Burning September (9 page)

“No I don’t.”

She tugged on a lock of my hair.  “Your hair is lighter and you have blue eyes.  That’s the only difference.  You’re all me, baby.”

“There’s plenty of other differences.”

“Fine.”  She held up both hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t wanna go there, but you forced me.  Okay, you have a bigger rack.  I can’t borrow your clothes because the chest is always swimming on me.”  She groaned softly as an aid rolled Mr. Ferret into the visiting area.  “The comedy act came early.  Oh my God.”  She clamped her hand on my wrist, and I could practically see the light bulb blinking on above her head, making her eyes shiny and lively.  “Kat.  You have
got
to smuggle in a ferret one of these days.  He’d lose his shit.”

“Any other ideas for character witnesses?”

“All business today, huh?  I’m not sure.”

“You know tons of people.  There’s got to be someone else.”

“Well.  I have a feeling it’d be best if all my character witnesses turned out to be women.”  One corner of her lips turned up.  “I’m sure my elusive attorney would agree.”

***

“Jeez.” Jeff’s jaw dropped at the same time his bag hit the floor in the foyer of my condo. “Burning September.  I haven’t seen that in a long time.”

I was surprised he didn’t have a copy hanging in a dark corner of his room, a soft little spotlight illuminating it at certain times of day, just like the Mona Lisa.              

I shrugged one shoulder, pushing a wad of hair out of my face.  “Caroline was at a loss at what to hang above the fireplace.  She said she felt like a self-impressed ass, framing her own work, but at least it fills the void.”

“This place looks like her,” he said, staring around at the elaborate chandelier, the claw-footed coffee tables and heavy healing crystals.  I resisted the sigh of disgust building in my throat.  I should have known that was what his visit would turn into—some strange way he could commune with her spirit.  Go visit her at Breakthrough, buddy—maybe she’ll put you on her guest list.  “I can tell she took up the role of interior designer.”  He looked back at the photograph of me from that long-ago day at the fair.  “Do you remember her taking the picture?”

“No.”  I dropped onto the couch.  “It was a long time ago.”  My cell phone chirped.  I didn’t want to be rude, checking the text when a visitor had just arrived, but he didn’t even notice. 

“She was a natural.  You know, a lot of first time photography students go around taking pictures of anything.  Doorknobs, water bottles.  Thousands of clichéd shots of the ocean.  But Caroline never did.  She only took pictures of things she cared about.  Stuff that would evoke some emotional response.  Told a story.  In classes, they’ll tell you it’s never about the subject, it’s about the composition, or exposition, or lighting, but the trick to a great picture is kind of intangible.  Her instincts were always right on.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

People always lectured me about Caroline as if I didn’t even know her.  I let him rove about, pausing here and there, sucking in whatever vestiges of Caroline that still hung in the air. 

The text was from Kyle. 
Sorry for the late response.  I was in court all day, then a few meetings.  I can stop by for the character letters later on.  Nine okay?

I guessed nine was as good a time as any.  Three hours away; Jeff would be gone by then. I sent off an affirmative text and blinked up at Jeff’s back.  His nose hovered about an inch away from one of the photos on the mantel. 

After searching for something to say for a while, I settled on a lie.  “I told her you said hi.  She says it back.”

He peeled his glasses off and wiped the lenses on his sleeve.  “Thanks.  I hope she doesn’t think it’s weird that I’m here with you.”

Why the hell would she
, I thought.  It was her crackbrained idea.
“I’m sure she doesn’t.  So, I have her notes here.”  I shuffled through the thick folder on the coffee table.  “And I’m really lost on what Professor Rasmussen was saying in Critical Studies the other day.  It all sounded like gibberish.  I felt like an idiot all through the lecture.”

He joined me on the couch, flipping through the sheave of Caroline’s old notes, and I sincerely hoped the sight of her penmanship didn’t evoke any more hero worship.

