Cat Calls

“Hey, Tiff, how ’bout a
man
in your future?” Aiden calls from the nearest concession stand as he pours butter-flavored oil into the popcorn popper.

The scent of rotating sausages and heating cheese makes my stomach rumble, but I yawn and hurry on my catty-corner path across the main drag toward my grandmother’s tent. What with working nights, I can’t seem to get enough sleep anymore. I spent this afternoon on the living lot crashed on a hammock in the sunshine.

The carnival scene is only vaguely freakish. Sure, talk has it that the carousel is haunted and my grandma really has the sight and the owner is some kind of shape-shifter, but that’s just talk. And our roustabouts are on the tough side, but you could say the same for the losers back at my high school in Detroit. Other than one bit-off ear and one small-time drug bust, nothing remotely interesting has happened all summer.

Right now, we’re set up on the outskirts of Nowhere, Oklahoma. It’s July, just past sundown, and the front gates open in fifteen minutes. It’s also ungodly hot, dry from the drought, and pink clay dust is blowing everywhere.

As I saunter on, exaggerated kissing sounds trail me from the ex-con taking position at the Ferris wheel. A low whistle emerges from his brother-in-law, who’s touching up the red paint on the barred wagon labeled
MAN-EATING SNAKE.

Alongside a tin-can-alley game, I glimpse white teeth, the shadowy profile of a lean cowboy. A stranger. As I pause for a better look, he’s gone.

Still, I stretch my arms over my head and arch my back, just to give the rest of the boys something to look at, showing off how my orange baby-doll T and denim cutoffs accent my curves. I’m a flirt, I admit it. I love the attention, especially ’cause it’s so new.

I’m what people call “a late bloomer.” This May, not long after my sixteenth birthday, I finally started my period for the first time and shifted from blah to bombshell overnight.

For me, it was a relief. My mom, on the other hand, had a full-scale panic attack. Before you could say “Xanax,” she packed me up and shipped me off to my grandmother, who at the time was predicting the future in Missouri off I-35.

I tilt my head at one last whistle as I enter Granny Z.’s tent.

“Cat calls,” she mutters, glancing up from the table where she’s filing her long nails. “You’re late.”

I find Granny fascinating. She’s a tightly built woman, with golden-brown hair like mine, turned rusty from the dust. She goes by “Madame Zelda,” pretends like she can read my mind, and looks anywhere from age seventy to a hundred and ten.

As I wiggle out of the T and shorts, Granny strolls over to hand me a loose-fitting, gauzy dress. It’s black and lavender with sheer, draping sleeves, silver sequins, and long fringe. Matching funky scarves drape from a beat-up freestanding coat hanger in the corner. The rest of the tent is the fortune-teller’s stage.

My grandmother honestly believes in crystallomancy and claims “psychic ability is common among the women of our line.” It’s no big deal. She’s a little nutty, but who isn’t? I’ve been amazed by how many people believe in this crap.

Tonight will be my first behind the ball. It was Granny Z.’s idea, apparently inspired by the one time back in June when she tried to read my future in the crystal. Granny claimed I’d someday join in the family tradition, and said she’d let me know when the time was right.

At first, it sounded kind of fun, playing the fortuneteller, like dressing up on Halloween. So far as I can tell, it’s mostly a matter of watching your marks for clues and telling them what they want to hear.

That sounds easy enough in theory. But here, tonight, moments away from facing real live people, the whole thing suddenly feels a lot more complicated. What if I totally blank? Or the marks get pissed at me for being such a lame and obvious faker?

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I admit, though I’d hate to let her down.

“You?” Granny smoothes my long hair and tucks a strand behind my ear. “Who knows what you can do? You don’t even know yet.”

She’s always saying things like that. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

“I’m off now,” she adds. “See you at breakfast!”

“What?” I put my hand on her forearm. “Wait. You’re leaving me here? Alone?”

Moving away, she says, “I’m leaving you to your future.”

“Are you kidding?” What is she thinking? I can’t believe it! I mean, OK, yes, she does mysteriously disappear overnight sometimes. I’m sort of getting used to that. But what could be so important tonight? “What if something goes wrong?”

Ignoring my protests, Granny Z. continues on her way, and I wonder for the first time if she might have a boyfriend. She’s quite the vixen for a grandma, and I see her playing cards sometimes with the old alligator man.

Granny is my father’s mother. He died on I-96 when his Harley-Davidson was sideswiped by a Greyhound bus. I wasn’t even born yet.

According to Mom, I was the product of an adolescent hookup at some house party in Ypsilanti, Michigan, involving vodka, a speedboat, and a Pink Floyd album. Dad died two days later, before they knew about me or even had a chance to really talk.

Granny Z. showed up for the first time, unannounced, at our front door when I was ten. She inspected me like I was competition livestock, cooked pork chops for dinner, and after I went to bed she spent all night whispering with my mother in the kitchen.

Granny left after pancakes the next morning and never visited again. Once in a while, though, Mom would mention that Granny called her at work. I didn’t get any phone calls, but Granny did send me cards, each with a dollar in it, on my birthdays.

