet, and when she went outside it was only to take Richard a glass of lemonade. If he wanted to believe he could turn the lawn green and force strawberries to appear on the few spindly plants, who was she to tell him he was wrong? But anyone could see that the only thing that would ever grow in their garden were the huge scarlet roses, and they seemed not to need any care at all, not even water—in the neighborhood it was rumored that the roses had once grown by the Sisters’ front door, that they were the last remnants of the hundreds that had once been on the estate.

  Lila held with the idea of letting people believe whatever they wanted, no matter how foolish. Her husband believed at least a dozen false things about her, and that was just the way Lila wanted it. Just as Richard imagined himself to be the first man she had ever loved, he believed his wife to be psychic. If he came home early and found Lila giving a private reading in the living room—the lamps turned down, the red silk cloth spread out on the table—he tiptoed down the hallway. Lila didn’t see any point in explaining that her readings depended less on the arrangement of a little water and Darjeeling than they did on the dark circles under a client’s eyes, or the way some people twisted their wedding bands on their fingers, as though the gold irritated their skin. Those moments when she felt some sort of strange, pure knowledge she credited to intuition, no more and no less than anyone else might have. Privately, she felt her clients’ preoccupation with the future was foolish, a sport for schoolgirls and lonely women. But the past, that was another matter. The past could press down on you until every bit of air was forced out of your lungs; if you weren’t careful, it could swallow you up entirely, leaving nothing but a few fragile bones, a silver bracelet, ten moon-shaped fingernails.

  Lately, Lila couldn’t look in a mirror without seeing a young girl whose hair was so thick she had to brush it twice a day with a wire brush made in France. When she stood at the sink washing dishes, she could feel herself falling, pulled backward into a well so deep it might be impossible to ever climb back out once you let go. It was pure luck that Richard had managed to pull her back each time. He’d simply be looking for a magazine or a pair of pliers, he’d decide to have a piece of pie and slam the refrigerator door. That was all it took—his presence would bring Lila back and there she’d be, safe in her own kitchen.

  But at night she was too far away for Richard to reach her, and Lila found herself dreaming about the apartment in New York where she’d grown up. It was a place where there were heavy drapes on all the windows, and at night the steam heat made a peculiar crying sound that quickened your heart. Lila was eighteen and still living at home. In the mornings she attended an acting class held in a deserted theater on the Lower East Side, but when her parents had had enough—talk of Broadway and Hollywood until they were dizzy—they insisted she find a job. Lila became a waitress at a restaurant on Third Avenue, and it was there, in the late afternoons, that an old woman named Hannie read fortunes in exchange for fifty cents. The cooks in the kitchen were afraid to tell Hannie to leave—they told each other that she wore long, black dresses to hide the fact that underneath she had chicken’s legs. Instead of knees she had knobby yellow flesh, around her ankles there were white feathers. Her eyes, the waitresses all agreed, could put you under a spell and before you knew it you’d be barking like a dog.

  Whenever Lila brought over the pots of hot water and raisin buns Hannie ordered, she made certain never to look the old lady in the eye. Lila couldn’t help but notice that for every one in the restaurant who feared Hannie, there was a client who thought the world of her. In June so many girls about to become brides wanted to hear their fortunes that a line formed outside the restaurant on Third Avenue. Nearly all of her clients were women, and each had a slightly dazed look on her face as Hannie opened the purple tin in which she carried her tea. There were times when everyone in the restaurant had to work hard to ignore the weeping that came from that rear table, and on days when a bad fortune was read, everyone in the restaurant grew moody, and to cheer themselves the waitresses munched on chocolate bars, and butter crumb cakes, and figs.

  Lila found herself drawn to the old fortune-teller. Each time she took a break, she wound up at a table in the rear of the restaurant, and as she drank a Coke with lemon and ice, she listened in to the tea-leaf readings. It was oddly thrilling to face in the other direction and still hear a tale of heartbreak or hope right behind your back. But though she could hear each client’s complaints quite clearly, Lila could never make out Hannie’s advice. The words were all garbled, too private and low; and Lila found herself moving closer and closer to the fortune-teller’s table, until one day Lila realized that it wasn’t the wall her elbow was resting on, but Hannie’s bony spine
. Lila moved away in terror, convinced that before the night was through she’d be howling at the moon. But the old woman smiled at her, then motioned for her to come to her table, and Lila could hardly refuse.

