It’s crap, but there’s something about her eyes; they’re different, not hazel like Mom’s, more black — someone else’s. The blonde leans over and whispers in Doyle’s ear, her ponytail brushing his arm, tentacle meeting tentacle. He nods and puts his hand over Enola’s. There’s something disturbing, something that reminds me of a notation: Wild Boy promoted to apprentice fortune-teller. I’m not looking at Enola, but Madame Ryzhkova, mixed with Mom, echoing through my sister’s body.
Enola’s eyes roll and her spine shoots out of its chronic slouch, pole straight. There is a blur, movement and slapping sounds as she lays the cards in a perfect Celtic cross. I recognize the spread from The Tenets of the Oracle. Ten cards. Two in the center, forming the cross, one above, one below, one to the left, and one to the right, then four cards dealt in rapid succession in a line up the side. I can see their faces. They’re different from the ones in The Tenets, but common. A Waite-type deck, delicate, with pictures even I know. The girls angle their chairs, ponytails swinging like pendulums. When she sets the last card Enola’s head falls back sharply, as if her neck has snapped. With perfect timing, Doyle snakes a hand around and tips her back up. Her eyelids flutter open and she bends over the cards.
“Yes, yes,” she says. “Two of you love one man. Yes. Always same.” She laughs; in another woman the sound would be sexual but in Enola it’s carnivorous. “This one.” She points a finger at the blonde. “She is one with force behind her. Always chase, this one is.” The brown ponytail bobbles up and down. “This boy, he like a strong girl. See here? Swords. He like decision, confrontation.” She waves her arms, an air of madness in the gesture. “You.” She stares at the brown-haired girl. “You wait for scraps, yes? Second best for you always.” A small giggle from the girls, a joyless ripple. “See the cups?” Enola continues. “Water. In this position is change, flowing. Communication. You talk to him, yes? She does not speak.”
The girls crowd together like hens to grain, studying the cards. Abruptly Enola’s voice falls away and her jaw goes slack. She stares through the girls, beyond the tent and into something I can’t see. Her hands move, sightless birds navigating migratory patterns. A new arrangement overlays the old, six lines of six cards, each set atop the others. She turns and turns, and when she speaks again it is without trace of accent, without a glance at the cards; discarnate, the voice moves through her. I can see Death, the Devil, and the Tower, and a heart that’s stabbed with swords.
“Losses will be borne. Death rising from below. Barrenness. Empty fields. There will be no children.”
The tent begins to hum as gooseflesh rises to meet air. The girls squirm in their seats. One shivers. A flurry of silk streaks across the table as Enola grabs one of the girl’s wrists.
“All around you those you love will wither. Mother, father, and down the line.” Her words spill and Doyle pops up from his chair, cracking like a spark as he latches on to Enola, shaking her. She continues, “Your name dies with you and will never pass another’s lips. For you it is as water cuts stone, you will wear until nothing is left.” Doyle squeezes her shoulder but she is gone.
As water cuts stone.
The dark-haired girl tugs her friend’s wrist from Enola’s grasp. A tic in the neck, sand leaking from a bag and Enola folds in, her face so white as to be clear. Enola again, but less. Her eyes flick to my hiding spot, our gazes lock, and it chokes.
“Wrong card,” she says. The accent is back. “Happens sometimes. Many spirits walk these grounds.” She pats her scarf, tucks in an escaped hair, and then glares at me. “Get out.”
I snap the drape closed, a deep pain sprouting in the middle of my skull.
Doyle sticks his head outside. Peering from the tent he looks like a mounted trophy. He laughs, nervous and conspiratorial. “Bro, you gotta give it some space, man.”
“Huh?”
“You’re showing up in the cards. You’re too close. Give her like—” He pauses. “Yeah, like, five minutes.”
“I’m good here.”
“No, dude,” he says with a slow twist of his head. “You are seriously not good here. I’ve got it covered.”
“I’m her brother. Let me—”
“That’s my point; you’re too close. You’re making stuff murky.” He scrunches his face up. “Let her ramp it down, okay?” His hand comes through the curtain. He pats me on the shoulder. “Go see Thom. We told him about you and he wants to talk to you. Seriously, go. Give us five, ten minutes. Okay? He’s in the big RV with the birds on the side.” His hand disappears and reemerges holding several crumpled dollars. He pushes the money into my palm and gives me a soft shove back. “Get food.”
As I hobble away he asks what happened to my foot. “Pothole,” I reply.
“Hey,” he calls. “If you swing your right arm wider it’ll help keep the weight off your ankle, yeah? Diagonals, man. Think diagonals.” I don’t want to, but as I walk toward the smell of fried dough I find that I’m swinging my arm wider.
Enola’s face was wrong when she looked at me. The way her head snapped back, there was no control, no lie, just that voice. Something’s very wrong. Drowning wrong. I need to talk to her, and maybe I do need to talk to Thom Rose.
* * *
The RV is, as Doyle said, past the rides on the back of the lot, huge and plastered with white silhouettes of ducks in flight. I lean against it, taking weight off my foot, and knock. A tiny bald man answers. He wears a checked shirt, shorts, and sandals. Deep wrinkles line his mouth. His eyes are framed by squint marks from a lifetime of driving into the sun. I don’t know what I expected a carnival owner to look like, but he looks like someone’s uncle.
“Are you Thom Rose?”
“Who wants to know?” His eyes narrow, and it looks as if I’m about to have a door slammed in my face. Then he grins suddenly and flings the door open. “You’re Simon Watson, aren’t you? Anybody ever tell you that you look just like your sister?”
The camper is filled with books and papers, what looks like piles of receipts and bills, an unmade bed, and a small kitchen that is surprisingly spotless. “Sit, sit,” he says, pointing to a chair by a table that folds out from a wall. “Enola says you’re looking for work.”
Am I looking for work? Library work, but work. “Yeah, I am.”
“She says you’re a swimmer.” He opens a can of soda, pours himself a glass and offers me one. “Talked you up a lot. Said you can hold your breath for ten minutes.”
“Give or take.”
He drinks his soda for a while, contemplating. A yellowed finger taps at the table as if searching for something, a pencil, a cigarette. “It’s been a while since we’ve had any good athletics, but a breath-holder, a swimmer, that’s a hard sell for a man. Not saying we can’t do it, but it’s always been a woman. Mermaids. Put a cute girl in a small bathing suit, lots of long hair, a little peek here and there.”
“I know.” My mother was a carnival striptease. “Enola thought you’d be interested, but I told her I didn’t think it would work out.”
“Oh, no. I am interested. It’ll just take me a minute to figure out. Your sister’s a good kid. If she’s happier having you around and it doesn’t cost me anything, I don’t see why not. It’s been a real long time since I’ve seen a swimmer. There are those Weeki Wachee girls down in Florida, but they’re not the same. You don’t need an air tube, do you?”
“No, sir.” I could try it, maybe. Just for a little while, see what wandering feels like.
“Good. It’s better that way, cleaner lines. We could rework the dunk tank, maybe. That damned kid’s a pain in the ass anyway. Doesn’t matter if he’s a different kid, he’s always a pain in the ass.” He sucks on his teeth, then barrels on. “Best mermaid I ever saw was back when I was a kid. Gorgeous.” He sketches the outline of her with his hands. “A diver, too. You don’t dive, do you?”