Laughing Down the Moon (21 page)

“Good, hey?” I asked. He didn’t answer. Maybe he was trying to decide whether or not he liked it. I grabbed a tissue, wiped my fingers and started writing.

At first I fumed that I was writing over such a banal, mundane, frivolous piece of lingerie, but then as I wrote more I began to see the humor. This was one article where I might actually be able to get away with writing tongue-in-cheek. The heart of the article was meant to question whether such a piece of lingerie and its resulting bodily enhancements would be popular here in the United States and if the quality of the writing in the ads would promote its popularity. I was toying with writing from the angle of the correlation between the depth of our cleavage and the depth of our vanity. And I was sincerely impressed with the ads.

Since that angle wasn’t working as well as I had hoped and Dwight was still practicing saying Shiloh’s name, I considered calling her to share a laugh over the bra and maybe get her perspective on how I might write the article. I hesitated after what I had seen at the Loring the night before, but I figured that if there was another woman I should at least try to keep myself in the running. Then again, maybe I should call her and say goodbye once and for all—remove the temptation she presented and save myself from the impending heartache while forcing the inevitable parting of ways.

Would I be able to give her up, just like that? No, I was going to call and see what unfolded. Why couldn’t I open myself to the possibility that things would go well? My hands were already sweating as I picked up the phone to call before I could change my mind.

Shiloh’s phone rang seven times before I heard her voice on the other end. “Hi there, you’ve reached Shiloh. I can’t answer or find my phone right now, so please leave a message. Thanks!” It was her outgoing voice message, which I had never heard before. I wondered for a split second until the tone went off for me to leave my message whether or not she was being funny about not being able to find her phone. I believed she was being funny on purpose and of course, that lodged her even further into my heart.

“Hi Shiloh,” I said, “it’s Allura. I was calling to tell you about this bra that I’m writing about—it’s hysterical. And I’m struggling with the article, but I thought you’d appreciate the bra and…” Should I mention I saw her last night at the Loring? How would I explain not coming over to say hi? No, I decided not to say anything for now. “So anyway, just call me when you can, if you want. Okay. Talk to you soon, I hope. Bye!”

Oh Goddess, did I sound desperate? I hoped not. I didn’t think I did, but you never knew how you sounded to the person on the other side of the message, did you? Oh well. I clutched the phone to my chest. If I was wearing the Chinese remote inflating bra, I’d be able to tuck my phone into my technologically enhanced cleavage and wait for Shiloh’s call, but as it was my B-cup-wannabe’s weren’t going to hold up much. I set the phone on my desk beside my computer and empty plate.

“Shiloh, Shiloh,” Dwight chanted, “Shiloh!”

“I know buddy, I’m right there with you,” I commiserated.

“Shiloh.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

In the Cards

Dear Allura, Mom’s postcard began.

We are up to our armpits in sand. Has it snowed there yet? I can’t say I miss it right now. Your dad is asleep with his big sunglasses on his face—shall I wake him or enjoy the reverse raccoon mask that is, as I write, certainly being created by this wonderful Arizona sunshine? I’ll let you know my decision in my next postcard, love Mom.

I looked again at the front of the postcard. They were in Scottsdale, Arizona. My guess was that she woke him, but I’d have to wait for the next installment to know for certain. There was a knock at my front door, and then a bolt of sunlight splashed the foyer as Veronica bustled through the door she opened for herself. Her swing coat was closed up to her neck. Must be cold out today despite the sunshine.

“Hi!” she beamed. “Are you ready to roll?” She thrust an upside-down bouquet of dried herbs at me, narrowed her eyes, and then turned and walked across the room to hang the bouquet from the back of a dining room chair. “Leave those there, in the middle of your house. They’ll be helpful there,” she explained.

“Will do. Thank you,” I said. I set the postcard beside the others on the plate rail that circled the four walls of my old- fashioned dining room.

“Goodbye, Dwight!” I hollered up the stairs. He didn’t answer. I figured he was eating or rough-mouthing his rope toy or rawhide.

Veronica and I were heading to a psychic Tarot card reading. We’d decided to take the light rail, so we walked to the station closest to my house. Veronica had heard psychic Madame DuVaulle speaking on Minnesota Public Radio and had been impressed. I happened to trust MPR to not give airtime to a fraud, so even though her name had me a little suspicious, we were on our way to see what each of our futures held in store.

