A Summons to New Orleans (10 page)

“Oh, here are the girls,” Simone said cheerfully.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” Margaret said, offering her hand. They shook it, feeling awkward but not knowing what else to do. Nora had the sense that Margaret knew a lot more about the world than she did, and that inside she was scoffing at her, and at Poppy and Simone. She imagined Margaret going home to her roommate or lover or spouse, kicking off her shoes and saying, “What a bunch of idiots I had to deal with today. These UVA girls. What a waste of an education.”

Or maybe Margaret was alone. Maybe her work was her life. Did she wrestle with all the same dilemmas—have I sacrificed my personal life in exchange for my career? Should I have a baby? Should I write a book? Suddenly Nora thought of those invitations she was supposed to finish, and it alarmed her how quickly and easily she had abandoned her work.

It was starting to get dark as the three women walked outside, but only because another storm cloud had moved in. Nora glanced at her watch and saw that it was approaching four o’clock.

“I feel like shopping,” Simone said. “How about you?”

“Why not,” Poppy agreed.

They caught a cab and went back to the French Quarter.
For a long time they wandered in and out of clothes shops and antique shops, picking over the curious offerings, laughing and joking about what they could and couldn’t live without. It felt like college, and it was easy to forget what they were all here for. Simone was clearly not interested in talking about what had transpired in that off-limits office. And Nora and Poppy were too afraid to ask. Simone was cheerful, and they did not feel willing to interfere with that.

The rain had come and gone by the time they made their way back out onto Jackson Square. The street musicians were coming out again, and a few fortune-tellers were setting up shop.

Simone said, “Oh, we have to have our tarot cards done.”

Poppy shook her head and said, “I don’t believe in that.”

“Neither do I,” said Simone, “but it’s a hoot. We have to do it while we’re in New Orleans. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

Simone chose a woman with Coke-bottle glasses and a small dog situated on her lap. They sat in lawn chairs next to her, and the woman said, “The heat’s back.”

“Excuse me?” Simone said.

“The heat. It’s back.”

“Oh, yes,” Simone agreed. “Does that mean anything?”

“It means summer’s coming.”

She started shuffling cards with tanned, pudgy hands, their backs riddled with age spots. The dog remained so still in her lap, Nora thought he might be dead.

“It’s ten dollars to have your palms read, fifteen for the tarot, and we’ll take it from there if you want more. Who wants to go first?”

“I do,” Simone said.

As the woman dealt out the beautiful, mysterious cards, she said, “It’s important to remember that these cards do not predict the future. They simply present you with possibilities
which you may embrace or reject. Tarot teaches us how to deal with various opportunities. It is not what’s going to happen. It’s what may happen. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Simone.

“Because you are in control of your life. Don’t ever forget that. You are what you are because of the conscious and subconscious choices you have made.”

Simone stifled a yawn, then said, “No offense, it’s been a long day.”

The cards looked crazy and frightening. Nora was certain that nothing good could come of this conglomeration, but as she laid them out one at a time, the card reader looked unalarmed. She stared at them for a long time, lighting a cigarette and blowing her smoke straight up into the air, toward the clouds. She said, “Well, you have a lot of opportunities coming your way.”

“Who doesn’t?” Simone said.

“A lot of people don’t. Sometimes the cards are consistent and unvaried. They suggest a smooth course. But you? You’re in for some ups and downs. Just remember, there are no tragedies in life, only opportunities.”

“Okay,” Simone submitted. “Let’s hear about them.”

The card reader pointed and said, “These are all cards of the minor arcana. You already have money, you have luck, you have pain, and you have peaceful resolution. But here is a card I want to focus on. The Hermit.”

“That’s not me,” Simone said. “I am so not the Hermit.”

“Girl, do you have a hearing problem? These cards aren’t literal. The Hermit is the wise spirit within us. Everybody has that. Some folks don’t listen to it.”

She drummed her finger on the picture of a man, head bent, staff in hand, holding out a lantern.