  “As long as you’re eavesdropping,” Hannie said when Lila had sat down across from her, “you might as well sit here and learn something.”

  From that day on, Lila sat with the old fortune-teller whenever she could, and she no longer had to strain to hear Hannie’s advice. Every time a new symbol appeared in a teacup during a reading, Hannie jabbed Lila’s arm with her finger. On the back of a menu Hannie listed the most important signs: A flock of birds was always sorrow. The flat line of a horizon meant travel. A four-pointed star was a man who would betray you, and a five-pointed star was a man who was true.

  Lila began to practice her new skill on her family and friends. She had a natural talent for guessing what was wrong with someone’s life, and in no time she had a following. Some of her mother’s friends slipped her a dollar for good luck when she read for them; the other girls who took classes at the theater brought in Thermoses of hot water and tins of loose tea and they offered Lila earrings and hair clips in return for their future. In the restaurant there were some clients who began to prefer Lila’s readings to Hannie’s, and they sat patiently, ordering cheese danish or mushroom soup, until Lila could take her break. But even after several months, whenever Lila looked into a client’s cup she saw only murky tea leaves, never the future. She began to feel that each time she gave a reading she was committing a robbery. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t see into the future, and when she asked Hannie why this was, the old woman made a sound in the back of her throat that startled Lila, for it sounded exactly like a chicken clucking.

  “You could see the future if you wanted to,” Hannie said. “You’ve just decided to ignore it.”

  Lila had just fallen in love with her acting teacher, and the future was practically all she did think about.

  “Answer me one question,” Hannie demanded. “Why do you think it is that after all this time you never asked me to do a reading for you?”

  “Maybe I don’t believe in readings,” Lila admitted. “Maybe that’s why I never really see anything.”

  “You think that’s the reason?” Hannie said. The old woman’s black skirt crackled as she leaned forward and took Lila’s hands in her own. That day the luncheon special in the restaurant was pot roast, and the smell of burnt onions was everywhere. It stuck in your throat and brought tears to your eyes. All afternoon, Lila had been wondering if she’d have time to go home after work and wash her hair before she met Stephen. Stephen not only taught acting—he was the second lead in a play off Broadway, and every Thursday night they met in his small dressing room. Lila had already decided to wear a cotton dress with a lace collar, but now, with Hannie holding her hands, Lila wondered if she should wear something warmer. Suddenly she was freezing, and when Hannie closed Lila’s fingers, so that each hand made a fist, Lila could feel the chill all the way from her fingertips to her heart.

  “Let me give you some good advice,” Hannie said. “Be careful—otherwise you may discover that you’ve lost the one you love best.”

  But at eighteen the only thing more impossible than being careful is listening to an old woman’s advice. “You can see the future,” Hannie had insisted. “All you have to do is open your eyes.” There was the smell of burnt onions, the rattle of dishes in the kitchen, the rustling of the fortuneteller’s black skirts.

  And now whenever Lila dreamed, it was of New York. When she woke, she still heard the steam heat, and as she sat in the dark and watched her husband sleep she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she did have some talent as a fortune-teller after all. There was no doubt in her mind that Rae Perry was the age her own daughter would have been. And she hoped that Hannie had been wrong all those years ago, because if this was what seeing into the future was like, Lila could do very well without that gift.

  Jessup had been gone for a week when Rae began to suspect that even more was wrong than she’d thought. A rush of cool air swept the city, but Rae barely noticed the change in the weather—she still felt burning hot. She drank pitchers of water and took her temperature, convinced that she must have some terrible fever. During the day she couldn’t stay awake: she locked the office door and curled up on Freddy’s couch. Then at night, she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned until the sheets were as twisted as snakes. She grew afraid of the dark, afraid of dreams and noises in the night, and clouds that covered the moon. No matter where she turned in her apartment she always found herself staring at the telephone, even though she already knew that Jessup wouldn’t be calling her again.

  On the day she went to see Lila Grey, Rae started out to go grocery shopping, and had made it as far as the vegetable aisle. But the checkout lines were all too long, and the peaches were bruised, and the milk not yet delivered, and Rae wound up deserting her cart near a display of radishes and scallions. After that it was easy—she didn’t even have to think about it. Instead of turning right and walking home, she turned left, and in no time at all she found herself on Three Sisters Street.

  Rae knocked on the front door, but as she stood on the porch the scent of the roses overwhelmed her, and before she knew it she was weak in the knees. By the time Lila opened the door, Rae was doubled over.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Rae said as Lila helped her inside. “I just collapsed.”

