The Fortune Teller's Daughter

by Lila Shaara

  “She’s still on the faculty there, according to the university website, only I don’t think the name was Emily. No. It was Pamela.”

  “I’m pretty sure there was a starter wife before Emily. I’d guess that’s your Pamela. Emily died not long after Charlie.”

  “So all three authors of the original work are dead? That can’t be a coincidence. I know that Charlie Ziegart died in a car accident. His wife was with him, but I’m pretty sure she survived.”

  “Suicide,” Milford said, wiping salad dressing off his mouth with a cheap paper napkin.

  “Oh,” Harry said. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course not.” Milford sipped iced tea with the first trace of impatience Harry had seen in him. “I was’t there. I’m only reporting gossip. But it’s reliable gossip, from a number of Charlie’s colleagues who knew them both. But it was something like five or six years ago now, and it was’t anything interesting like murder.” He laughed, a deep, nice, liquid sound, his good humor restored. “If there had been anything suspicious about her death, believe me, everyone would have been talking about it.” He balled up his napkin and put it on the tray. “I don’t know anyone at Cantwell personally anymore, but I know people who do. I’ll contact them and get you a name and number soon so you can get some information right from the source.”

  Harry thanked him and stood up, not having touched his soup. He and Milford took their plates and cups to the conveyor belt by the kitchen that carried the dirty dishes away and made them disappear. Harry imagined busy elves touching each item with a wand, making it clean with a flash of light. It’s been too long, he thought, since Dusty and I have shared a good book. He missed them reading the latest J. K. Rowling or Nancy Farmer novel to each other. And of course, the reality beyond the conveyor belt was banal; there were probably a number of poor undergraduates manning industrial-size dishwashers for minimum wage.

  As Harry and Frank Milford said a cordial good-bye, Harry knew he was’t about to let go of the Ziegart effect story. Not yet anyway. It sounded like a soap opera, and drama was always good, even in books about something as dry as intellectual property law. Maybe, he thought with an internal smirk, I’ll get some of my students to do the research for me.

  10

  TWO OF CUPS

  REVERSED

  Misunderstandings, imbalance. Love doesn’t help

  Josie had a client when Maggie got home, so she slipped through the living room without a word to take a shower. Josie finished with the young woman a few minutes later. The client was a local, not from the university, a housewife who thought her husband might be cheating on her with the receptionist in his office. She had three children and a fourth on the way, and Josie had tried to be kind, but it was obvious to her that the woman had good reason to be suspicious. The King of Pentacles, reversed and in the central position of the layout. He was cheating all right, and almost certainly not for the first time. Josie had a sense that the woman knew it anyway; most of them did. It was Josie’s unfortunate job on these occasions to try to make something good of it, to try to give the woman advice other than “Leave the lousy bastard and go home to your mother.” With four kids, that was’t likely to improve the woman’s situation much. “Take his paycheck,” Josie had said. “Put as much away as you can. Get your own bank account. Plan ahead. Find your inner strength.” As though the woman had any.

  The client was’t as grateful as she should have been, and Josie was glad of her policy for payment up front, before the reading. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t have gotten paid for this one, and she was pretty sure the woman was’t coming back. Josie thought, not for the first time, that the woman had gotten top value for her dollar and should listen, take the message of the cards to heart, and be grateful that she had some warning of the nasty choice that awaited her. But Josie had been doing this for long enough to know that the truth usually just pissed people off. She often soft-pedaled bad readings, sometimes even lying outright. After all, most of her clients were paying her for dreams, for the hope of a glorious future. But everyone’s future is shit, she thought. Well, maybe not shit all the time. But she knew of no good dreams that had come true; only nightmares.

  Maggie came out of the hallway to the bathroom with wet hair pulled back from her face. She was dressed in fresh jeans, her scuffed walking shoes, and a black T-shirt. Josie said, “You look like you’re fifteen years old. Marlene always looked like a baby. I know you didn’t get it from your daddy. He looked like a prune.” She shuffled the big cards, then said, “Kate Mayhew called. Her dryer’s not working again.”

