1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

  “Then you’re actually a skeptic, too.” Our server had brought some delicious looking cheese rolls and I grabbed one, though my appetite had disappeared. Because I hadn’t knocked on wood perhaps?

  “‘Too’? Then you’re not a believer? Why are you here?” That was Preston. He had also taken a roll and looked at me with apparent interest as he slathered butter on it.

  Should I tell them? Why not? Maybe Tarzal, the superstition expert, would have an explanation, or at least an opinion that could help me find my own closure.

  “Because I want to know the reality of superstitions.” Not wanting to meet either man’s gaze, I took a sip of water and gazed at one of the paintings on the wall—the one depicting a ladder and a man staring at it, as if daring himself to walk under it.

  Feeling my eyes moisten, I drew in my breath, then told them my story, about how my fiancé Warren had walked under a ladder, then died. Not because the ladder fell on him or anything logical.

  “He was a CPA who worked at an accounting firm in an office building in downtown Los Angeles. He went outside at lunchtime one day. A nearby shop was having repair work done on its exterior. I’m not sure whether he was even aware that he had walked under that ladder since it leaned over the sidewalk. Some construction equipment fell, and although Warren wasn’t struck by it, a car swerved to avoid it and hit him. Killed him.” I realized I’d been holding my breath as I said this and made myself exhale.

  For the first time during this meal, I wished that I, too, had ordered an alcoholic beverage.

  I was surprised when Preston reached over and gently took hold of my arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss, my dear.”

  “Me, too,” Tarzal said. I glanced up at him and did see sympathy in his expression. And was that a gleam in his eye, too? Was he going to use this in his next version of his book or something else, proof that superstitions did come true?

  “So what do you think,” I asked him confrontationally. “Is that a sign of the reality of superstitions?”

  “What matters is what you think, Rory, not me. Even after all the work I’ve put into studying superstitions, I can’t give you a definitive answer. Are superstitions real? Maybe. Maybe not. Was your fiancé’s death the result of one? Again—”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I parroted. “That’s my problem. I don’t know. I want to know.”

  “All I can tell you,” Tarzal said, “is that, in my studies and experience, I’ve never come up with an absolute answer. But here’s the lowdown, as I understand it.”

  I sat up straighter, eager to hear.

  “People long to control their lives, their destinies. Their luck. They don’t want to believe that most things in life occur randomly. They want to be in charge. And so, at least some of them buy into superstitions. You want good luck, you want to avoid bad luck, then follow whatever superstitions you think will give you what you want. And then you can interpret what happens in whatever way you want, too.”

  He’d sort of said that in his book, but in a much more positive way: If you follow those superstitions, then you will be able to control your destiny. Experience of others had proven it over time.

  Maybe.

  “I understand,” I said. “But the fact that my fiancé happened to have walked under a ladder, probably without even thinking about it … does that mean—”

  “That means … who knows? Is that particular superstition real? What do you think?”

  “Ah, our meals are here,” Preston interrupted. “Let’s eat, then we’ll tell you about some superstitions that appear to have come true …

  like yours.”

  What was that about? The expert on superstitions was a skeptic and his business partner believed? Or was there something else going on that I didn’t follow?

  I felt utterly frustrated that, during the rest of lunch, I couldn’t return the topic to Warren’s death. I had spilled my insides and neither of these men gave a damn.

  Well, why should they? I was a stranger asking questions about the world in which they made their living.

  I wanted to know more about the randomness, and the control, that Tarzal had spoken of—and their reality. But if these men thought they really had the answers, they weren’t sharing them.

  Even though they did share examples of both positive and negative superstitions.

  I finished eating quickly and paid the check—despite their token attempts to treat me instead—and felt relieved when we finally walked back toward their store and the one where I was apparently, thanks to superstition, the temporary manager.

  I considered that some of Preston’s examples, a rainbow and crossed fingers and knocking on wood, were illustrations of the best known good luck superstitions.

  There seemed to be an equal number—maybe even more—of those that supposedly brought bad luck, like spilling salt without tossing some over your shoulder, breaking a mirror, opening an umbrella inside a house, and having a black cat cross your path.

  Not to mention walking under a ladder.

  People wanted to control their worlds? Well, so did I. I’d only scratched the surface so far. These men hadn’t convinced me either way.

  Maybe Tarzal was right, and if you believed, they came true —because, rightly or wrongly, you accepted that they did.

  But what if you didn’t believe, or didn’t know? My dear Warren had never struck me as superstitious, and yet he had died after his own ladder incident. That wasn’t because I believed, either, since although I said “bless you” sometimes after people sneezed and knocked on wood, it was habit, not because I genuinely bought into superstitions’ reality.

  But what if they truly were real? What if I could have controlled my fate and Warren’s by keeping him far away from that damned ladder—as I’d been wondering ever since?

  Answers? No. Only more questions circled my mind, maybe like a murder of flying crows.

