How do you do it? Emily had asked Cheryl one day when visiting to buy an umbrella and plastic cups. How do you manage to stand here for eight hours a day? You don’t even have a chair!
Cheryl shrugged. I’m just standing here, she said. It’s not rocket science. I mostly have to keep myself from falling asleep. That’s the hardest part. Cheryl chewed gum when she spoke, a habit that reminded Emily of being a teenager. Chewing gum and sitting in your room, the smell of nail polish and magazine perfume samples, watching television for clues about how to be an adult and worrying deeply about how well a particular boy liked you, a boy who you would probably never see again after high school. They’d all be gone, all of your friends, probably, scattered. Those were the beautiful years before you understood how temporary other people can be.
Do you know anything about the Free Will Baptist Church? Emily asked. She hadn’t gone back since the meeting, but felt she should do something to return Levi’s kindness.
Cheryl nodded. Everybody knows them—nice, but hoity-toity, you know? Think Heartshorne’s their town. They look down on people who show up to church not dressed to nines. My Momma used to go to the nondenominational church up in the Painted Hills. Cheryl pointed vaguely towards Arkansas, where a jagged but short range of mountains interrupted the highway. They didn’t look down on nobody for how they dressed.
Emily nodded. I went there the other night, to the Free Will Baptist church, I mean. They had a dinner.
Cheryl removed her gum and put it back in the foil wrapper.
That’s how they get you to come—all friendly at first. Then they come to your house and want you to commit yourself to Jesus and come to their church. She shook her head. Once they came to my door. I told them I worship Jesus in my own way. She looked up at Emily, suddenly, her eyes wary. It was such a swift, clear change that Emily was afraid that she’d somehow offended. Are you big into church? Cheryl asked.
I’ve never been to a church service, Emily said, not before this one I went to, and it wasn’t even a service, really. My parents didn’t have a religion. I guess I’m an agnostic. Don’t really believe in any of it.
Connie had believed in astrology and in the presence of evil, free-floating and capable of showing up in anyone, anywhere, and that was about all. She checked the paper every morning for her own horoscope and Emily’s and read them aloud, scoffing the entire time.
This isn’t real astrology, she’d say. You have to know the time of birth, the moon sign, the houses, all of that.
Cheryl sniffed. Well, I believe in God and Jesus and all, she said. I just don’t think I gotta be in church all day, you know?
Emily liked Cheryl because she need only be asked a question and she’d be off, rarely pausing to ask Emily her thoughts on the subject. Emily liked this. She didn’t want to talk about her thoughts right now.
Cheryl talked about her children, all three in consecutive grades at Heartshorne Elementary School. She talked about the man she was dating who had just gotten a ticket for driving with an open beer can in his truck, even though he wasn’t even drinking the beer. She talked and Emily listened, happy to hear the sound of anyone’s voice but her own echoing in her head.
Sometimes, Emily drove to Keno for amusement. Keno had a decent library, a cafe, and a few restaurants. Heartshorne had a library, too, a tiny place where teenagers came to check their e-mail on the two old computers and flip through fashion magazines. Emily kept her reading to classics and mass-market novels—Stephen King, Daniel Steele, and some pocket classics like Tess of the d’Urbervilles or a smattering of Dickens novels in crumbling hardback. She’d taken home Tess, Carrie, and It. They’d all given her nightmares. And there was The Garden, the occult shop. The week after the church meeting, she visited for the first time. She didn’t expect to find anything but incense and water pipes and books about chakras and yoga mats. The Garden was just outside of Keno, before the Welcome to Keno sign proclaimed its name and the famous citizens who had hailed from there—a country singer who had won the second season of American Idol and a professional football player. The store had only a small hanging sign outside of an otherwise normal one-story house, the house notable only becuase it wasn’t a trailer or a crumbling one-story with a yard full of waist-high weeds, car parts, or children’s toys bleaching in the sun. The land between Heartshorne and Keno was not just empty, but emptied-out, as though everybody who was able had picked up and left together, leaving behind only what they had broken or objects too large to take along—cars with flat tires and children’s playhouses. The land flattened and emptied as Emily drove north, the stretches of space covered in scraggly, dried grass. It was like the surface of the moon for stretches, rocky and with no sign of human life aside from the road she was driving on and the trash that littered the edges of the highway. And then, The Garden’s sign appeared, so small she had to squint to make sure it was the right place.
Emily pulled in to the driveway, which was newly laid with bright, white and gray pebbles. The door made a vague, hollow bump. Wooden wind chimes.
Hello. The first thing that Emily thought when she looked up was that this was the first man she’d met in Oklahoma that she could be persuaded to sleep with. His hair was close-shaven to his head, the chosen haircut of balding men. She envied his eyelashes, the thick and black kind that women try to achieve with mascara. Can I help you with anything? He asked.
