by Lila Shaara
“Who’s this?” Harry pointed to a card in the center of the spread labeled “The Magician.” “Is that me?”
She stared at the card for a moment before saying, “I don’t think so, given where it is. I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be an actual person, or something that’s going to happen. It’s powerful, and central to everything, but I’m not sure how. Maybe you’ll have a big surge of creativity.” She looked up at the clock and massaged the back of her neck. “I’m pretty rusty at this. If you want a real reading, you should get Josie to do it. I’ve forgotten most of what I used to know, and I’m too sleepy to concentrate properly.” She gathered the cards together and wrapped them in the black cloth, then stood up. “I’m too tired to take a walk today. Maybe you should go.” She closed her mouth and then opened it again. “Was that rude? I’m sorry.”
“No,” said Harry. “I shouldn’t have made you cook for me.” He got up, feeling suddenly awkward and unsettled. “Thanks. For the reading, too.” He glanced at the hallway, beyond which lay her inebriated aunt. “Will you be all right?”
“I’ve done it before, Harry. We’ll be fine, but thanks for asking.”
She closed the door behind him, and he could hear the lock engage. The images from the cards stuck in his head like scenes from a disturbing film. He wondered what mistakes he was repeating. This, he thought, is the height of stupidity. She can’t see the future in a deck of cards any more than you can. But he knew he was going to be looking at people in the Law School with a bit more suspicion than usual for the next few days.
17
FIVE OF PENTACLES
Misery loves company
On Friday, Harry went to Orlando in time to see Dusty’s play. He checked into a motel and got to the high school just before curtain time. Ann saw him come into the auditorium and waved, patting the seat beside her, so he had no choice but to join her. Sitting so close to her felt strange and off-putting, like spending time with someone who you knew was a neo-Nazi or a Klansman but who was socially presentable and polite. You wanted to point and yell and denounce them, but it was difficult if they didn’t give you an opportunity by doing anything heinous. In fact, Ann was unusually pleasant to him. The play itself was nothing out of the ordinary, and Dusty wasn’t even onstage, so Harry stored up in his mind complimentary things to say about the scenery. During the intermission, Ann said, “You’re looking good, Harry.”
“Oh? Thanks.” He couldn’t remember ever getting positive comments from her about his appearance before. It only made his discomfort worse, especially when he thought he might be expected to return the favor. She looked good, too, of course, and it occurred to him that maybe that was the whole point of her comment, to get him to say as much. He felt childish withholding it, but she never looked bad anyway, so she could probably stand one evening of not being told how gorgeous she was.
“How’s the book coming?”
Harry surprised himself by being honest with her. “Not well. I don’t have anything. I’m aimless.”
“But I thought you said you were doing research.”
“It’s not really going anywhere. I could attempt to destroy the name of a much-respected deceased scientist. I suspect there’s a sordid little story in his home life, but what’s the point? I’m not sure how that would illuminate the human condition.”
Ann stared at him, a puzzled expression on her face. All she said was “You’ve lost weight.”
On Monday night Harry called Maggie, but a drunken Josie told him that she was out; Josie didn’t know when she’d be back. Harry had no confidence in Josie relaying a message, so the next afternoon he drove to the cemetery parking lot ten minutes before she usually arrived after work, hoping that Maggie wasn’t going to change her routine that day. When her car pulled into the lot a few minutes later, his relief embarrassed him.
He described the high school version of Guys and Dolls and Dusty’s artwork. She nodded as though it was interesting to her, which Harry found doubtful. She said, “You don’t have to work on Fridays?”
He explained about his schedule. “I work a full week. More, usually. It just isn’t within set hours, except for when I’m teaching.”
“A lot of that time you’re working on your book.”
“Yes.”
“I still don’t understand what it’s about.”
“Well, that’s because I haven’t figured that out yet. When I heard the rumor about Charlie Ziegart stealing work from someone else, I thought there might be something there. But now I doubt it.”
“Charlie Ziegart?”
“He was a scientist who invented something called the Ziegart effect, which has something to do with electricity. That’s who supposedly stole the work of Josie’s friend or whatever that I asked you about. You haven’t remembered anything more, have you?”
“Nothing new has occurred to me. I haven’t asked her either. Sorry.”
“Just as well. I think the guy just had a turbulent love life. Not very newsworthy.”
“I read your book about cults.”
“Really? What did you think of it?”
“I thought it was good,” she said. Harry felt happy, though he wasn’t sure he believed that she’d actually read it. She added, “I liked that you didn’t paint all southerners as racist fundamentalists.”
Maybe she did read it, he thought. “A lot of them are,” he said.
“So are a lot of northerners.”
“True,” said Harry. “I was raised by a pair of Pennsylvania evangelicals, after all. Ignorant as dirt. Racist as all hell, although they don’t think of themselves as such.”
