Pen Pal(64)

After looking left, then right, the woman shuts the door in my face.

Taking that as a sign from the universe that I should abandon my ridiculous mission, I turn and start to walk away. But the door opens again and a woman’s voice calls out, “Hello there! Helloooo!”

I turn to find a younger version of the first woman standing in the doorway. She’s also short, but the hair piled atop her head in a complicated braided mound is black instead of white, and instead of a purple track suit, she’s in a flowery teal-and-gold muumuu.

Strings of colorful plastic Mardi Gras beads are draped around her neck. Gold bangles decorate both arms from wrists to elbows. Her lipstick is bright red, and the polish on her long acrylic nails is sparkly silver. Dotted throughout her coiffure are clusters of rhinestones that look like Christmas tree ornaments.

It takes a significant amount of self-control to keep a straight face.

She wiggles her fingers at me and smiles. In a syrupy Southern drawl I suspect isn’t authentic, she says, “C’mon in, sugar.”

“Are you open? The other lady didn’t seem very welcoming.”

“Don’t worry about mama.” She waves her hand so her chunky rings catch the light. “Blind as a bat and madder than a wet hen. I try to get to the door before she does, but the woman’s as spry as a billy goat. Come in, come in!”

That’s got to be some kind of record for animal similes, but I decide her enthusiasm makes up for getting the door slammed in my face and accept the invitation.

Slightly out of breath, she closes the door behind me, then hustles me into a parlor off the hallway, excitement oozing from her every pore.

I get the feeling she doesn’t get many customers on a Tuesday afternoon.

Or maybe ever.

“Sit, honey,” she instructs, pointing to a small round table draped in black velvet flanked by a pair of tufted gold-and-maroon velvet chairs. On top of the table is a deck of cards and a crystal ball on a low silver pedestal.

The room is decorated in what I suppose is standard fortune-teller décor. A red scarf is draped over the fringed shade of a floor lamp. A tall glass étagère displays an impressive collection of crystals. At the window, a pair of dusty-gold brocade silk curtains held back with tassels lend the space a certain shabby glamour, as do the throw rugs on the wood floor that are worn in spots but still elegant.

Several framed and incomprehensible astrological charts adorn the walls, along with a quote from Henry David Thoreau: “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

Next to the Thoreau quote hangs a vaguely disturbing portrait of Jesus with an open chest cavity exposing his bloody, thorn-encrusted heart. His eyes are turned beseechingly heavenward.

I sit at the table, inhaling the heady scent of patchouli while looking around for any sign of my sanity.

Good grief, what was I thinking?

My hostess doesn’t give me time to dwell on my regret. She plops herself down opposite me and announces, “I’m Destiny, sugar. And it is my great pleasure to meet you. Now, y’all tell me why you’re here.”

She waits expectantly as I try to formulate a non-crazy-sounding answer. “I’d like a psychic reading, I guess?”

She crinkles her nose. “Oh, honey, you don’t have to draw the pictures on the wall for me. I know you’re here for a reading! My question is why do you need a reading? Tell me what’s goin’ on in your life.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be your job to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes, yes, but I need a question for the Tarot.” She points at the deck of cards on the table between us. “You have to approach a reading with intention, you see. You can’t just start pulling cards all willy-nilly. There’s a process to this. We have to do it proper.”

I sense condemnation in her tone, so I answer with what I hope is appropriate respect. “Of course. Um. Well, I guess my question would be… What am I supposed to do?”

Destiny flutters her false eyelashes accusingly at me. “While I cleanse the cards, you can think about how to narrow that down to somethin’ more useful.”

She proceeds to conduct an elaborate “cleansing” ritual on the cards which includes first blowing on the deck, then setting various crystals on top of it while muttering unintelligible words. Once that’s finished, she shuffles the deck, raps the bottom edge against the tabletop three times to straighten it, then sets the deck in front of me with a theatrical flourish.

Then she goes to the window and pulls the drapes closed, plunging the room into a murky semi-gloom. “You have your question, sugar?”

“Yes.”

“Ask the Tarot.”

I regard the deck of oversized cards warily, expecting to see an eyeball staring up at me from among the scrolls and twisting vines illustrated on the back. “How do I move on from my husband?”

Destiny takes her seat again, nodding. “Good. Cut the deck in half, then put it back together and fan the cards out in a half circle.”

Her voice is hushed now. Her level of excitement seems to have risen. Even in the murk, I can see the drops of perspiration gathered on her upper lip.

After I’ve followed her instructions, she says, “Now, pick three cards and place them in front of you, from left to right, turning them over as they lie on the deck without flipping them upside down as you do.”