Be Good Be Real Be Crazy (6 page)

The man standing by the door with a clipboard and the woman taking people's cash at a plastic card table both wore bright, angular suits. In contrast, the four men and one woman smoking next to a huge SUV with tinted windows all had on torn jeans and misshapen T-shirts. The shiny black equipment piled on the sidewalk next to the van looked expensive, and apart from the three film cameras, Homer had no idea what it was.

A mile or so past the ticket house, the road turned to broken asphalt, then dirt, and then the faded sign for the Pythia Springs Campground and Motor Court appeared.

When Mia skipped back from the front office, which was housed in a small log cabin, she had a pile of complimentary mints cupped in her hands and a smile on her face. They were the only guests there, other than a long-term renter. The owner said that they could pick whatever site they wanted.

Homer both was and wasn't surprised.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” The pine needles and twigs under Mia's bare feet crunched as she shifted to her left, tilting her head like a curious bird. “I thought tents looked more like triangles.”

“They do,” Homer huffed from inside the tent as he watched Einstein's silhouette struggle to thread a long pole through
plastic loops on the outside. “This one is just not cooperating.” Homer sat back on his heels. Between the thick forest canopy and the quick rise of dusk, he could only sort of make out the faded instructions sewn on the pocket by the door. “Steiner, are you sure you're using the size-seven poles? Ow.”

The pole Einstein had been working with hit Homer's left shoulder, and before he could react the front of the tent collapsed, enveloping him in waxy canvas. Homer could only imagine how ridiculous he looked as he fought his way under the suffocating fabric to the door. But when he breathed in the fresh air, he almost didn't care.

“Wait! Don't move, Homer,” Mia shouted, reaching through the Banana's open passenger side window. She held one of the disposable cameras over her head like a torch and started clicking away. “Okay, now look mad.”
Click.
“Now try sad.”
Click.
“Happy.”
Click.
“Disgruntled.”
Click.
Mia lowered the camera. “I can't tell if you're trying to smile or if that's your disgruntled face.”

“It's probably just his face.” Einstein appeared from the back of the tent, one hand pressed to his forehead. “Those stupid poles are broken. I swear they don't fit. Did you get any good ones?” He pointed at the camera in Mia's hands.

Mia shrugged. “I don't know. Homer wasn't very responsive and there's no preview on these.” She shook the camera and then studied the back as though she expected a picture to appear like the answer dice floating to the surface of a Magic 8 Ball.

“So,” Einstein said slowly, “you're not even sure that those things work?”

“Nope.” Mia pointed the camera at Einstein's face and clicked.

“And you're taking pictures anyway?”

“Yup.”

“That's stupid.”

“Steiner,” Homer said, shaking his way loose from the tent door's netting. “S.F., dude.”

“It's not stupid,” Mia said. She held the camera in front of her and tilted it toward her stomach. “Baby's first picture.”
Click. Click. Click.
“It's an act of faith.” She slid the camera into the old hiking backpack D.B. had given her. “Most things are.”

Einstein and Mia probably could have gone back and forth all night, but a new voice entered the dusk.

“Hey there. I saw your headlights from 'cross the way.” The girl who appeared from the edge of the clearing had a voice like a heavy whisper, a combination of syrup and concrete. She had dark skin, a broad nose, and wide-set eyes framed by thick eyebrows above and shadows underneath.

Mia was the first one to respond. “Hello. I'm Mia.” She pointed over her left shoulder. “These guys are Homer and Einstein. They're brothers. Homer's tall and very sweet and Einstein's a genius. We're just camping out for the night.”

The girl glanced at the tent. It looked like a candle that had melted on one side. “I see that. Usually, tourists stay at the new
hotels on Route 17. It gets real muggy in the woods, even in December.”

“You live here?” Einstein asked.

“Back yonder.” She pointed vaguely in the direction she'd come from. “I like the trees. Plus, it's quieter—or least it's quieter than the new part of town.”

“It's crazyville over there,” Mia said, rolling her fingers over her stomach like it was a drum. “There's all those empty buildings and then the line of people and the movie folks with fancy-pants equipment and lots of cigarettes.”

“Actually, they're TV people. They shoot the show.”

“What show?”

“
American Oracle.
On every Monday. Prime time.” Even though the daylight had faded to the point where shadows were starting to disappear, the girl must have been able to see Mia's, Homer's, and Einstein's puzzled expressions, because she added, “Prime time's between eight and eleven p.m.” She looked at each of them in turn, settling on Mia, who shrugged apologetically. “Huh, y'all really don't know who I am, do ya?”

