Chapter Ten

The voodoo shop where Danielle has called ahead and scheduled our readings is only around the corner, but from the look of the outside it exists somewhere around 1910. The wooden sign outside proclaims it to be the CHARLES LEVEAU HOUSE OF VOODOO, EST. 1997 – in gaudy red all-caps on a faded black background – and then underneath it, in smaller letters, ‘All psychic queries considered’.

If I rolled my eyes any harder, I’d be able to see my own asshole.

My doubts aren’t assuaged at all when the famous Charles LeVeau makes his arrival. I don’t know what I’m expecting, exactly – a sort of Dr. Facilier Disney villain? A waxed moustache, cape and top hat? – but it’s not what I get. LeVeau – ‘Call me Chuck’ – is a man in his late fifties with a bald head, a pair of heavy Doc Martens, and a Dead Kennedys t-shirt that’s so faded it may be older than the shop we’re currently standing in. ‘Who’s up first?’ he says, and amidst a flurry of giggles from the other three, Lauren steps up to the plate. He takes her by the hand and leads her to the back room, shutting the door behind the two of them like they’re a couple of horny, awkward teens about to play Seven Minutes in Heaven.

The thought isn’t a pretty one.

While they’re in there – for what seems like forever – I find myself wandering around the store. There’s no waiting room, so anyone who’s stuck waiting to hear Psychic Chuck’s hot takes on what the future holds is forced to mingle in what amounts to a glorified gift shop, filled to the brim with overpriced knickknacks and trinkets all promising a better, brighter tomorrow. Danielle, Jessica and Paige seem fascinated by it all. I try and busy myself on my phone, without much luck. If they want to waste fifty dollars on a chunky crystal necklace that wouldn’t look out of place in a grade school play, that’s on them.

Eventually, Lauren comes out, grinning from ear to ear.

‘Well?’ I ask, more eagerly than I anticipated. ‘What did he say?’

She leans in close so her voice won’t echo throughout the store, and then whispers, ‘Twins.’ I’m glad to see I’m not the only one rolling my eyes at the preposterousness of it all. I’m even more glad to see that it doesn’t seem to have put her in a bad mood at all. Maybe she really is capable of just shrugging it off.

Who knew, right?

Somehow, we manage to parlay a twenty-minute reading into an hour of discussion and dissection. Every little detail is pored over and analysed, every one of his predictions put through the wringer – for better or for worse. Most of them, thankfully, seem to have been positive: a happy marriage, a happy family, a happy life. She seems happy enough with the outcome. Perhaps a little hope isn’t such a bad thing after all.

One by one, the girls traipse in and come back out with full knowledge of the mysteries of the cosmos, trading details like playground gossip. By the time Danielle comes out, positively gushing with enthusiasm, I’m just about ready to leave; hell, I’m just about ready to throw myself into the Mississippi.

‘Your turn,’ Lauren says, nudging me with her shoulder. ‘Try not to have too much fun in there, OK?’

Change of plan: I’m just about ready to throw Lauren into the Mississippi, wedding or not. No jury would convict.

The psychic is waiting by the doorway for me to come and join him, holding aside a bead curtain that really adds a touch of class to the whole proceeding. A sharp poke in the ribs from Lauren spurs me on, into a small back room that I’m sure used to be a closet before it was kitsched up into a conduit to the other side. Red and purple velvet drapes help to hide the peeling paintwork on the wood beneath, but in the middle of the room there’s the pièce de résistance: a foldout card table on which there rests an old, faded tarot deck.

‘You’re the last one, eh?’ he asks as he sits down across from me.

‘Looks like it.’

He extends a hand for me to shake. ‘I’m Chuck,’ he says. ‘We didn’t get much of a chance to chat out there. Nice to meet you.’

‘Ella,’ I say as I take it. ‘Nice to meet you too.’

He doesn’t let go of my hand. He doesn’t turn it over to read, either; instead, his thumb presses down gently on the soft patch above my wrist, and he closes his eyes. ‘Stubborn,’ he says after a moment or two.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You. You’re stubborn. You like to argue, and you don’t like to be wrong.’

‘Does anyone?’

Chuck the Psychic gives out a soft, small noise of concession, but then dives back in to what feels like a prepared spiel. ‘You might like an argument,’ he says, ‘but you don’t like a real fight. No, Ma’am. Too many emotions involved. Too messy. Not your bag at all.’

There’s something about Chuck that rubs me the wrong way. It’s not the fake bonhomie, although that’s part of it, and it’s not just the fact that his industry is one of con artists. I think it’s the condescension of it all: the implication that I might be dumb enough to fall for his vague pronouncements about my personality. The idea of being taken for some sort of rube tourist is borderline offensive, and it rankles me no matter how many smiles and how much Good Ol’ Country Boy charm comes along with it. ‘Is this what passes for psychic these days?’ I ask.

He grins. ‘Psychic? Oh, no. That’s what we in the industry call a gimme. I’m just trying to get a quick read on you before we get started. Just the real obvious stuff. Feeling out the waters, if you like.’

I don’t. I don’t like at all.

