The Fortune Teller's Daughter

by Lila Shaara

  He didn’t see the Celica in the parking lot, but he knew there were other places she could have left it; he didn’t know whether or not she was avoiding him. He wove his way between headstones by the stream toward the break in the trees where she always entered the hiking trail. His eye caught one of the graves: Duncan Dupree, her uncle. Next to it was a perfect rectangle cut deep into the earth, and he knew that it was for Josie. For the first time he could conjure up something like affection for her, useless and too late. Then in his peripheral vision, a name grabbed him that had a resonance it hadn’t before, which was the only reason he could give himself for why he’d never noticed it. It was the grave of Marlene, Maggie’s mother.

  He walked the entire park before returning to the double-wide. Under other circumstances, he would have felt great about how effortless the entire thing had been. He was in the best shape of his life. After parking in the gravel and oyster-shell driveway, he walked back by the trailer, past the thriving little vegetable garden, understanding for the first time why they had no flowers, and down the worn trail in the grass and pine needles to the shotgun shack where the Thorpes lived. Miss Baby’s Buick was parked in front. When he knocked on the door, she opened it and burst into tears at the sight of him. He had to beg her a little, tears in his own eyes that convinced her to help him.

  She had a ring of keys like a jailer and walked in front of him toward Miss Tokay’s house, cutting across the field behind the double-wide and then into some pines. There was just a hint of a path here, a narrow, matted bit of pine straw through the shadows, wide enough for only one. It broke through the trees into a small yard by the new temple, the old garage. They were approaching it from the rear this time, and he saw Maggie’s car parked six feet from its sturdy door, out of sight of the main house. It had been there all the time. His heart sped up.

  The door was badly in need of paint, but the wood was thick and the lock was bright gold, new and intimidating. Now Harry could hear that music again, large, melancholy chords coming from inside the building, but they sounded far off at the same time, faint, as though they were emanating from another sinkhole deep underneath it. There was crime scene tape here as well, but it was torn, bright yellow shreds lying in the grass under the few boarded-up windows. It looked gay and dissipated at the same time, like the mess after a drunken party.

  Miss Baby gave a loud knock on the door. When no one opened it, she lifted the keys, found a large one the same gold as the lock, and used it. Harry followed her in.

  The place seemed enormous, the bare rafters an extra story above them. From them were suspended large, oval bulbs that gave off a warm yellow light. There were plants on a table along one window, ivy and asparagus fern and rosemary, giving the place its only green. Along the three windowless walls were shelves of wood, of metal, even several of the same resin that made up Josie’s old porch set. On a number of them there were neat rows of magazines: Scientific American, Science, Nature, American Engineering, the Northeastern Journal of Physics and Engineering. Several other shelves were covered with parts of engines, of motors, cylinders, gears, pulleys, wires, although many shelves were bare. It was cool, and he followed the movement of the air to a large metal box coated in droplets of condensation that looked like an overgrown space heater by the door; cold air poured from it, blown by a fan inside that looked like it dated from World War II. The music was loud enough that Harry realized the place must be soundproofed or it would have throbbed all the way to the highway. It was something Harry had never heard before, many women’s voices singing in angry harmony in a language he didn’t recognize; the women sang urgently at him from a small speaker suspended from the rafter nearest the door. Nothing seemed real.

  Maggie sat on a bench in front of a large wooden table in the center of the room, which was strewn with wires and circuit boards. Her head was down, her face resting on her bent left arm. Her right hand lay splayed out as though her arm had dropped as she was signaling hello to someone. Next to her hand was a soldering iron in a metal cradle; the first thing Harry did was put his hand close to the bit to see if it was hot. It wasn’t, but he moved it farther from her still hand anyway, then, breathing hard, he put two fingers on her neck to see if she had a pulse. She jumped, a soft gasp escaping her as though she’d been pricked; her head jerked up, and she turned her face to him, eyes wide and glassy. She had been crying, but she wasn’t now. She looked indescribably tired. She stood up slowly, put her arms around his shoulders and said his name into his neck. Then she fell asleep.

  He managed to get her disentangled, leaving her semiconscious and in the care of a confused Miss Baby while he brought his car to the temple door. He got her into his car without mishap, her head lolling as she kept falling asleep against him while he told Miss Baby that they were going to his house, and not to worry, and thank you. At his house, he half walked, half carried Maggie up the porch steps, held her up with one hand as he worked his keys, careful to throw the bolt behind them, then held her up again as he walked her to his bedroom. She flopped down on the bed, almost asleep again. Harry got her shoes off, then his own, and lay down next to her, putting his arms around her waist, laying his head on her shoulder, not fully so that the weight would be a problem, but with his face in her neck. Her T-shirt was fragrant with lemon and something piney. Rosemary, he thought. He said, not sure if she was awake enough to hear him, “Were you lying when you said your middle name wasn’t Emily?”

  She took in a deep, sleepy breath, then said, her voice soft and slightly hoarse, “No.” A pause. “My middle name is Magdalene. My first name is Emily. My dad picked it, but my mom always liked Maggie better.”

