The Reluctant Fortune-Teller Page 2

  Margaret pursued, “That’s nice... Did she happen to...leave you anything else—I mean, besides the dog?”

  “Actually,” said Norbert, “it turned out she had more money than anyone ever imagined. She lived very frugally, and I always assumed she was just scraping by. That’s why I paid to have her house remodeled. But I guess she didn’t want to touch her, uh, ‘nest egg.’ Which was considerable.” Norbert glanced toward the window where a hot breeze was wafting over Ivy and into the warm living room. “But she didn’t leave it to me.” Norbert ran his moist palms over his trousers. “She left it all to my cousin in California.”

  “After all you did for her?” asked Margaret, clearly disappointed in Aunt Pearl. “Why?”

  “Because she thought I didn’t need any money.”

  Carlotta tilted her head at Norbert, in lieu of asking the obvious question.

  “Because I made her believe I was well-off. I didn’t like to give her a false impression, but I had to. Otherwise, she would have insisted on paying me for helping her. I couldn’t take her money.”

  Norbert thought, but did not add, After Lois was gone, she was the only person left who truly loved me.

  Carlotta took charge.

  “We’re not here to pry into the past,” she began, ignoring the fact that they had all been doing just that. “We’re here to see what can be done now.”

  “I couldn’t possibly accept your money,” said Norbert, eyes wide.

  “We weren’t going to offer you any!” exclaimed Carlotta, eyes wider.

  An awkward silence ensued.

  “First of all,” Carlotta resumed, “what have you tried, or thought of trying, yourself, to make money?”

  Norbert had, in fact, been trying and thinking of trying many things over the past year, as his situation had become increasingly grim. Eight years retired, he was unable to get anyone to hire him as a consultant. He made a few dollars a week working in the Art League’s frame shop, but it wasn’t enough. He thought he’d do well in a job in one of the stores—Gibbons Corner and nearby Edwards Cove had a plethora of touristy shops and bookstores, but none were hiring. He thought of bartering: for example, in exchange for getting Ivy’s teeth cleaned—important maintenance for a small breed dog, as his aunt Pearl always told him—he could clean kennels, file and make calls for the vet. But the ponytailed veterinarian smiled and shook her baby face at him, saying that she employed paid staff to do all of that. He would even mow lawns, but the fifteen-year-olds had that market cornered. He sold his television and then his car, and found he didn’t miss them much; it was easy to get around Gibbons Corner without a car, and there was a bus to Edwards Cove. At the food pantry, he heard some people in line talking about selling plasma, and making twenty-five dollars twice a week. After just one week, that would earn him enough to pay a monthly water bill. But at seventy-three, Norbert’s plasma was apparently too old. You had to be sixty and under to sell your life’s blood. And it seemed his kidneys had also passed their freshness date and could not be sold for cash.

  After Norbert finished his list, Carlotta nodded. “Very thorough and creative,” she approved. “So you are, shall we say, at a dead end. You have no further options for generating cash flow.” Carlotta glanced at her friends, and then, folding her arms, settled her eyes on Norbert. “You are clean out of ideas.”

  Norbert could not contradict her. He was smiling his default smile.

  “That’s what we thought.”

  Norbert looked from one intent face to the next.

  “That’s where our idea comes in.”

  Carlotta seemed to be waiting for Norbert to ask.

  Norbert reflected. He had known these women from a distance for eight years. They had never noticed him until now. Suddenly, they had come into his home, torn the veil of secrecy off his poverty, and were ready to offer him, if not money, then something else. Advice?

  This was an odd turn of events. He was used to giving help—in the form of money, only. No one ever wanted his advice, of course. He did try to offer his advice whenever he could, but no one seemed interested in his words of wisdom. People had always been glad to take money from him, however. Giving money had made him feel significant, because people certainly treated him as someone very significant before the check was cut. Afterward, though, they tended to drift off. Noticing the financial crisis of another and offering aid had always been his department. He wasn’t sure how to handle being on the receiving end of help for his own money trouble.