Veronica had prepped me and told me I would need to have a question ready and that I would probably need to divulge it to Madame DuVaulle. Veronica had shared with me that her question was going to revolve around three aspects of her future: her career, her parents and her love life.

Veronica was a floor manager at a dialysis clinic, but what she had been talking about doing for years was opening a small Pagan garden shop in the Lyn-Lake area of Minneapolis. She knew just about all there was to know about gardening. She loved socializing while helping people develop their gardening passions. I witnessed it all summer long in her garden as people from her neighborhood would stop by to chat, learn and get herbs or veggies. And she had a great mind for business. So every time she spoke of the possibility of opening her own shop, I encouraged her because it would be the perfect fit. Her parents were aging, and not extremely gracefully, so I wasn’t surprised to hear she wanted to know their future as well. And her love life had been set on the back burner for as long as I had known her. She had had many admirers who were attracted to her competent, independent demeanor, but she had let none of them in, save for a few lucky men and women with whom she spent no more than a few weeks of casual dating. So Veronica’s plan for the psychic made sense.

But what the heck would I ask about? My thoughts over the past few days had been bouncing between my own career and whether or not it was still fulfilling, and new love versus old love. Those were not necessarily in order of importance. I didn’t want to build a question around either of those. Wait. That wasn’t the truth. It was just that I was woefully under-prepared to hear what the psychic might have to say on these matters. That was the truth. The way I looked at it, if I received a reading that hinted at a new career or a new love, I’d freak out about all the changes I’d have to go through. However if I heard I was going to have to stay with my old career or go back to my old relationship, I’d go mad with the stagnation.

Veronica said, “So, what’s your question for the psychic?”

“Ah…I don’t know for sure,” I said.

“You must know.” Her little boots made sharp taps on the cold pavement as we walked. “What are you going to ask? It’s not like you’ve got nothing going on to ask about right now,” she reminded me.

“Come on!” I pleaded, knowing she wouldn’t let me off the hook.

She shook her head and said, “Okay, why don’t you ask Madame DuVaulle what the outcome of your parents’ travels will be? Oooh, or you could find out what will happen with Brian and Falina! Or perhaps you could ask when Trisha and Patrick will need a new roof.” She looked at me with over-expressed mock enthusiasm in her face before she climbed onto the light rail that arrived at the station as we did. We found seats together at the front of the car. Veronica undid the neck of her swing coat as she sat down.

“I know what you are doing,” I said. “And I don’t approve.”

She was cornering me into admitting that I actually had a question that mattered to me. How did she know me so well? And why hadn’t I taken acting classes rather than pottery classes? That way I could have kept my business to myself and not be drinking out of handmade coffee cups. Had I taken both pottery and acting classes, I could have maybe fooled myself into believing that I wasn’t torn up about Mickey’s emotional plea to resurrect our still-dying relationship, that I wasn’t sorely missing what Shiloh and I might have been able to have together and maybe even that I enjoyed having ugly, thick pieces of pottery littering my home.

I did make Dwight a bowl that he seemed to prefer over his smooth white perfect bowl and his gleaming stainless steel bowls. That was definitely not acting on his part; he was always the real deal. Dwight Night, Jr. coming at you live every day. What you saw with that bird was what you got. I was feeling like I was too much the same lately. For the past few months I felt like I had no choice except to be as transparent as a soap bubble and just as delicate. Yes, acting lessons were next. And if I could convince myself with high-quality acting that I was not stuck between going back to my past with Mickey and going into my future with Shiloh, ha, well, that would indeed be something. It would be worth a few lessons.

“So really Allura, tell me. What do you want to know from Madame DuVaulle?” Veronica prompted.

“Okay, yeah, because my wheels are spinning and I’m going to drive myself crazy if I just keep avoiding the subject in my head,” I said. A sigh escaped me. It sounded like the sigh of somebody who held all the Y’s weights across her shoulders. The exhalation made me laugh because here I was thinking about acting lessons and who needed more drama than was contained in that exhalation? Veronica laughed with me. Then she put her hand on my knee and played at roughly shaking me.

