Knot of This World

by Mary Marks

  She smiled. “Hello, Martha.”

  I frowned and desperately tried to remember where I’d met her before. Blonde streaks wove through her sandy-colored hair, which had been cut stylishly short around a weathered, tan face. A shade of light pink lipstick outlined her warm smile. She wore a cream-colored blouse under the slightly baggy jacket of a black pantsuit. Her only jewelry was a pair of wide gold hoops in her ears. Her smile broadened with amusement. “Aren’t you going to invite me inside?” She gestured toward the living room with her hand.

  The voice was familiar... as were those rough hands. The nails were cut short and the fingertips blunted by hard work. I looked back at the eyes twinkling in her face and my jaw hit the floor. “Hilda?”

  She laughed and stepped inside. “The one and only.”

  “You look terrific.”

  “I figured I’d better make a good impression. This is a job interview, after all. My friend Brandy is the director of the women’s shelter. I needed a second opinion and asked her to come shopping with me at the Goodwill store. We picked out the clothes and the earrings. Rafi insisted on paying for everything, including the new hairdo. I tried to talk him out of it, but he felt bad about closing the restaurant. He said it was the least he could do.”

  Hilda followed me into the kitchen. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Absolutely not. You’re a guest tonight.”

  She leaned against the apricot-colored marble counter on the kitchen island and watched while I basted the three chickens roasting side by side in a large pan. I gathered some of the juice from the birds with the large plastic syringe and dribbled it over the chunks of rosemary potatoes roasting in their own pan.

  “I haven’t the first idea about how to cook kosher,” she said.

  I closed the oven door and straightened up. “Don’t worry. You’re smart. You’ll learn.”

  We chatted amiably until Crusher came home. He hadn’t seen Hilda for a couple of years, ever since he’d led a caravan of bikers into a homeless encampment to distribute quilts and personal hygiene supplies. He kissed me hello and grinned at our guest. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Happy Sabbath.” She bit her lip. “Did I say it right?”

  Crusher nodded. “Perfect. Happy Sabbath to you, too. If you ladies will excuse me, I’ve got to get ready.” He didn’t deposit his badge or shoulder holster on the table in the foyer as he usually did. Every Friday night, or whenever we had company, he wore them into the bedroom and stashed them out of sight.

  Quincy, Noah, and the baby were the next to arrive.

  Hilda’s face softened as she gazed at my tiny granddaughter. “How sweet she is. I delivered a baby a few months ago who’d be about the same age.”

  Noah perked up and he smiled broadly. “Are you a doctor?”

  “I used to be a nurse. Sometimes a midwife, when it’s needed.”

  My son-in-law looked confused. “‘Used to be? Sometimes?’ Where do you practice?” The tone of his voice had gone from friendly to suspicious.

  “Among the homeless.” Hilda looked at him evenly, waiting for the next question in what was turning into an interrogation.

  “What organization do you work with?”

  “None. I work on my own.”

  “Without proper medical supervision? You’d better explain.”

  The happy optimism slid off Hilda’s face and she looked at her hands. “Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should go....”

  I could’ve throttled my son-in-law, but my daughter beat me to it. “Noah!” She glared at him. “It’s really none of your business, is it?” Then she reached out and squeezed Hilda’s hand. “Please, please, please, don’t let anything my husband says bother you. He can be a real idiot at times. I think the work you do is awesome.”

  Giselle and Harold arrived, helping my uncle walk slowly into the house. Uncle Isaac carefully measured each step all the way into the living room. Giselle helped lower him into one of the easy chairs.

  “Veh!” he sighed. “It’s no picnic getting older.”

  Hilda walked over to his chair and squatted down to be at eye level. “Do you remember me?” She smiled encouragement.

  Uncle Isaac frowned and peered at her, searching for a clue. “I never forget a face. But maybe it’s my age. I’m sorry. We’ve met before, maybe?”

  Hilda smiled broadly. “Yes, we met a couple of years ago. On a Sabbath just like tonight. I don’t blame you for not recognizing me. I recently changed my appearance. My name is Hilda. I work with the homeless.”