  Norbert pushed his glasses, which were sliding in sweat, up toward the bridge of his nose. Birdie drained her water glass and Margaret dabbed at her brow with a tissue. My, but it was hot.

  “You have an idea? About how I can get cash flow?”

  “That is exactly what we have,” replied Carlotta, apparently determined to wait again. She obviously would say nothing more until Norbert asked for the idea.

  Norbert took a deep breath and exhaled. Why did he feel that he needed to be very careful just now? He was enjoying the ladies’ attention and was even willing to postpone Ivy’s walk so that this fascinating experience could continue. But there was also something else. In the back of his mind, a muted warning began to sound. He looked into the eyes that were observing him so closely, willing him to go ahead and ask the question.

  “So,” said Norbert. “What, uh, what’s your idea?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Queen of Diamonds:

  A charming woman with a deep need for control. She is always involved in some intrigue. In youth, flirtatious; in old age, commanding. She can be a strong ally, but beware of falling into her power.

  Carlotta’s Club had begun at the dawn of time—or so it seemed now—as a Wednesday afternoon Mothers Coffee Klatch. As their children grew, the Club developed an abiding passion for literature, and met in the evenings to discuss the classics. For a couple of years in the ’70s, it was an astrology-numerology-tarot-palmistry club; Carlotta, through a distinctive combination of inspiration, charm and force, then led the Club through a psychology and self-development phase in the ’80s; for a few years in the ’90s, they focused enthusiastically on the study of guardian angels. Then they moved on to being a wine-tasting club, but pulled back hastily after some embarrassing incidents they immediately and collectively chose to forget. When their peers began to dedicate themselves to bridge, they became the No-Bridge Club, which involved thinking games and puzzles, and they all felt brighter-than-average for a long time. There were also several years during which they did crafts, such as candle-making, soap-making and origami, teaching themselves as they went. When they moved on to sketching one another, it seemed only logical to have everyone take some drawing classes. Almost immediately, the Art League became the new home of the Club, and older members of the Art League watched this influx of energy with passivity, expecting the zealots to clear out in a short time. However, the Club had come to stay. By now, it had been occupying the Art League for seven years.

  Many members of the Club had come and gone over the decades, some of them moving away, others passing away, and several running away from the group’s manic energy. Some had stormed away, complaining of Carlotta’s bossiness, but that was envy, pure and simple.

  Lately, Carlotta had been sensing the Club’s restlessness, which was always her cue to come up with a new direction. Just as Carlotta had become aware of the need for a new idea, Birdie had seen Norbert leaving the food pantry. And in Carlotta’s creative consciousness the new scheme formed itself: take the murmuring, watchful, ghostly Norbert—that odd, solitary man who was always trying to advise people who never took any notice of him—take him and his problem, and make a project out of him.

  He had said something odd to her one day at the Art League. They had been painting side by side, and she had been thinking of her granddaughter, Summer. The young woman didn’t seem to be having any fun in lif
e, and Carlotta was pondering how she might remedy her granddaughter’s lack of social connections, when Norbert murmured, “Let it be.”

  “Excuse me, Norbert?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Did I say something?”

  “You said, ‘Let it be.’ At least, I think that’s what you said. What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh. Yes. I did.” Norbert adjusted his thick spectacles and peered at her.

  “Well? Let what be?”

  “Oh, well, sometimes...don’t you find you can do too much on a painting? You have to know when to stop and let it breathe. Give it a day or two and come back to it, do you know what I mean? Just...let it be.”