They were in a garden that he’d been in only once before, with the giant teardrop boxwood in the center. The air smelled of camellias, a scent he was proud he now recognized. “They live in Downesport, Pennsylvania. Lawrence and I made a joke of it. Anytime anyone was having a good time or making too much noise, someone would say, ‘Down, Sport.’ ” For no obvious reason, his mother’s face appeared again in his mind’s eye. It was time to change the subject. “What about your parents? You said your mother was a soothsayer, like Josie.”
She smiled. “I like that. Yes, she was a soothsayer.”
“She died?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“A hit-and-run. She was taking a walk.”
“Jesus. Did they ever catch who did it?”
She turned away from him as she moved a branch that had broken and was now dangling in their way, hanging only by a thin bit of soggy bark. He was behind her, and she held it aside for him as she answered, “No. They never did.”
“What about your dad?” He could hear the woodpecker again and followed the rapid dat-dat-dat sound until he saw the bird on a tall pine, six or seven trees away from the path.
Her gaze moved to the woodpecker as well. “He worked for the telephone company. He fixed downed phone lines. They met after a hurricane.” Harry waited for more as they navigated the large, tangled roots of a wizened southern pine that crossed the path like a stile. Harry thought it wasn’t long for this world; just looking at the tortured branches made him ache with imagined arthritis. He said, “His name was Roth?”
Maggie nodded and said, “He was Jewish. Mom thought that meant that he’d have a lot of money. When it turned out he didn’t, she ditched him. Although he had another family anyway, so I guess the ditching was mutual.”
“Yikes. I guess you didn’t get to know him very well.”
“There were a few years where I saw him quite a lot, before he went back to his ‘real’ family. Then he and Mom got together again for a while when I was about twelve. He’d gotten a better-paying job. It was always nice when he was around, although I suppose he must have been pretty rotten to be married to, since he obviously couldn’t be faithful to anyone for long. Including my mother.”
“Well, at least you had a father around when you were a teenager,” Harry said, thinking about Dusty.
She sai
d, “How is he?” Harry started, realizing she’d been reading his thoughts.
“Okay, I guess. Sullen. He won’t talk to me much. I know on some level that he needs me, but it’s hard to get him to admit it, and if he doesn’t, I’m not sure what I can do,” Harry said as they moved on to where the path continued to the wooden bridge.
The shade hit her face before she said, “My dad thought I was crazy,” then she stopped, and Harry saw with surprise that she was embarrassed.
Harry said, “He was obviously wrong.”
They reached the bridge, and she stopped and looked at him for a moment, then said, “You’re not sure. I know what you were thinking when I asked you if you saw dots.” Harry protested, horrified again that she could read him so well. “It’s okay,” she said. “But he had me tested for everything you can imagine: ADD, learning disabilities, Asperger’s syndrome, schizophrenia, other stuff.”
“My God. For one thing, that’s expensive.”
“He’d had a good year.”
“Why all the tests?”
She shrugged. “He was worried.”
He couldn’t help asking, “So, what was the outcome?”
It was a few seconds before she answered. “They said I was ‘highly sensitive.’ Also shy. My dad told me that at least they’d ruled out the possibility that I was a sociopath; I guess that was a concern since I was so lousy at dealing with other people.”
Harry knew he looked appalled.
“The point is,” she said, “sometimes it’s not the best thing to show your kid how worried you are.”
Harry nodded. “It sounds like he loved you, in his way.”
“I loved him,” she said. “I don’t know if he loved me or not.” She moved again, leaving the bridge to go along the trail where the trees were deeper. Harry followed, saying to her back, “Do you know anything about your father’s other family?”
They rounded a few clumps of pine saplings before she said, “I looked them up online at the library. They all still live in Atlanta.”
“You ever think about contacting them? They’re your siblings, after all.”
She stopped suddenly, startling him, and kneeled down and pointed to a small, pretty plant on the side of the path with furry leaves and tiny white flowers. “Be careful of these. Stinging nettles. If your skin touches one, it feels like you’ve gotten an electric shock.” Harry regarded the harmless looking little weed, impressed, storing the information to give to Dusty later.
“I’m not even sure they know about me. It would probably be a nasty surprise if I came knocking on their door.” She stood up and, still not looking at him, said, “One son’s an airplane mechanic. The other’s a cardiologist. They’d think I just wanted money.” She turned to him and gave him one of her breathtaking smiles. “I’m the disappointment of the family.” He didn’t smile back. She began walking again, and he followed; as soon as he came abreast of her, she said, “One time my dad took me to the beach without my mom. I still have some of the shells we collected. He had a board with a rope attached to it, and he’d pull me through the waves. It was the most fun I’d ever had. I love the ocean.”
“I have a beach house,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “Well, Ann and I own it together. Just south of Jacksonville, Delacroix Beach. Only about an hour and a half from here. We rent it out most weekends, but sometimes I go, usually with Dusty. It’s a nice place to write, but we need the rent money to pay off the mortgage and taxes. We bought it before the divorce.” He stopped, took a minute to think before he spoke, then said carefully, “Maybe you could borrow it sometime.”
She was staring at him, the meaning of her expression a complete mystery to him. “That’s nice of you. Maybe sometime,” she said, and Harry realized she never expected the offer to materialize, and she was letting him off the hook.