Homer studied her face. It could be familiar, but it was hard to tell. She had on thick makeup, and her loose, billowing clothing was the same style as the one that hundreds of women who stepped into La Isla Souvenirs had been wearing that year. “Sorry,” he finally said. “I don't think we do. But,” he added, not wanting to be rude, “we're not from around here.”

“Well, that shouldn't matter.
American Oracle
's
on network
TV. But let's start at how-ya-do. My name's Daphne Treme. I'm the Oracle of Pythia Springs.”

Homer nudged a tent-pole clip with his sneaker. “You tell people their futures? Like a psychic?”

Daphne shook her head. “It's more complicated than that. But not so complicated that it doesn't work for TV. Hey, I've got an early day tomorrow. We start shooting
American Oracle
during the ten a.m. session. Y'all should come watch. In fact”—she glanced at Homer and Einstein's half-erected tent—“why don't y'all come crash in my trailer. December in Pythia doesn't get too bad, but the weather's mighty unpredictable. It can get down to the thirties some nights.”

“We wouldn't want to—” Homer started to say, but Mia interrupted.

“That'd be super. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson had a double-wide and it was so cozy.” Mia scooped her bag off the ground and fell in beside Daphne. “We had eight of us in there, but it wasn't bad.”

“Who are Mr. and Mrs. Jackson?” Homer said as he bent into the half-raised tent and swept the stuff that had fallen out of his bag into a pile.

“She didn't hear you.” Einstein's sneakers appeared in Homer's peripheral vision. “They already started walking.”

“Oh.” Homer shoved everything into his duffel, zipped the tent door closed, and stood up. “This is a little weird, right? We should get Mia and set—” Homer felt more than heard the back
of the tent, the one part he and Einstein had actually gotten to stand up, billow to the ground. “Shit.”

“Set up the tents?” said Einstein, gently kicking a pole. “I think at this point we'd have to enlist NASA to make that happen.”

Homer glanced at the pile of faded canvas. “Yeah, you're probably right.” He flung the duffel over his shoulder. “Let's catch up.”

THE STORY OF THE FORGOTTEN
Place is not so different from the stories of many other disremembered locales. Once, the town had been prosperous; then Company X, Y, or Z had pulled up stakes, jumped ship, skedaddled, boarded the proverbial last train out, leaving a community to remake itself out of dust and ruins.

Before it was the Forgotten Place, the secluded town in the hills of South Carolina had been a harmonious world unto itself. It had buildings painted the colors of Easter eggs, and mail carriers who smiled and always had dog biscuits in their pockets. Neighbors kept their doors open after dusk, and every Sunday the Divine Promise Baptist Choir sang gospel so powerful the walls of the church were permanently curved.

Unfortunately, by time the Accidental Oracle was born, that town was all but gone.

The Accidental Oracle got out as soon as she turned eighteen:
two days after her high school graduation. She let folks believe she was moving on to find fame and fortune in the Big-Wide-Elsewhere. She figured there was no need to upset anyone with the full truth: she was leaving to escape just as much as she was to succeed.

Everyone said she was going to make it. Her theater teacher raved about her “God-given talent.” Her mama told her that if her name wasn't on the marquees of the best theaters within a year, then the sky was purple and up was down.

They were right.

And they were wrong.

It turns out that trying to find your place in the Big-Wide-Elsewhere is really hard. Mostly because there are so many others trying to do the same.

The Accidental Oracle was just another smart, lovely, talented girl in a city full of smart, lovely, talented young people—all of them determined never to return to their own versions of the Forgotten Place.

She fought the good fight for nearly four years. She waited tables at night and went to auditions during the day. She lived in a crowded apartment ten blocks from the subway station at the very end of the line to save money for a voice coach, acting coach, style coach. She worked and worked and worked until the Tuesday morning she woke up and realized she was too tired to keep running in sand. That morning, she called the
manager at the uptown restaurant where she was scheduled for the dinner shift and explained that she wouldn't be in at four o'clock, or ever again, for that matter. She left a month's rent and the few pieces of furniture she'd accumulated in her shoddy apartment and boarded a bus that dropped her off two towns over from the Forgotten Place.

Back in her grandma's house for the first time since she turned eighteen, the Accidental Oracle slept for days. Then she got restless and started walking.

She found the crack in the earth beneath the sycamore at the edge of the clearing by happenstance. Hundreds of times before, she had walked through the field where the Company X factory had once stood. But on the day that changed her life, she was feeling particularly exhausted and heavy footed. Indeed, if she hadn't caught the toe of her sneaker on one of the sycamore's gnarled roots, she never would have lain stunned on the ground at the base of the tree's massive trunk and breathed in the strange fumes drifting out of a crack in the earth like smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. The fumes and the fall made her feel foggy headed and then remarkably clear and desperate to talk. She was still babbling hours later when she stumbled back to her
ya-ya
's home.