  Maggie shrugged. “I’ll go over there directly. Miss Baby said she’d come over and give me a haircut today.”

  “You go over to the salon, okay? After you go to Kate’s?”

  Maggie looked at Josie, drops falling from blond strings of hair. “Roy’s coming over? Or is it Calvin?”

  “Roy. Get that look off your face.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Josie. I can make do.”

  “I’m not doing it for you.” Josie did something she rarely did; she blushed. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I like him, actually.” Maggie’s left eyebrow cocked. “Really, hon, it’s true. I’m having the time of my life.”

  “At least Roy takes a shower between work and here.”

  “Don’t you go being all uppity on me. Just because he runs a junkyard doesn’t mean he’s a slob.”

  “You’re right. I just wish we didn’t get so many favors from your men friends.”

  Josie felt her hackles rise. “Don’t you go thinking like that.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.” Maggie looked stressed. “That isn’t how I see you at all.”

  Josie’s hackles lowered. “You spend almost all your free time doing favors for everyone we know.”

  Maggie opened her mouth, then closed it, and Josie knew she’d been about to argue that somehow it was different. It was, of course. For one thing, Maggie was’t sleeping with anybody. When Maggie opened her mouth again, she said, “I’d be happier if you stuck to one.”

  Josie slapped the big deck on the table. “You sure didn’t get your tight little ass from your mamma, and you know enough about your daddy to know that he was’t one for staying with only one woman, married, single, or whatever. If Dunc were still alive, I’d be the saintliest women alive. Quit pursing your lips at me like you just ate a rotten kumquat and come let me read for you.”

  “No thanks. I don’t want to know right now.” Maggie passed the breakfast bar into the small kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a large pitcher of water. She got a glass from the cabinet and poured water into it, then replaced the pitcher. Watching Maggie’s hands at work pushed away Josie’s irritation. Her fingers were long and pretty, and she was so graceful with them, as if they could do a ballet all on their own. Josie thought she would have made a great puppeteer. Maggie didn’t lay the cards out often; when she did, it was like watching a beautiful magic trick. Poetry.

  Maggie took a long drink from the glass, then said, “Harry Sterling came to see me today. He took a walk with me.”

  Josie’s stomach clenched. “What do you think he wants?”

  Maggie almost smiled. “Someone to talk to. A stranger.”

  “You sure? You got to watch divorced men.”

  Maggie’s smile blossomed. “I don’t think he has designs on me. Anyway, I’m a tight ass. If he asks me into the backseat of his car, I’ll say no.”

  “Don’t be fresh. What did you talk about?”

  “He just wanted to tell me about himself.”

  “Typical man. Especially those college boys. Think every thought they have is so wonderful you’ll just drop your drawers at the second breath.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to drop anything.”

  That evening, Harry watched the news without much interest. Local TV news shows seemed to be about less and less these days, and the network newscasts
were worse; the death of the son of a minor celebrity was the lead story, although there were earthquakes and wars that killed thousands in other countries. Land of the free, he thought. Home of the brave. For the first time in a while, he wanted a drink.

  He hadn’t spoken to his son for several days. Each time he’d called, Ann had told him that Dusty was sleeping or “out.” Dusty had had his own cell phone for a while, so Harry tried to call him on it to bypass Ann, now a bizarre gatekeeper. But that number was disconnected, so he had to dial Ann’s home phone. This time, Harry was determined to actually speak to his son.

  Ann said, “I’ve just bought him a second iPod. He’s also lost his second cell phone. The last one he lost cost me three hundred dollars. Whoever found it or stole it or whatever used it to call all over before we got the contract canceled.”

  “Don’t buy him another one then. I wouldn’t have gotten him the second iPod either.”

  “Well, they all have them. He needs to fit in somehow.” She added, “There’s hope for him, though. He has a girlfriend.”

  “He does?” Oh God, thought Harry. It could be worse; I could have a daughter. He remembered a colleague in law school who’d congratulated him when Dusty was born, saying, “With a boy, you only have to worry about one penis. A girl, you have to worry about all of them.”

