by Susan Conley
Jamie closed his eyes and shuffled the cards, his strong fingers dexterous, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the movement. He smelled of clean laundry, and fresh food, and the spring night that was wafting over the windowsill. She watched him manipulate the cards — Lucky old things, thought Annabelle. Maybe I should have told I needed to be sitting on his lap in order to summon up the correct vibrations —
Jamie cut the cards into three piles and set them down. “Right. Go on, then.”
Annabelle turned over the top card on each stack.
The Three of Pentacles in the position of the present.
The Chariot in the position of the inherent challenge.
The World as the outcome.
“I can write these down for you if like, I never remember anybody’s readings. The pad there by the phone — thanks. This first card, the three of Pentacles, it’s all about success through effort. There’s so much going on right now, there’s an amazing amount of productivity, and the potential for even more work … ” She paused to choose her words carefully, and Jamie watched her eyes scan the cards, with the same utterly focused look that came over Maeve when she read the leaves.
“The Chariot, in the second position? It’s about journeying, not just physically of course, and in fact, it’s more often about spiritual movement, but I’m just getting the feeling that it’s about physical space as well. Because the last one, The World, is about wholeness, the journey into the completion of your being, your soul … hmmm. There’s plenty going on, and it’s all ‘right’, if you take my meaning, you’re not wasting your time or anything, it’s all about fulfillment of your personal truth as a person and as an artist.”
Annabelle shook her head. “That was a bit pompous sounding, maybe.” Suddenly nervous, she went to put on more hot water.
Jamie looked down at the spread, distracted by the fascinating imagery on the cards. “No, that’s exactly what I wanted to know.” He looked up at Annabelle, as she started doing the dishes, and reached out to grab her elbow. “Come on now, it’s grand. I’m impressed. It’s just another in the long line of interesting things about Annabelle.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder, and shut off the faucet. The dishes could wait. “Have you got any more questions?”
He shuffled the deck again, and closed his eyes. Opening them, he cut the cards in to three piles — hesitated, and then cut the deck twice more.
Annabelle arched her brows. “Okay, then.”
“It felt right,” Jamie grinned, and watched as Annabelle slid the top card off of each pile, and then turned them over one by one.
The King of Cups. The Queen of Cups. The Ace of Wands. The Ace of Cups. The Sun.
Now what? Annabelle thought, as she blushed furiously. She gathered up the cards. “Um, a positive outcome. A ‘yes’, for lack of a better word. Thumbs up, as it were.” She shuffled the deck a little madly, and stuffed it back into its box.
Jamie grabbed her arm again. “What? Was it bad?”
“No, I told you,” Annabelle blustered. “Full speed ahead.”
He smiled up at her, guilelessly. “I’m really interested to know what they meant.”
“Well, I put them away, I told you I forget as soon as I — ”
Jamie took up the pen and drew. “There was a king and queen. And then one that was a staff. The second was a cup, on its own? And the last one was easy, the Sun.” He showed her the paper. “So?”
Damn it. How was she going to explain the reading without explaining the reading? You’re assuming that he was asking about you, and himself, you and he together. Well, what else could it be? He came over here, made you dinner, told you straight out, basically, that he was single, and now he extracts the most sexual combination of cards you’ve ever seen in your life including your own court card —
“There I go again!” She forced a laugh.
“Away with the fairies,” Jamie said. He set down the pen and sat back, shrugged. “If you don’t know what they mean, it’s perfectly fine — ”
“I know what they mean! What, just because I don’t have all kinds of bells and whistles, tables spinning around and clouds of sage everywhere doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Fine,” she huffed, “if you must know, the answer to your question is yes, the event that you’re hoping will come to pass, one that is of a romantic — ”
KnockknockKNOCKknock — KNOCK! Jamie and Annabelle swung around to the door.
Annabelle reached over and yanked it open. “Ned, what a surprise!”
“Would you mind turning down your music? I’m trying to watch American Idol!” Nosy Ned craned his head around Annabelle, and Jamie thought he’d do the bugger a favor by standing up so he could get a good look.
