Ten Times Guilty (2 page)

But could she manage classes? Just this morning she had searched all the nooks and crannies for change because Ritchie needed milk. She already lived on spaghetti or rice and beans. How could she possibly stretch her paycheck even further? She had to find a way; Ritchie deserved a better life.

“A question,” she said. “That’s not hard. Will I be able—”

“Don’t tell me! I’m not supposed to be influenced.” After Tracy shuffled, Carrie took the cards and spread them in a fan. “Select thirteen that call to you.”

“
Call to me?
”

Carrie sighed. “Just pick thirteen.”

Tracy made her selection and Carrie began laying them in a loose “t” formation. “This is the Celtic Cross,” she explained, then pointed to the first card. “Turn this one up.” It was a picture of a nude woman kneeling by a stream of water.

“That’s you, the Star.” Carrie said. “The Star is our link to the higher plane. It means to grow in spirit, awareness, and knowledge.”

Tracy liked that and found herself intrigued by the cards. Each held a different illustration, from muted reds and golds highlighting a magician, to indigo blues and vivid greens surrounding swords dripping with blood.

When Tracy turned up two more cards, Carrie sucked in her breath. “That isn’t good.”

Tracy’s brown eyes fixed on a red-shrouded figure holding a sword. “That’s the Death card, isn’t it?”

“I meant this one.” Carrie pointed a blue-lacquered nail at the Ten of Swords. “That’s the one to worry about.”

“Worse than death?”

“Don’t get all shook. The Death card doesn’t mean you’re going to die. It just means the end of something, a way of life, or a beginning of something new.”

That wasn’t so bad. Tracy released the breath she had been holding. “What does the Sword card mean?”

“Lemme finish.” Carrie placed the remaining cards on the desk, sat back and worried her bottom lip.

“Well?”

“Just a minute. I want to make sure.” Carrie pulled out a tattered book from a small pile next to the cards, opened to a marked page and read. “Okay. Around the Star, that’s you, are Death, the Tower, Strength, and Wands.”

“Tell me about the Ten of Swords.”

They both studied the dark card, showing a bleeding figure lying on the ground with ten swords stuck in its back.

Carrie sighed. “It’s not good. Says there’s misfortune in your future. And great loss. The Tower means drastic changes and disruption, so, sitting next to each other, it looks like some hard times ahead.”

“Try being a single mom on a minimum-wage job and then talk to me about hard times.”

“No, this is something new, something major. And drastic. There’s, well, I don’t know how to put it, except desolation. Desolation so severe it’s ‘beyond enduring’, the book says. I’m sorry.”

Speechless, Tracy shot from her chair. “That’s it. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this. I already have too much to worry about without some dire prediction hanging over my head.”

“Wait. It’s not all bad.”

The approaching storm darkened the room, throwing shadows in every corner.

“I’ve got things to do.” Tracy snapped on the floor lamp, setting the glass fringe tinkling against the crimson globe.

“Look,” Carrie said. “I feel just as bad about this as you, but the cards never tell anything bad without suggesting how to overcome it. Come on, you can’t quit now; you promised.”

“All right, we’ll finish this thing.” Tracy headed for the chair, yanked it out and sat down. “Then I never want to hear about it again. Agreed?”

“God, what a shit.”

“You said it’s not all bad. Does it say anything about school? Is there anything in all those drawings to tell me if I’m going to manage some classes? Surely there must be something good in my future.”

Carrie pointed to the shrouded figure. “This can be good. Placed here, at the top right, the Death card means a matter concluded, a rebirth, and a transformation. A lesson will be learned. And it shows your strength of character. Your bravery, too.”

Tracy sighed. There wasn’t much bravery in plodding to work every day or staying home each night with a ten-month-old child. Not much character in pulling out her hair trying to stretch one dollar into ten and still trying to budget for classes.

