CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I am in serious need of girl talk after the stairwell rendezvous with Mario.
“What are you going to
do
?” Trixie breathes.
“She doesn’t need to
do
anything,” Shanelle points out.
“I know what she
should
do,” my mother declares.
She doesn’t have to spell it out for me to understand. My mother will never forgive Jason for impregnating me at age 17, though I was hardly an innocent bystander.
It is early evening and we are all four of us piled in a taxi en route to Samantha St. James’s house. My mom is riding shotgun, armed with one of her discount cab coupons. It turns out she emerged from her seclusion in the early afternoon when the Liberace Museum dispatched a shuttle to collect her and only her from the Strip. No septuagenarian female could resist such temptation, apparently. She is notably perkier than she was in the morning hours.
“I’ve made a few decisions,” she informed me earlier as we waited in our room for Trixie and Shanelle to come by. She would not elaborate. I find that disconcerting.
But nothing is frazzling me more than my interlude with Mario.
“I had something like that happen to me a few years back,” Shanelle says. “But in that case it was crystal clear what was going on.” She gives a pensive look out the window as she casts her mind back. “My Mario Suave was a Tampa Bay Buccaneer.”
“I didn’t know they still had pirates in Florida,” Trixie says. “I’m really glad Rhett and I only took the kids to Orlando and not somewhere on the coast.”
“He was a tight end,” Shanelle continues. “A fine-looking black man.” She pauses as if to reminisce over his many enticing attributes. “He came after me like a defensive lineman goes after a sack. I was flattered, I will tell you.”
“What happened?” my mother wants to know. I do, too, and when the cab driver turns down the radio I suspect it’s because he’s curious as well.
“I wouldn’t cheat on Lamar and I told him so in so many words. Took him a long while to take no for an answer, though.” I can tell from the way she says it that she was flattered by his persistence. “But one thing really got my goat. Basically he was disrespecting Lamar. To him it was like Lamar just didn’t count. You can be sure I gave Mr. Tight End a piece of my mind about that.”
I’m thinking how all Mario actually did was hold my hand. But was he propositioning me? Why else did he want to get me alone? Why did he make those portentous remarks about how unexpected it was to meet me?
I know he’s not married and never has been. Like me, he has a teenage daughter, who lives with her mother in Miami.
I don’t understand what happened today with him. All I understand is that the episode threw this queen for a loop.
We arrive at Samantha’s house. Spotlit for the evening, it might be even more impressive than it is in daytime.
My mother gives it a once-over from the sidewalk. “You go with that Mario,” she tells me, “you could live in a place like this.”
“Mom, he didn’t propose marriage. Besides, he lives in L.A. How would you like me living all the way across the country in California?”
We start up the walkway to the portico. “You live in a house like this, you can have a whole wing set aside for your mother. What’s keeping me in Cleveland, anyway?”
I am astonished to hear this. “You’d sell the house you lived in all those years with Pop?”
“He went his own merry way, didn’t he?” She harrumphs. “So maybe I should, too.” She pokes me in the arm. “Maybe all three of us should.”
With these unsettling notions bouncing around my brain, Samantha greets us at the front door with Pucci in her arms. She’s dressed for the occasion in a neon pink floor-length caftan with sequin detailing around the V neckline. Pucci is sporting a matching collar “with real Swarovski crystals,” Samantha informs us when Trixie waxes ecstatic over the canine bling.
I introduce my mother once she’s done rolling her eyes. Samantha ushers us into her expansive living room. I note that the Danny crystal bowl “memento” now holds pride of place on the grand piano. “I was thinking maybe we should just have a nice chat and a glass of chardonnay and not bother with the Tarot reading,” Samantha says.
“But I spent all day preparing!” Trixie cries. She begins to extract items from her lemon-yellow patent-leather shopper and lay them on the coffee table. “Incense to
extra
purify the space”—she nods at our hostess so as not to insult her with the implication that her home isn’t already devoid of evil energy—“a white silk cloth on which to arrange the cards, the deck of course, and a compass.”
