Destined

by Gail Cleare

  We rearranged the furniture in the back of the room, creating seating around four of the small tables. The bar had six leather-covered stools pulled up to it, too. It was the perfect spot for weary shoppers to rest their feet for a moment, while enjoying a refreshing shot of caffeine and chocolate.

  People started to stop into the store in two’s and three’s, some in the late mornings, some for lunch, and more in the afternoons. Most of them were well-dressed women out for fun, but some of the people who worked in the neighborhood came in for a quick lunch, too.

  They ate my scones and sipped lapsang souchong. Some chose cappuccino and one of my grandmother’s (updated) brownies. Last but not least, they shopped. Oh did they shop! Merchandise seemed to fly off the shelves, and sales grew to nearly double what we had done originally. Mr. Paradis was very pleased, and told me so repeatedly.

  One day he brought me down the basement stairs to show me where to find replacements for some of the items that had sold. I was glad to have his company since the atmosphere down there had always felt a little funny to me and I really didn’t like going down there alone. The storeroom was stacked full of cartons, boxes, and big wooden packing crates with excelsior spilling out. The tea sets and Swedish crystal, imported stainless steel flatware, sterling silver candlesticks and wine coasters were carried in stock and occupied tall shelving units.

  I thought I heard something, and turned to squint into the shadows. It was the faint echo of a giggle, like that day when I saw the floating man.

  Mr. Paradis peered at me sharply. “Everything all right, Emily?”

  I nodded slowly. “I just thought, for a minute….”

  “Is our Chinese friend back for another visit?” he said, looking around the cavernous room. We both held our breath, peering into the maze of shipping containers. A small noise drew my attention to a wooden crate tucked away under the stairs. It was labeled with red and blue stickers inscribed with Chinese characters. As I watched, a tiny pebble rolled out from behind the crate and stopped a few inches in front of it.

  “Did you see that?” my employer asked, clutching my shoulder excitedly.

  I nodded, swallowing. “What do you think it means?”

  “He wants us to unpack the last of the blue and white teapots, I suppose,” he said, shuffling casually toward the stairs. “See to it when you can, would you?” He turned to grin at me. “There must be something very special in there that I’ve forgotten!” He went off whistling, elated at what he regarded as a communication from the spirit world.

  I agreed to come back soon despite my uneasy feeling and followed him upstairs. I dreaded the thought of inventorying the basement and had managed to put it off indefinitely. Mr. Paradis claimed he had a fairly comprehensive list in hand, which he used for tax purposes. I decided to simply keep track of what we brought upstairs, and leave the accounting up to him.

  Every few days a package or two would arrive for Mr. Paradis. It was usually books, but sometimes I would open a Fed Ex box to find antique jewelry, or hand-carved ivory fans, or a brass statue of a Chinese goddess. It seemed that eBay was a terrible temptation for a collector like my employer, especially now that his cash flow was restored.

  Some days Siri came in early to make her curried chicken for lunch, or fragrant lentil soup served with pita bread. I made tuna salad with fresh dill and capers, served on soft sourdough rolls, or little delicate open-faced grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches. Carrot and ginger soup was popular, as was my newly invented version of Vichyssoise, made with potatoes, leeks and chives. We didn’t offer a full menu, just one or two items every day, so between me and Siri the work was manageable.

  One afternoon after lunch, I was bringing a bag of trash out to the dumpster in the alley, when I heard a clinking noise. I peered underneath the back porch cautiously. Raccoons? Rats? Ghosts? Muggers? A pale, thin face stared out at me with a fierce expression. I took a step back.

  “Don’t worry,” the scruffy teenager said, “I won’t bite you.”

  Dark eyes in a dirty face, surrounded by short dark hair that looked like she had cut it herself with manicure scissors. She was sitting on the ground in the shelter of the back steps.

  “And I ain’t stealing either. Nothin’ anybody cares about, anyhow.”

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve. There was a big black plastic trash bag next to her. Just like the one I carried, as a matter of fact. I realized she had been going through the garbage. I saw a plastic shopping bag at her feet, with half-eaten and moldy food spilling out of it.

  We regarded each other in silence for a moment. She shifted uneasily, waiting to see what I would do. I made a decision.

  “Come with me,” I commanded abruptly, with a firm tone.

  I tossed my trash bag into the dumpster and beckoned to her.

  “Wha…what?” she stammered nervously.

  “Follow me,” I repeated, and pointed at the back door. “Inside. It’s OK, really.”

  She slowly emerged from her sanctuary, leaving the plastic bags under the stairs. Wearing dirty jeans, torn sneakers and a black T-shirt, she looked about fifteen or sixteen. She was anorexically thin, but I had a feeling it wasn’t caused by an eating disorder.

  I went up the stairs and opened the back door.

  “Kitchen,” I said, pointing the way. “Coming?”

  Her eyes widened and something lightened in her facial expression.

  “Um…OK,” she said, with a studied casual air.

  She slowly climbed the stairs and slipped into the back hallway. I walked ahead of her into the kitchen and went to the fridge, where I had put the leftovers from today’s chicken salad. I lifted out the Tupperware container and opened it.

