The Clairvoyant of Calle Ocho (17 page)

Chapter 20

B
y four p.m., we were driving up a ramp that deposited us on the Palmetto Highway heading northbound, and all the things I still didn't know about Hector's death were back in force, troubling me.

That very morning, killing time before Jorge arrived to pick me up, I'd emptied my humongous blue recycling bin and found nothing. No sign of breakup letter number two, the one with Hector's smiley face on it that I had stupidly thrown out the morning after our blowup. I'd quaked imagining the police finding it and making God knows what out of it. And even now, as Jorge drove, stealing glances at me every few seconds and trying to keep the conversation going, I prayed the psychic we were going to see was as good as he believed, that he or she could help me see what had happened and what was in store, help me get rid of this fear of being blamed for his death.

“So tell me, what's new with you, other than that haircut and the birthday you had the other day?” he asked. (He remembered my birthday, but seemed to have forgotten the kiss we'd shared a while earlier.)

“Oh, God, don't remind me. Nothing much. Just trying to get the get-up-and-go to fix that empty apartment, but there's just so much to do, I don't know where to start.”

“You know, I could help you out.”

“No, I'll take care of it. I've just had a hard time focusing with all that's happened. But . . . what I
could
use is some of that great coconut soup you used to make, and maybe, for you to stop trying to make a little helpless woman out of me.”

“Mariela, there's no shame in letting yourself be helped, you know?”

“I know. And I'm fine, and it's my fault for whining, so, change of subject: Tell me, how's the marriage going?” I asked, pointing to his ring with my chin and jutting out my lips, wanting to know once and for all what was happening and if that kiss had just been about giving his male ego some closure.

“You're such a woman.” He laughed at my gesture.

“And don't you forget it. Now, how's the wifey?”

“There's no wifey.”

Yeah, right.

“But I do have a question for you,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“Does the death of your tenant have something to do with your wanting to, you know, to see, after all this time?”

I said nothing, afraid I'd say too much to someone who'd always known me too well.

“All right,” he said. “Let's try this: Were you and he, um, involved?”

For a moment, I wanted to tell him. But I couldn't do it yet. Besides not denying it to Olivia after it was clear that she already knew it, I'd never told a soul about Hector. It seemed pointless to start now. And besides, it was none of Jorge's business.

“No.”

He seemed to exhale. “Yeah, well, you know, I'm sorry to be so curious, but you seemed so out of it on Saturday that if you were, you know, mourning, I, um, I wanted to make sure I didn't—”

“Maybe you still shouldn't.”

He looked straight at me.

“Really?”

“Really,” I said. It wasn't just Hector. It was me, still afraid of getting hurt. “Now, how's the wife? Where are the ten kids you were supposed to have by now?”

“Well, I'd tell you, but we're here.”

It was the typical, blue-collar Hialeah house, a square, little, peach-colored house, all irregular like the city it sat on. The front windows didn't quite match, the roof looked like it was about to cave on one side from the weight of all the bright terra-cotta roof tiles, and the porch looked like an afterthought, barely held up by keystone pillars that looked like even they were ashamed to be so out of place.

A pretty woman in a housedress stuck her head out of the front door, her hands holding a bowl full of something.

“Hi, Jorge, go around back. He's waiting for you.”

“Thanks, this is Mariela.”

I said hello, but she just nodded and smiled at him as if my being there were a private joke between them.

We went around the back to what looked like a detached garage with doors that opened out like a barn's. There was a lot of clutter: electronic gadgets, computer parts, several chairs, textiles, and a poster of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of prosperity, purity, and generosity. There were also a couple of Buddha statues, one of them huge and a deep turquoise blue. And in the center of all this, with his fingers stained orange by the Doritos he was eating, was a young guy, early twenties maybe, in white jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt, also white. Black horn-rimmed glasses framed electric green eyes, and a diamond stud pierced his left earlobe.

“Dude!” he said.

“Qué bolá, Asere?”
replied Jorge, using the international Cuban “dude” greeting. “This is Mariela. Mariela, this is Eddie.”

“Nice to meet you.” I held out my hand, hoping the profusion of competing religious symbols was just a sign of an inclusive mind and not a confused one.

He looked at Jorge as if I weren't there and said,
“Está bonita,”
with a smile, giving Jorge his vote of approval as far as looks were concerned, before he shook my hand. Did he think I didn't understand Spanish?

To me, he said,
“Café?”

I nodded yes, then unable to keep from blurting out my anxiety, I asked, “So, are you a
santero?
”

“No, not really. I just mix it up in my own way, you know what I mean?”

I didn't, so I said nothing.

“Okay. Let's start,” he said, bringing three little cups of coffee to the round dining table at the center of the space and placing a brand-new iPad next to them.

“I wanna take a quick look at your astral chart before we begin. Exact date, time, and place of birth?”

I looked from the laptop to Jorge, who put his hands up as if to say he had nothing to do with this.

“September 24, 1972 . . . 11:58 p.m. . . . Miami.”

He typed quickly.

“Okay. Your hands?” he said, holding out his own long fingers and square, sturdy nails.

When I didn't give him mine, he motioned to a tarot deck and asked, “You want the cards instead?”

“I don't know.”

“Doesn't matter. They're more for confirming what you get, and there's no need in your case.” He smiled.

It was a kind smile, and I relaxed a little.

He closed his eyes, and I put my hands in his. He took them as if to warm them, then let them go as if they were infectious.

“Damn. This is not good.”

It was also very fast.