That night, she saw things: the numbers for a two-thousand-dollar scratch ticket; her cousin breaking his toe; her mama full of regret after cutting her bangs. The next morning, the
Accidental Oracle noticed three new scars on the back of her right hand. At first, she thought they were from the fall. With time, she would learn otherwise.

Within weeks, news of the Accidental Oracle's abilities began drawing strangers into town—including a Hollywood executive producer, who saw that the Accidental Oracle had everything prime-time America loved: beauty, mystery, and a rags-to-riches fairy tale that so many still needed to believe in.

After
American Oracle
went on the air, folks from the four corners of the world began traveling to the Forgotten Place. Some came thousands of miles just to call the Accidental Oracle a devil worshipper, a sorceress, a sinner. But believers came from all over, too. They arrived with hope in their eyes and unanswered prayers on their lips. They called her an angel, a messenger, a miracle.

The trouble with your life being a miracle is that people expect miracles of you.

Some pilgrims left the Forgotten Place that had become a Somewhere Place furious, heartsick, and frustrated by their inability to make sense of the garbled words that fell out of the Accidental Oracle's mouth. But many more (it seemed) drove away crying grateful tears and marveling at the lightness of their newly unburdened hearts.

Every time the Accidental Oracle visited the crack at the base of the gnarled sycamore, it cost her a piece of herself. She met each dawn with fresh marks on her skin and an ache in her
bones that only patience and daylight could warm away. Her grandma begged her to stop, but she refused. She had stumbled upon a gift, and it had given her everything she thought she wanted.

IT TOOK HOMER LONGER THAN
it should have to remember where he was when he woke up. He spent a solid minute staring at the ceiling tiles and wondering why he wasn't looking at the glow-in-the-dark stars his dads had decorated his bedroom with when he was ten. Only once he stood up did he feel oriented.

Daphne's trailer was neat and cozy and the air mattress he'd shared with Einstein was a million times more comfortable than the slabs-of-concrete beds at La Mancha Magnífico Motel. But Homer still felt like he hadn't slept at all. And it wasn't just because Einstein was a kicker and a blanket stealer or that Mia, who had refused Daphne's offer to take the bed, had slept on the couch and been talking in her sleep for the better part of the night. It was something he couldn't place. He was worried and he didn't know why.

Homer stretched his arms above his head and then followed
the smell of coffee to the small kitchen. He had to rub his eyes twice before he could make out the note Daphne had stuck to the front of the coffeemaker: “Help yourself! Milk's in the fridge. Sugar to the left of the sink.”

When Homer stepped out of the trailer, he didn't notice the cold right away. The steam rising off his coffee blended with the thick fog, and it took a few yards before the December air started to siphon the warmth of sleep from his skin.

He had just taken his first sip—gulp, really—when he saw Daphne perched on a rock near the periphery of the yard. Her back was as straight as the tree trunks in the woods behind her. The mug that she clutched to her chest was, like Homer's, releasing whispers of steam. Her face was angled toward the ground, her long neck exposed to the outstretched shadows of tree limbs.

Daphne was so still and looked so deep in thought that Homer didn't want to disturb her. Unfortunately, two steps into going the opposite direction, one of his huge feet landed on a twig, snapping it in two and making a sound like shotgun going off.

Damn.

“You're up early.” When Daphne spoke, she didn't lift her head. She kept gazing down. At what exactly, Homer couldn't tell.
She's a psychic
, he thought.
Maybe it's something only she can see.

“Sorry. I didn't know you were out here. I can—”

Daphne gestured for Homer to come closer. “It's warmer in the sun. It'll get better by morning-session time, even in the shade. Don't worry.”

Daphne was wearing cut-off shorts, a too-large flannel, and no shoes. As Homer stepped closer, he saw something he hadn't noticed last night when Daphne had on pants and long sleeves: her legs, feet, hands, and wrists were marked with lines of various lengths and in various stages of healing. They looked painful, and they reminded Homer of the time he'd cut his thumb on a steak knife when he was little. D.B had panicked. Christian had been calm, and Homer had been excited to get stitches. With the memory, Homer felt an ache in his chest. This was only the third day of the trip, but his dads, and the island, already seemed thousands of miles away.

Homer didn't realize he was staring at Daphne until her dark eyes caught his.