  She drifted into the middle of the room with her eyes locked on the food, standing there awkwardly. I nodded in the direction of the kitchen table.

  “Have a seat,” I smiled. I took a plate out of the cabinet and filled it, then added two whole wheat rolls.

  “But, I can’t pay,” she said, wringing her hands nervously. Her eyes burned with intensity.

  “I know,” I said. I turned and put the food on the table. “We’d only get rid of it, after a while. This is just the leftovers. “

  I smiled at her reassuringly and waved her toward the table.

  “Might as well enjoy it before it’s spoiled,” I said as she grabbed one of the rolls and stuffed it into her mouth. “Just gets stinky out there in the dumpster, right?”

  She nodded enthusiastically, sitting down to devour half of the chicken salad in about thirty seconds. I poured her a glass of milk and she downed it in three gulps. She looked intensely at the remaining food on her plate, obviously still hungry but holding back for some reason.

  “Do you mind if I…um…save some for later?” she asked. “I kind of promised to get back home soon. Thank you very much, and all,” she added anxiously. “It’s the best we’ve had in, I mean, it was very good. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “We?” I asked, “Someone at home?”

  “My mother,” she confirmed. “She’s not been feeling too well. So she sent me out…shopping.” She meant, scrounging for food in my dumpster.

  I scraped her chicken salad into a plastic bag, and then I added a big dollop more. I thought again, then upended the Tupperware container and emptied it into the baggie.

  “Well, I hope your mother is feeling better soon,” I said, handing her the sealed bag of food.

  She nodded vigorously, her eyes shining. I walked her to the back door.

  “By the way,” I said as she headed down the back steps. “What’s your name? I’m Emily.”

  She turned and looked up at me, hesitating, then apparently deciding it was safe to tell me. She was clutching the bag of food to her chest like a life preserver.

  “It’s Amy,” she answered.

  “Do you live nearby, Amy?”

  She gave me the wary look again.

  “Um, yeah, sort of nearby.”

  “Bec
ause, I was thinking. Maybe you could help us out again some day. You know, with the leftovers. It’s such a waste, we aren’t allowed to sell them.”

  She stared up at me in unbelieving silence.

  “Really?”

  I nodded.

  “You want to give me the leftovers, for no money?”

  “Sure. Helps us to clear out the fridge. We need the space. I have to make something new every day, for the customers,” I said slyly.

  “Well, sure, I could help you out with that, I guess,” she agreed seriously. “And, maybe I could, you know, take out the trash for you or something.” She looked around the alley and spotted our large recycling bins. “I could rinse out the cans and bottles, too, if you want. There’s a hose right over there,” she pointed at the side of the building.

  I nodded slowly in a considering way. “That would be very helpful, Amy, thanks for offering.”

  She smiled brightly, and ducked back under the stairs to grab the garbage bags she’d left there, tossing them into the dumpster and closing the lid neatly.

  “OK then, I’d better go now!” she said, and headed down the alley toward where a little footpath cut through to Market Street. “Bye!” she called.

  “See you tomorrow!” I answered.

  I hoped she would return. I actually like teenagers, contrary to the feelings of many retailers, who worry about shoplifting and the large gangs of kids who hang around on the sidewalks after school, getting in the way of the paying customers and making lots of noise and litter. It didn’t bother me if they wore Goth piercings, black nail polish and green hair coloring. I looked a little strange when I was sixteen, too. It’s just a way of being different from their parents, something every generation attempts to do. Until they grow up and realize how much alike we all are, that is.

  I thought about Amy’s mother. I wondered whether she was really sick, and where they lived. There was a house down the street where some known drug addicts lived, according to Laurel. She told me that one of the tenants had come into the restaurant in a panic one evening and asked her to call 911. I hoped this was not where Amy and her mother lived. I decided to ask around and see if the neighbors knew anything about the girl.

  No time like the present! I called Laurel and invited her over for a quick espresso before the evening rush hit at her restaurant. Siri was planning to stay for a while too, taking advantage of the quiet late afternoon time to do some feather dusting of our more delicate bric-a-brac. I called Isabella Reyes too, on her cell phone. She volunteered part time at an after-school childcare center and would be getting off about now.

  Bella and Laurie showed up nearly simultaneously, just as the electric kettle came to a boil. Nobody else was in the store, nor were they likely to appear at this time of day, mid-week. Siri dropped her duster, and we all gathered at the coffee bar to chat while I served up hot drinks and snacks.

  Everyone talked simultaneously, but we could all still hear and understand each other perfectly well. This may seem impossible to men, but women do it all the time. It is actually a very efficient way of communicating in a group setting. Girlfriends talk partly with their words and even more with their emotions, which communicate in a psychic, unstated way. When we all talk at the same time it is not rude or like interrupting, it’s our way of broadcasting our emotional states to each other. It’s like touching minds. It helps create a feeling of group intimacy, which is a really good thing.

  I told them about meeting the girl Amy in the alley today. They clucked with dismay at the story of her garbage picking, and approved of my decision to feed the child. None of them recognized her description or had any idea where she might live. They offered to ask around.

  “And, we could ask the cards about her,” Laurie offered, “If you’d like. I have them in my bag.”