I thought this summer would be my chance to get to know her, to finally learn more about my father. I underestimated the hell out of how tight-lipped the old lady can be.

Granny Z. uses a palm-sized crystal ball for her own purposes, but she breaks out the seven-inch diameter one for professional readings. The large quartz is exquisite, flawless, sits on a matching stand, and is so heavy that I need both hands to lift it.

The ball, the outfits, the ambience . . . like in the movies, Granny says. It sells.

I tie a long scarf around my hair, light the votive candles and cypress incense, and set a short stack of business cards on the black tablecloth.

If I’m going to pull this off, I’ve got to get into the spirit, so to speak, or at least manage a halfway decent job of acting the part. Taking deep breaths, I try to do as Granny Z. instructed me. I gaze into the crystal, trying to unfocus my vision, trying to imagine myself in a room of white light, trying to feel any vibrations.

By the time my first customers arrive, I’ve still failed to convince myself that the mist rising within the ball has some mystical source. I’m positive it’s just a product of the humidity and shadows.

I lean out of the tent and smile at the fire juggler across the way. He raises his eyebrows suggestively, and I resist the urge to smirk.

Instead, I use one finger to beckon a couple of townie girls to join me inside. They grab each other’s hands, giggling, and I cover my growling stomach with my hand.

We don’t ask for money up front. The sign reads:

MADAME ZELDA

SPIRITUAL CONSULTANT

FIRST TWO MINUTES FREE

The two minutes is my window. If I can reel in the marks, they’ll pay a buck for each additional two.

I pull up an extra chair from the side of the tent, and the girls elbow each other playfully as they settle in. Usually it’s better to field “clients” one at a time (they’re less sure of themselves that way), but I took one look at these two and knew I’d lose both if I tried to separate them.

They’re about my age, probably a little older, which doesn’t help my credibility.

I’m grateful for the dark, the flickering candlelight.

Hoping they haven’t caught a good look at me, I snatch an additional gauzy scarf, drape it over my head, and bring the sides down to cover more of my face.

Then I study the girls. Obviously, they’re from the local small town. They feel safe enough in their world to wear real gold jewelry to a carnival. One set of earrings is heart-shaped, the other clover-shaped. Their thin rope necklace-and-bracelet sets look alike. Their matching hairstyle is about three years ago. Clear fingernail polish, no tats, no extra piercings, easy on the makeup, wardrobe by Wal-Mart. They’re good girls, middle class, possibly honor roll, probably churchgoing, and definitely best buds.

From their breath, I can tell that they both had corn dogs and onion rings with lemonades for dinner. Walking into my tent is about as close as they come to having a wild side.

I poise my elbows on the table and place my fingertips beneath my chin.

“What would you have me ask the ball?” I’m using a voice I practiced earlier. It’s lower and breathier than my regular one.

The girls exchange glances. Then the one with the heart earrings nudges her friend. “Ash, ask her about —”

“Shut up!” is the answering exclamation. The blush that goes with it is clue one.

I show my palms. “I must have quiet.”

It’s important that I stay in control. I inhale deeply again and again.

I don’t see anything in the ball, except maybe my own reflection. It’s my fault, a rookie mistake — since I shut the tent flap, the flames have been burning steadily. I’ve got no flickers, no shadows or intriguing shapes to report.

“I see a boy,” I claim. “Or is it a young man?” Obviously, that’s want they want to hear. That’s what most girls want to hear. “I, um, I see a heart and a . . . clover.”

Sweat trickles down my spine.

Before they make the connection between my reading and their accessories, I nod to Ash. “I see you with a young man in . . .” In?
In?
Scrambling to tie it together, I conclude, “A field of clover! He’s your great love.”

Their eyes go wide, and Ash bites her lower lip.

“I may be able to tell you more, but the mists are dissipating. For only a dollar —”

Ash’s laugh turns from a giggle to a bark. “I don’t think so.” She reaches for her friend’s — no, I realize — her
girlfriend’s
hand. “Wow, do you suck at this!”

As they jump up to leave, I call, “Wait, the signs can have many meanings!”

The couple drops hands before exiting the tent, but neither one glances back.

Well. Ash was right. I do suck at this.

God, it’s not even 8:00 p.m. yet. I’m looking at a long night.

Before I can worry too much, a middle-aged lady sticks her head in. “Is it my turn? I don’t mean to press, but if anyone tells my husband I’m —”

“Come in.” It doesn’t matter whether she’s embarrassed about seeing a fortune-teller or that her husband will think we’re both acolytes of the dark powers. I’m eager to do better this time.

I move briefly to the rear of the tent and prop the back flap open with the extra chair to let in the warm breeze. At least the flames will be moving. “Sit.”

She practically scurries into the chair. I’d guess she’s in her early- to mid fifties, about forty pounds overweight. She colors her short hair a dark brown, and she’s wearing a faded denim jumper with an embroidered ladybug design over a short-sleeved white T-shirt. The smile lines around her eyes are deep, but so are the worry ones above her eyebrows. It’s all I can do not to choke on the smell of her hair spray and floral perfume.