“I used to be prettier.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to stare.”

“No ‘sorry' needed. I'm used to it.
They don't hurt. The scars.” Daphne held a hand in front of her face like she was trying to decide whether or not she liked a ring. “The other stuff? That hurts. The cuts just prickle. They freak people out, though. That's why I cover up most of the time.” She grasped her mug with two hands again, wiggling her fingers until they overlapped. “My agent says wearing gloves gives me a mystique. But when I'm out here, I like to feel the air.” She shifted a little
higher on the rock. “I've always liked the cold. That's part of the reason why I left Pythia in the first place. Gets too hot in here.”

“I'm not freaked out. Sorry. I mean. I feel like I've interrupted something.” There was nothing accusatory in Daphne's tone or her eyes, but Homer felt embarrassed anyway.

“You say ‘sorry' way too much for such a nice guy.”

“You're not the first person to tell me that.”

“I know.”

The way she said those two words, “I know,” made Homer wonder what else she knew about him. He didn't believe in psychics, astrology, or any of that kooky stuff. But when he'd finally fallen asleep the night before, Daphne and Mia had still been up and whispering across the small card table in the kitchen.
Has Mia been talking about me?
He cleared his throat and asked a question out loud instead. “So, why'd you come back to Pythia?”

“Couldn't make it in the big city.” Daphne poured what was left of her coffee out. The ground steamed where the hot liquid met the pine needles and dirt. “I wanted to be an actress. Problem is, I wasn't any good.” She snorted, then slid off the boulder. “Me and every other twenty-something girl looking to escape a trash heap town. All of us discovering the hard way that a pretty face and a great ass don't make you special out there.” She nodded toward the woods.

Homer wasn't sure if she expected a response, but he gave
one anyway. “At least you figured out what you believed in and went for it. Lots of people don't get that far.” He ground a rock into the soft dirt with his foot. “Seems like you're doing great here. Your own reality show. That's got to be cool.” A gust breaking through the trees passed over the top of Homer's head like a cold invisible hand, making him shiver.

“It's something.” Daphne wrapped her arms around her ribs, letting her empty mug dangle from her fingertips. “And I've got time to figure out what I want to do next. 'Stead of living on the fumes of yesterday's dreams.” Her words were heavy, but they hung in the air for several stretched-out moments before her tone changed completely. “I better go get ready. More coffee?” She jiggled her mug.

“No. No, thanks. I'm good. Thank you, though.” When Homer shook his mug in return, coffee sloshed over the sides.

Daphne's laugh cut through the morning's stillness like a plane through clouds. “I'll make another pot just in case.” Still smiling, she turned and walked across the clearing toward the trailer.

Homer heard Mia singing and the sound of water running through pipes coming from one of the trailer windows.

            
“For one more night I'm in your heart. Oh. Oh. Oh.

              
Da. Da. Whole of mine. Whoopsie. Awaaaaaaaaay.

              
Something. Something . . . duh da duh . . . here and now.

              
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Last song of our lives.”

“Hey, Daphne,” Homer called.

She kept one hand on the trailer's railing when she turned. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For this.” Homer held up his mug, careful this time not to move too quickly. “For, uh, all of it.” What he'd been planning to say had been much more eloquent, at least it had been in his head.

“Most folks ask a lot more of me than this,” Daphne said. “But—” Her smile faded, her expression becoming as unreadable as the ink words in a rain-soaked notebook. “You're welcome. I'm grateful for the company.”

This time, Homer knew he wasn't expected to respond.

Daphne really seemed to mean it when she said Einstein was “just a peach.” And if she was sick of his going on and on about the looming apocalypse, nothing in her demeanor suggested it.

In fact, as they moved closer and closer to the clearing where she performed her show, Daphne's questions came quicker and quicker even as her steps slowed:

“What's an existential risk?”

“Why would super-fast atoms make a black hole?”

“Do you suppose the scientists get depressed, thinking about the end of the world all the time?”

As socially inept as his brother could be, Homer knew his ramblings weren't always annoying. Sometimes, it was even kind of nice to let Einstein talk at you. Not because what he
was saying was interesting, or even understandable, but because Einstein was so unapologetically enthusiastic. He didn't care that the things he thought were cool actually weren't. He saw mysteries to solve, and that was all he needed.

When Daphne and Einstein reached the line where the dirt of the forest path gave way to flattened grass, Daphne halted like she'd hit an invisible wall. Einstein went a few steps into the clearing before he realized she was no longer beside him, and then he doubled back. In the time it took Homer and Mia to catch up, something in the air changed. It felt charged. Bizarre. As though someone somewhere had connected a plug that had never been connected before and switched on the atmosphere.

