A bell tinkled as Lizette stepped out of the Seattle rain and into the old fortune teller’s shop. It smelled of last night's onions and simmering mildew. A white angora cat, curled in a velvet swivel chair looked up, watched the newcomer with bored blue eyes, watched her stamp water from her boots, squinted in disapproval as the intruder softly shut the door.
|by Nancy Diaz|
Lizette nodded as the old woman slid the money across the velvet cloth and out of sight. “That’s it?” Lizette waited to understand what Madame saw, waited for a better explanation.
The old fortune teller crinkled her eyes as if to smile, thought better of it, relaxed her wrinkled face, and repeated herself. “Coffee.”
Madame Lora snorted, shook her head, leaned toward Lizette. “Not to drink, dummy . . . To work!” She pulled back, smoothed her robe across her lap. “Up the street." She waved her arm in the air, flapping her hand toward the wall. "They need help, a counter girl. One of the coffee shop owners told me that the other day. At the Downtown Rotary Club meeting. I've been in Rotary for years, always work their Christmas parties. Last week, the Vietnamese ambassador spoke, talked about the Communists and the war ending. Very interesting. ”
“Happen? . . . What always happens! What do you think?”
“But, I . . . " Lizette began to protest, looked in the direction her money had gone.
“I grew up by Greenlake, not far from here,” Lizette said impatiently. "I've been here twenty five years now. I'm not going anywhere."
“Go? My child, any journey is ruled by the twin houses of mystery and discovery,” Madame said, puckering her painted lips like a pink sea anemone. “Each day is launched on a fresh canvas. Though travel is often a great teacher – and a great equalizer – there’s a definite art to living on the road.”
“Art? I am an artist,” Lizette said, confused. “And, I'm in the street, you know that.”
“The last time you were here you said you were a housekeeper.”
“I am. That too. But, look, I’m trying to be an artist,” Lizette said. “Like my mother. She was a real artist, except . . .”
“Except what? I don’t shrink heads. I just read cards.”
“If you can’t tell me what’s next, give my money back.”
“What’s your problem?" Madame pouted. “You still owe me from the last time.”
“You’re not making sense,” Lizette said, anger edging into her voice.
“Like you would know,” Madame snapped.
|by Kate Campbell|
Lizette turned to Madame, nodded for the reading to continue. Sat back down, frowned.
“If you’re entering a new environment of any sort – attempt to be patient,” Madame admonished. “Be flexible and undemanding. You must get rid of attitudes that weigh you down or make you stand out.”
“What does that mean?” Lizette snapped.
Looking at Lizette, wrapped in a collection of scarves that barely covered the grimy thermal underwear she wore, Madam fell out of character. “It means don’t be an oddball. Get some clothes. You can’t run around half naked in your underwear, especially in this weather. I have pants and a shirt in the back. You can have them for a few coins. Cheaper than Salvation Army.” She got up and went into the back, clattering the bead curtain.
Lizette took off her boots and untied the scarves on her legs and arms, folded each one neatly, put them in her big canvas bag. As she stood there, stuffing scarves into her bag, thinking about the trip Madame foretold, a man holding an umbrella stood under the shop’s sign and watched her through the picture window. Lizette felt a flash of anger, at the gawker, at her circumstances, thought what the hell, rolled her bottoms down first, mooned the window. Then she turned and faced the glass, stiffen her expression into a taunt and lifted her top over head.
Madame came in from the back, clothes draped over her arm, and saw the faces at the window. She went to the drape pull and tugged, fast, hand over hand, until they swept shut. Lizette saw her look of disapproval and sat down, completely naked.
“A time of trouble is indicated for you,” Madame said, all business. “But the second changing line is the worst. It shows a bird whose nest has burned up and a small child abandoned. Something bad is going to happen.” Lizette gulped and gripped the seat of the wood chair to keep from shaking.
Madame paused, admired Lizette’s pink nipples, thought about tucking her into bed, refunding the money for the reading, filling a few more tea cups with Scotch and napping. Pretty girl, Madame thought. But, big feet. Like rubber flippers. Swedish blood. Too bad she’s such a head case. Doesn't even know she's asking for trouble.
“I’m ready for the shirt and pants,” Lizette spoke off-handedly, as if addressing a maid.
Madame Lora handed her a blue and white flannel shirt and a pair of jeans across the table. Lizette put them on, pushed up the sleeves and hoisted the loose pants, puffed out her belly to hold them up, then sat and laced up her hiking boots.
“Go across the street.” Madame stared into the orb’s milky center. She saw Lizette's future, saw the calamity, and it made her eyes water, a tear rolled down the side of her wrinkled nose. Face stiff, voice flat, she directed: “Ask for a job and your journey will begin.”
|by Kate Campbell|