“Ned, my music isn’t that loud. You know what? I am sick and tired of your prying and nosiness. I am entertaining. Mind your own business!” She slammed the door in his face, and turned around, leaning against it.
“That was long overdue. He’s been torturing me for years, the nosy creep, and — ”
Jamie moved closer. “You were saying?”
“About?”
“The cards.”
“Oh. Um. Forgot. Sorry!”
“Something something, event I am hoping for will come to pass, ‘one that was of a romantic’, and then we got interrupted.” Jamie leaned a hand on the door next to Annabelle’s head, and shifted forward. Just a little, a little bit, but just enough.
“One that is of a … romantic nature. It will come to pass.” Annabelle glanced at Jamie’s mouth, which now seemed perfectly aligned with her own.
“And the cards never lie.”
“Nope.” She must stop staring at his mouth. “Never.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” he murmured as he felt an inexorable pull toward Annabelle’s somewhat parted lips.
“Oh, good. I hate it when people hate their readings,” Annabelle gasped, as he ran a finger down the side of her face, ending at the bottom of her chin, which he tipped up slightly.
“I am almost perfectly satisfied,” he whispered, as she gripped his wrist and then allowed her fingers to caress the back of his hand.
“Almost doesn’t count,” she practically moaned, as their eyes fluttered shut and she could smell the chamomile tea and honey on his breath as —
KnockknockKNOCKknock — KNOCK!!! The furious banging, landing, as it did, directly behind Annabelle’s head, inspired a great leap of fright out of her, with the consequence that she and Jamie painfully banged foreheads; she landed rather heavily on his foot, which knocked him off-balance and sent him crashing to the floor. Annabelle wrenched open the door once more, and glared down into the angrily trembling face of Nosy Ned.
“I’ve done a lot for you in the past, Annabelle, and I really resent the fact that you couldn’t be a bit more polite and hear me out when I made one simple request. And another thing. I don’t think that strangers should be wandering around in our vestibule!”
Jamie moved forward, swaggering, Annabelle thought, and as involuntarily thrilling as that was, it was up to her to put a stop to this. She looked up at Jamie, who was glaring down at fat little Nosy Ned, and laid a hand on his chest. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and slipping out the door, forced Ned further into the hallway.
Annabelle opened her mouth to send him packing but before she could so much as inhale, a fierce and silent wind blew from behind her, plastering Ned up against the opposite wall. He fought mightily, as strenuously as one of ‘Johan und Johannes’ mimes, but to no avail; the mystery wind was too much for him, and tumbling like a leaf in a breeze, he was swept away on its current, around and around, up the stairs, into his flat, the dregs of the tempest slamming his door firmly behind him.
Annabelle leaned against her door, thankful that Jamie hadn’t witnessed that. As
open-minded as he seemed to be, she didn’t think that he was ready to deal with this Pooka business.
“I wasn’t going to hit him,” Jamie grumbled as Annabelle shut the door behind her.
Men and their manly egos. Unbelievable. “I know. I’ve been avoiding confronting him forever. He’s been bugging me ever since I moved in here, so it was up to me to do it myself.” Sort of.
Jamie shoved his hands in pockets and glared at the floor. “Feckin’ little bugger ruined, you know, a moment.”
Annabelle began a straightening-up campaign, trying not to grin at his sulky tone. His hand on her lower back wiped the smile off her face as a little chill chased up her spine, and she started drying dishes a bit maniacally. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Sure, we might be able to find our way back, if we tried hard enough.”
Annabelle turned, clutching the teapot. “I have this thing — it’s sort of a reverse voyeuristic hang up? I hate thinking that anybody’s, you know, watching, and I mean, I know that Nosy Ned can’t see us, but I just know he’s got a glass to the floor, or something and I, I’d feel really anxious and nervy and wiggly and stuff.” She grimaced. “It’s dumb, I know, but if I’m not going to enjoy it — I mean, I know that I would, on some level, on a lot of levels!” She looked up at Jamie, beseechingly. “I mean — ”
He grinned. “Now I know what it sounds like when you talk to yourself in your head.” He tugged at a lock of her hair. “No worries, missus. Anticipation is half the fun, I always say.” He gathered up his knives and whisk and collapsible vegetable steamer, and Annabelle opened the door.