“Are we going on a desert hike or something?” my mother wants to know. “Because I didn’t wear the right shoes for that.”
“It’s because I need Mrs. St. James to face north during the reading,” Trixie says. “I’ll face south so as to best access the all-pervading knowledge of the universe.”
Samantha’s hands flutter. “That’s what I mean. That’s why we should call the whole thing off.”
“This is about finding the clarity you seek, Samantha,” I say. “I’m sure you’ll feel much more serene once that’s achieved.” And I’m hoping I’ll uncover a useful clue or two about whether this pink-and-white widow is Danny’s unlikely killer.
“But what if I hear something I don’t want to hear?” she asks.
I am intrigued. “Whatever might that be?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She stands up. “I’ll go get the chardonnay.”
“I’ll set up at the dining room table,” Trixie calls. She hands Shanelle the compass. “You find north.”
I wouldn’t want a reading done for myself at this moment. What might I hear about my own future? When I won the Ms. America title, not to mention the prize money, I thought my life would be unalleviated bliss from dawn to dusk. Instead everything from my father to my mother to me seems topsy-turvy.
A few minutes later we’re arrayed around the stately mahogany dining table, Trixie at one head, Samantha at the other with Pucci on her lap. Soft music plays. “Please turn off all electronic devices including cell phones, e-readers, and laptop computers,” Trixie says as if we’re in a plane about to depart the gate. “And allow me a moment of silence to connect with the energy of the universe.”
Trixie closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths. I am impressed by her seriousness of purpose. But we queens tend to come through when it counts.
Eventually she lays her right hand atop the cards. “Mrs. St. James, do you have specific questions you would like answered? Or would you rather have the spirits tell you whatever it is you need to know?”
Samantha blanches. “I guess I’ll just listen to what the spirits have to say.”
I lay a quieting hand on my mother’s arm. I can tell she’s this close to spewing something that will ruin the karmic nature of the moment.
Trixie shuffles the deck. “For those of you not familiar with Tarot, the cards can be used for meditation, visualization, divination, fortune-telling, or to help solve problems. Some people think the ancient Egyptians or maybe the gypsies came up with it but in fact it originated in Italy in the fifteenth century.”
I’m betting the Italy connection explains why the art on the cards is so gorgeous.
“We will use a simple 3-card layout tonight.” Trixie rises and walks to Samantha’s head of the table. “Just so you know, there is no right way or wrong way to do a reading. You will learn what you need to so long as the intent is pure.”
Uh oh. I’m not naming names but one of us here present has an ulterior motive.
Samantha cuts the deck. Trixie picks it up and fans the cards. “Select three cards and lay them face down on the table,” she instructs. Samantha is sliding out her first choice when a second card slips from the deck and tumbles onto the carpet.
“We have a jumper!” Trixie’s hazel eyes widen. “That card slipped out for a reason and so I must include it in my interpretation.”
Samantha’s face assumes an expression of horror. What is she so afraid of, I wonder? That Danny will make a return trip from the Great Beyond and scream an accusation in her direction?
Trixie prompts Samantha to select a third card then returns to her place. She lays the cards face down on the white silk fabric covering the dining table. “I am doing the situation, obstacle, and solution layout, which is very good for guidance and direction,” she assures Samantha, who I swear is quivering by now.
We all hold our breath as Trixie turns over the first card. “The situation,” she says. She stares at the card for a long moment during which I really hope she’s done her refresher course. Then, “This is the Seven of Swords card,” she declares, and holds it up for us all to see.
It depicts a man carrying a bunch of swords tiptoeing away from a village and glancing around as if he’s mocking the fools he left behind.
Trixie frowns but makes her voice matter-of-fact. “This card has to do with running away from something or procrastinating over something hard. Sometimes, not always, it can signal a hidden dishonor or betrayal.”