  Harry wanted to ask more about this girl, but Ann was done talking with him. She said a brisk good-bye and left the phone to get Dusty from his room to talk to his father.

  “What the hell, buddy?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “How was Cancún?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Only okay?”

  “I guess.”

  The most enduring fashion statement of the teenage boy was a mask of eternal expressionlessness, Harry thought. Dusty should meet Maggie; they could face off, see who cracked a smile first, or even a frown. Harry fisted his hands to keep from asking about the girlfriend, the surest way to get his son to shut down altogether.

  “Dad, can I come back to live with you? I mean, like now? I know it would mean changing schools and all that, but you know, kids do it all the time.”

  Harry spent the next moment beating down his initial shock and joyful assent to this question; all he wanted was to say “I’ll be there tonight—have your stuff packed.” Instead he took a steadying breath and asked, “What’s going on there, buddy? I thought we agreed we’d give it the whole school year at least. New school, new place, new friends. We knew it would be an adjustment and would take a while to get used to the change.”

  “It’s not just that stuff.” Silence. Harry could imagine his solemn son, struggling with his words, aiming them as carefully as if each was a bullet to be fired at a distant target.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Don’t blow me off like that. Do you need me to come down there? I will, you know. I can leave right now, and be there in three hours.”

  “I’m not going to off myself, Dad. You don’t have to come here. It’s nothing that dramatic. I just hate school, but I’d probably hate any school. I’m not doing drugs, I’m not cutting myself, I’m not doing any crimes. You can relax.”

  Harry hated the fact that he’d missed so much of this year of his son’s life, especially since it seemed to involve so many changes, such a great shift from sweetness to bitter sarcasm. Dusty said, “On second thought, don’t count on our next weekend. I’ve got some stuff coming up, and I’ll be kind of busy. Maybe the one after that. Didn’t Mom tell you I’m in a play? I’ve got rehearsals and sh—stuff. I’ll catch you next time around.”

  Dusty hung up before Harry could respond. He considered calling back but didn’t think that his son would speak to him again that night, and the thought of trying to work around all of Ann’s defenses was too exhausting to be borne. He decided instead to take a walk in the neighborhood.

  Darcy Murphy said to his wife, “You haven’t been to that psychic bitch again, have you?”

  She was peeling the cover off a packet of frozen macaroni and cheese. This stopped her in mid-pull. “I told you I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  She went back to her task. “No, babe, I haven’t. I won’t. I told you.”

  “You better not. I’ve seen her place. Something’s off there. Gave me the creeps. Gris-gris and all that shit.”

  She knew better than to argue. “Dinner will be ready in”—she peered at the directions on the empty box—“eight to twelve minutes.”

  11

  THE HIEROPHANT

  Excessive worry about social approval. Peer pressure

  Harry hated formal parties, yet here he was in a rented tux. Professor Edwin Thorpe was retiring from twenty-five years at the Law School to take a position as a state appeals court judge. Goody for him, Harry thought, his internal voice sounding twelve years old. The whole Law School, along with many local dignitaries, had gathered for a formal farewell dinner in the Grand Hall of North Florida University. Harry didn’t know most of the glittery people, which spared him from having to talk to them. Serge looked like David Niven in a tux that probably was’t rented, flanked by his fashionable and slender wife, Amelia. She’d decided to nag Harry like a pseudo-wife, messing with his collar and telling him that his cummerbund was’t tight enough. A group of students, some of whom had seen him humiliatingly under the influence, greeted him at his entrance as if they expected him to be the life of the party.

  Serge said quietly, “Julie Canfield is awfully pretty. She’s smart, too.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  In spite of his surliness toward his friend, Harry clung to Serge and Amelia, not wanting to stand alone and risk having to make small talk to any strangers. He was about to ask Serge how close he was to the revered new judge when his friend muttered, “Oh God, no, no.” Bearing down on them was a thin man with no hair and a baggy pin-striped suit. The newcomer had a mustache that was two colors, red and white, mixed together in an unwholesome pattern that made Harry wish he had a razor in his pocket so he could whisk the scrawny man to the nearest bathroom for a shave. His face was jowly, even though he didn’t look much over fifty otherwise; Harry guessed that in recent years he’d lost a lot of weight but his outer self hadn’t caught up yet.