‘What’s your star sign?’ Chuck asks.

‘Virgo.’

He nods quickly, decisively, as though he’s discovered something important. ‘Me too,’ he says. ‘Listmaker?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You make a lot of lists, right? Things you need to do?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘In your head, or on paper?’

‘Head,’ I say. ‘I guess.’

Another nod. ‘Yeah, I thought so.’

Sure you did, buddy, I think. Sure you did.

‘You’re logical,’ he continues. ‘More than anything else. You want to be careful with that, cherie. It’ll get you into trouble one of these days. Always head before heart is no good. You run away from your instincts for so long, it’s not going to be a surprise if all that running leads you somewhere you don’t want to be. But I get the feeling I don’t need to tell you that, eh?’

I choose not to dignify that with a response.

‘A quiet one, eh?’ he says. ‘Well, as you wish. Tell me about the boy. The separation.’

In that instant, I feel a white-hot fury rise up inside me. I don’t buy Chuck’s psychic bullshit for even a second, which means there’s only one explanation: one of them blabbed. One of them shared my secret sorrow with this… charlatan. And for what? So he could do his little illusion and milk me for another forty bucks? So he could twist the knife and make the sceptic squirm a little bit. Well, fuck him. Fuck him, and fuck whichever one of them ratted me out to this con man.

‘Ella?’ he asks.

‘Which one of them told you?’

‘Hmm?’

‘None of them,’ he says quietly. ‘No one said a word.’

‘Oh yeah? Then how did you –’

He points down to my left hand, where my thumb is rubbing a raw patch at the spot where my engagement ring used to be. ‘You’ve been doing that ever since you sat down,’ he says. ‘Call it a hunch. I’m guessing it ended recently?’

I nod. It’s just about all I can muster.

‘And not well?’

Another nod.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘I got good news, whether you want to hear it or not. Your love life ain’t over, not by a long shot. Whatever happened between the two of you, it’s a good thing – for both of you. It gives you some perspective. Means you can build to a stronger relationship. A happier relationship.’ He pauses. ‘I’m seeing a wedding.’

‘That’s why we’re down here.’ There’s no way one of the others didn’t mention that.

He shakes his head. ‘No, not your buddy’s. Different. Later. Two years from now. Maybe a little less.’ He pauses. ‘Yours.’

‘Whatever you say, pal,’ I reply. I wonder if he hears the slight crack in my voice as I do.

It’s stupid, I know. After the speech I gave the rest of them about how dangerous hope is, it would be ridiculous of me to attach any sort of meaning to his words. By rights, I should draw a line in the sand, stand up and walk right out of here – but there’s something in the way he says two years that pulls me in. That was just about when Carter and I had planned to get married; hell, we were about to start putting deposits down on places as soon as we got back. That was the plan. It was always the plan. Could he… I mean, is it even possible that he knew that? That he’d got some sort of message from the other side?

Of course it isn’t. It’s just a coincidence, I think – and then, a good deal less charitably, Horseshit.

‘So what’s your boy’s sign?’ he asks.

‘Aries,’ I say.

For the first time since I walked in, Chuck the Psychic looks perturbed. ‘You sure about that?’ he asks. ‘Not a Pisces cusp, is he?’

I shake my head, and chalk that up as a win for me against the forces of the spirit world. ‘April 6th,’ I say. ‘Aries through and through.’

Chuck frowns deeply. ‘I’m seeing a Pisces,’ he says, ‘but whatever you say. I guess you know best, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, I hope you’re comfortable here, anyway. You ain’t leaving for a while. Not so quick, anyroad. You taking some time down here after the wedding?’

‘Hadn’t planned on it.’

‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Well, I think your plans might change. Your boy might have a thing or two to say about that.’

No chance, I think. Even if Carter did get in touch with me again – which is looking less and less likely by the hour – there’s no way he’d want to come down here, nor would I want him to. After the wedding, I’m on the first flight back to Chicago, so I can sort what’s left of my life out. Spending more time than I have to in the land of swamps and psychic knickknacks sounds like my idea of hell.

He lets go of my hand suddenly, surprising me; if I’m honest, I’d almost forgotten that he was still holding it. In its place, he picks up a tarot deck, splitting it in half and bridging it back together like a Vegas magician before holding them out to me. ‘Give ‘em a shuffle,’ he says. ‘Hand them back when you feel it’s right. No hurry.’

I hold half of the deck in my left hand and shimmy them over to my right a few times, without much of the solemnity that Chuck the Psychic seems to think the occasion calls for. It’s hard to believe that my view into time immaterial depends on what feels like a beginner’s card trick. Pick a future, any future, I think to myself as I get bored and slide the deck onto the table.

‘Split them,’ he orders, and I do. ‘Now pick a stack.’ I tap the one closest to me and he puts it on top of the other before turning over ten cards, placing them onto the table in what looks like either a highly specific order, or a very poorly-dealt hand of gin rummy.

He points to the first card, sitting below another crossed over it. ‘This is you as you are now,’ he says.

‘Seriously?’ I lower my eyes at him. The card is the Fool.

