Josephine

and three of her friends decided to see a psychic. Josephine had never done anything of the sort before and was curious. For a long while, she had secretly planned on arranging a visit, but initially she could not convince any of her friends to accompany her. Once, alone, Josephine had tried to see a Gypsy at a traveling circus, but, at the last moment, she was too frightened to go through with it. But now, after her insistent urgings, her friends decided to indulge her. Josephine could not understand why any of her friends were not interested in investigating the intrigue. At worst, they would spend an amusing afternoon inside the business of a charlatan; at best, they would emerge with a clearer understanding of their own identities. Josephine could not believe the latter could be the case but felt compelled to discover the truth herself.

Josephine knew that her father would never have allowed her to participate in or tamper with any occult activity despite her mere investigative purpose. He was quite convinced that young ladies were particularly susceptible to demonic influences, and to allow, voluntarily, a psychic to probe one’s self was inviting trouble. Josephine of all girls should certainly avoid such a confrontation. Josephine protested that she was mistress of her mind, and she felt confident of her ability to resist any attempts at mental domination by unseen forces. But this logic was lost on her father, who only wanted her to remain inviolate. Josephine knew that she would need to conceal her visit from him and her father’s objections from her friends. But she was adept at such conspiracies.

Josephine complained of a stomach pain that allowed her the morning at home to recover. Her father expected her to attend afternoon classes, but instead she slipped out of the house and met her friends. They set out for the Gypsy’s business at lunch, each intent upon avoiding the remainder of the day’s classes. The journey took only fifteen minutes, and they arrived at the site so quickly that they nearly passed it, unnoticed. The girls noted, with bemused wonder, that they each must have walked by the business individually many, many times (some even quite recently), yet never recognized it as all that interesting.

There was a small sign outside the neglected building with a sloppily painted hand floating in a clear ocean and a large eye with impossibly long eyelashes looking out from its palm. A single lash trailed from the eye to the rough edge of the sign. None in their group had ever seen the advertisement before, but its age was unmistakable. With Josephine in the lead, they opened the front door and entered.

The room was hot. At once, the girls decided, quite autonomously, that it was too agonizing to stay. Yet after a moment’s hesitation they became acclimated and the temperature was luxuriously comfortable. The interior was filled with antique curios from typically mysterious cultures: Egypt, Haiti, and many pieces from Asian backgrounds. The small size of the shop was further restricted by two small, bean shaped sofas facing a burgundy veil that partially concealed a black passage into the back. As the door shut behind the girls, a rather husky female voice from behind a faux wall urged them to sit down. The girls looked at each other and smiled at the drama that had already begun.

The Gypsy came into the room, through the flap.

“It is times for readings, yes? Which I takes first?”

Josephine sized up the small woman. Her age was not easily discernible, and she wore the predictable costume of her kind: a long, purple, sequined dress with a scarf that hung loosely over her shoulders like a pashmina. But she also wore a pair of long, white gloves made of a strange material that conformed to her hands so perfectly that one could see her veins through the stretched fabric. Her copper red hair and her large green eyes suggested that she was of Irish descent, but when she spoke her accent was inscrutable. And something more was evident when the Gypsy spoke: her mouth was very large and empty. Most of her teeth had rotted away and, as she smiled, the girls noticed the raw tissue of her gums.

They were frightened. Josephine sat transfixed by the grotesque form and wanted to leave, but she could not but stare at the Gypsy's face. Josephine felt her eyes filling with tears. The Gypsy looked around at the girls, inspecting them in turn. Her gaze finally settled upon Josephine. The Gypsy looked at her intently, her gaze slithering across Josephine’s face, and down her body to her shoes. The Gypsy opened her mouth slightly, paused and licked her lips. Then she withdrew, and Josephine knew to follow.

The Gypsy's inner chamber was very tiny. It was an oval nook with a small table and two chairs. The walls were covered with solid red tapestries that absorbed most of the light in the room, making them look as if they were glowing. There was a smell Josephine could not place. The Gypsy paused before a chair and motioned for Josephine to sit down.

“I have not sees you here before,” the Gypsy began.

“No. That’s right.”

“I see. And what broughts you here?”

Josephine paused, encouraged, and said “Don’t you know?”

The Gypsy smiled slightly. “I want you to tells me.”

“I want you to tell me my fortune. Like the sign outside said. I want to know my future.”

“I can tells you what you want to know,” she smiled more deeply. “I can tells what you want to know.”

“You can? I’m not convinced I believe you.”

“Let us begins with truth, yes? You who has lied already."

“I have lied?”

“Yes, to me. You saids that you want to know your future. That was a lie.” Again she smiled.

“What do you mean? Then why am I here?”

The Gypsy leaned forward, very close to Josephine, and when she spoke, Josephine smelled a surprisingly rich, pleasant odor, like warm cream. “You wants to sees if I can tells you about yourself. You wants to test me and finds out about yourself.”

“What about me?” asked Josephine quickly.

“What about me?” The Gypsy mimicked Josephine’s anxious tone. After a moment, she continued.

“You likes your friends, yes?”

“They are my friends.”

“Do they likes you?”

“They are my friends. Look, are you going to tell me my future or not?” Josephine feigned impatience.

“Gives me your hand.” Josephine did.

“Your hand is sweating,” she stroked Josephine’s palm and turned it over in her own hand. The Gypsy began to massage the back of Josephine’s hand and said “Your family is wealthy. But you don’t likes them.” The Gypsy looked up suddenly, startling Josephine, “Or is it ‘them’? Perhaps family is too plurals a word. I wonder.”