“He stands at the precipice but he does not step over it.
The Hermit is the ancient spirit who lives in us through the collective unconscious. The universal mind that guides us through the darkness with clear light. It is the deepest part of ourselves, the part that knows what to do in times of decision. When we encounter the Hermit, we should take it as an indication that the answers we seek can be found within our own hearts.”

Poppy looked up and said, “That is true of any encounter.”

“Yes, but the tarot tries to alert us to a situation in which we will have to use those forces.”

“Go ahead,” Simone said.

The reader pointed to another card and said, “This is the Wheel of Fortune. It’s rare that you get these two cards together, as they are both part of the major arcana. This card represents the circular nature of time. What goes around comes around. The sphinx at the top represents success and good fortune. The devil at the bottom is there to keep us alert, to help make us aware that all things are subject to change.”

“Oh, this is nonsense,” Poppy said. “And it’s pagan. The tarot cards are based on ancient pagan rituals and beliefs. It’s blasphemous.”

The card reader suddenly looked in her direction and said, “You have your own penance to pay. Try not to interfere.”

Poppy just stared at her. Nora looked back and forth between them, wondering what to do.

The next card the reader pointed to looked pretty dire. It showed a man facedown with several swords in his back. It was called the Ten of Swords.

“This doesn’t look good,” Nora heard herself whisper.

“Every card is good,” the reader said, “if you choose to see it that way. The Ten of Swords represents a potentially difficult situation. A card predicting loss and release. A new
awareness that the difficulty is finally past. It seems negative, but it is a card of hope and an indication that troubles will not be permanent.”

“No troubles are permanent,” Poppy said.

“Tell me more,” Simone insisted.

“This is the card of judgment,” the reader said. “It says that a judgment will be found in your favor. Judgment speaks of a time of reckoning, a time of bringing to light those things which were hidden. What is your judgment of yourself and your own self-appraisal?”

“I don’t know,” Simone admitted.

“Whatever is up in the air, it will come down on your side. But it will mean nothing until you judge yourself, until you absolve yourself of what you know you have done. Justice does not come from the outside. It comes from inner peace. You cannot find the answer you are looking for on the outside.”

“Why not?” Simone asked.

“I told you, all scores are settled within one’s soul, within the psyche. You may have justice on the outside, but it is in here,” the reader said, stabbing her own chest with her index finger. “This is where we find peace.”

Her little dog barked and Simone said, “Is that all?”

“I worry about you,” said the reader. Her eyes seemed abnormally large behind the glasses. They seemed capable of seeing something on another plane, in a parallel universe. Now that the dog was awake, his eyes seemed to bear the same trait. Nora shivered and pulled her sweater around her shoulders. It was hot, but a chill had settled inside her and she couldn’t stop shaking. “I worry,” the reader continued, “because you are not open. At this moment, you are closed to possibility. And anyone who is about to face this many challenges needs to be open. Otherwise, it will turn to pain.”

“I’ve had pain,” Simone told her. “The thing about it is, it doesn’t kill you. It just hurts. These days, if something doesn’t kill you, it doesn’t impress me.”

“Well, all right.” The reader sat back and sighed. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

Simone gave her twenty and told her to keep the change. They walked back across Jackson Square, silently contemplating what had just happened, wondering how to respond. Nora thought she should laugh, but no one else seemed to favor that idea. Finally Simone said, “What an obnoxious old hag.”

Poppy said, “What did you expect, Simone? It’s voodoo nonsense. That’s her way of feeling powerful. Pretending she has answers she doesn’t. Ascribing some sort of mystical authority to a bunch of playing cards. It’s completely amoral.”

“You mean immoral,” Nora corrected her. “There’s no such thing as an amoral world.”

Poppy stopped walking and looked at her. “Where did you hear that?”

Nora felt momentarily confused, and then she realized she was quoting Leo Girardi. Her attempt to steal his philosophy had given her away.

“I don’t know . . . it’s just something I heard once.”

Poppy stared at her long and hard. Her eyes were dark and piercing, and any notion Nora had that Poppy wouldn’t mind her connection with Leo went up in smoke. She felt frightened and desperate to hide her actions.

“Let’s stop talking about it,” Simone suggested. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to Nola. It shouldn’t be crowded. It’s still early by New Orleans standards.”