18
TEN OF CUPS
REVERSED
Dark happiness and deceit
He hated when his mother invited Gillian over. He no longer lived at home, but he spent at least one night a week there to get a good dinner and updates on the gossip that circulated around the campus like blood through a body. Gillian didn’t like him, although he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t like her either, but he hid it well, his manners oiling her up whenever he saw her. Still, she seemed wary around him. He wondered if it was because he looked so much like his father; he suspected that Gillian had had a crush on Charlie at one time. Not a serious one, nothing like an affair. More like the feelings a tenth grader might have toward her math teacher, safely in the realm of fantasy. It was exhausting, though, having to act so pleased to see her.
She had joined them for dinner. “Wesley has so many meetings, and I hate to eat alone. I haven’t seen you in a few months, Jon. You’re looking very handsome. Have you made any decision about graduate school? You know you wouldn’t have any problems getting into any program here. I know Pamela wants to keep you close by.”
She smiled at him, but he could see the dislike behind it, and thought, Back at you, you lying old bitch. He said, “I haven’t decided yet. There’s plenty of time.”
She turned back to Pamela. “I have some news. I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it, but you have a right to know. A reporter from The Washington Post is asking questions about Charlie. I should say, a former reporter. He teaches at some redneck college in Florida now and writes books.”
Pamela put down her wineglass and wiped her mouth with a linen napkin. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m glad that there’s interest in Charlie again. What’s the reporter’s name? Would I have heard of him?”
“Harry Sterling. He’s written two books. I haven’t read either of them, but they were published by Teller’s, in New York. I thought you might be upset because he asked a lot of questions about Emily. I didn’t like his tone. He might be out to make a name for himself, and you know how that is. It’s always easier to make headlines by saying something nasty than by saying the truth.”
Gillian had the attention of both people at the table now. “Why would he be interested in Emily?” Pamela asked, her brow wrinkled, her hand tightening on the stem of the wineglass.
“A fortune teller told him that she knew someone who really invented the Ziegart effect. Even he admitted it was a bizarre story, and didn’t seem to give it a lot of credit. But he said that’s what got him interested in Charlie.”
“Do you believe him?” Jonathan said.
She turned to him in surprise. “Shouldn’t I have? He’s got a professional reputation, after all. You’d think he’d check his facts and wouldn’t just print a bunch of garbage.”
Pamela said, “Oh God. People publish garbage all the time.”
Jonathan said, “Which redneck college?”
· · ·
Harry walked with Maggie at least three times a week. Each meeting lasted only an hour or so, and he was surprised at the extent of Gunhill Park, how many paths there were through the pines and the oak trees, how many little gardens were tucked away amid the woods. They seldom met anyone else, since their visits to the park were usually on weekday afternoons, and only the occasional retiree or dedicated jogger took to the paths during the heat of the day. Maggie didn’t work on Sundays or Mondays, and by tacit agreement he no longer tried to find her on those days, only met her at the parking lot shortly after one o’clock, when her shift was over. Sometimes he had lunch at Crane’s and followed her car afterward, but he found himself less interested in the food there now that the smirking waitresses knew him.
Her car wasn’t in the lot yet when he arrived that Friday. It was a hot and heavy afternoon, the sky thick with gray clouds that only let the sun peek its boiling face through every few minutes. He was getting used to the dense air of Florida, finding it only marginally worse than the sticky climate of Washington. Here the stickiness just lasted longer, although he remembered when he’d first moved to Stoweville last August, he had thought he might go mad with the constant weight of t
he outside air, with the blistering heat, with the fog of angry mosquitoes every evening. He had fought potential madness by staying inside too much, or by driving everywhere instead of walking, safe and cool inside his car, the windows tightly shut against the vicious nature of the place. He had driven down country road after country road, obsessively drawing a vast mental map of his surroundings. He’d been past the cemetery and Gunhill Park several times and had never felt the slightest pull to leave the comfort of his car and explore any of it on foot. Now he felt as though he’d been allowed through some previously hidden door that opened into a secret place of shade and birds and flowers. Not to mention a blond woman who was possibly insane but who was connected to him now in a way he couldn’t figure out, even in his dreams.
He got out of his car and leaned against the closed door, determined not to take so much shelter against the air. It smelled of flowers he couldn’t identify, of dying blossoms, wilting in the heat. He could feel sweat starting to prickle in his armpits and down his back, but for the first time since he’d arrived in the Deep South, he didn’t mind.
He had to wait for only a few minutes before the Celica purred its way into the parking lot, and he had a moment to think what a quiet old car it was, no smoke billowing from the tailpipe, no sputtering or clanking in the motor. Another preconception shot, he thought. She got out and gave him a cautious smile. Her eyes were so blue, they almost didn’t look real. He wondered if they qualified as “cornflower blue,” a phrase he’d read many times, but to his knowledge he’d never seen a cornflower. He thought, I’ll have to ask Amelia. Then the thought occurred to him that he could probably ask Maggie, but he was afraid it would sound like he was trying to flirt with her.