  She had wondered for a moment if he were reading her mind. But it was just a coincidence. In that moment, however, she’d seen in her teeming mind’s eye an image of him as a psychic. It amused her. This retiring, unexceptional man, a psychic! A fortune-teller—that would be even better! She could see him sitting in a tent and wearing a turban, saying, “Cross my palm with silver and I will give you the answers you seek.” She smiled at the ludicrousness of it. Then she thought back to the days when she and the Club—more numerous in membership in those days—had studied card reading. It had been all the rage. It was nonsense, of course. Birdie and Margaret had taken it seriously, and Carlotta had enjoyed her own skepticism as proof of her superior intelligence. But nonsense or not, they’d all had fun with it for a time.

  And suddenly, just as easy as that, the connection was made.

  The Universe just laid things out for her like this all the time. The Universe and her inspired mind, working together.

  Carlotta considered herself an artist in more than the Gibbons Corner Art League–sense. She thought of herself as an artist of life, with human beings as her medium.

  Carlotta would run this project, as she had so many others, for the amusement and benefit of the Club. Keeping them entertained was her responsibility, and she took it seriously. She was always thinking of them.

  * * *

  A few days before the Intervention, Carlotta called the Club to her house for a meeting. After presenting the problem, as always, she would ask for her old friends’ suggestions. As always, she would listen to them with polite attention. And as always, the best suggestion would be her own, which she would present at the end, something no one else would have thought of, and that would be the idea they would go with.

  With her usual uncanniness, Carlotta had correctly predicted the Club’s enthusiasm for the Norbert Project.

  “We could have a fund-raiser!” offered Margaret, her face alight.

  Birdie thought not. “Oh, no, Margaret. That would shame him publicly.”

  “It’s a really nice thought, Margaret,” amended Carlotta. It was vital to take care of everyone’s feelings—especially Margaret’s. She could be touchy. “Let’s keep brainstorming, shall we?”

  Birdie, looking dreamily off into space as if receiving inspiration from beyond, offered a dangerously good suggestion: “We could buy up all his paintings that are hanging in the gallery. At above selling price. Anonymously. And as he keeps painting, we could keep buying.”

  Margaret turned to Birdie with interest.

  Carlotta was quick to strangle this infant idea in its cradle. “Norbert would never believe that suddenly all his wolf etchings and Native American paintings are in high demand. He’d try to find out who was buying them. No,” said Carlotta, wrinkling her brow with pretend concentration. “Good effort, Birdie, but I don’t think it will work.”

  Margaret contradicted, “Well, I think it could work.”

  Margaret shrugged and looked at Carlotta, who pressed her fingertips together in the manner of one who is concentrating deeply.

  After a few beats of silence, Birdie said, “Couldn’t we just give him the money? That would be the easiest solution. If the three of us put our heads together, we can just give him what he needs for rent and utilities. Honestly, we’d never miss it.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Margaret.

  “Teach a man to fish, Margaret,” admonished Carlotta, with one manicured finger raised. “Teach a man to fish.”

  Margaret, as often happened, was having trouble keeping up. “We’re going to teach Norbert to fish?”

  Carlotta took a deep breath. She was so patient with Margaret; it was a credit to her.

  Birdie and Margaret took turns straightening each other out when one of them got muddled. Birdie supplied, “Carlotta is quoting an old adage. What she means is, we should help Norbert get started generating his own income, so he can be independent.”

  “But,” puzzled Margaret, “wasn’t that your idea? To let him make money on his own paintings?”

  “Yes,” replied Carlotta kindly, “but we already decided that way won’t work.”

  After a perfectly timed pause, Carlotta said, as she had so many times before, “Hey! I have an idea!”

  * * *

  “No,” said Norbert. “I couldn’t possibly be a fortune-teller. I—”

  Carlotta drowned out Norbert’s protest: “Oh, Norbert, open your mind. Don’t be a fuddy-duddy. And stop saying ‘fortune-teller.’ Say ‘psychic.’ It sounds more legitimate.”

  “But there’s nothing legitimate about it! I’m sorry, but it’s a silly idea.”