  “Hi, Sheriff,” said Serge.

  “Professor Olnikoff. My favorite Rooskie. Hahaha. How the hell’s it hangin’?”

  Serge turned to Harry. “Harry Sterling, this is our sheriff. Melvin Kimble.”

  Sheriff Kimble turned to Harry and stuck out a hand whose skin looked like it had once covered a turkey, lined and loose. “Elected fair and square, no matter what anyone tells you. Hahahaha.”

  Our chief law enforcement executive is Woody Woodpecker, thought Harry. Makes you proud. “Hello,” he said.

  “You’re the writer fellow. I heard about you.”

  Harry noticed that the sheriff didn’t pretend to have read either of his books. “Hope what you heard was good.” Hahahaha, thought Harry.

  “I don’t know. Heard you’re a bit of a rabble-rouser,” said the sheriff.

  “Well, I always think the rabble is better off a little roused.”

  Harry felt his arm grabbed from behind and repressed the urge to whip around and kick his assailant in the crotch, the presence of the sheriff be damned, when he heard Judd Lippman’s nasal voice say, “So, Harry, did you meet the fortune teller? Are you going to put her in your next book?”

  Judd still held his arm, so Harry dragged him around, almost ramming Lippman into the sheriff.

  “Let go of me, Judd. This tux is rented and your hands are greasy.”

  Serge’s smile was hearty and false as he introduced Judd to the sheriff, who didn’t seem to find anything offensive in the former’s boisterous behavior.

  “Hi, Sheriff,” Judd said. “The dean of the Law School is mighty proud of himself for landing Harry. He’s a famous writer. Th
e good news for you is that he’s not a real attorney, so he won’t be in the courthouse much, nagging you about how you treat your prisoners.”

  “That’s good to hear,” said Kimble. Thank God he didn’t laugh, Harry thought.

  Lippman couldn’t seem to stop acting like Harry’s publicist. “He’s discovered our local landmark, you know, the Purple Lady’s shrine.”

  The sheriff smiled. His teeth had broad gaps between canines and subincisors. “I hope you don’t judge us all by that Tokay woman’s idea of beautiful architecture. If I could lock her up for building a public eyesore, I would. But the ordinances outside the city limits are pretty loose. And her family’s old, so none of the pussies on the county board will do anything.”

  Judd said, “Did you meet her, Harry? Did you get your fortune told?” He smiled at the sheriff. “Harry’s gonna put the fortune teller in his next book.” He turned back. “Right, Harry?”

  “I’m not sure yet. She told me that a colleague of mine, one that had a weakness for little girls, was going to meet a grisly and unexpected death very soon. I’ll have to see if her prediction pans out.”

  Judd guffawed, mysteriously unoffended, and went off to find Ronnie Ho; she was talking to another professor by the punch and had a hunted look when Judd greeted her with a large smooch on the cheek.

  “That true?” said Sheriff Kimble to Harry. “You gonna write about some of our local crazies?”

  “Not very likely, Sheriff. I’m interested in intellectual property now. So unless the Tokay woman stole the idea of a purple shrine from someone else, I’m not sure there’s much there of interest.”

  “Her nephew can’t wait for her to die or to go into a home so he can get his hands on her property. He’s already got a lot of money, but then, some people can’t seem to get enough.” Kimble continued to look at Harry with no change of expression, but Harry could see all at once that the impression of a jolly and harmless good ole boy was, if not an act exactly, probably overplayed, and probably useful. After a pause, the sheriff said, “You must be interested in the First Amendment, being a newsman and all that. We don’t have enough going on around here to get any reporters in trouble, so I doubt we’ll see you around the courthouse nagging us about that either.”