  At this moment, I had an urge to ignore Martha’s request and flee my doubts and insecurity and everything else gnawing at me.

  And that meant fleeing Destiny.

  seven

  I left Tarzal and Preston at their shop a short while later. As I started to walk next door to the Lucky Dog, I thought about calling Gemma since I’d promised I would, but, as luck would have it, she called me first.

  It wasn’t the first time this had happened. I didn’t believe in psychic connections any more than I was certain of the reality of superstitions, yet over the years of our close friendship Gemma had called me more than once at a time when I’d just thought about her.

  Especially while she helped me in my grief over Warren.

  “How are you, Rory?” Her usual caring and curiosity emanated from the tone of her voice. “Is Destiny what you thought it would be? Is it helping you at all?”

  I stopped on the busy sidewalk between the two shops. I figured it was better to have this conversation here than in the Lucky Dog where Millie and Jeri could hear it. Strangers kept on the move and were unlikely to listen in.

  “I don’t know.” I kept myself from wailing, but only just. “I met Kenneth Tarzal, author of that superstition book. In fact, I just had lunch with him and his co-owner of the Broken Mirror Bookstore. But rather than convincing me that superstitions are real and one did cause Warren’s death, he only stirred up my confusion even more.”

  A pause. Then Gemma said, “I’m so sorry, Rory. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to encourage you to go there. Have you learned about other superstitions and their possible validity?”

  There I was, standing on the sidewalk talking on my phone, watching people walk by through the tears that suddenly formed in my eyes. I glanced across the street at the Bouquets of Roses flower shop and saw a bench outside with a sign overhead that indicated a tour van stopped there.

  I didn’t need a tour van, but I did need someplace to sit. I headed
over there. The times on the nearby sign indicated that no van was due for the next fifteen minutes, at least.

  Keeping my voice low as I sat there, I recounted all that had happened since I’d reached Destiny, ending with, “Now I have to decide whether to help that poor unwell lady Martha and run her pet boutique while I do more research on superstitions, or come home and try to put all of this behind me. What do you think, Gemma? Before you called, I was about to call you and ask your advice.”

  “My advice is to listen to your own mind, Rory. And I know what it’s telling you.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Please interpret my own mind to me and let me know what it says.” But despite my sarcastic tone, I knew Gemma was right—as the bright, intuitive librarian usually was.

  “You’re going to stay there till you’re convinced one way or the other about superstitions,” she said. “It’s fantastic luck that you have an additional reason to stay, to manage the Lucky Dog Boutique. What a great name—and with your background it’s a perfect place for you to center yourself.”

  “I won’t stay here forever,” I mused aloud. “I’ll want to head back home and to my own job as soon as Martha can return to her store. So … I’ll call Beverly right away.” She was the manager at the MegaPets where I worked as assistant manager. “If she says okay, I’ll stay. For now.”

  “Good choice.” Hearing the smile in Gemma’s voice I felt my own lips form a tiny grin, too. “I’ll assume that’s what’s happening unless you call back to tell me otherwise. And Rory?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be sure to check in with me more often. I really want to know what you learn about superstitions. It’s all so … well, a matter of luck, isn’t it? Good and bad. I want to believe … I think. And I definitely want to know how things go with you.”

  I promised I’d keep in closer touch, then I hung up.

  Good timing. A family with a child of about six joined me on the bench. As I stood to leave, I called my boss, Beverly. While I waited for traffic to pass so I could cross the street, I quickly related the gist of what was going on.

  “Your Pluckie helped to save this woman, brought her good luck and all that?” Beverly, usually one of the most down-to-earth people I knew, sounded awed. She knew about my loss of Warren and the oddity of his having walked under a ladder first, but she had never commented on the related superstition. Now, she said, “Of course, Rory. Stay as long as you want. You can always return to your position here. Just let me know as things progress when you think you’ll be back.”

  “I appreciate this, Bev.” Or so I told myself. If she’d said no, I’d have had a good excuse to return to my old life.

  Without answers, though.

  Then Beverly added, “Oh, you’re welcome, Rory. But it’s not like I have a choice. I’d no doubt receive a run of bad luck if I don’t cooperate. So let’s cross our fingers and hope that we both have lots of good luck, and the lady you’re helping gets well fast—and you find all the answers you’re looking for.”

  I felt my fingers cross as if she had somehow talked them into it over the phone. “Talk to you soon, Bev.” As I hung up, I finally got a break in traffic and crossed the street.

  Had those two phone calls been the sign I’d wished for yesterday on a fake falling star? I didn’t know, but if I’d truly been superstitious I could interpret them that way.

  Unlike my conversation with Tarzal and Preston.

  When I entered the Lucky Dog, both clerks were busy with customers. Pluckie’s leash was in Millie’s hand. When she saw me, she waved, smiled, and let go. My dog dashed over and jumped up to put her front paws onto my legs, her whole body wiggling like her tail as if she hadn’t seen me in weeks. “It’s okay, girl.” I bent and grinned as she licked my face. When I stood up, the loop of her leash was in my hand.