The restaurant Nola was right up the street in the Quarter. It was, in fact, already crowded, a large group of people hanging around the bar, waiting for tables. But Simone spoke
briefly to the maître d’, and suddenly a man in a suit came out, and then the sous-chef himself, and they were being led like royalty to the finest table in the house.

“Emeril’s a friend,” she told them as they sat down.

“Who?” Nora asked.

“Emeril Lagasse. He owns this place, as well as several other places in town. Possibly the best chef in the country. I’d judge him that way, anyhow. I have said so in articles. That’s why I get treated so well.”

“I thought food critics weren’t supposed to identify themselves,” Poppy said, as if the special treatment unsettled her some.

“True,” Simone said, “but it’s too late in this restaurant. They already know me.”

The waiter brought over complementary champagne and appetizers, a delicious crab concoction that Nora ate so quickly she was startled to find it gone. She had never tasted anything like it. It was so good it brought tears to her eyes. Looking over, she saw that Simone had barely touched hers.

“Did you like it?” Nora asked.

“Of course. It’s fabulous. But I have this eating problem.”

“Don’t you eat anything?”

“Enough to stay alive, I think.”

“Did this happen after the rape?” Poppy asked.

“No,” Simone said. “It had started before then. It’s just gotten worse. I think because it is my work, and because I feel like such a fraud, making my living the way I do. Even when I was modeling, I could eat. But being a restaurant critic has kind of done me in. It’s hard to explain.”

Simone eagerly sipped at her champagne and lit a cigarette. She glanced nervously around, as if expecting to see someone she knew. Suddenly she said, “Oh, dear God, girls. How did we end up like this?”

Nora and Poppy looked at her, knowing what she meant but not wanting to acknowledge it, and certainly not wanting to talk about it.

Poppy said, “Things aren’t so bad. I am not unhappy.”

“But it is not how we envisioned ourselves. Remember in school, when we felt like great things were in store for us? I guess UVA made us feel like that. Everyone there acted as if they were so anointed, so privileged. I guess we were. I guess I felt those expectations hovering over me.”

“But you were born privileged,” Nora said, hoping that didn’t sound too insulting.

“I was born to money,” Simone objected. “We never had any kind of pedigree. My father just went to some half-ass college in Arizona. He always longed to be taken seriously as an intellectual, someone with taste and dignity. The movie industry lets you pretend you have that. But he knew he was on the outside looking in. Lately, he’s been replaced by young Harvard MBAs. His job has dwindled down to nothing. He knew his lack of education would catch up to him eventually. He’s still rich, but he’s not part of the elite. He’s not in the club.”

“Well, the club sucks,” Poppy said. “My father was always in it, and I can tell you the kind of thing that goes on there. Not good. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“Oh, I do,” Simone said. “And there’s nothing like almost dying to make you feel like the luckiest person on earth. I know I have learned lessons, but I don’t see why I had to nearly die to be taught. Wasn’t there an easier path?”

Poppy said, “God has a divine purpose for our lives, and it is best not to question it. You just have to have faith.”

“Oh, Poppy, you know I love you. But this religious horseshit is starting to annoy me. Since when did you believe in this crap? Why give up your power like that? Why hand it over
to some bearded guru in the sky, who fucked things up in the first place? Tell me, what is the divine purpose for Quentin Johnson? What does that wise one have in store for him?”

Poppy gave no answer to that. Nora sensed that she certainly had one but had lost her desire to share it with the non-believers. A waiter took their order and they sat in silence for a while, listening to the lively chatter in the restaurant.

“Boy, that Margaret Marquez-Pratt is a piece of work, isn’t she?” Simone eventually said.

“She’s tough,” Nora agreed.

“You ought to sick her on Clifford Braxton,” Simone said. “He’d come back to town and pay his taxes and a few other people’s to boot. And he’d leave that waitress slut in a by God New York minute.”

“I’d just as soon hire a hit man,” Nora said.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Poppy interjected. “You don’t really hate Cliff. You say you do, but you don’t. You want him to come back. You’d take him back tomorrow.”

“Poppy, how can you say that? It’s completely untrue.”