Amber House (31 page)

Kathryn grinned at me. “That’s the plan.”

“That is all I can tell you,” the woman concluded, and moved on to Olivia. Everyone at the table held a hand out. Everyone was rewarded with the same kind of cheery generalities.

But when she came to me, the woman frowned and shook her head, as if she were having trouble focusing. She stroked her fingers over my palm, tracing the lines with a fingertip. She kept returning to the center of my palm. “What is this mark? Is it a scar?”

I was confused. There was no mark.

She cleared her throat and started to speak, but then stopped.

“What” — I chuckled a little uneasily — “am I gonna die young?”

She motioned with her head — “No.” She opened her mouth and closed it. Finally she said, “I need a small break. I am sorry.” She stood and left, fast.

“Sheesh, Parsons, you short-circuited the fortune-teller.” We all laughed.

“Lordy, I thought she was going to have a stroke,” Kathryn said. “I’m sorry you missed your fortune, sweetie. She got mine so perfectly.”

We heard the P.A. system being turned on and looked toward the stage. An emcee was at the mic, switching it on and then holding out his arms to catch people’s attention. “Can everybody hear me?”

A girl closer to the river squealed “Omigod!” Then suddenly everyone my age was on their feet and rushing to the dance floor before the stage, my group included. We found a spot toward the front.

The emcee was laughing into the mic. “I can see my announcement is highly anticipated.”

Another little moaning squeal started in the back and spread through the crowd like some kind of instant infection. I laughed and grinned at Kathryn, who grinned back and rolled her eyes toward heaven, fanning her face with her hand.

“All righty then,” the emcee said. Then raising his voice to a shout, he got to the point: “Let’s give it up for Ataxia!”

The crowd roared as four young men leapt out on the stage, the guy on bass already striking the opening chords of one of their famous songs. The drummer picked up the beat, the guitarist joined in, the amps were vibrating, and the crowd was in motion.

The costumes and gowns seemed to discourage the high-contact writhing that usually went on at every dance I had ever had the misfortune of attending, so I had the rare pleasure of actually dancing. I tried hard to move as little as possible so I didn’t perspire off all of Mr. Poole’s work, but in the end I just held up the train of my dress and enjoyed it. Richard was, of course, a terrific dancer. Nothing too exuberant, but every movement perfect.

The song ended, we screamed our approval, then another song began. It went on like that for an hour, the band working hard. Their tux jackets got tossed to the side, their shirts unbuttoned. My voice was a husky croak, I had been laughing and
screaming so much, and the smile muscles in my cheeks ached. During the twelfth song, the adults, who had wandered away when Ataxia started its set, drifted back out onto the lawn, encircling the dance floor. At the song’s end, the front man gestured for silence.

“Thank you, thank you,” he was saying, trying to quiet the young crowd. “As y’all
probably
know, I’m Rafe” — more screaming — “and I want to thank you for coming out tonight to celebrate the birthday of —” He hesitated a minute, while the guy on bass whispered in his ear. “Well, it’s Sarah’s birthday, isn’t it?”

The crowd laughed and roared.

“That’s this little golden goddess over here, isn’t it? Standing next to the delicious dolly in pink.” He pointed, and a spot picked me and Kathryn out of the crowd.

“For our last number,” Rafe went on, “I have a guest artist joining me.” He gestured for the mystery performer to join him, and suddenly, there was my little brother, trotting to center stage to stand next to Rafe. The singer held out a palm for a low five, and Sammy gave him a good slap.

“If you could make a little room over here,” Rafe said, pointing to the left side of the floor. The crowd parted, and a table on wheels appeared, waiters pushing it to the center of the floor. On it stood a gold and silver cake four tiers high. It was glowing with little clumps of sparklers spitting out light.

I felt an enormous grin on my face and realized from the soreness in my facial muscles that I had been smiling nonstop for over an hour. I grabbed Richard’s hand for courage and went to meet the cake at the center.

What looked like a real grape vine, gilded, with small clumps of fresh gilt grapes, snaked its way up around the layers. A menagerie of gold marzipan bugs — butterflies and beetles and crickets and a spider on a golden thread — feasted on the frosting.
A jester lit the circle of candles on the top tier and put down a step for me to climb on, so I’d be able to blow out the flames.

The bassist hit a chord, and attention shifted back to the stage. Rafe crouched down with the mic, and he and Sammy crooned the opening line:
“Happy Birthday to you —”

Rock chords on bass and guitar skittered around the familiar melody.

Rafe and Sam sang again:
“Happy Birthday to you —”

More jarring chords, and then Sammy got a solo:
“Happy Birthday, dear Sarah —”

The guitarist struck off a rising wail that ended in the inevitable, hanging, high-pitched note and Rafe shouted, “Everybody!”

The whole crowd sang:
“— Happy Birthday to you.”