“That was really lovely. Except for the head-banging, falling over part.” Annabelle shrugged gamely.
“I’ll ring about an excursion to the auntie’s. Think about it.”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure. And the head-banging wasn’t so bad, but the falling over — fugeddabowdit.”
“Ah, Ben Stiller. Very good!” Laughing, Annabelle shut and locked her door, and held up a hand. “Callie — not in the mood, okay? There is no way you can be more pissed off than I am right now, so let’s just leave it.”
Turning off lights and blowing out candles, Annabelle headed off for bed, and didn’t hear the pounding that was coming from above, as Nosy Ned suddenly found himself the ball in an impromptu game of invisible soccer.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lugging her stuff out of 1175 Sixth Avenue, Annabelle sighed and slid her shades over her eyes. The midday sun shot off the glass and metal of midtown’s skyscrapers with a vengeance, and the buildings flashed and glittered as a cloud or two raced across the sun. It was the first truly warm day of the season, and the district’s canyon-like atmosphere served to trap the heat and intensify it. Add to that the manic hustle and bustle of office workers, couriers, deli delivery boys, and worst of all, tourists, and Annabelle felt almost unbearably oppressed by the environment. Give her the low-lying buildings of good ol’ Brooklyn any day.
And oh, God, the traffic. Every single taxi that went by was engaged, and she simply couldn’t face the subway, not at rush hour, not all the way back to Carroll Gardens from midtown. Hands on hips, she wondered yet again where her Pooka had gotten to, and why, when she could really use a supernatural helping hand, she was never around?
Callie would have also come in handy at the beginning of the interview: the subject, a middle-aged business man type she was meant to profile for BusinessWeek, had been so stiff and uncooperative that Annabelle had despaired of getting anything out of him at all. She had sent a thought out to her Pooka, asking her to shake the guy up a bit, but no mischief had been forthcoming.
That’s when Annabelle decided to think like a Pooka. While making a show of putting a new tape into her recorder, she noticed that Mr. Uptight Business Man was wearing a Jerry Garcia original tie.
“Mind putting on some music? I find it really inspiring,” Annabelle said. Even if it will make transcribing this tape a complete nightmare.
“Sure!” Business Man showed a spark of enthusiasm. ‘What do you like to listen to?”
“Well, I’d have to agree with Hunter Thompson — ‘Workingman’s Dead’ was one of the best records of the early seventies.”
After that, he was putty in her hands, and she was certain that her lead would have to be a description of his rousing session of air guitar while standing on his desk.
Well, she’d solved that problem. Now how about this one? She supposed she could go back inside, beg the security guy for the number of a car service … Don’t be ridiculous! A car service! Get on the F train, lazybones! She resolutely turned toward Sixth Avenue, when she saw Lorna and Maria Grazia walking toward her.
“Fancy meeting you here,” said Annabelle, trying for jolly and cheerful.
“Hey, honey,” said Maria Grazia.
“Hello,” said Lorna.
“Just passing through?” Annabelle looked expectantly at her friends.
Lorna looked confused, and Maria Grazia sounded it. “No,” she said, “We knew you’d be here, and we wanted to patch things up in person.”
It was Annabelle’s turn to be bewildered. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“You told us,” Lorna said impatiently.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did!” Lorna huffed. “On Sunday. You said you were doing an interview in midtown at end of business.”
“I did not. I didn’t even get this job until this morning.” Annabelle looked from one to the other. “It was a last minute thing, I got the call at 9:00 A.M. Which was ridiculous, but I couldn’t say no — ”
“You told us on Sunday!” Lorna was becoming increasingly shrill. “You must have told us, because how would we know otherwise! Maria Grazia, she told us on Sunday, didn’t she? Maria Grazia!”