  “Your mother. Marlene Timms.”

  “Mmm.” Her eyes were closed.

  Harry said, “Huh,” in response, then fell hard into sleep.

  46

  THE MOON

  REVERSED

  Lies uncovered. Love, hard-bought

  The phone woke Harry once when the sun was slanting through the west-facing window so brightly that it made his sleep-filled eyes hurt. He unplugged the one by his bed, having a groggy notion that he’d listen to his machine sometime later. He thought briefly about Serge but was too close to sleep to care. Maggie was unconscious on the bed next to him, her mouth slightly open, her hair in a tangled halo around her head. Harry lay down next to her again, pulled her close, and fell back into a beautiful sleep.

  When he next opened his eyes, there was still some light from a dying sun, turning the bedroom orange. They faced each other across the divide between their pillows; there was just enough light to see that Maggie’s eyes were open.

  “Hi,” he said, his voice a sleepy rumble. “You’re the Magician.” He yawned. “In the Tarot reading you gave me.” She didn’t answer. He wriggled to get closer to her on the bed, working an arm under her shoulders, pulling her to him till her head was resting on his chest. She moved her thigh, resting it on top of his, and draped her arm over his stomach. He could feel himself becoming aroused even as he knew he was too sleepy to do much about it. Her hair glowed in the half-light: the color of the wheat fields, he thought.

  “Did I hurt you?” he murmured.

  Her voice was soft, an exhale. “You know you did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apologies are cheap.” Slow breath in. “You slept with her, didn’t you?”

  Oh God. “I know I’ve been an asshole.”

  “Yes, you have.” Her voice was sweet and warm. He wondered if she was talking in her sleep. “Just admitting it doesn’t make it okay, you know.”

  “Are you going to forgive me?”

  An intake of breath so that her head moved slightly closer to his. As she exhaled, she said, “I don’t know.”

  When he woke again, the window was filled with nothing but black sky. He looked at the clock; it was almost one a.m. Maggie wasn’t in the bed; he heard the toilet flush, then saw her emerge from the bathroom, her eyes tense.

  “What
’s wrong?” Harry said. His voice didn’t work all at once; he had to clear his throat a couple of times before it came out right.

  “I don’t have any of my stuff.” She looked away from him, back at the sink through the open bathroom door. “I don’t have my toothbrush. I need to brush my teeth.” She looked as though she were about to cry. He got up and showed her the drawer under the sink that held spare toothbrushes, razor blades, and bars of soap.

  “Here,” he said, handing her a packaged toothbrush. She took it and looked at him with big, shattered eyes.

  “But you won’t be able to use it again,” she said.

  “I know,” said Harry, glad he didn’t feel the urge to laugh. “That’s okay. It’s yours.” He nodded toward the sink. “You can even use my toothpaste.”

  He joined her, and they brushed their teeth side by side, taking turns spitting into the sink. Maggie rinsed off the toothbrush, and holding it in her hand like a magic wand, she said, “I’ll take it with me, if that’s all right. That way it won’t go to waste.”

  Harry said, “You could leave it. You know, for when you’re here.”

  She didn’t answer, just stood there motionless, staring at him. Then he guided her out of the bathroom so he could have it to himself for a few minutes, closing the door behind him. When he came out again, she was gone. He muttered a swearword and ran into the living room.

  She was opening the front door. She turned when he said, “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” she said.

  “How were you planning to get there?”

  “It’s a cool night. I’ll walk.” Her voice and face were completely devoid of expression, and Harry thought, We’re back to the beginning. He said, “It’s at least eight miles.”

  “I’ve walked that far before.” She felt in her pockets but didn’t seem to find what she was looking for. Harry thought that maybe this time he wasn’t taming her as much as trapping her; he hadn’t meant to, but he’d left her no way to get home, no way even to get into her own house. She had no keys, no money, no car, no extra clothes.

  “I’ll drive you if you really want to go. But I’d rather you didn’t. Come on, Maggie.”

  “I’ll call Miss Baby, if I can use your phone.”

  “You can use anything, but it’s one in the morning.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  In the half-light shed by the floor lamp, Harry felt as if he was seeing her clearly for the first time. What do I do? he thought. What do I say? “I know you thought it was a class thing. It wasn’t. You were just so fucking young, or I thought you were.”

  “Oh?” she said again, tilting her head to one side. “I’m thirty-two. Is that old enough for you?” Her voice was light, but her eyes were cold. “You know why I didn’t want to go to that stupid party? You thought it was because I was afraid of all those important people. It was really because most of them make me sick.” Her voice got louder as she spoke, bit by bit, as though someone was slowly turning an invisible volume knob. “All those self-important colors, all that ignorant moneygrubbing, it’s all about power and getting over on people and eating as much of the planet as they can while little kids go blind in sweatshops making their expensive clothes and all the cheap toys for their trophy kids. They get their big houses and their huge cars and they work eighty hours a week to pay for all that petroleum they burn, and then they’ll die in their expensive hospitals. Their kids will hate them, but at least they’ll be rich.” Her chest was heaving with anger now, eyes flashing and fists clenched. “You can go crawl into a bottle with them and drown.”