The guests cheered. I smiled at my brother grinning at me. And as I blew out every single candle, I made the same vague wish I always made: that everything would turn out all right.

Ataxia disappeared after that, and so did Kathryn. I didn’t spend much time wondering about the coincidence.

Sam, Mom, and Dad came to join me for a bite of my birthday cake. They invited Richard to stay, but he bowed out, saying he had to hunt up “the senator.”

I told Sammy how amazing his performance had been. I pumped the air with my fist and served up my best Sammy imitation: “All
riiight
.”

He laughed. “Not all the notes were just right, Sarah, but the other guy wasn’t the goodest singer in the world.”

“You’re right, bud, it’s tough to sing with a guy like that. You did an awesome, awesome job.”

“Thank you, Sarah.”

I smiled. “You’re welcome, Sam. And you too, Mom,” I added. “Just awesome.”

She shrugged, as if she doubted my sincerity. “I know you didn’t want this party, honey —”

“No, I mean it, Mom. There will never be a party as great as this one again. I am having the best time. I will
never
forget it.”

“Well, thanks, honey.” She pinked up a little. “You are so — thanks,” she said again.

“Nobody can touch you, Anne,” my father said, then looked to Sam and me. “She’s amazing, right?”

“Right,” we agreed.

Another band took the stage, playing music more suited to the tastes of the rest of the crowd. Older couples began to swirl around the dance floors. Richard came back and asked me to dance.

I turned a little red under the eyes of my parental units. “Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t know how to dance that way.”

“It’s easy. I’ll show you.”

“Sorry. I’ve been embarrassed enough for one evening.”

“Then let’s hit the casino,” he said.

“Really? Are we allowed?” I asked my mom.

“Twenty-dollar limit on chips for anyone under twenty-one,” my mom said, nodding. My dad palmed me a twenty.

We went down the stairs first, to use our tokens for the gondola ride. I didn’t see the bribe get slipped, but something must have passed between Richard and the gondolier, because the next thing I knew, the man had jumped out on the pier. Richard began to pole the boat along the path marked by the lily lanterns.

The moisture in the air was coalescing into tendrils of fog creeping along the riverbanks. Clouds were blowing west from the Atlantic. But the moon still rode in a patch of clear sky, its twin floating on the black surface of the Severn. I trailed my perfect gold-pink nails in the water and felt like a creature from a more romantic era. Richard was busy getting the knack of poling the little boat, which I found to be an oddly endearing endeavor for someone dressed in a tux. I smiled, just as he looked over at me.

“What?” he said.

“I don’t know all that much about proper gondola-ing, Hathaway,” I said, “but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to sing.”

“I’m not singing, Parsons.”

“Oh, come on. Something, you know, Italian, about the moon and
amore
.”

“I’m not singing, Parsons.”

The pole stuck, arresting Richard’s forward motion. He struggled to stop the boat and keep himself upright, then wrestled with the pole.

I composed my face, trying not to laugh. “And I was just about to say —” A chuckle escaped me. “— just about to say —” I started to wheeze laughter. “— that you’re a real stick-in-the-mud, Hathaway.” I was laughing harder. “But now I — now I —” I was getting breathless; my guts were starting to hurt. “— I just can’t.”

He was laughing too. “That was truly pathetic, Parsons. I’ll make allowances” — the pole came unstuck and Richard staggered, still laughing — “because it’s your birthday and all. But don’t let me catch you making that kind of lame joke again.”

“A girl’s gotta have some vice. Mine is utterly lame humor.”

“And mine, apparently, is laughing at utterly lame humor.”

“You guys’re always complaining I’m not loose enough, but see,” I said, “I’m funny, I’m chill, I’m loose.”

“I disagree.”

“What? I’m not funny, Hathaway?”

“No. I’m not complaining, Parsons.”

He pushed us on, grinning. I leaned against the cushions and went back to watching.

On the climb back up the stone steps, I pointed to the glittering trail of gold dust I’d left coming down. “I’m like some overgrown snail,” I said.

Rather than cut across the dance floor, we detoured over the grass, watching our moon shadows climb the lawn before us.
We neared the sunroom doors and heard the siren call of a jackpot tinkling into a slot-machine tray. We traded cash for chips.

Richard went straight for the blackjack table. “Best odds,” he told me. I stood next to him and watched for a while, then played a few hands when I was sure of the rules. But my stack of chips declined fast.

I went to play the slots and hit a jackpot after three pulls. Mindful of the charitable function of the machine, I funneled the entire pot back into its insatiable slit-mouth. When I was down a few bucks more, I went back to stand next to Richard. He was still winning. I noticed a nearly empty champagne flute at his elbow and wondered if it was his. The dealer didn’t seem to question it. I put the rest of my chips with his stack, wished him luck, and told him I’d return in a few.