  Uncle Isaac’s face lit up with instant recognition and he beamed at the woman in front of him. “Aber zicher!” Of course. “You are that poor woman who was sent to prison.”

  “What?” Noah burst out. “You’re a felon?”

  “Shut it, Noah!” I glared at him. “Not another word. Do you understand?”

  He opened his eyes wide with shock but kept his lips together as I had just commanded.

  Hilda reached out and gently grasped Uncle Isaac’s hand. “You have a very good memory, I see.”

  “Sit here.” Uncle Isaac indicated she should take the easy chair near him. As soon as she sat, he said, “How have you been? Do you still help those poor homeless people, Gott benschen zeh?” God bless ’em.

  Hilda drew a deep breath. “Well, that’s one of the reasons Martha invited me here this evening. I’m afraid I’m getting older myself. Every day it gets harder and harder to live rough. That kind of work takes someone younger and stronger than me.”

  Uncle Isaac pinched his forehead, clearly distressed. “But where will you live? What will you do?”

  “I’m a hard worker, but I need a real bed at night. I hope to find a job as a live-in helper with someone.” Hilda glanced at me as if to say, You take it from here. She excused herself and asked for directions to the ladies’ room.

  As soon as she left the room, Giselle said in a quiet voice, “I like Hilda. You’re right about her.”

  Encouraged by my sister’s approval, I said, “I’ve got an idea. Uncle Isaac, what would you think about Hilda staying with you for a while? She needs someone to give her a break.”

  He looked at me with a sparkle in his eyes. “What? You think I’m a shmegege? I know exactly why you invited her tonight.” He paused and looked at his hands shaking slightly with involuntary tremors. “Nu? I could use a little help.”

  My uncle might have been old, but, like he said, he was no fool. “So that’s a yes? About Hilda?”

  “Shoyn. Fartik.” Fine. Already done.

  “You’re such a mensch, Uncle. I knew I could count on you.”

  Now the next thing I had to worry about was getting to Ojai early in the morning and talking to Freddy/Andre.

  CHAPTER 20

  The Mystical Feather brochure said Freddy’s beginning tarot class started at nine. Giselle, Jazz, and I left my house in Encino at seven on Saturday morning. At that hour the freeways and highways bore little traffic. My sister’s midnight blue Jaguar pulled into the parking lot of the Mystical Feather bookstore in Ojai at 8:30 and parked next to a gray Prius.

  “Before we go inside,” I said, “I want to make sure we all agree on the game plan.”

  Giselle pulled down her sun visor and looked into the small mirror. “Go on.” She applied red lipstick to go with her red-and-white-striped shirt. “I’m listening.”

  “We don’t want Freddy to suspect we’re there to spy on him. So, don’t call him Andre, whatever you do. We go in there as students eager to learn about tarot.”

  “So, when are we going to tell him we know who he really is?” Giselle asked.

  “We keep our mouths shut, Giselle,” I looked pointedly at my sister, “and do not mention Royal’s murder or anything about the Polinskaya family. As far as Freddy is concerned, we’re just ordinary people.”

  “Fine.” Giselle sniffed. “I can act ordinary.”

  That’ll be the day. “If we get a chance to talk to him in priva
te, I will be the one to ask questions. Agreed?”

  Giselle nodded.

  Jazz yawned and stretched. “I had a late night. I hope the guy is interesting. Otherwise, I might fall asleep in class. And I won’t even talk about Zsa Zsa. She hardly spoke to me on Thursday when I picked her up from the dog sitter. You can imagine how incensed she was when I took her back there this morning. She looked straight at me, barked once, and peed on my shirt.”

  I looked at the front of his coral-colored polo shirt tucked into his tan trousers. “I don’t see any stains.”

  “Of course you don’t. I had to rush back home and change my outfit. I barely made it to your house on time.” When we got out of the Jaguar, he inspected my clothes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in that blouse before. Is that from Guatemala?” He pointed to the parade of llamas cross-stitched in primary colors around the neck, puffy sleeves, and hem of the white shirt.