No, she said. Just looking. Thank you. She looked away from the register, where the man resumed leaning on the counter, a laptop opened before him. She focused on the bookshelves, which were stocked with the usual—books by the Dalai Lama, Starhawke, and Eckhart Tolle. The incense ran the usual gamut of scents, from sandalwood to midnight, a smell that reminded her of soap in a public bathroom.
Is this your first visit?
Yes, she said, examining the poorly-made hemp bracelets.
How did you hear about us?
She laughed. Actually, I heard about you from church. I was warned this was an occult establishment.
He nodded. Yeah, we get that a lot. He stood up straighter and crossed his arms. You here to tell me about how I’m luring people to hell via incense and tarot readings?
No, she said, no. I’m not really concerned about hell. You do tarot readings here? She asked. She’d never gotten a reading from anyone but her mother before, and she suspected her mother
We’re offering reduced-price readings, if you’re interested, he said.
I’m not sure if I’m interested in knowing the future.
He shook his head. I’m not interested in the future either, he said. It doesn’t exist anyway.
She didn’t know what he meant—wasn’t that exactly what a Tarot reading was for? Now she was curious.
How much?
20 for fifteen minutes. 30 for an half-hour.
How about a half hour? Emily said.
The man behind the counter smiled and rose. Excellent, he said.
Claire! He called, and from a door adjacent to the cash register, a woman emerged. She was young, younger than the man or Emily. Her dark hair flew free when she shook it free from a clip and gathered it back up on her head again. Emily felt her stomach tighten. She wished she could back out, now, seeing this girl who seemed so sure of herself. You could tell just by the way she twisted her hair expertly on top of her head that she did not spend her days alone in an enormous, empty house. Emily didn’t want this girl knowing anything about her present or her future.
Can you take the register? He asked. I’ve got a client.
Okay, the girl said, glancing quickly at Emily and then away, seeing nothing worth noting, Emily thought. Emily had wanted hair like that as a teenager—black and wild and everywhere. Instead, her hair was smooth and straight and unassuming. She was tall, and the long, straight hair lent to that, so she scrunched her body in strange angles to accommodate rooms or people, arms pretzeled or hips slanted to make her smaller.
Come back here with me, the man said, and
opened the door.
The back room was small and dim, the shelves filled with books, boxes of incense and candles. In the middle of the room, a small wooden table was covered with a piece of white silk, strangely clean and bright in such a place. A cedar box sat in the middle of the table.
Sit down, the man said.
I didn’t know you were the reader at first, Emily said. The man wrestled a folding chair from behind a stack of boxes. I mean, I’ve never heard of a male tarot reader before. He didn’t answer. She’d offended him, she thought, or maybe he thought the comment too stupid to bother answering. The room was windowless and the bright boxes of incense seeped a dusty smell through the air. He wrested the chair from the behind the boxes and unfolded it across from her. She kept her hands folded in her lap.
Sorry about all that, he said, opening the wooden box. A clean scent of cedar drifted out. Inside, it was only cards wrapped in a silk hankerchief.
I have to admit that I don’t get very many readings, he said. It isn’t the usual thing around here. So I hadn’t set up ahead of time. He held the cards between his hands as if to warm them and looked at her, his gaze disarmingly steady. She looked down at the cards, avoiding his eyes. You’re right, he said, there aren’t that many male readers—at least not my age. He smiled. He was normal. As normal as a man who read tarot cards in a windowless closet could be.
She was surprised by her own relief: she’d let the church meeting spook her.
What’s your name? he asked, setting down the cards in a neat pile before him.
Emily. What’s yours?
Jonathan. He bowed his head slightly. Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you, too. She looked down at the cards. He began to shuffle again, and as he shuffled she looked at the shadows of his face and how his hands separated and joined the cards over and over and remembered that she was alone and that she didn’t even have a cat back at her small house. He stopped shuffling and made eye contact, which she slid her gaze away from.
I recommend not asking about the future, he said. Like I told you, it doesn’t exist. He placed one hand to the side of his mouth as though to shield his speech when he said the last part, as if somebody were there to hear him give away a trade secret. Emily nodded.
Can I ask you something personal, just before we begin? She asked. Her throat seemed chalk-filled as she spoke and she felt her color rise, which surprised her. She was growing unused to speaking casually with people. She’d been in the woods too long. She remembered this feeling of sudden embarrassment at existing from her elementary school years, her blood and sweat rising up to show whoever she was speaking to that she was only an animal, all blood and water like everyone else, nothing to be afraid of.
Sure, he said. Shoot.
You live around here? She asked.
He nodded.
How long?
I grew up in Keno, but I lived in the city for a while.
Emily laughed. Which city? In Heartshorne, Keno’s the city.
Oklahoma City, he said. I lived in one of the ugliest, most dilapidated apartment buildings you can imagine. I think the paint was laced with lead and there were three outlets in the entire place. We had to unplug the refrigerator to use the toaster. I loved it there, though. I never thought I’d come back.
Why did you? She asked.
