Commune of Women (13 page)

Kathy’s cousin also claimed to know that the president of the bank said that when Madame Zola, whose name was Kim Something then, left town, she took a cashier’s check for half of the minister’s bank account with her. Kathy confirms all this – not because she ever knew Madame Zola before, but because she says Madame Zola had Oklahoma license plates on her car when she first arrived in L.A. Well, that may be, but even so, Betty thinks it’s a pretty tall coincidence, and that Kathy and her cousin were just bored and it was a case of mistaken identity.

Even if she
was
once Kim, the truck stop waitress, Madame Zola gives good readings. Sometimes, she reads Betty’s palm but more often, she pulls a long deck of Tarot cards out of a red silk brocade bag, thumps them importantly on the table and cuts them with the ease of a Las Vegas card sharp.

Her long red nails flick through the stack like little knives, cutting out the cards she knows psychically to be the ones for Betty. She always has some piece of advice or some warning about the future or some remark about somebody who’s doing Betty wrong, that always turns out to be true.

Once, she saw a woman with red hair stabbing Betty in the back, like in a vision. Within two days, Betty found out that Dora Johnston, who dyes her hair the color of ripe tomatoes, had told her next door neighbor that Betty was on Prozac, which was a complete lie.

So you see, Madame Zola is a good person to turn to in a pinch – which Betty had been telling Angela for years. But Angela’s a good Catholic and didn’t want to risk it.

But on this occasion, Betty talks her into it and Angela calls and sure enough, Madame Zola has time that very evening to see her. Even though she doesn’t usually work Tuesday nights, she says she’s always available in an emergency.

So Angela takes the car and drives down to Reseda Boulevard to Madame Zola’s place, near the Stop’n’Shop Center. It’s a little house right on the edge, where the commercial district meets the residential district. Betty supposes it is a great location to catch people as they come and go, and put the idea of a little metaphysical intervention into their heads.

So, Madame Zola is waiting for Angela in the doorway, smoking a cigarette, holding it elegantly way out at the end of her fingertips, pinced in those long red nails. Madame Zola, who has never been familiar enough with Betty to reveal her first name, claims to come from Romanian gypsy stock. With her hooked nose, thin face, loose silky pants printed with roses and her long black hair in a gypsy shag, with layers of curls from her ears almost to her waist, she sure looks like it might be so.

And she drives a big 1960’s Cadillac, white with a tuck and roll interior in red leather that must have been custom done across the border in Tijuana. Everybody knows that’s the kind of car gypsies prefer.

So Madame Zola chooses her cards and slowly turns them face up but close to her, so Angela can’t see them. She looks at each one for a long time and then lays it back down again. After she’s looked at them all, she closes her eyes and is quiet for several minutes. Finally, she opens her eyes and says to Angela, “Bernie needs to get married.”

It was winter, down around 68 degrees outside, and Madame Zola had the heater on, so maybe that was why Angela broke into a sudden sweat. Her whole body was hot and cold at the same time.

Angela sputters for a second and then shrieks, “
Married? Are you crazy?
Bernie, married? He’s twenty-six years old and he still can’t tell the hot from the cold water in the shower – and you think he should get
married?
”

Madame Zola just sits there looking at her like a big cat tracking a panicked mouse. With the tip of one red fingernail, she slowly scratches her thigh through a big pink cabbage rose. She has that look of infinite wisdom and patience, like an Egyptian queen or one of those silent film stars playing Mata Hari. It’s a look that says,
Sooner or later, you’ll see it my way.

When Angela calms down, Madame Zola says it again. “Yes, Bernie needs to get married. And...” she looks at Angela very cold, very commanding, because she’s starting in with it again, “and I know the name of the girl... Myrna.”

“Myrna who?” Angela asks weakly.

“Just Myrna. That’s all I know.” And then, Angela realizes that Madame Zola didn’t know this Myrna personally but she had had a vision or heard the name whispered by her guides or however it works for her.

Myrna. It was a start.

“So how many Myrna’s do you suppose there are in L.A.?” Angela asks, not really being flip, just a little overwhelmed is all.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” Madame Zola says kindly. “Bernie will meet her at the youth group at St. Patrick’s church.”