  “And you decided to do it here,” Lila said.

  Actually, Lila felt panicky, and the only reason she went into the kitchen for some water was to get Rae on her feet and out of the house as quickly as possible. Lila stood at the sink and gulped down a glass of water herself before rinsing out the glass and filling it for Rae. In the living room, Rae took the water greedily, and she didn’t notice that Lila was staring at her until she was done.

  “I came to have my fortune read,” Rae explained.

  Lila was wearing blue slacks and a white cotton shirt. Without her turban and her silver bracelets she looked like someone you’d meet on line in the market, and Rae felt somewhat ridiculous asking her to see into the future.

  “I work by appointment,” Lila said sternly.

  She would have said anything then to get rid of Rae.

  “It’s an emergency,” Rae confided. “The man I’m in love with left me.”

  “If you consider that an emergency, half the women in Hollywood would be here right now.”

  Rae could feel herself sinking. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Lila said. “Not here.”

  Lila went back to the kitchen for a bottle of vinegar to hold under Rae’s nose. When some of Rae’s color returned, Lila went to the front door and opened it.

  “You’re right—I need air,” Rae said gratefully. “And maybe some more water.”

  “Anything else?” Lila snapped, taking the empty glass.

  “A cracker?” Rae called after her.

  Lila brought out a box of Wheat Thins and a fresh glass of water. She told herself that in less than five minutes Rae would be deposited back on the street.

  “This is fabulous,” Rae said as she took out a cracker and bit it in half.

  “I don’t think you understand,” Lila said. “I do readings by appointment only. I can’t have anyone just walk in off the street.”

  “Oh,” Rae said. She had the other half of her cracker in her mouth, but now she was too self-conscious to chew. The Wheat Thin expanded, swelling her cheek.

  If Rae hadn’t looked so pathetic, Lila might not have sat down in the rocking chair and reconsidered.

  “When did he leave you?” Lila asked.

  “A week ago,” Rae said. “If I knew he was coming back I wouldn’t mind waiting. I really wouldn’t.”

  “Twenty-five dollars,” Lila said. “And I don’t take personal checks.”

  Rae reached int
o her purse and counted out two tens and a five.

  “I hope you understand that you may not like what I have to say,” Lila warned her.

  “I don’t care,” Rae said. “I’m ready for anything. You can tell me everything you know.”

  Lila had no intention of doing that. This reading was not for Rae, but for herself. A simple thing like going into the kitchen and filling the teapot was suddenly an act of courage. Lifting the teapot onto the stove’s front burner seemed to take forever; time was moving in that odd way it does when you are terrified of what may happen next, and your senses are slow and dull. As the water began to heat up, Lila looked out into the yard. Richard stood on a stepladder and picked lemons off the tree. A neighbor called across the hedge and Lila could hear the two men discuss fertilizer. But after a while Lila could no longer hear their voices; she couldn’t hear the thud of lemons as they dropped into a wicker basket. Instead, she heard the flare of Hannie’s stiff black skirts as the old woman shrank back and moved against the wall. Lila had brought Stephen to the restaurant just to meet Hannie, but now she could see that she shouldn’t have. Hannie looked right through Stephen, even after he had given her his most winning smile, the one that worked on nearly everyone. When he asked the old woman for a reading, she laughed out loud—but it was a hollow sound that echoed in the kitchen and made the cooks put down the knives they were using to cut up potatoes for soup and stare at each other uneasily.

  “Lila talks about you all the time,” Stephen said to Hannie. “Don’t tell me that now you won’t tell my fortune.”

  Hannie hadn’t answered. Instead, she gave him one long look, and the heat she threw off nearly burnt a hole right through him.

  “I don’t need tea leaves to tell you his future,” Hannie said to Lila, just as if Stephen weren’t there.

  Stephen stood up; he went to the counter and didn’t look over his shoulder. And there Lila was, in the middle. Now, Hannie wouldn’t look at her either, and when Lila reached for the old woman’s hand, Hannie’s fingers seemed to retract, and Lila was left holding on to the table. Lila made her decision then and there; she got up and followed Stephen to the counter—although when he put his arm around her, Lila swore he was doing it for spite, more for Hannie’s benefit than anything else. Of course, Hannie’s rejection only made Stephen even more curious, and from that time on he was after Lila to read his tea leaves. But even then, Lila must have had some hint as to what would happen, because she refused him again and again.