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By Rhonda Parrish
"Cuppa?" she asked and gestured to the teapot at her side. Mike took a seat,
perched tentatively perching on the edge of the stiff-backed chair and traced
the embroidery on its arms with his fingernails. The scent of jasmine incense
assailed his nostrils and his eyes, still unused to the dim interior of her tent,
struggled to make out details about the woman in front of him. After a
moment's hesitation he nodded and saw the quick flash of white that was her
smile.
"Sit back, try and relax. This won't hurt a bit." She purred, reaching for the
antique tea pot and pouring into an equally old china cup. In fact, as his eyes
adjusted and he was able to make out more of his surroundings, he realized
everything about the tent was old, old and totally kitsch. It was like something
out of a circus, huge, billowing and a gaudy burgundy color trimmed with gold
cord and tassels. Inside the walls were decorated with all manner of odds and
ends and a large assortment of dead plants hung upside down in the back,
presumably drying. He sat in the center of the small space at a tiny table
covered with gauzy material that floated and danced in the small breeze that
snuck in from the half-opened flap of a door.
In the center of the table, where he half-expected to find a crystal ball, there
was, instead, a tea set. A fragile-looking teapot and a cup on a saucer winked
in the tender light of several candles, taunting him.
They were the reason he'd come of course, yet he hesitated while his curiosity
played tug-of-war with the rational part of his mind.
Try and relax she said and he thought, easier said than done.
"Is it always right?" Mike asked, blushing a little in the dim light as his voice
cracked on the last word.
"Always." She nodded. "But for now, relax and drink your tea – we've plenty of
time yet."
"I have to drink it all first?"
"Every last drop."
"And then you can tell?"
"Yes, relax – really, it's not going to be nearly as bad as you think."
"How do you know?"
"Because," she laughed. "It never is."
"Yours? What did yours say?"
"Murdered, I expect."
"You expect?"
"It's difficult to tell all the details, but there was definitely a dagger and a lot of
anger."
"Murdered." He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the tea. It was
remarkably good, not too sweet and without even a hint of bitterness. "Good
tea." She smiled and Mike continued. "Murdered, and you're okay with that?"
"Don't have much of a choice do I?"
"You told my uncle it would be a plane crash, so he never got on one of the
damn things – ever. Then last month, he was in Johnson's Square..."
"I'm sorry to hear. Of course, it was a plane crash then, the result is the same
whether you're on the plane when it hits the ground or on the ground when it
gets hit by a plane."
"That's what I mean...you're never wrong, but you're...."
"It's open to interpretation, that's true. A few years back I saw drowning for one
bloke – his wife came in just last week. The poor man moved inland, refused
to go swimming, wouldn't even take a bath. Then, one day he had too much to
drink, passed out and threw up – drowned on his puke."
"That's disgusting."
"True, but it just goes to show – when it's your time, it's your time and there
ain't nothin' you can do about it. You almost done your tea?"
Mike looked down and was surprised to find that he had almost finished and
not only that, his bottom wasn't clinging precariously to the edge of the seat,
but was pressed up against the back, and the tension had seeped out of his
muscles, too.
"Happens all the time," she said as though reading his mind, and then
gestured toward the cup. "Finish it up."
"Why you?" he asked, partly because he wanted the answer and partly to buy
time. "Why can you do this?"
"I don't know, I just can."
"I just can..."
She nodded. "Sorry, that's the only explanation I've got. You're done now –
you ready?"
"I guess I have to be."
"No, you can get up now and walk out the door – but remember, no refunds."
"I think I need to know."
"Then pass me your cup."
His fingers touched hers as he passed it over, and he was surprised to see
they were the hands of an old lady. Her face looked no older than forty, and
her dark hair, tied up in a stern bun at the top of her head was only tinged with
grey, but her hands looked like they belonged to someone twice her apparent
age. They were soft and he could see the blue of her veins through her skin.
They seemed fragile, like wasp paper.
As he released his cup Mike felt a sense of relief, it was out of his hands now,
quite literally, and all he could do was wait.
She held the cup at arm's length and squinted into it and he thought, "Wow, if
Kelli were here she'd sure be disappointed." His little sister, had practically
barred the door with her slight frame, begging him to take her along. "You're
too young." he'd said, then lied and said you had to be sixteen to enter the
tent. She'd bought it and he'd managed to get out of the house without her –
but only after promising to tell her everything when he got back.
With her fertile imagination, no doubt Kelli thought Mz. Muzyka looked like a
crone, complete with the crooked warty nose. She'd be sad to hear that all she
did was look in the cup – she didn't chant an incantation, her eyes didn't roll
into the back of her head and there certainly wasn't any thunder crashes
outside. She just looked into the cup in the same matter-of-fact way she'd
asked, "Cuppa?" when he'd first come in.
"Do you want to know?" she asked, bringing him out of his mental wanderings.
Mike took a deep breath, let it out slowly and then nodded.
"Electrocution. I hear it's supposed to be painless, electrocution."
Electrocution, he'd thought as he stumbled out of her tent and back into the
sunlight of the fair, how the fuck do you avoid electricity?
Now, three years later, he's come to accept that you can't; it's impossible. Like
the woman said, when it's your time, it's your time. There isn't anything you
can do about it, so there's no point lingering on it. Besides, he knows now how
it's going to happen – all the specifics. He knows.
Mike knows it wasn't his fault, but still, somewhere in the back of his mind, the
idea niggles – maybe if he hadn't made up that story about how Mz. Muzyka
could read your mind and had a big black crow sitting on her shoulder. Maybe,
if he hadn't said her eyes turned as white as milk when she looked into his
teacup, maybe Kelli wouldn’t have sought her out for a reading of her own.
And maybe...just maybe, if she hadn't been to see the old hag, she wouldn't
have done it.
As he stands outside the tent, the knife handle – slick with sweat, gripped in his
hand, he wonders, did she look up at Kelli and say, "Suicide. I hear it can be
painless, suicide." Did she even consider what saying those words to a
depressed sixteen year old might do? Didn't she see how that could push her
over the edge? Drive her to – no, don't do it – he tells himself, don't think
about it or you'll remember.
Too late.
Kelli didn't look peaceful; she didn't look like she was sleeping when he found
here there, in a bathtub of pink water. She was far too pale, too still. He'd
known from the instant he saw her she was dead, and he knew who was
responsible. It wasn't a coincidence Kelli died the day after she saw her – he'd
read it in her journal after the funeral. He read all about how she'd gone there
looking for hope, looking to hear that she died of old age a long time from now,
she wanted to know that her sadness was temporary, that it would end, then
that bitch had said, "Suicide" and stolen her hope.
"Murdered, I expect." She'd predicted for herself, and he knows she was right.
She was right, too, about him, wasn't she? She's always right.
He's heard electrocution can be painless.
Mike takes a deep breath and grabs the flap of fabric that serves as her door,
sweeping it out of the way and stepping through. The tent hasn't changed, not
in all these years, and before she sees the knife in his hand, before she sees
her death descending upon her, she smiles at him and asks, "Cuppa?"
All the tinted windows burst inwards.
He wet his lips.
Everything rushed in.
And it was all damp.
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