“Hey, Allura, it’s going to work out exactly the way it should, you know that,” she said. “Right?”

“Yeah, I know it will,” I said. And I did know it. Everything always worked out the way it ought to, but the uncertainty was bugging me. And the idea of more change and maybe a little more loss was also bugging me. I looked at Veronica and knew she knew what my questions were. She had been here for all my lamenting about how the glamour of and passion for writing was beginning to fizzle. She had also been here for all the heartbreak with Mickey, and now she also knew of the brief up and sudden down with Shiloh.

When I had told Veronica about Shiloh and the other woman at the Loring, she winced but then she had come up with all these other possibilities—maybe this other woman was an aide? No, I had told her. Maybe she was just a good friend? No, I didn’t think so. Maybe she was a stranger with whom Shiloh had accidentally sat? No, that was very, very unlikely. And ridiculous, but thanks for trying. The light rail car stopped and passengers were exchanged, but we stayed put.

“All right,” I said as soon as Veronica took her hand from my knee. “First I’m going to ask Madame DuVaulle where I should look for an inspiring career change. Then I’m going to ask her where I should look for, uhm, well…love, I guess.”

“Good girl,” Veronica said. “But Allura, why are you asking the career question first? Is that the one that matters most to you?”

I tugged on my garnet beads. Why
did
I want to save the love question for second? It was the first thing in my mind every morning and the last thing I considered before falling asleep. Writing the column was tolerable, but this broken heart situation, well, that was not as tolerable.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe I want her to have the chance to get warmed up, you know? If Madame DuVaulle screws up on my first question about my career because she’s just getting to know my vibes or my energy or whatever, well, that would be acceptable. But if I asked my real question first—” Oops, there it was, my confessing what mattered most to me—out loud, no less—damn. “And she screws up on that one, the love one, well, I’d be pretty unhappy.” The light rail car swayed as we took a corner. Veronica reached out to grab the metal bar in front of us.

“So, it sounds like you already know the answer you’re looking for on that love question,” Veronica observed.

“Does it?” I was surprised. When I thought about it though, I did know in some little chickenshit recess of my mind the answer I wanted to hear. Dealing with that answer was another matter.

When we got to our stop, Veronica and I left the warmth of the light rail car and walked, with the stinging wind in our faces, the three blocks between us and the knowledge of what the future had in store for us. As soon as we were inside Madame DuVaulle’s aged, red brick building I realized it wasn’t going to be an office, but rather a chamber or a lair. The air in the long hallway was heavy with sandalwood and frankincense. I filled my lungs with the perfume. It was the right scent for opening your mind, the wrong scent if you wanted to remain logical about and distant from what you were about to discover. Damn.

The corridor was walled with wooden paneling that had been painted various colors. Along the hallway were small, old-fashioned placards hanging above the doors. Our first option was the door in the green section of paneling, which was labeled “ReKnewAll.” That was all. I had no idea what went on behind that door, but I had to admit I found myself intrigued. For some reason, I pictured a virginity restoration clinic. I had heard those places existed.

Veronica led me past a door whose placard read “Clean Scene” and another that had the name and words “Trixie Kaeteri Consignment–Yours For Now.” I smiled, thinking that “Yours For Now” might be good words to hang above your door if you were involved in the oldest profession, which I wouldn’t have been surprised to find here. Not that any of the doors or the hallway looked shady—it just wouldn’t have surprised me.

What I believed to be frankincense grew a bit stronger as we moved toward the far end of the hall. We passed two more closed doors, “Trials Publishing” in the pale pink section of paneling and “Rapture” in the dark pink section before coming across the only open door in the baby blue section. It was labeled “Art’s Art.” I took a quick peek inside. Art, I presumed, was standing behind a counter talking on the phone and gesturing. His massive arms were a myriad of tattoos. A small orange tabby cat sat watching his arm as it waved in the air. Ugh. I hoped the cat stayed put. The last thing I needed was this cat wandering around plotting its hostile takeover under my feet as I tried to pay attention to my future. I took one final glance at the walls of Art’s place, tattooed as heavily as Art. I trailed after Veronica through the last door, this one in the yellow-gold paneled section.