  “Yes. It’s hand embroidered. I thought I’d look more authentic as an aspiring fortune teller if I wore something ethnic and colorful.” I tied a brightly flowered scarf around my gray curls and knotted it at the back of my neck. “What do you think?”

  Jazz put one hand on his hip and the other on the side of his face and studied my clothes. “As a cultural artifact, I find the blouse understandable. As a piece of grown-up clothing, I find it almost unforgiveable. But I get what you were going for.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yeah. Guatemalan Gypsy Casual.”

  I ignored his snarkasm and headed for the bookstore. “Let’s go inside.”

  The furniture inside the tea room had been rearranged to accommodate the class. All four tables were pushed together in a row, with four chairs on one side facing a flip chart on an easel. Judging from the new configuration, I guessed only four people had signed up for the class, and the other one was probably the driver of the Prius. She sat at the end of the row of tables, leaving the other three chairs together.

  I sat next to the woman, Giselle sat next to me, and Jazz sat on the other end. The thirtyish woman wore exotic clothes made with a bright turquoise cotton printed with yellow leaf shapes. The colors looked cheerful against her coffee-colored skin.

  I smiled. “Good morning. My name is Martha.”

  The woman graced me with a wide, warm smile and offered her hand. “Good morning. My name is Nkwa. It means the ‘creator goddess’ in Nigeria.”

  “Your outfit is beautiful. Is it also from Nigeria?”

  “It’s traditional dress, yes.” She pointed to her loose-fitting blouse over a long, wraparound skirt. “The blouse is called a buba, the skirt is iro.”

  I eyed a complicated red turban pleated around her hair and shaped like a fan in back. “That’s a fascinating headpiece.”

  “I’m glad you like it. It’s called gele. The shape is supposed to resemble a peacock flaring its tail.”

  “Thank you for sharing all that. What I don’t know about Africa could fill a library of books.”

  Up to that point, Giselle had listened quietly to the conversation. She leaned in front of me to get closer to the woman. “I’m Martha’s little sister, Giselle. You speak English very well. I just love the sound of African names, although they’re impossible for normal people to pronounce. What’s your last name?”

  Nkwa leveled her gaze at my sister. “Applebaum.”

  “No!’ Giselle hooted. “You’re married to a Jew? My sister Martha’s Jewish, but I’m not. I’m Catholic. Same father, different mothers. But my fiancé is Jewish. Harold Zimmerman. Can you imagine a name more Jewish than that?”

  Nkwa’s face remained parked in neutral throughout the rambling outburst. I suspected this wasn’t the first time she’d had to deal with a reaction like Giselle’s. “Applebaum is my father’s name.”

  Giselle just wouldn’t let it go. “I didn’t know there were any Jews living in Africa. Was he there on business?”

  I tried kicking her under the table, but my foot painfully connected with the table leg instead.

  Nkwa regarded my sister with almost scientific curiosity, tightening her eyes as if observing Giselle under a microscope, waiting to see how she would react. “Actually, I was born and raised in Berkeley, California.”

  Giselle waved her hand. “Berkeley? Of course. That explains everything. Berkeley’s always been a liberal stronghold. You look like you’re around my age, forty-five. Am I right? Wasn’t there a lot of racial mixing going on around the time we were born?”

  I pushed Giselle back in her chair. “What is the matter with you?”

  “What?” Her mouth hung open and her face registered a total lack of comprehension.

  I turned back to the other woman. “Please forgive my sister. She means no harm or disrespect. She just lacks a filter sometimes.”

  Much to my relief, Nkwa relaxed back in her chair and gave me a rueful smile. “This is nothing new, Martha. I deal with that kind of ignorance all the time. If you are Jewish, you must know what I mean.”

  I screwed up my face and nodded. “Oh yeah. All the time.”

  A man in his late thirties with a dark beard and dark eyes entered the room from the door in the back. He wore leather sandals, jeans fashionably tattered, and a white shirt with a mandarin collar. Jazz had also worn the same kind of shirt the other day. Maybe that style was coming back.

