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“You said you came here because you wanted to know if she was all right. Well, I think it’s safe to assume that she is. If she wasn’t, she’d be trying to tell you. But she’s not trying to communicate, at least not that I can see. ”
The mug-sized square of ephemeral coffeehouse napkin proved no match for Gary’s grief, so I fumbled for my purse and managed to scare up a couple of proper tissues.
“You’re not even going to try then, are you?” he sniffled, stuffing the picture back into his jacket pocket. “Is it because I didn’t offer you any money? I don’t have much but—”
“Money? I didn’t ask you for any money. ”
I felt like I was sitting in the front car of a roller coaster, and cresting that first big hump. Here we go. Once money’s come up, there’s nothing I can say or do to keep the talk from plummeting downhill. This is always the hardest part, and it always makes me angry, because it hurts my feelings.
“Of course you didn’t. Because then it would be extortion, wouldn’t it? That’s why all the TV commercials for the psychic lines say in the small print, ‘for entertainment purposes only. ’ That way, if they’re wrong you can’t sue them. But you pretend to be the real thing—you’re like one of those escort service girls who acts like no money needs to change hands in order to get results. I get it. I see. ”
Ah, now we were rolling. Which to get defensive about first—the implication that I was a fraud, or the comparison to a hooker?
And I know, I know. The man was in pain, and he came to me seeking some comfort. I should have forgiven him for his misdirected anger; I should have been tolerant of his agony, and forgiven his terrible manners for his loss. I should have tried to help him. For what it’s worth, I did forgive him. And I was tolerant. And I did try to help him. Yet for all that, I was still just a lying whore because I wouldn’t tell the man what he wanted to hear.
I folded my hands around my coffee cup and sat back in the ironwork chair. “First of all I have never, not even once, claimed to be a medium. On the contrary, I’ve spent the last year of my life hiding—rather unsuccessfully, it would seem—from people like you who want to assign me that title. And second, I wouldn’t take your money if you threw it at me. If I could help you, I would—and I’d do it for nothing. But I can’t. I’m sorry for your loss, but there’s nothing I can do for you. If you’re not okay with that, you need to leave. ”
He stood to leave, still crying. Still grasping my tissues.
I exhaled my entire collection of deeply drawn breaths as the door closed behind him.
Similar scenarios had played themselves out so frequently that I’d given up hope for a different ending. Sometimes it took longer for the bereaved to go from grief-stricken and vulnerable to wishing that I, personally, were dead, but the end result was always the same.
And I don’t know how they find me—it’s not like I put an ad in the paper. Maybe they track me down through online rumors, or my name is written on a bathroom wall somewhere. I wonder sometimes what the gossip says. Does it mention me by name? There has to be more to it than “Biracial Southern girl chats up dead people. Come visit the Scenic City and see if you can sucker her into a reading. ”
If I could find it myself, I’d delete or wash away every word.
My coffee had gone tepid. I wandered over to the counter and talked someone into trashing it in the sink for me, then reclaimed the cup for a fresh hit of caffeine.
Behind me, the glass door swooshed open again, and I heard the electric hum of a familiar wheelchair. As usual, the sound of the chair was shadowed closely by four paws clapping on the tile floor.
“Hey, Karl,” I said over my shoulder as I pumped myself a refill from the air pot on the counter. “And hey, Cowboy,” I added towards the shaggy brute beside him. I finished my top-off and reached for the creamer.
Karl joysticked himself up to me so that his floppy, feathered cowboy hat hovered beside my shoulder. His diligent sheltie sidekick assumed a politely seated position on the floor.
“You’ve sure got a way with people. ” He grinned. “You make ’em cry faster than that Barbara Walters woman. ”
“Thanks. I think. ” I grabbed a brown plastic stirring stick and swirled my beverage until it turned a uniform beige. I faced him then, leaning my rear against the counter. “And what brings you two old coots downtown today? Anything special?”
“Just you, beautiful. I’ve got a weakness for brunettes, you know. ” He winked and wiggled his graying mustache at me.
“And blondes. And redheads. ” I reached down and tugged at the brim of his hat, winking back without any real mirth. “And I bet you say that to all the girls who chase people out of the shop in tears. ”
His laugh was a rough, low sound that managed to carry a Southern accent even without any vowels. That man could clear his throat in a thunderstorm and you’d be able to hear he was a local.
“You’ve got me there. But I mean it—I was hoping you’d be out and about. Join you at your table?” He and Cowboy were already halfway to Gary’s freshly vacated spot, and I wouldn’t have told him no anyway. Instead, I pulled the seat out to make room for his chair and kicked my purse under the table so Cowboy wouldn’t have to lie on it.
“You want some coffee?”
“Got some. ” He waved a foam to-go cup with one hand and a newspaper with the other. “Have you looked at today’s paper?”
“Not likely. Haven’t needed to line any litter boxes since this morning. ”
He snorted, and Cowboy’s ears perked, then settled again. “Then I guess no one else has showed you yet. ”
“Showed me what?” I asked as a matter of formality, but just as I’d known that Gary would have a photograph on him, I might have known that Karl would have a ghost story. If he hadn’t been holding the newspaper, I’d have guessed he’d come to me bearing a new bad joke. Not a dirty or off-color joke, just a bad joke—one that would take at least ten minutes to wend its slow, painful way to a punch line.
“This article about what happened at the battlefield over Decoration Day. ”