Being used to this reaction by now, I waited until he composed himself enough to close his eyes, take my hands in his again, and ask, “You want me to tell you your life, or you want to know what's going to happen? Forget it. Doesn't matter. I have to tell you what's going to happen, or what's happening.”

“How bad exactly?”

“Not sure. But bad.”

“Then wait!” I said.

He opened his eyes, his face a question mark.

“If you're going to tell me something bad, you have to give me a minute to prepare to hear it,” I explained.

“You're already prepared, but okay. Prepare.”

I wanted to get out of there. I looked to Jorge, who was sharing a white vinyl armchair with several computer hard drives, smiling at me in what he thought was encouragement, but was more of a worried expression.

Eddie stared at me for a minute, then closed his eyes again and began tapping his foot, as if impatient.

“Okay. Tell me,” I said.

“So you can see too.”

It wasn't a question.

“I used to.”

He closed his eyes again and began moving his head from side to side like Stevie Wonder singing “I Just Called to Say I Love You.”

“Nah, you can still see. But you've been stupid, or afraid, same thing.”

What was it with psychics calling me stupid? Was there no solidarity for a fallen sister?
I thought. His words, his tone, reminded me of someone I couldn't place.

Oh, dear God. What if he was a fake? He had to be to think I could still see beyond my own nose.

“Okay. I'll tell you as much as I can. Slowly. But you have to hear this, so listen.”

I waited, really wanting to know for once. Tired of running and needing to get it over with.

“This man you're seeing . . . he's over.”

Wow,
I thought. But then he said, “Or he'll be over like, now, or very soon. It'll be ugly, like, really, really, really . . . you know, ugly. But as a result of this . . . bad stuff... he'll finally get on his knees before you.”

I exhaled, deflated. I'd felt so hopeful when he started talking. And then he'd ruined it. He
was
a fake. He'd guessed my visit was man-related and assumed commitment issues, a pretty safe assumption when a middle-aged woman wearing no wedding band gives you her hands to read in the middle of a weekday afternoon. He thought I was some chick-lit heroine trying to find out if my boyfriend would ever marry me. He'd gotten my attention by scaring me, and then tried to slip in the happy ending that would ensure a generous “donation” for the reading.

I looked at Jorge, furious, weighing whether to tell Eddie the psychic that even if Hector weren't dead and could get on his knees, he couldn't possibly propose because he was already married, just so I could watch the look on his face at being caught faking it. But I decided against it. Why give him, and Jorge, more information?

“And when he does, you're finally going to get the only thing you ever really wanted from him.”

“Right,” I said, swallowing the last sip of coffee in the cup and thinking that if there was one thing I'd never wanted from Hector, it was a marriage proposal. “Well, thank you.”

“You don't believe me,” he said.

“No.”

“It's okay. I knew you wouldn't,” he said, as I got up and went to the glass bowl filled with money that sat next to the makeshift coffee-making station to drop in a twenty-dollar bill. I figured he needed the money more than I if he needed to make his living ripping people off.

“No, please don't put any money in there. When you believe me, you come back and put in whatever you like.”

Once again, he wasn't asking, so I just nodded and said, “Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. Jorge here is family. You should both come back sometime. My mom makes killer black beans, right, Jorge?”

We said uncomfortable good-byes, got back into the car, and within seconds were driving over streets lit up from above by the sun's spurting of the afternoon's last orange-pink gasps.

“You're mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

“Bad judgment when it comes to psychics?”

He did have a point.

“You were just trying to help,” I said.

“You wanted to see
madrina,
and Eddie is
madrina
's only grandson.”

Of course. No wonder his electric green eyes had seemed familiar. And another gifted child? Well, that certainly explained things. After a while, Jorge said, “I'll tell you this: Whatever you're looking for, I think you should keep looking.”

“Oh, really, and why is that?”

“So you can come back to your life.”

“I'm here.”

“Nah. You're only half here. You used to be three-quarters here, but now . . .”

You'll recognize the feeling: Something inside me said “yes!” to what he was saying the minute he said it. Yes, I'd been missing from my own life. It's what happens when you refuse to see: You also refuse to live. To be here.

I smiled, thinking he was pretty instinctive himself. I wondered if this new demeanor of his had to do with his listening to his instincts when it came to his life. I wondered if he was happy.

“You know what you've always had?” I asked.

“Irresistible sex appeal?”

“Ah, yes, yes, that, and the modesty, of course.”

“Above all things, the modesty,” he said, laughing easily, his eyes crinkling.

“But what I was going to say is that you always had this knack for really, really seeing me,” I told him.

“Well, you always were easy to look at,” he said, smiling the smile I remembered.

But then, just as quickly it was gone, the feeling of being comfortable around him. Suddenly it all felt wrong again, and Hector was back in my thoughts.

“Mariela, you know, I have some leftover building materials from this project I've been working on. You're welcome to have it. I'll even drop it off, if you want. Might come in handy to fix your rental.”

“No, no, but tell me about this project. Did you and your wife buy a house?” I asked, insisting on my fishing out of pure compulsion.

“No, Mariela. We didn't buy a house. I was just working at fixing up this locale, and I have leftover material: wood, plaster, some shelving, some cabinets, a counter,” he said with a questioning look, no doubt noticing the shift in me and thinking it had to do with his marital situation instead of with my own extramarital one.

When we neared Le Jeune Road, not too far from the St. Michel, and my old Coral Gables neighborhood, I asked him to drop me off at Books and Books.

“Sure you don't want to grab a bite?”

“I'm sure. Need to clear my head a little, you know?”

I also wanted him to kiss me again and hated myself for it.

“Sure,” he said, and was silent the rest of the way.