***

Warm night air wafted through my open front door.  I sat cross-legged on the carpet, leaning back on my hands.  Chewing my bottom lip.  Slitting my eyes at the tarot spread.  Caroline never liked the Celtic Cross, said it was too common, so I’d opted for her favorite.  The Planetary spread. Eight cards. 

How can I help get my sister out of this clusterfuck
had been my question.

From my experienced eye, it wasn’t looking good.

Trump cards at both the top and bottom of the tiered spread hinted that higher forces were at work, and the outcome would have little to do with the people involved.  The majority of pentacles indicated successes or failures, all things material. 

The Empress in position one related to the asker.  Me.  Flattering, though not so accurate.  But the main thing capturing my attention was the outcome card.  Seven of Cups, Debauch, signifying delusion, guilt, lying.  Promises unfulfilled.  Deceit.

I cleared the spread with one bare foot, a little harder than necessary.  Smashing the cards into the carpet, eyes cinched shut.  What the hell did they know anyway.

And then I felt stupid for going through the same motions Caroline had.  They hadn’t helped her any. 

So why did I keep going back to them?  Old habits?  Caroline taught me how to read them so long ago, it had become second nature. 

The crunch of gravel under the heel of a shoe gave me a two-second heads-up, but two seconds isn’t long enough to screw your head on straight and react in time.  Or clean up the tarot cards and turn off the embarrassing music.

Kyle put one foot over the threshold of my wide-open front door and rapped the wall with his knuckles.  “Knock, knock.”

I felt my face flush tucked my legs under myself.  “It’s only eight. What are you doing here?”

“Interrupting a séance, looks like.  Want me to shut the door?”

“No.  The A/C’s broken.”  I sat up straight.  “It’s a mess because someone just left.  I thought I’d have time to clean up before you got here.”

A few rays of dying sunlight illuminated his silhouette in the doorway as he walked inside.  “Someone?”  He arched an eyebrow.  “Boyfriend?  This is pretty…. ‘romantic’ lighting.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.  It’s just hot.  Lights give off heat.  Turn the switch all the way up if you like.”

He didn’t, just picked his way over and sat next to me, looking ridiculous on the floor in his dress shirt and tie. 

“I have those character reference letters on the coffee table for you.”  I tilted my head in their direction.

He rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie, squinting at the tarot cards as he reached for the pile of reference letters.  Under the dim light and the shade of his eyelashes, his irises were navy instead of their normal ice blue, gazing at the documents.  “Great.”  But his brows contracted during the few moments it took to read everything over. I was about to ask what the problem was, when his eyes snapped back over to my tarot spread. “What’s this?”

“Tarot cards.”

“I noticed them the last time I was here.  You…play with them a lot?”

I laughed.  “You don’t
play
with tarot cards.  It’s not poker or blackjack.”

He flipped one over, examined the ornate gold cup on a filigree background.  “Then what’s their purpose?”

I adopted the mystical tone I’d heard Caroline use at the fair.  “They tell you a story.  You ask the question; they give you the answers.”

“Can you read mine?”

I dropped the Caroline act.  “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“They’re not real, you know.  It’s not like I believe in them.”

“I didn’t say you did.  I asked you to read mine.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.  “For fun.”

We stared at each other for a while before I gave up on finding any other motive.  I snatched the card from his hand, collected the others into a pile, shuffled, straightened them so the corners aligned, and set the deck in front of him.  “Cut the cards.”

“How?”

I shifted so we sat face to face. “However you want.  I usually cut it into threes.”

“Three it is.”  He did so quickly, eagerly, and sat back. 

I collected the sections and put them back together.  “What’s your question?”

His brow furled.  “What do you mean?”

“Usually there’s a question involved.  Something the cards can answer or shed light on.”  I waited for a couple beats.  “If you don’t want to come up with a specific question, I can do a simpler spread.  Past, present future.  It’s quicker.  I’m sure you’ve got better things to be doing.”