  He forced himself to keep his voice soft. “They’re not all that bad. Everyone’s just trying to live their lives, Maggie.”

  She picked up a magazine that was lying on the end table closest to her and threw it at him. It fluttered loudly and hit him in the face. He caught it by a page, and it tore as he caught the rest in his other hand. By this time she’d moved to his big oak desk; first she grabbed the biography of Tesla that was by his laptop. She threw it at him; it hit him in the shoulder. To his horror, her hand moved to an empty ginger ale bottle; she picked it up by the neck and hurled it at him. He ducked in time for it to sail past him and smash into a bookcase. He went toward her with the intention of holding her hands; as he did, he said, “It’s about time you got mad.” That’s when she slapped him.

  It was loud, like a gunshot. Harry said “Ow!” and put his hand to his cheek at the same time Maggie put hers to her mouth and started to cry, saying, “Oh God, I’m sorry.” Harry moved toward her again, trying to put his arms around her, his face stinging but not really hurt. She pushed him away with some force, then turned and yanked the front door open. Harry moved fast, thrusting the door shut with a hand over her shoulder. She rested her head against the door, crying harder. He stood a few inches from her, her hair brushing his chin. He touched her, and she started, almost clipping his jaw with the top of her head. He moved back a few inches, giving her just enough room to turn to face him. He said in a low, hoarse voice, “I tried to call you every single goddamned day I was gone, and I could never get you, which is the same thing that’s happened to me almost every other time I’ve tried to call you. I’d get Josie telling me in so many words to back off, or I’d get no answer at all. I mean, Jesus Christ, how much does an answering machine cost? If you go back to living in that goddamned trailer, I’ll buy you a goddamned answering machine so I don’t have to listen to that goddamned endless ringing anymore. If my goddamned cell phone hadn’t crapped out on me, I would have been calling you six or seven times a day till I actually got you on the phone, and the moment I heard what had happened from Serge, I got on the next plane I possibly could, dumped my son, and came back.” He was breathing hard, his forehead now pressed against the side of her head, and he could feel her body heat, could smell her perspiration and the peppermint of the toothpaste she’d just borrowed from him. “I love you.”

  She put her hands on his chest and shoved him away. “You only say that when you’re drunk.”

  “I’m not even slightly drunk. Can’t you see my aura or whatever?” he said. “Can’t you tell?”

  “You can’t read them once you’re too involved with someone.” She was still breathing hard, her eyes sleepy and swollen. “When your emotions are all jangled like that, you can’t tell what’s yours and what’s theirs.”

  “What do you see now?”

  “Anger.”

  He felt a frustration so great he was surprised he could get any words out. “You know we’re going to be here in the end anyway.”

  “Where?”

  “Together.” He stepped forward again and dropped to his knees, putting his arms around her hips, pushing his face into her belly. His grip was tight because he expected her to push him away again, but she didn’t. The button on the fly of her jeans bit into his stinging cheek, and he felt her fingers in his hair. They tightened to where it was just painful as she said, “You put me between you and your son. That’s a terrible place to be.” She pulled a little harder. “And then you slept with her. I’m not sure I’ll forgive you for either thing.”

  Harry looked up and saw she was crying again, and he remembered how she used to be, all silent and blank, and remembered how much she boiled under all that careful blankness. He said, “He loved you, too.” He thought, Do you realize how much of a sacrifice this is? Do you understand what I’m doing for you?

  “What?”

  “I know he loved you. Because he couldn’t have known you well and not loved you.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Don’t say that.”

  He said into her stomach, “We’re not all like that, like you said. Not everyone. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me.” She tightened her grip till it was genuinely painful and finally pulled him up by the hair, saying, “Stop. I do. Stop.”

  47

  FOUR OF SWORDS

  Time to rest after a great struggle

  He said, “It’s customary tha
t you say it back when someone tells you that they love you. Especially when they say it over and over again. If you don’t, the lack is significant, if you know what I mean.”

  Her head was on his chest, and she moved it quickly to look into his face. “Every time I say it to anyone, they’re dead or dying within twenty-four hours. I’m a little superstitious.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Who?”

  “My mother. Charlie. Josie. It was like I put a bull’s-eye on each of them. I don’t want to put a bull’s-eye on you.”

  He was ashamed at how much better her stricken look made him feel. He said, “A little while ago you wouldn’t have minded. What if I ask you a yes or no question?”

  “What?”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes,” she said. She gave him her first smile; his relief was enormous. “Of course I do.” After few minutes of silence, she asked, “Did you have a good time? On your fishing trip?”

  Harry burst out laughing. “Yeah,” he said. “Actually, it was a really . . . what’s the word I want? Potent. It was a potent trip.” He kissed her.