If only she would give in and let the State help. But when she felt she couldn’t manage another step, she thought of her grandfather, a French immigrant who arrived in New Orleans at six years old and couldn’t speak a word of English. And her Irish grandmother, who always told Tracy to work hard and believe in the impossible. They survived insects and alligators in Bayou Creek and a house on stilts, built to discourage deadly water moccasins and cottonmouths. But their home was filled with love and laughter, with neighbors sharing pots of fresh shrimp gumbo and their special music of fiddles, guitars, washboards, and accordions.

“Never take anything you don’t earn,” her fiercely proud grandmother counseled. “If you do, you’ll be beholden. When that happens, you’ll never be able to do what you feel here, in your heart. So take your licks, stand up straight, and try again.”

Tracy knew if she had character, it came from her father’s family. She was devastated when they perished in a sudden marsh fever that wiped out entire families. But her grandmother’s words stayed with her, never letting her forget their fierce pride.

No, assistance was not for her. She might be broke, but at least she paid her own way. Such as it was.

“Bravery,” she finally said. “I wish.”

“Don’t worry, it’s there. The cards say so. It’ll show up when you need it. But you’re going to have to be careful. The cards are giving strong warning signs.”

“That’s enough.” Tracy grabbed her purse. “I’m not listening to any more.”

Thunder rumbled and Tracy felt the vibration in the old house. For a moment, Carrie looked like a phantom silently regarding her. Chills prickled the back of her neck. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I’m leaving.”

“Wait,” Carrie said. “You might not want to listen, but the cards are telling you to prepare and you’d better pay attention. Something’s going to happen that’ll change your entire life. You’ll need all your strength and bravery to see it through.

“And Tracy,” Carrie called to her friend’s retreating back, “it’s going to happen soon.”

Chapter Three

Tracy almost ran into the dining room, glad to get away from Carrie and those damn cards.

Desolation?

No, she didn’t believe it, wouldn’t even think about it. Otherwise, she would feel immobilized, too afraid to step out the door. She couldn’t allow that to happen; she had to provide for her son.

At least Mr. Madden, the museum’s manager, had approved her request for longer hours, and tomorrow she would start the evening shift from one to nine, leaving her mornings free for classes. She was moving forward and she wouldn’t allow a silly prediction to cloud her plans.

After all, it was just a deck of cards.

Instead of passing through the dining room to the back door, Tracy paused at one of the chrome urns next to the kitchen. A cup of tea might help the chill she felt from the reading and fortify her for the walk home. Yet she didn’t want to risk running into Carrie. One session was enough.

From the kitchen, the scent of baking bread drifted through the butterfly doors, accompanied by a sugary, cinnamon fragrance. Rita must be making her giant rolls. Tracy dug in her purse, hoping to come up with some change to take one home. She shouldn’t, but tonight she could use something warm and gooey to soothe her insides. And she would share with Ritchie. But her purse held nothing but three pennies and a lint-encrusted breath mint. Three days before payday was no time f
or extras like cinnamon rolls.

Rita pushed through the kitchen’s doors, a saucer holding a huge cinnamon roll in her hands.

“Hi, kid, I was about to come and get you.” She placed the roll on one of the five round oak tables then tucked a strand of brilliant red hair behind her ears. “Sit down. Got something I want to talk to you about.” She poured coffee from one of the large urns then sat down.

“Now?” Tracy asked, glancing through the archway, checking for Carrie. “I need to get home. Besides, I don’t want to run into Carrie again.”

“The boss gave her enough work to keep her busy for a couple of hours. Relax. I have something important to tell you.”

Tracy eyed the tea bags next to the water urn. She had used the last one at home two days ago and a cup would taste good. She made her tea and joined Rita. Maybe she would ask if she could take a roll home and pay for it payday. She had never asked before, and she knew Rita often took them home.

Then she remembered the doctor’s bill for Ritchie’s last checkup.

Rita took a bite of her roll. “Want one? They’re on special this week.” She captured some of the overflowing cream cheese frosting with her finger and licked it.