He grins. ‘Relax,’ he says. ‘They ain’t saying you’re stupid. Just… at a crossroads.’ He doesn’t mention who ‘they’ are, and I don’t ask. ‘It’s a sign of new beginnings. You’re finding yourself in a place you’ve never been before – and I don’t just mean New Orleans.’ He taps the card crossed over the top of it. ‘This one… now, this one’s your conflict.’ On it sits a woman with flowing robes and long blonde hair, resting idly above the words HIGH PRIESTESS. ‘See? The cards agree with me. You ain’t trusting your intuition as much as you should. Everything’s up in the air for you at the moment. You’re a woman without a plan. You don’t know where to start to pick up the pieces.’

I sit silently, letting him do his thing. It seems easier than protesting – and besides, my forty bucks is long gone.

He taps the bottom of a row of four cards, which declares itself to be the Six of Wands. ‘You need to gain some confidence,’ he says, nodding to himself. ‘Yeahuh. Trust your gut instincts.’

Forget the plan, in other words, I think. I hope Lauren isn’t listening in, or she’ll never let me hear the end of it.

‘You’ve been holding onto things too strongly,’ he continues. ‘Too tight. You’re smothering it. You want to control everything, and perhaps that even worked out for a while – but I think maybe you’re learning that it doesn’t work for long. A lot of smart people have tried. Smarter even than you, I think.’ He taps his finger against the Fool, and grins. ‘Never works out in the end. The Other Side has its own plans.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Mm-hmm. And oh, you’re in for some fun.’ He taps one of the other cards, the Knight of Wands. ‘You see this fella here? He’s all about adventure. Passion, lust, whatever you want to call it – but it’s coming up soon, ready or not. You just need to loosen up a little. Be open to the new experiences. Let the world come to you.’

I can’t stop a sardonic eyebrow from making my thoughts known on the issue, but it’s wasted on Chuck: he’s focused entirely on the cards in front of him. He places a finger on the Ten of Pentacles. ‘You’ve been focused on the future, right? Trying to get everything in order?’

I shrug. ‘I guess.’

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ he says. ‘A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?’

‘Browning?’

He smiles at me. ‘I don’t just read tarot, you know. Sometimes I’ve been known to pick up a book too. There’s all kinds of wisdom out there in the world.’

I’m sure, I think.

‘This one here,’ he continues, tapping the Two of Cups, ‘is your subconscious. You’ve got an attraction going on. Something pulling you one way and then the other.’ He pauses, and gives a little shake of his head. ‘Someone, maybe.’ Next to it, the Three of Cups: ‘And this one is your external influences. Loved ones, friends… you’ve got a good group of friends out there. Solid, even if it might not seem that way. If you can’t trust yourself, you can trust them. They’ll lead you where you need to go.’

Suddenly all I can picture is Paige halfway up a lamppost while Danielle and Jessica hoot with laughter. Somehow, I don’t see them as great moral guides – not to mention the fact that without Danielle, I wouldn’t have found myself here in what might be the dead centre of Louisiana’s biggest pile of horseshit. If that’s the guidance that’s on offer, you can count me out.

The second to last card: the Ten of Swords. ‘Here we are again,’ he says sadly. ‘Scared of defeat. Scared of losing. Clutching everything so tight, and what good does it do you? Absolutely nothing, so far as I can see. You lost big before you got here, and trust me on this: it’s going to be the best damn thing in the world for you overall. Everything wrong is right. Everything down is up. Everything works out in the end.’

I wish I shared his optimism. ‘You’re sure about that?’ I ask.

‘Oh, absolutely. Not always – not by any means. But with you, honey? Not a doubt in my mind. The cards never lie.’

No, I think. I bet they don’t. Just you, Chuck. Just you, peddling false hope at forty dollars a session. In this one, I’m pretty sure the cards are innocent.

‘Are we done here?’ I ask.

He nods. ‘You can leave whenever you like.’

How about twenty minutes ago? I think. This was, I think it’s safe to say, one of the biggest wastes of times I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit through.

I’m almost out of the door when he calls out. ‘Miss?’ he says suddenly. When I turn around, his is brow is knotted into a serious frown. ‘Just one more thing.’

Oh yeah? I think. And how much is this one more thing going to cost me? There’s a glass bowl at his side labelled TIP JAR, its meagre contents staring back at me. Well, they’re not getting any fatter on my watch, and if Chuck had any psychic powers at all he would have been able to see that coming as clear as day.

‘Hmm?’

‘Your boy. His star sign. He’s a Pisces, no question. I’d stake the farm on it.’

There’s something in his face, the surety with which he says it, that sets me on edge. I’ve seen a lot of liars in my line of work – on the stand, in depositions, wherever there’s money on the line – and I’d even go so far as to say that I’m pretty good at telling when people are trying to get one over on me – but there’s something in Chuck the Psychic’s eyes that makes me think that maybe, possibly, he actually believes what he’s saying.

Delusion’s a terrible thing, I think as I head back into the overwrought kitsch of the shop. A terrible thing indeed.