  The man stood in front of the flip chart and cleared his throat to get our attention. His voice was surprisingly deep for a man of average height. “Good morning. My name is Freddy Pea.”

  Aka Andre Polinskaya.

  He wrote his pseudonym at the top of the flip chart with a black marker. “I’m going to take you on an amazing journey these next two days. But first, I’d like to get to know each of you. Let’s start with the gentleman on the end. What is your name and what do you hope to get from this class?”

  “Hi.” Jazz raised his wrist and waved. “I’m Jazz Fletcher. I’m here because I’m curious.”

  Freddy smiled. “Curiosity is the beginning of wisdom.” He wrote Curiosity on the flip chart and looked at my sister. “And you?”

  I grabbed her upper arm and squeezed hard.

  “My name is Giselle Cole, and I’m here because I can’t wait to read my own fortune.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief when she closed her mouth.

  Freddy wrote Cartomancy (foretelling the future) on the chart and pointed to me. “You?”

  “I’m Martha Rose, and I’m also curious.”

  Freddy put a check mark after the word Curiosity and slid his final gaze to my neighbor. I noticed how his eyes matched the almond shape of his siblings Paulina and Mansoor. And above his dark beard I could make out the same high cheek bones.

  “I’m Nkwa Applebaum, and I hope to learn more about the mysteries of the occult.”

  Freddy nodded and added History, Enlightenment, Interpretation, and Application to the list. “We can’t possibly cover everything there is to know about tarot in just two short days, but I will give you an overview that’ll point you in the right direction. Then if you study the books you purchased for the class, you’ll be ready for the advanced course, where you’ll learn how to apply all that you have learned. Are there any questions so far?”

  Giselle raised her hand.

  Oh, no...

  “So I won’t be able to tell my own fortune right away?”

  Freddy said, “Afraid not. But if you keep studying, one day you’ll use the tarot in the way it was intended. Madame Natasha St. Germain wrote an insightful chapter on using tarot in her book Choosing the Enlightened Life. I believe there are several copies for sale in the bookstore.”

  I could have kissed Nkwa for asking the question, “What about you, Freddy? How long did it take you to learn about tarot?”

  He took a slight step backward, suggesting to me he wanted to distance himself from giving out personal information. “I’ve been interested in the paranormal ever since I was a boy on the East Coast.”

  Prince
ton, New Jersey, to be exact.

  He pointed to the flip chart. “Curiosity motivated me to learn about various disciplines. The more I studied, the more I wanted to learn.” He pointed to the words History and Enlightenment.

  “Was it hard?” Jazz asked. “Becoming a tarot expert?”

  “Fortunately, no. Interpretation and Application seemed to come naturally to me.”

  I dared to raise my hand. “Does paranormal ability run in families? Like, if I became adept at tarot, could my daughter and granddaughter also develop a talent in that direction?” I held my breath, wondering if he’d reveal his family connection to Madam Natasha St. Germain.

  “The answer is yes and no. The potential for becoming adept may be passed down from generation to generation, but it doesn’t always take.”

  “So, one sibling could have the gift but the other not?” Like your mother, Eugenie, and your uncle Royal.

  He tilted his head and studied me for a moment. Did I say too much? Did he suspect I knew who he really was? “Correct.” He put down the black marker on the shelf of the easel and picked up a fresh deck of tarot cards. “Now, let’s take a look at your tarot cards.” I removed my cards from the package. The deck seemed much thicker than an ordinary deck of playing cards.

  Freddy continued. “Modern tarot decks have seventy-eight cards, consisting of four suits and twenty-two trump cards. The suits are named Cups, Swords, Pentacles, and Wands. Each suit has fourteen cards. The first ten are numbered one through ten. The other four are the King, the Queen, the Knight, and the Jack. Find those cards in your decks and arrange them according to suit in four piles, face up.”

  “I can clearly see the swords and the cups and maybe the wands. But what are pentacles, and what do they look like?” Giselle asked.

  “A pentacle is an amulet. Think in terms of a coin or something round like a disc.”

  “Ahh.” Nkwa’s voice sang. “You mean like a pentagram?”