“Bernie hasn’t been to church in 12 years,” Angela says. “Not since the visiting priest told him his brother in Ireland had a German shepherd named Bernie, and Bernie barked all through the service every time he was supposed to respond. He was an altar boy, you know...at least, up until that day he was. When he sat up and begged for a communion wafer, that was the end.”

“What happened?” asks Madame Zola, lighting up a cigarette and leaning back in her pink armchair.

“The priest broke one in two and threw him a piece. Bernie caught it in his mouth. The whole parish was scandalized. That poor young priest was sent up to the Sacramento diocese in disgrace...which was too bad because he seemed like a nice young man and at least he smiled all the time, which is something old Father Foley never did.
He
always had a cloud of gloom and guilt riding on
his
shoulders.”

“It’s a typical story of patriarchal religion,” Madame Zola says harshly, blowing out a streamer of smoke and surprising Angela with her tone of authority. “In my belief, the Divine Mother is central. She would never deny a poor boy just because he thought he was a dog. These priests and their Father God have got to go.”

Well, to Angela, this was blasphemy – even though she hadn’t set foot back in St. Patrick’s since the day she led Bernie out, whining like a punished pup and trying to lick people’s hands as she dragged him along. But Madame Zola was not going to be denied.

“I see Myrna in the St. Patrick’s rec hall,” she says, closing her eyes to slits and staring through a cloud of cigarette smoke at a scene only she can see. “She’s dancing the polka. She has brown hair and she’s quite petite. She has set her cup of punch on the edge of the table and the tremors from the dancing are about to jar it loose. Ohhh...there it goes!” Madame Zola shakes her head in sympathy.

“Just what I need,” Angela mumbles. “A daughter-inlaw who’s a klutz. That should be good for the destruction of what’s left of my house and marriage.”

Madame Zola shakes her head to disperse the vision and looks at Angela sharply. “This is not about you,” she says, kind of rough but not unkind. “This is about Bernie. The poor kid has raging hormones. Just because he’s simple, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have natural desires. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t dream of being loved. Snap out of it, Angela. Bernie needs your help.”

So they talk awhile about it and then, just as she’s getting ready to go, Madame Zola begins tidying up the cards and Angela gets a glimpse of the last card as she’s returning it to the deck. It’s the
Ten of Swords
, all dripping with blood. Angela’s heart freezes.

“What’s that?”
she shrieks. “What’s that card? That’s the Death card, isn’t it? I know it is. What are you hiding, Madame Zola? What aren’t you telling me?”

Madame Zola is so cool she’s almost cold. She shoves the card deep into the deck with one thrust of her long red nail. “That card is none of your business,” she says, so icy it almost shocks Angela. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, Angela. You just have to trust me in this,” her voice a little gentler, now. “Bernie will be fine. If there’s going to be a death, think of it as the death of an
old
way of life as Bernie takes on a
new
life all his own, that he shares with Myrna.”

So that evening, instead of going straight home from Madame Zola’s, Angela drives to Sears, which stays open until eleven on Tuesday nights, and buys Bernie a new pair of navy blue slacks, a blue and white striped long-sleeved shirt, a red cotton pullover sweater, navy socks and a new pair of penny loafers.

She takes them home, hoping Bernie will try them on. But he’s already asleep, his arms wrapped around Burt, his big stuffed bear. Bud, of course, is at work – if he isn’t already across the border, heading for Cabo San Lucas. So she piles the shopping bags under the kitchen table, goes into the living room, turns on the TV and falls asleep on the sofa, watching Jay Leno.

Sometime late, Bud comes in with beer on his breath, so she knows he’s stopped in for a quick one at
The Spot
with his buddies on the way home from work. But at least he’s home. He comes into the living room, and sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch, he gently rocks her by her shoulder. “Angie,” he whispers. “Angie...are you awake?”

“Mmmmmm,” she murmurs.

“Angie, honey, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I was a jerk. I know Bernie can’t help it, okay? I know it’s not your fault. I was a jerk, okay?”

Angela opens her eyes and looks up at him, so tired and sweet and helpless-looking, there in the blue light of the TV.

“Oh Buddy!” she whispers and bursts into tears.

Slowly, awkwardly, he just gathers her up and mounds her into a limp heap on his lap.