“I love my. . . my family!” Josephine could see the Gypsy’s eyes watching her expression, waiting for her to reveal a new piece of information that would lead to another, and another. She could disclose her life in bits that the Gypsy would exploit as bait, and like a child she could be a victim of deft maneuvers. She looked at the floor and waited.

The Gypsy relaxed her grip, took a breath and continued. “You yearns for a brother. You yearn for many things, I expects. Do you envy your friends? True, you are better off, but they will returns from me to siblings and a mother and a father. What will you returns to? I wonder.”

“I will return home.”

“No!” The Gypsy’s voice was loud, and her face twisted as if in pain. Josephine heard a door slam somewhere behind her as the Gypsy continued. “You will returns to your house, not a home. There is a difference. A home has two parents, brothers, and evens a dog…”

“I have a dog.”

The Gypsy smiled again. “Ahh. And only one parent.” Again, Josephine looked at her shoes. “And no brothers nor sisters. Only you."

“Yes. Only me."

“But not always so. How long has it been?”

“You can’t tell?”

The Gypsy’s large eyes narrowed, and her voice suddenly became friendly. “You are very wary. Why? We are nots enemies. How long has it been?”

“My mother died six years, and my father hasn’t remarried.”

“He marrieds your mother when they was very young.”

“They married when they were allowed to.”

“They was very young.”

“Yes.”

“You are very young.” The Gypsy ceased massaging Josephine’s hand and released it. “Your mother marrieds your father when she was your age. Peoples tell you that you must look much likes your newlywed mother did. Not exactly… but…perhaps enough to fools your father?” The Gypsy’s eyes sparkled and she whispered “I wonder.”

“You’re wrong. My father and I get along fine!”

“You reminds him of the woman he married when he was your age, yes?” The Gypsy leaned forward, her milk-smelling breath stronger now. “Does he flirt with you?”

“No! You are seriously fucked up."

“If it pleases you. You two are alone. You only has him and your imaginations. You will go back and finds your friends, who just fled my shop, unready, and pretends you are like them, that this did not happen. And when you gets to your house, you will withdraws into your bedroom and fill your times with wild fantasies, as you always have.” The Gypsy’s eyes were closed, and she was rocking slightly.

“But I would thinks that now these fantasies no longer involves wild horses rides, do they? Your daydreams has new twists.” The Gypsy’s head snapped up and she looked into Josephine’s lowered eyes. “You feel a tickling, yes?” The Gypsy waited for an answer, but Josephine said nothing. “You must fantasize. What do you dream?”

Josephine looked at the ceiling and at the walls of the room, trying to summon a reply to the probing questions. Through her teary eyes, the gossamer tapestries seemed to rise and swell, and still no answer occurred to Josephine. Her insides hurt. Not her stomach. It was an uncertain, familiar discomfort…soon, she knew, she would not be able to control the tears.

“He sends you away to someone who is paid to listen, yes? He pays a man to listen to you and to help you. That pretty skin of yours, my dear, is often wet. Wet with tears, yes?” Josephine felt as if she wanted to sleep. She needed to break the momentum of the moment. She asked urgently: “Will I be rich? How will I die? Who will I marry?”

“Why, my poor child. You cannot marrys anyone. You know this. How could you leaves your miserable father alone? He has no one now. That’s so, isn’t it? Your midnight rendezvouses with those boys down the street. He knows you do that. He waits for you to leave by that tree outsides your window and while you’re gone he imagines their strong, solid fingers lifting your shirt, following the outlines of your burgeoning breasts. He thinks about those boys as they feel your leg from the foot to the hip, and when they look into your eyes, he imagines you recognize him there. Of course, he would never have you in any way, but you must see the way his eyes dwell on you. What sorts of things does he says that upsets you, my dear? Casual things, yes? Do you really thinks it is just that wild imagination of yours? All those times he looks at you? Perhaps you even notice him outsides your bedroom, listening when you change, the door slightly ajar…”

Abruptly, Josephine tore herself away from the Gypsy, stood, and tried to run from the room. Her mind was so filled by the Gypsy's words that she ran into the wall, tearing the tapestry. Underneath, the walls were moist, dripping with putrid water from some poorly secured pipe.

At last, Josephine found the door and ran. When she reached the outside, she saw that her friends were gone. The Gypsy opened the door and came after her and yelled, with no trace of an accent: “My money! You’ve left without paying! I earned it! For my labor!” But Josephine did not stop running, not until she reached the door of her house, and there she paused.

She wondered whether her father was inside. She wondered if he would know, just by looking at her, where she had been. And she wondered how she could have let so much of herself go. Josephine wiped her hands, opened the door and saw him sitting in his chair, his eyes waiting for her. She paused before the stairs to her bedroom and turned. She wanted to talk to him, to say that she skipped school to see someone; not her psychiatrist who could not take her seriously and with whom she could never talk, but a psychic who read her thoughts and trampled through her. She wanted to tell him that she missed her mother, too; that she was embarrassed that she had to live without a mom; that she was different from her friends; that she felt damaged and angry. Instead, Josephine finally gave in and started to cry. Her back heaved violently, and she fell under the weight of her own convulsions. Her father rushed to her, swept her up and carried her into her room, whispering gently, “Everything is going to be fine. I’ll get your medication, and everything will be just fine.” He put his daughter on her bed and paused, looking at her. He smiled. “You know, in the old days, when girls would cry like this, they performed a dangerous and severe surgery. For you, a simple pill will do,” and he straightened his daughter's blouse before leaving for her medicine.