He jerked his head toward the closed door. My parents are getting older. They had this shop in Keno, but they couldn’t keep up. My sister and I moved the inventory to this new location and they retired. He shrugged. I came back because there wasn’t any reason not to, he said. Nothing in the city. I began to wonder why I’d stayed away. After years of living in the city, I left and there was hardly anyone to say goodbye to that mattered.
She watched him resume his shuffling. The cards did not move so smoothly in his hands now. She wondered if she had asked him something too personal, but his face didn’t reveal anything.
So, you’re a local, she said. You’re from here.
He smiled at her. I grew up here, but I’m not a local. But after ten years away, I don’t know what I am. Some people remember me. Most people don’t. He stopped shuffling and set the cards down. He looked at her and she looked down at the table’s smoothed-down grain. Are you from around here? He asked.
I just moved to the area, she said. My family was from here. My mother, grandparents, all of them. He nodded, picking up the cards again. He’s probably bored, she thought. Probably wants me to get on with it already. She knew what she wanted to ask about. Her family of course. That was what she didn’t understand.
I have a question, she said. A tarot question, I mean.
Go ahead.
What do I need to know about my family history? In order to live here, I mean. What would be helpful?
He closed his eyes and shuffled. She was able to watch him without worry when his eyes were closed. He had a puckered earring hole in each lobe, a patch of graying hair just above his left ear, and a slight cleft to his chin. When he finished, he gently slapped the pack of cards down against the table to straighten them and then set them down.
Take the cards, he said, sliding them across the table to her. Cut the deck. She took a third of the deck from the top and slid it under the other two-thirds.
He laid out five cards and named each as he put it face-up on the table. The cards were bright and roughly drawn, cartoonish almost, like illustrated medieval woodcuts. Past, he said, and laid down the first card: The Tower. People fell from the Tower, which had been broken open by a bolt of lightning. Below the fire and rubble, people prayed, their hands upraised to the angry, red-streaked sky.
Jesus, Emily said aloud. He didn’t respond.
Near-past: Eight of Swords. A woman, blindfolded, her arms bound, was surrounded by a circle of swords.
Present: The Hanged Man. Upside down, a man bound at the ankles hung from a jutting tree branch. His eyes were closed, his hair surrounded by a halo of light.
Near-Future: Six of Swords. A couple crossing a black, choppy sea, swords bundled at the back of their tiny boat.
Future: The Fool. A young man—or woman, the sex wasn’t clear—was steps away from the edge of a cliff, a flute pressed against his mouth as a dog nipped at the edges of his coat.
She looked at each card, and then the whole scene together, the weeping, the uncertain destinations, the cliffs. She couldn’t help but speak aloud: This looks grim, she said.
Let’s figure out what we are looking at first, before we decide if it’s grim or not, he said. What jumps out at you first? Which card, which image?
The Hanged Man, she said, the Hanged Man as my present. And the Tower. That building crumbling, the people on their knees. He nodded. He looked down at the cards, silent, a fist balled under his chin. He didn’t speak.
Is it bad? She asked. His seriousness made her nervous.
He laughed. None of the cards are bad.
Even this one where people seem to be jumping from a burning building?
Even that one.
She looked at The Tower until she could imagine the scene on the cards moving, the figures falling from the tower, the people below shielding their eyes from the brightness and screaming.
He pointed to The Tower. Your family history has one enormous, life-changing upheaveal in the past, something that defined the lives of your family members and possibly affected your life—does that mean anything to you?
Emily shrugged. I don’t know much about my family. My mother left Heartshorne when she was a teenager.
So you don’t know why they left? She shook her head. He touched the card. She noticed that his fingernails were long and ragged; he didn’t cut them, but chewed them.
What happened was out of their control, he said. Something out of the blue that could not be avoided, like a natural disaster or an event that somebody else initiated. I imagine it was something that made the papers, if you’re curious about finding out exactly what it was. The Tower is always something big.
He touched the card with the bound woman. In the near past, you or somebody close to you—maybe your parents—have felt trapped by this past event, unwilling to change or move past it. This card is about pain in movement. Moving past this thing will be painful, there’s no doubt, but the movement has to happen. She’s surrounded by swords, but she can’t stay where she is, blindfolded. She needs to use a sword to cut herself free.
He pointed to the Hanged Man. This card means that you—definitely you, not anyone else—are experiencing an intense, probably painful period, but you have to let it happen. Hang there.
Let myself be hanged, Emily joked, but Jonathan said nothing.
And look at this, he said, excited, look at the near future. The Six of Swords. There will be some kind of journey—often, it literally means crossing the water, but it can also be metaphorical. There will be some kind of passage across difficulty. You’ll be safe, in the end. He pointed to the Hanged Man. Coupled with this card, I’d say that the martyrdom won’t be too bad: it’s something you can take, because it will end well. You will come across the difficulty.
It looks to me like the waters are choppy, she said. Like the boat might sink.
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