Pucci whimpers. Samantha drains all her chardonnay in one gulp. “What could that card have to do with me?” she croaks.
Running away from a crime scene, I’m thinking? Shooting your gigolo?
“How about we move on to the obstacle card?” Shanelle suggests.
“Our jumper,” Trixie says, and turns the card over. “Oh, this one is reversed. It’s the Ten of Pentacles.” She holds it right side up. It portrays a cheerful family scene over which ten gold coins are arranged.
“That one looks good,” my mother pronounces.
“But it’s reversed,” Shanelle points out.
“Which is really too bad because in the upright position it’s all good,” Trixie says. “It signifies wealth, success, and strong family ties.”
Samantha appears stricken. “But when it’s upside down?” she whispers.
Trixie hesitates. “Then, not so much. It has to do with financial worries or being overwhelmed by parental responsibilities. Or maybe inheritance problems.”
Financial worries. Bingo! Did Danny steal from Samantha? Is that how he enriched himself on the sly? Did she shoot him in revenge?
Samantha is frozen in place. We might be in the Nevada desert but she looks like a human ice sculpture. Pucci is gazing up at her mistress’s face with sadness in her little doggie eyes. I wish she could speak because I bet she knows all.
“Why do you think that Ten of Pentacles card jumped out?” I ask.
Samantha doesn’t answer. “I want to see the solution card,” she tells Trixie.
Trixie takes a deep breath before she turns it over. “It’s the Judgment Day card,” she breathes. The picture is of a giant angel in the sky blowing a golden horn. Naked people who are all as pale as Samantha are emerging from their tombs to stretch their skinny arms pleadingly toward heaven.
“Judgment Day,” my mother repeats. “That can be good or that can be bad.”
“Depending,” Shanelle adds.
“This is a serious matter, Mrs. St. James.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Trixie so solemn. “The divine spirit is calling upon you to review your actions. You must ask yourself: Self, is my life going in the correct direction? Or have I made a wrong turn? It’s not too late!” she exclaims, raising her index finger to the sky. “The Divine Spirit is giving you the opportunity to transform!”
“What if she doesn’t want to transform?” my mother wants to know, and from the tortured expression on Samantha’s face, I would guess she doesn’t.
Trixie shakes her head. “As your interpreter, I do not recommend ignoring the Call. If you stay in your old ways and seek your old familiar comforts, Mrs. St. James, I fear you’re headed for trouble.”
My mother pokes me in the thigh. “I hope you’re listening, missy.”
I’m too overwhelmed with the reading’s pertinence for our hostess to consider its implications for me. For what do we have here revealed? Dishonor. Betrayal. Financial worries. Judgment Day. Trixie may not have read Tarot cards since high school but in my opinion she’s done a heck of a job tonight.
“Something occurs to me, Samantha,” I say. “Is there any chance that money ever came between you and Danny?”
“No! Just the opposite. I have more than I need so I was happy to share with him. Compassionate giving fuels inner growth, you know.”
“Just how much dough did you hand over to that shyster?” my mother bellows.
“I have no idea.” Samantha looks confused. “There was cash, of course. And electronics, and clothes ... and we can’t forget the car.” She chuckles, her earlier distress seemingly gone.
“You gave him a
car
?” Shanelle asks.
“A Cadillac. Just like mine.” My mother harrumphs but Samantha seems not to notice. “Sometimes we’d drive both cars somewhere just for the fun of seeing people react to them, both the same. Well, except that I have Pucci’s carrier in mine. And the license plates are different, of course. Danny had the silliest license plate. One of those designer ones, you know? It read 1 Hot 1.”
I can too easily imagine Danny taking advantage of this gullible, lonely widow, all in the guise of “fueling her inner growth.” Although maybe at some point—like last Saturday afternoon—she’d had enough.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” My mother slaps the table. “You gave that hoodlum all this and what the heck did he do for you?”
