~ Maybe Later, Love ~

by

Claire Bocardo

After supper Charmaine left the table and returned with a small, carved, wooden box.

"Tell you what," she said, setting it on the table and raising its hinged lid. She removed a packet wrapped in an embroidered scarf of purple silk. "Why don’t you let me read your cards."

She unfolded the scarf, which was covered with strange symbols. Inside was a Tarot deck.

"When did you learn to read the Tarot?"

"I don’t remember. It’s just something I picked up in my travels. You know me: if it’s there, I’ll pick it up and look at it."

Dorrie grinned. "Trouble with that is, you never know where it’s been."

"Christ, you sound just like your daddy! He never did know what to do with me."

"Daddy wasn’t very tolerant of individual differences. I remember one time he said, ‘Why does she have to cultivate her eccentricities?’"

"Shoot! That’s what makes life interesting!" Charmaine shoved the silken wrapper into her pocket and started shuffling. "So is there anything in particular you’d like to know?"

Dorrie laughed ruefully.

"Just life and better things yet. Right now, my whole existence is one big question mark." She’d never had her fortune told before, never believed in fortune-telling. Still, what else did she have to do this evening?

"Well, we’ll just see, then."

Having set the Queen of Cups in the center of the table, Charmaine started laying out cards in the form of a cross.

"This covers her, this crosses her," she muttered, "this beneath her, this behind her, this crowns her. This before her..." She paused to look at the card. "Not bad," she said, and started dealing four cards up the side of the cross. "This her fears, this her friends, this her hope, this the outcome."

Dorrie waited as her friend studied her future. The cards were full of brilliant colors, the drawings on them grotesquely fascinating: dogs like jackals; a horned, goat-legged devil with a pitchfork across his knees; a youth in motley rags with all his belongings tied on a stick over his shoulder and his little dog yapping behind.

"All right," Charmaine said at last. "Death covers you. Not George’s death, though of course that’s probably part of it. It’s like a door, with one side an end and the other a beginning. That’s the immediate influence. And crossing him is the Fool: see him there, out to seek his fortune, happy as if he had good sense and about to walk over the edge of the cliff? He shows you’re facing a choice you’re not prepared to make. Ring any bells?"

"Several."

"You’re not going to make it easy, are you! Well, you always were close-mouthed. I don’t know why you’d be any different now."

Dorrie pointed at the card at the bottom of the cross. It showed a tower being struck by lightning. A man and a woman were falling headlong from its burning windows as dogs leapt up to bite them.

"Charming," she said. "What’s this?"

"The foundation of your present troubles," Charmaine told her. "The Tower represents some sudden, usually shocking occurrence that brings your life crashing down around your ears." She looked up. "I’d say being widowed meets the description, wouldn’t you?"

"In spades." Dorrie was tired of thinking about it, so sudden and so terrible. She still woke at night and reached for his side of the bed, and it was always a shock to find the sheets cold and smooth. "So then what?"

"Behind you--the influence that’s just passing out of your life--is the Heirophant. He represents convention: observing all the ceremonies, relying on some outside authority to run your life--giving a damn what people think. He’s the absolute opposite of anything I’ve ever been or done. When he turns up in my cards, he’s always standing on his head."

"I can well imagine." Dorrie grinned. "So what does he mean here?"

"You’ve always lived a very conventional life. Haven’t had a helluva lot of choice in that, given your parents and the marriage you chose. But the card’s position says that influence is passing out of your life. You don’t have to do that any more unless you just want to."

"I wasn’t always crazy about it, but it kept the peace. Now Two’s picking up where his father and grandfather left off, wanting to retire me to my rocker. He’s sending me off my rocker, if you really want to know. Last week he had the gall to remind me that he’s studied geriatrics, for pity’s sake, by way of convincing me I need psychiatric help!"

"Bless his pointy little head! Did you go for it?"

"Well..." Dorrie grinned. "I did go to the doctor, but I lost my temper and walked out on him."

"Did you really! Great, galloping ghosts, Dorrie, there may be hope for you yet!"

Dorrie reached for the pot and refilled their cups with Red Zinger.

"Go on with the cards," she said. "This is starting to get interesting."

"Well, the next one’s the Hermit: advice and instruction, maybe a mentor. That’s a possible; the card that crowns you may or may not appear in your future. But the card before you, the next one, is definite: the Chariot shows victory, with you in the driver’s seat. It says you’ll take over the reins of your own life and succeed at it. It’s a warning, too, not to run over anybody on the way, but I can’t see you doing that."

"Hooray for our side," Dorrie murmured. In her whole life, she had never held the reins. They had gone from Daddy’s hands to George’s, and now that they hung limp it was all she could do to keep Two from grabbing them. "When does all this start?"

"Sounds to me like it already has. I never saw you so smart-mouthed!"

"Thank you, Charmaine. It’s your influence, you know. My daddy always did say you’d be the ruination of me." She looked at the four remaining cards. "Well, get on with it: what next?"

"The card at the bottom of this row represents your fears, and it’s the Devil: drugs, sex, and rock and roll." Charmaine chuckled. "How like you, Dorrie! Well, you’re right to fear temptation if I’m going to be hanging out with you; it’s what I do best. And look here: this next card is your friends. Usually that means what all your friends think about you and your situation, but this is the Empress: my card. I think it means I’m back in your life for a while."

"Good," Dorrie said. "I could do with some comic relief."