  A young couple with a Shetland sheepdog on a leash held two collars from a rack, apparently weighing which to buy. Pluckie and I headed toward them, but a man in a bright red knit shirt who’d been near the cash register counter got there first. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Was he another employee? I watched him as he pointed out the stamped-on decorations on the collars, explaining that the depicted head of the greyhound with a white spot on it was said to be lucky. So, on the other one, was the horseshoe. “Either can ensure your little angel will have good luck.” He bent to pat the dog on the head.

  “Let’s get both, honey,” said the woman. The man reached into his pocket for his wallet.

  The guy who’d waited on them motioned for Jeri to come to the register. She complied and ran the credit card.

  After the people and their Sheltie left, Pluckie and I hurried to where Jeri stood talking to the man. She looked frazzled.

  I notice that the man’s shirt had a logo on it that said “Destiny’s Luckiest Tours.” “Are you another employee?” I asked.

  “Well, no. Not yet. But—”

  “Rory, this is Arlen Jallopia, Martha’s nephew. He heard about her illness and came here to … help.”

  I noticed the hesitation and wondered how unhelpful Arlen might really be. He appeared in his mid-twenties, with spiky dark brown hair, a lopsided smile, and a face that vaguely resembled a sitcom star whose name I couldn’t recall.

  “That’s nice of you.” I was unsure of what else to say until I settled on, “Have you gone to the hospital to see your aunt?”

  “Yeah, before. I’m a local tour guide and had to wait till I was between tours, like now. I told her I’d be glad to take some vacation days and manage the store for her, but she said she already had someone lined up. You?” His expression suggested doubts that I could even count to ten, let alone run a store.

  Considering his attitude and the fact that his own aunt hadn’t thought of him first to help her out, I wondered the same about him.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”

  From the corner of my eye I noticed that Jeri’s face had gone from seriously concerned to a huge grin. “Did your aunt tell you about Rory’s background?” she said to Arlen. “She’s the assistant manager of one of the best MegaPets in Los Angeles, near Beverly Hills. She’s got lots of knowledge and skill to run a pet supplies store.” Unlike you seemed to be her silent message.

  “Yes,” I said again. “I’m not sure how long Martha will need me here, but I’ve worked things out so I can stay and manage the store in her absence.”

  “Really? Glad to hear that,” said Millie, who’d joined us.

  “I’m really glad, too, Rory,” Jeri said.

  The only one who appeared less than pleased was Arlen. I considered inviting him to stop in anytime to make sure things looked okay, but that was up to his aunt. Besides, I didn’t really want him scrutinizing me.

  “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again, Rory. I’ll be visiting my aunt upstairs, too, once she’s back.” The glare in his dark eyes suggested he’d see me a lot more than I wanted.

  “Fine,” I said untruthfully. “Oh, where do your tours go? Maybe we can work things out so you can officially show me around town one of these days.” What I didn’t say was that he could do his own job while I did mine, but I hoped he understood the underlying message.

  “All over town. See ya.” And he was gone.

  More customers walked in as he left. Before Millie and Jeri went to help the newcomers they both joined me.

  “Then you really are staying, Rory?” Jeri asked.

  “For now.”

  Jeri gave me a hug. Millie looked a little less thrilled but shot me a quick smile, then bent to give Pluckie the hug she hadn’t given me.

  _____

  Pluckie and I remained at the shop till seven o’clock, when it closed. Jeri stayed to show me how to lock up.

  Martha had called earlier and said she was being released from the hospital later this afternoon, in time to go t
o the Destiny Welcome event that night. I wasn’t sure what that was, but Jeri explained it was a weekly gala held for visitors and locals in the Break-a-Leg Theater next to City Hall. I was curious, but I was also tired after this long day. Even so, when Pluckie and I returned to the Rainbow B&B, Serina kicked me out again with the promise she’d watch Pluckie for me.

  “You really need to go to the Destiny Welcome tonight,” she told me. “It’s good luck for visitors to go there for the first performance while they’re here.” She said she’d given the same orders to all the B&B’s newly arrived guests.

  How could I tempt fate by not seeking that good luck with a show she’d said no one should miss?

  Besides, I thought I should go to see how Martha was doing.

  I dressed up a bit, putting on the nicest blouse I’d brought over the only skirt I had along, both silvery gray, plus open-toed shoes with heels.

  Like almost everything in town, Break-a-Leg Theater was within walking distance of the B&B. I was charmed by its golden art deco facade with rounded arches and a large glass doorway. I realized how popular the welcome show must be even before I reached the block housing the theater, since the sidewalks were even more crowded than I’d seen before. At least the line, though long, kept moving.

  There was a modest charge for entry. Most of the chattering people came in parties of two or more, including some I recognized as other guests at the B&B. Then there was me.