“Not really, but let’s have it.”

I pulled out three cards, upside down, backside up, so Kyle could see them better when I turned them over. 

“Any magic words before you start?”

“Nope.  I just flip them over.  I’m not very fancy.”  I turned the cards over and started from his left, but did a double-take once I saw the card in the future position. My nostrils flared.  It was a little too familiar.  I pointed at the card in the past slot. “Past.  Ten of Pentacles.”

“It looks bad.  It says ‘Worry’.”

“It’s not bad.  It’s next to the Eight of Wands.  Wands and Pentacles get along.”

His face screwed up in confusion.  “Like they’re friends?”

“Like the Wand can invert the meaning of ‘Worry’.  Normally it’d mean something like financial loss or poverty, since Pentacles are all to do with money, but beside a Wand, it’s more like long bouts of labor.  Working hard building a business, or going through a lot of school or whatever.”

“Sounds right.  And the Eight of Wands?  Why does it say swiftness?”

“Wands are all about energy, loads of it.  Swiftness means what it sounds like.  Lots of rapid events, activity, goal-reaching.  Boldness.”

“That’s promising.”  He reached for the final card, the familiar one in the Future position.  “And this one?”

“The Empress.  She’s a Trump card.  Means love, beauty.  Ultimate happiness.  Good fortune.  All that crap.”

“So she doesn’t relate to an actual woman.”

I felt a wry smile creep up.  “No.  Not always.” 

“But she can.”  He stared at The Empress, her long silvery blonde hair, blue eyes, sparkly scepter.  I wondered who he imagined she could possibly represent.  Whoever it was didn’t seem to be the answer he’d hoped for.

“Yeah.”  I studied him studying The Empress, his head bent over, wrinkles etching around his eyes and mouth like she was some complicated calculus problem.  “Don’t think about it so hard.  They mean nothing, the same way the month you were born has no influence over your personality.  And even if you did believe in it, it’s a good outcome.  Some old biddy at the fair would be jazzed to see these cards.  Probably would have tipped me afterward.”

He smiled, handed me The Empress.  “You’ve read cards at the fair?”

“Not me.  Caroline.  I don’t think I’d be any good at it.  She’s quicker on her feet.  Better at bullshitting.  Knowing me, I’d get stage fright in the middle of a reading and screw up the whole charade.”

“You did fine with me.”

I swept my hair behind my neck. “I have my good days, I guess.” 

His eyes lingered around my fingers dragging through waves of unkempt sections. “Didn’t look like too good a day when I walked in.  I’d hazard a guess that you don’t have too many good days anymore.”

“Well you didn’t get your fancy law degree by being stupid.”

He nodded, and we marinated in another long bout of silence before he shook his head as if coming out of a deep fog.  “What the hell
is
this?”

“What’s what?”

He waved his hands in the air.  “This music.”

“Old school Taylor Swift.”

The look he gave me rivaled the one he’d given The Empress.  “I’d have never pegged you for a Taylor Swift fan.”

“I like all kinds of music.  Even the stuff that makes people arbitrarily think you’re lame.”  I gathered the tarot cards and put them into their box. 

“I don’t think you’re lame.  I think you’re an enigma.  Tarot cards, Taylor Swift, sharp wit.  What’s next, sword juggling?  Are you double-jointed?”

I made to haul myself to my feet, but he was on his, offering a hand.  I grudgingly accepted and headed for the coffee table.  “Professor Rasmussen included all her contact information in her letter, if and when you need to set something up.  She’s a really well-respected head of the USC art department, so…it’s good news.” 

“Is she the one who taught you how to do that?”  He nodded at the easel in the corner, on which I’d stretched a layer of scratchy canvas.  From a distance, the red, ripe strawberries I’d painted on the white background looked like the residue of a gunshot wound.  Blotchy with gore, seeds morphing into brain matter and bits of flesh.