Homer and Mia stopped beside Daphne. She was clutching the sides of her dress like it was the only thing holding her to the ground. The buzzing sound that Homer had started hearing just minutes after they'd left Daphne's trailer, the sound he'd assumed was coming from clouds of insects hidden by the trees, was, in fact, the combined whisperings of an expectant crowd.

Mia and Einstein shuffled toward each other, standing shoulder to shoulder, forming a barrier between Daphne and the hundreds of people sitting in tidy rows—waiting to see her: the American Oracle.

“It feels like someone lowered a glass dome over this place,” Einstein whispered, “and then stripped all the atoms inside of their electrons.”

“I don't know what that means,” Mia whispered back. “But if you just said this is weird, then I agree.”

“This is nothing,” Daphne said, bending down to run her hand over a patch of grass still glazed with frost. “Just wait until the asking starts.” She pressed her hand, red from the cold, to one cheek, then the other. “They all come for different reasons. They all want the same thing.” The water on her cheeks glistened like tears. “Least that's what my
ya-ya
says.”

Homer glanced at Daphne's profile. The heavy makeup, fake eyelashes, and gauzy dress made her nearly unrecognizable as the girl in flannel and bare feet he'd been talking to fewer than two hours earlier. He had to clear his throat before speaking. “What do they want? The people, I mean.” He nodded toward the waiting crowd.

“A performance.” Daphne sighed. “I get the nerves before every show. Gotta shake it off.” She closed her eyes and wiggled from side to side. “O-kay.” Daphne opened her eyes. “I'll see y'all after.” Her transformation from world-weary to world famous was as sudden and blinding as the sun breaking through clouds.

“She said she wasn't any good as an actress,” Homer whispered as they made their way to the last row of benches.

The worry in Homer's thoughts must have seeped into his voice, because Mia sat down beside him—her right shoulder pressed so close to his left that he could smell Daphne's shampoo in her hair—and reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his one by one.

Mia's grip was warm and soft, and Homer's brain felt even more jumbled than before. Still, he was grateful that she didn't let go.

When a tall man in a black suit and shiny shoes stepped onto a wooden platform set under a drooping sycamore tree, the crowd hushed. The man kept his smile wide as he dragged a microphone stand to the center of the makeshift stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen. I'm Gerard Smith, your host. Miss Clara Belle, who will be joining the Oracle onstage, is my assistant.” Gerard's rich voice filled the clearing, pressed against the trees. “Welcome to Pythia Springs.”

The crowd clapped politely.

“You're here because you have questions.” Gerard paused to smile at a guy in slouchy black jeans standing just to the side of the first row of benches and holding a huge video camera. “Today's the day you get answers. But first, a few housekeeping items.” He clapped his hands. “Please turn off your cell phones. No pictures. No filming—except, of course, for the crew from the number-three reality TV show on CGH Family,
American Oracle
.” Gerard gestured to the sides of the platform, where more guys dressed in black were fiddling with cameras on tripods. “Participants will be chosen at random. Unfortunately, the Oracle will not give
everyone
a reading, but we promise that even if you don't Get. To. Ask. That. Ques-chin. Burn-ing. Inside. Your. Soul”—Gerard let each word ripple over the heads of the crowd—“you'll leave here forever changed by what you've seen.”

Einstein leaned over Mia and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Really? This is the biggest bunch—”

Homer didn't hear the rest.

“Without further ado,” Gerard said, “I give you Daphne Treme, the American Oracle.”

When he dropped his arms, there was a boom like a frozen tree limb cracking, followed by a cloud of thick smoke that covered the stage.

“Over the top much?” This time Einstein didn't bother to whisper. The big man in a polo shirt sitting to Einstein's right shook his head disapprovingly.

The smoke cleared quickly, revealing Daphne sitting in a throne-like armchair at the center of the platform. A woman in a very tight red dress and high heels was perched on a stool to Daphne's right. This time, the crowd's clapping was certain, strong, more like the applause of fans in a sports stadium than the palm patting of churchgoers in pews. The woman in heels—Homer assumed she was Clara Belle—nodded at Gerard, who gestured for a cameraman to follow him. With that, the show began.

The first person Gerard handed the microphone to reminded Homer of the old man who owned the bed and breakfast at the far end of the Los Plátanos boardwalk. His left shoulder dipped lower than his right, and the hand that grasped the mike shook from age or nerves or a combination of the two. The tremor in his voice made his question that much sadder. He wanted to know if his wife had made it to heaven.