The rooms across the hall — the ones set aside for the band — were empty of all but a scattering of drained liquor bottles and litter, and a couple of girls rifling through the trash. Another line of girls, waiting to use the restroom, trailed down the hallway. So I headed for the bath in the east wing.

On the way back, I looked in the Chinese room. A lady was folding up the colored cloth that had been spread on a card table. It was the fortune-teller I had chased away. I started to hurry past.

“No, wait,” she called to me. “You’re the birthday girl, aren’t you? Come in. I’ll read your fortune.”

“No, I — don’t want to keep you.”

“It’s no problem. You
should
have your fortune told on your birthday. The path to the future is the most open around the time of your nativity.”

“That’s so nice of you,” I said, relenting. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t know what came over me. Just had the weirdest sense of, like, seeing double. Had to get out of the heat. Sit,” she said, shaking out her cloth and taking a deck
of cards back out of a bag. “I switched to these — they’re tarot cards. They’re easier on me.” She spread them face up. They were more colorful than a regular deck, peopled with vivid figures. She pulled out four. “These are the Pages,” she said, “One card lower than Jacks. Pick one.”

I chose a girlish figure in yellow holding a sword above her head.

“Interesting,” she said. “The Page of Swords, who is associated with detachment, watching, maybe even spying. That card is going to represent you.”

She reinserted the other Pages into the deck, and shuffled. Then she began to lay out the cards. The first one went face up on top of the yellow Page.

“Wow,” she said. She took a breath. “This is the issue card — it shows the problem you’re facing right now in your life, and it’s represented by the Three of Swords, sometimes called the Lord of Sorrows. It signifies extreme pain, upheaval, separation, disruption, but,” she said, lifting her voice, “with a positive outcome in sight. Okay?” she said. “That’s your issue.”

She dealt out nine more cards, all face down, the first sideways on top of the Three of Swords, the next four in a box around the center cards, and the last four in a column off to the right.

She began by turning over the card in the center. “The Magician, reversed. This represents the energy that will make solving your problem more difficult. It signifies confusion, an inability to make decisive choices. It can also mean a learning disability.”

She flipped the south card. “Yeesh,” she commented, looking at it. A hairy man-beast sat on a throne. “The Devil, reversed. This is the distant past, the old root of the problem. This represents …” She hesitated. “True evil. Bondage. Abuse of authority. Emotional blackmail. So, a long time back, something evil caused the problem you’re facing now.” She looked concerned. “You want to hear the rest?”

I nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “This card” — she turned the card to the west — “is the newer root of the problem. The Queen of Swords. She represents a complex, courageous, and intelligent woman who has suffered some deep sorrow, especially at the hands of men. Know anyone like that?”

“No. My mother, maybe.”

She revealed the north card. “This is the near future. The Seven of Cups — the Lord of Illusionary Success. It speaks of a need to reflect upon choices with great perception. It may also indicate an inspiring mystical experience.

“The far future.” She flipped the eastern card. “The Tower, which is another difficult card. It speaks of the overthrow of an existing way of life, leading to enlightenment and freedom.” She shook her head slightly. “This is also the third card from the Major Arcana. So this is an important lay of cards.”

She went to the lowest card in the column of four. “All right, this shows something blocking you from your goal — the Nine of Swords, which has to do with premonitions, a need to wake from bad dreams, suffering overcome through faith. And that’s your fourth Sword, which means this board keeps yelling ‘impending change.’

“This card” — she flipped another — “is the goal — Six of Cups. New elements entering your life, linked to the past, working through the present, to create the future.”

She turned the next. “How other people perceive your situation — the Seven of Wands — fortitude and courage in the face of hardship. People must think you’re pretty brave.”

“People would be pretty wrong,” I said.

She smiled. “Last card,” she said, tapping it. “The most likely future outcome of your problem.” She revealed it. It was a skeleton on horseback.

Death.

She hurried to reassure me. “This is actually a good card. It means the end of an old, unfruitful way of life, and the beginning of a new way of life, due to past actions.” She sat back. “I have to tell you, I have never seen a board that spoke so powerfully of change as this one. You expecting some major upheaval?”

I shrugged. “Maybe just the sale of this house.”

“Well, that’s major, all right. But I don’t know if that’s it. These cards speak of you being more central to the change. And” — she ducked her head down a little so she could meet my eyes — “they suggest you are up to the challenge. You remember, if things start to get a little wild, the cards said you have the skills to succeed. Got it?”

I smiled at her. “Thanks for sticking around and going through all this. I never had my fortune told before.”

She smiled. “Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you again sometime, so you can tell me how things worked out.”

“Me too,” I said, heading for the door.

That had taken longer than I expected. I hoped Richard wasn’t looking for me.

As I walked by the gallery windows, I looked out at the party. There were fewer people now; some of the guests had already made their getaways. But a lot more had stayed to enjoy the desserts and to dance under the moon.

A bright patch in the darkness caught my eye. At the entrance to the maze.