  “What’s silly?” Carlotta was speaking loudly, as if raising her volume made her ideas more reasonable. “This will solve all your problems. Your bills will be paid in no time. The money will keep coming in. There isn’t a psychic in Gibbons Corner—or in Edwards Cove. And it’s the beginning of tourist season.”

  Margaret chimed in: “That’s right, Norbert. You could just do it for the tourist season and quit, if you don’t like it. People will pay you—almost whatever you ask! Twenty dollars for twenty minutes. That’s what they charge in Buffalo. We’ve all seen psychics and card readers over the years. People get their fortunes told for fun. It will be part of their vacation entertainment.”

  “It would be wrong.”

  Birdie, gazing with intense attention at Norbert, murmured, “Wrong? How, wrong?”

  “It would be a lie. I don’t lie. I never have.”

  Carlotta was quick to counter: “Sure you do! You lied to your aunt Pearl when you told her you had money.”

  Norbert recoiled. “That was for her own benefit.”

  Carlotta retorted, “And so will this be for people’s own benefit. Oh, Norbert! You will give such enjoyment to people. You will calm their fears if they are worried. You can help them find the right path in life. And...and so on. It’s sort of like being a psychologist.”

  “But I’m an accountant. I am not credentialed to be a psychologist. Or a psychic.”

  Carlotta, as if armed with superior knowledge, made a sweeping motion with her hand. “There is no credentialing for a psychic. And anyone can be a psychologist.”

  There was a silence as the group seemed to consider this assertion.

  “Oh, there’s nothing to it. You just listen, and then you give advice. Nothing easier,” Carlotta insisted.

  Norbert had always wanted to be helpful to people. It was pleasant to picture himself in a role where he could calm people and give them advice. But, no, this was a crackpot idea.

  “I don’t believe in psychics.”

  Carlotta quipped, “You don’t need to believe in psychics. Your customers do.”

  “But that’s wrong.”

  “Norbert,” said Birdie, trying another approach. “You are naturally intuitive.”

  Norbert frowned. “But I’m not.”

  “But you are,” insisted Birdie. “You told Margaret one day that her painting of petunias in a pot would sell—and it sold two hours later. When the phone rings at the gallery, you always predict who it is or what they’ll
want, and you’re usually right. You asked me one day what I would do if I won the lottery, and that day I found a fifty-dollar bill in my pocket.”

  “I was only making conversation,” Norbert defended himself. “I wouldn’t have the first idea how to tell fortunes.”

  “Which is why,” said Carlotta, pulling a paperback from her classic black purse, “we have brought you this!”

  Norbert took the book with the tips of his fingers. He read the title out loud. “‘The Cards Don’t Lie,’ by H. M. King.”

  Carlotta sat back and watched him with glittering eyes.

  “We would help you, Norbert,” said Carlotta. “The three of us have about 239 years’ worth of lived experience. Including you, it’s about 312 years of lived experience!”

  “Stop!” said Margaret. “You make us sound like vampires.”

  Carlotta ignored her. “Think about it—we have access to all our combined wisdom. We know human nature, human longings and human dramas. We know the trouble people get themselves into, and how they could avoid it. We know what people need to hear. We’ll train you and support you to—” and here she put her hands up and drew them apart, as if highlighting a slogan she saw in the air “—serve humanity through fortune-telling.”

  Margaret, all aglow, added, “We’ll practice with you!”

  Norbert looked around at the eager faces pressing in on him.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Margaret giggled. “You’re the psychic. You tell us.”

  “Margaret, shush. We just want to help you, Norbert. You and Ivy. It’s as simple as that.”

  Something told Norbert that it wasn’t.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ten of Hearts:

  You have a special gift that you have kept hidden, perhaps even from yourself.

  Although Norbert told Carlotta, Birdie and Margaret that he did not believe in fortune-telling, the Club left the book with him. They said, “Think about it. You may feel differently in a week or two.” Carlotta knew that ideas take time to incubate. She also knew, with the certainty of a soothsayer, that this idea would take hold in Norbert’s soul in a very short time.