“Angie, honey. It’s okay, Baby. I’m home now. Everything’s gonna be okay.” He pets her hair. He bounces her with his knees.

Silly big galoot!

Angela’s just an itsy-bitsy thing and he carries her into the bedroom just like Scarlett O’Hara, and she remembers all over again why she married
him
instead of that dope, Craig Matthews, who both her mother and Betty’s thought was the biggest catch of the century.

In the morning, after Bernie goes off to see if they’ve turned on the TV’s yet in the window of the appliance store down on Reseda, Angela makes a pot of coffee. Pretty soon, the smell draws Bud out of the bedroom. He doesn’t meet her eye, but he’s smiling and that’s always a good sign with Buddy.

So she starts right in. “I went to see Madame Zola, the psychic, last night,” she says.

“Yeah? What about?” Bud is busy doctoring his coffee – two heaping teaspoons of sugar and two of Cremora. It always makes Angela shiver.

“About Bernie, of course.” Angela pours out her own coffee, plain and black.

“And...?” Buddy is now alert because she’s dragging it out and not just coming right out with it.

“And...” She takes a sip of coffee, not even a little bit sure how to say it, or having the remotest clue what Buddy will think, if she does.

Buddy begins to wave his hands like a traffic cop motioning her forward. “
And
...?” His voice is starting to rise.

“And so...Madame Zola thinks...well, she thinks...that Bernie ought to...well...ought to get married.” She finishes in a rush, just to get it over with.

Buddy looks like he’s just been popped right between the eyes with a pellet gun. He tries to speak, but only a sort of babble comes out. She can see he’s on the verge of some kind of major tizzy.

“Madame Zola says we’re being selfish. That Bernie has feelings and urges just like we do and that it’s our place to help him, not to keep treating him like a baby. And besides...” She throws this in to gain time because she can see Buddy is slowly getting control of himself. “Madame Zola even knows the right girl. Her name is Myrna.” She picks up her coffee mug and takes a big, triumphant swig. She can feel that something she’s said has touched Buddy.

“Myrna,” he says weakly.

“Yes. And she dances the polka at St. Patrick’s Parish hall on Tuesday nights. Madame Zola saw her.” Angela leaves out the part about the spilled punch, or it being in a vision. “So, in preparation, I went to Sears last night and bought these for Bernie.” She pulls the bags from under the kitchen table and shows Buddy the clothes. “Won’t he look nice?”

Buddy raises his eyebrows in that way he does when he’s trying really really hard to be agreeable. He nods his head and he looks at the pants and shirt and sweater lying there on the red Formica. He says, “Nice. Yeah! He’ll look real nice.”

So, for Angela and Betty, it seems like it takes forever before next Tuesday rolls around. Betty calls the Parish and inquires about the Singles Club for Angela – not giving her name, of course. Just to make sure Madame Zola got it right, because sometimes she sees things but it turns out they’re a year or two in the future. But as it turns out, there
is
a singles group on Tuesdays and anyone between 18 and 30 is welcome.

Then, Angela has to tell Bernie he’s going, which is sometimes a problem. You never know with Bernie which way the wind will blow. Sometimes, he’ll start to say no, even before you explain what you’re doing. If you persist, he rolls on the floor, kicking his legs and yelling, “NO! NO! NO!” until you’re afraid some neighbor will think you’re over there beating him. Other times, he’ll be docile as a lamb, give you a big smile and say, “Okay. Let’s go,” and that’s that. You never know with Bernie.

As it turns out, there is no problem this time. He even seems quite interested when Angela tells him she is driving him to a place where he can meet girls and dance with them. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

Then it takes her half an hour to explain to him that they aren’t going right away. He starts to get cross, so to distract him she teaches him the rudiments of dancing; how you hold the girl and the steps of the polka.

Now, with Bernie, it’s either a quick study or nothing. They’ve struggled for years to get him to turn lights off when he leaves a room, for example. But fortunately, it was a fast take with dancing. He always did have a great sense of rhythm.

So finally, it’s Tuesday night and Bernie has had his new clothes on since 2:00, so he can show his dad before Bud goes off to work. And Angela drives him to the parish hall with so many butterflies in her stomach, she feels like the Monarchs are migrating right through her mid-section.