  “You mean, Tarot cards?”

  “Yes!”

  “Get them, for sure.”

  Everyone chimed in enthusiastically.

  “Let’s move over here,” I said, leading them to a small round table with four chairs.

  We all sat down in a circle around the table. A kind of cosmic bubble started to form from our combined energies, enclosing us from the rest of the world. I could see it faintly shimmering in the air. Laurie took a dark red velvet pouch from her large handbag. She loosened the strings and pulled out a rectangular box covered with colorful pictures and lettering. Inside was her Tarot deck, fortune telling cards that can answer questions about the past, the present and the future. Her deck was beautiful, with graceful Art Nouveau illustrations of the symbols and archetypal characters.

  “Let’s see what the Tarot knows about this girl. Now, everyone focus and think of our question,” Laurel said, and shuffled the cards gently, over and over again. She stopped for a moment and tapped them together neatly, then inhaled and blew a long, slow breath into the cards, closing her eyes. We all stared at the deck, pushing our thoughts into the cards. Then she cut the deck in two and turned one half upside down, beginning to shuffle them again repeatedly, this time slower and with deliberation, concentrating.

  With her left hand she cut the cards into three piles. She picked them up in reverse order, so the last one was now on top.

  “That’s it,” she said. “Here we go.”

  Bella clapped her hands and we all leaned forward for a better view.

  Laurie laid out the cards on the table one by one, making a pattern she called the Celtic Cross. She explained the meanings of the cards as they appeared. The center of the spread showed me, the Queen of Wands, and the girl Amy, the Page of Swords. The card in the past was the five of pentacles. Laurie said it showed Amy and her mother cast out of their home, desolate and crying outside a lighted window.

  The card in the present was the nine of swords, which showed a woman suffering and crying in despair, alone in bed with nine double-edged swords like vertical bars hanging above her. Laurie said it might mean Amy’s mother was indeed sick, or even dying. She had definitely been struck by a disaster of some kind.

  The card in the near future was somewhat puzzling. It was the eight of swords, which shows a bound blindfolded woman surrounded by a circle of eight swords, stuck into the ground to form a fence around her. Laurie said the card meant someone was a prisoner, and too weak to fight for his or her rights. The card was upside down though, which meant the interpretation was reversed. This meant the prisoner might be released soon.

  The card in the far future looked better, however. It was the six of wands, which meant good news, victory and helpful friends.

  The next three cards were more vague in meaning, and seemed to be talking about various other people involved in the situation. There were a powerful merchant, and a reclusive scholar, and someone who might be a priest or minister.

  The final outcome card was excellent. It was the Sun, which Laurie said means success and happiness.

  Siri wondered whether the prisoner was Amy’s mother, sick in bed and housebound, or someone else. Where was Amy’s father, we all wanted to know? Could he be the prisoner? What if he was actually in jail? If so, he might be a dangerous guy. And according to the cards, he would be getting out soon! Laurie gathered up the deck and put it away.

  We ended our social hour with a quick hug all around. I liked these women, and it was such fun to see them nearly every day. I hadn’t had a group of girlfriends like this since high school. In my recent past, it had always seemed like women who were friendly wanted something from me, and didn’t want to give anything back in exchange. They were jealous and competitive, ready to stab me in the back if I seemed to be getting too successful or landed a desirable man. Lexi and the other women who worked at the gallery were like this. Lexi wanted to keep me under her thumb, firmly inferior to her in talent and position. She made certain to comment if I ever looked less than perfect, or stumbled over a customer’s unpronounceable last name. The others gossiped about me behind my back, shushing each other slyly when I came into the room. They were jea
lous of my sales success. They made the old cliché about “catty” women seem quite accurate.

  So far, my new friends were different. They were self-confident, happy with their lives and mates, and nurturing toward each other. I kept waiting for their flaws to be revealed and was holding back my complete trust. My own secrets were safely locked up inside. But I had started to relax and truly enjoy their company. We were talking about starting a Pilates or Yoga class at the store once a week, early some morning before we opened. If we moved the lunch tables aside, there was tons of space at the back to put down yoga mats on the floor. I was looking forward to it, even more for the fun than for the exercise.

  I was also looking forward to Tony Novak’s return from his trip to London. Our one date had been so great, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Of course, I still didn’t really trust him either. I wondered if he was seeing someone over there, too, and decided he probably was. After all, he had been living there for years and owned a house there. He probably had a woman in New York, too, for that matter. His goodnight kiss at the door had landed politely on my cheek, perfect manners for a first date, yet somehow a little disappointing.

  I received a postcard with a picture of a Rolls Royce on the front, about a week after he left town. The intriguing message was written in bold slanting letters. It said:

  Dear M,

  Travel is no fun without my favorite driver to deliver me safely.

  Time to come home soon!

  —A.N.

  The Hermit

  WISE COUNSEL OFFERED

  Description: An elderly pilgrim or monk stands in an isolated landscape, holding a staff and the shining lamp of knowledge.

  Meaning: Wisdom. A sage offers expert advice and insight gained from a long period of contemplation and solitude. A lesson with a master.