Tracy swallowed and looked away. “No thanks.”

Tall and lanky, Rita enjoyed her own creations and was able to eat anything she wanted without gaining a pound. It wasn’t fair. No matter how often Tracy dieted, she always wound up where she started, sometimes weighing even more. 

“A man likes ‘em tall and willowy,” Jim, her stepfather, had said over and over, “with long, long legs to wrap around a man so he knows she’s got him.” He always managed to say those things when her mother was in another room.

At five-three, Tracy had never measured up to his standards. Her mother always said she was built voluptuously, like a Rubens painting.

Rita gulped her coffee and stood. “I have to get the last batch of rolls out of the oven.”

“Wait! What did you want to talk to me about?” Another round of thunder rolled through the house. “I better get home before it rains,” Tracy said, scooting back her chair.

“Stay just a few more minutes. You know how these spring storms are, gets all dark then it blows right over. Bet it doesn’t rain a drop.” Rita hurried to the kitchen.

While Tracy waited, she wondered what Rita thought was so important. As Mr. Madden’s assistant, Rita did the scheduling. Tracy hoped there wasn’t a problem with her new hours.

She finished her tea and had to admit she didn’t mind waiting. She loved the old Victorian, loved working surrounded by history. 

Against the east wall, a burled walnut server held a silver tea set, the aged patina carefully preserved, and the daily tour schedule stood encased in an antique gold-scrolled frame. A large sepia portrait hung above it.

A raw-boned man, clean-shaven except for a drooping mustache covering his mouth, stared at the camera with a level gaze. Sitting next to him, a tightly corseted woman, rows of buttons fastening her dark dress securely at her neck, gazed at the camera with an equally somber stare. The only attempt at levity was her wide-brimmed hat, gaily decorated with flowers, netting and feathers. What stories they could tell, Tracy thought. What a spirit of adventure and determination they must have felt, building a life at the foot of the harsh Rocky Mountains.

The house itself was a piece of history. A patron from the Fine Arts Committee rescued it from a wrecking ball three years ago when she discovered the Victorian had been owned by one of Denver’s famous madams in the eighteen hundreds. It wasn’t known if the house had been used as a bordello like those located farther east near Larimer Street, but the place was a jewel, a tribute to Denver’s rousing gold-rush days. Tracy drew strength from working in an atmosphere of pride and accomplishment, something she needed for her own spirit when she felt overwhelmed.

Rita entered the dining room and sat back down. “So how did the reading go?”

“Just the usual doom and gloom they all scare you with,” Tracy replied. “Nonsense, really.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve heard stories...”

“Well, I don’t want to hear them. I’m glad Carrie’s going on vacation tomorrow. So what do you want to talk to me about?”

“You know what you need?” Rita said, ignoring Tracy’s question. “You need a man in your life.”

“I have one.”

“A baby isn’t what I had in mind. Poor thing, no wonder you’re frowning. Tell you what, the next good-looking tourist who comes in, you flirt a little. I’ll show you how.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Tracy said, pronouncing each word distinctly. “I-do-not-want-a-man. I don’t have time, especially now. Too many other things come first.”

“What things?”

“Making a living for one. School, for another.”

“Oh, school, schmool. You don’t need school, you need a man. When will you learn it’s love that makes the world go around?”

“I’ll just tell that to the grocer next time I need baby food.”

“Jeez. A body would think some of the things I’ve been saying would rub off, but you just throw them off like a dog shaking water. What am I going to do with you?”

“Try minding your own business for a change.”

“I don’t know why I worry about you,” Rita went right on, “you never do anything I tell you. Good Lord, no one would guess you’ve been married, or have a baby, for goodness sake. You seem so...so
virginal
.” She made it sound like a disease no one wanted. “And,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “a little standoffish. You scare ‘em off before they ever get started. That’s gonna haveta change if you’re ever gonna get that boy a daddy.”