Maria Grazia was shaking her head, thinking. “We knew this. Somehow we knew you’d be here. But how we knew it, I don’t know … ”
Annabelle arched a brow and leaned back down for her bag. “I’d love to make it up with you guys, but I have the feeling we’re going to descend into more argument if I broach a possible explanation for this unusual occurrence. Why not help me get a taxi, and we’ll meet Friday for dinner or something? I’d rather not hash it all out in the middle of the street anyway, and — ”
Lorna, who had been staring over Annabelle’s shoulder, suddenly reached out and grabbed her friend’s arm, a look of wary shock on her face. Maria Grazia, from her vantage point, could see what Lorna saw and braced herself for whatever was going to happen next.
Annabelle turned to look.
It was as if midtown Manhattan had gone into slow motion, sight and sound almost grinding to a halt. The light glared off the windshield of a nearby delivery van, temporarily blinding her, and through the flash of that bright white light, a couple appeared, arm in arm, walking toward her. Their shining hair glinted in the ferocious sunshine, and as they strolled toward Annabelle, she realized that it was Wilson. Wilson and that little redheaded bitch, Winifred. Wilson was monologuing, his voice drowned out by the bustling traffic, and Winifred smiled and nodded as he leaned over briefly and kissed the top of her head.
Out of the corner of her eye, Winifred saw Annabelle, and she raised her left hand to wave as regally as the Queen of England, to wave with her palm turned toward herself to ensure that Annabelle noticed the big, fat, shining, shimmering, sparkling diamond on her ring finger. She smiled and waved, waved and smiled, as the cold surge of utter disbelief threatened to knock Annabelle to her knees. She felt Maria Grazia’s hand on her back, bracing her, and she saw Lorna’s angry, disbelieving expression, and she quite simply froze and couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything.
The happy couple passed them by, close enough to touch, and Wilson, self-absorbed as usual, didn’t notice Ann
abelle or her friends. Still, as if in slow motion, Winifred continued to smile and wave — which is why she didn’t see the huge, wet dog come bounding across the street after having rolled around in the leavings of a carriage horse — didn’t see the big, wet, smelly dog making his way for her — didn’t see the dog leap over a parked car to jump right smack onto her chest, not only knocking her onto the pavement as he lashed his big smelly tongue all over her now grimacing, screaming face, but also knocking the big, fat emerald-cut diamond out of its platinum setting.
Wilson scrambled for the stone and it rolled out of his reach, rolled and rolled and rolled until it found, as if it had been looking for it, a subway grate that opened onto the deepest, darkest bowels of New York City. Gleefully, it skipped off a gray, dried mound of chewing gum, and, flashing its last, fell into what would surely be its final resting place.
Motion resumed its normal pace, as Lorna hustled to flag down a cab, Maria Grazia steered Annabelle into the backseat, and the cabbie miraculously accepted a Brooklyn destination with equanimity. Maria Grazia got in front and looked back at her friends. Lorna was uncharacteristically quiet, and was clutching Annabelle’s hand.
As the cabbie prepared to pull away from the curb, the dog leaped up at Lorna’s window and barked three times. Annabelle came out of her haze and looked the dog in its eyes — its piercing, hazel eyes. She began to laugh.
“She’s insane,” said Lorna.
“She’s shocked,” said Maria Grazia.
“She’s the dog!” said Annabelle, laughing her head off.
• • •
Lorna deferred to Maria Grazia, and waited for her cue. They had followed a now-silent Annabelle into her place, and both waited in the front room as their friend unloaded her gear. Maria Grazia had bustled around, lighting candles, digging out a box of tissues, and even though she didn’t approve, she had also found a pack of Marlboro Lights, and had helpfully extracted a few, laying them within easy reach. Lorna sat down on the couch, and Maria Grazia stood, wondering if there really was anything to be done to help.
