SYLVIE'S STORY

This story originally appeared in print in the short story collection, hoi polloi III, published by Dog Days Press about a year ago. I broke a rule in writing this one that I didn't know at the time--always start the story with the protagonist. Despite my faux pas, I have a soft spot for this one, and decided to present it here as it appeared in the book.

My original intent was to create Eldritch Way, with many shops and each shop (or shop owner, or customer, or...well, the idea isn't caput yet) having its own story. Maybe a cohesive short story collection with a common thread would make me famous...eh, I dream. Anyhow, Sylvie is a psychic, with stiff competition on Eldritch Way--Elvira is another psychic on the street, but she's a fake (a fake with personality)--but this isn't Elvira's story. This is Sylvie's. Here she is, trying to drum up some business.

(I should warn you, this isn't flash. Get a snack, a bevie, and your fuzzy slippers, then enjoy the read.)


SYLVIE’S STORY

The woman standing on her porch did not look like a psychic. The newspaper ad promised top-notch clairvoyants. It piqued her curiosity — a psychic party sounded fun. Anything was more entertaining than burping Tupperware or matching frames with sconces and candles.

This bony woman in the discount store dress did not inspire confidence. Her stringy, dark hair hung limp around her gaunt face; dark circles smudged under her eyes. How was she going to explain that this homeless looking creature could divine futures?


“Is this the Rayburn home? I’m Sylvie, from Mr. Leland’s Extraordinary Clairvoyants,” the creature said.


“Um, yes. Hello. Is... Is it just you?”


Rhonda stood in her doorway, uncertain. Mr. Leland already had her credit card information. Plus a customary tip of twenty dollars per person was expected, extra if especially satisfied. Rhonda did not believe her friends would be satisfied with this woman. Too late; they waited to be amazed. Thank god she bought extra tequila. The margaritas would be strong tonight.

~

Sylvie looked behind her, then back at Ms. Rayburn and gave the hostess a crooked smile. The psychic wanted to be here about as much as she wanted a tax audit. It didn’t take psychic abilities to see this snobby woman rejected her. Too bad. Sylvie needed the cash, even if it meant demeaning herself by whoring her talents at a home party.


“Where do you want me to set up? This porch is okay, but will the other women mind?” The tall blonde blushed under her matte finish make-up. The psychic wondered if this woman in designer jeans and a silk blouse was embarrassed by her forgotten manners, or angry because of Sylvie’s rude tone.


“I’m sorry. Won’t you come in? Er, what do you need to set up? I don’t see....”


“It’s all here,” Sylvie said as she lifted a small paper bag, “I only need a quiet room and a small table, if possible.”


A real psychic didn’t need accessories; she could just see. Tarot cards and crystals were distractions used to trick a client into offering information. It wasn’t prophesy — it was telling what the person wanted to hear. Of course, the fakes earned more money than Sylvie; hence, this awkward encounter on the Rayburn porch.


The psychic reminded herself, this job was for the contacts. Her psychic studio could use more business. Maybe if she foretold a torrid affair, or a child protégée, these plastic women would visit her studio.


Rhonda led Sylvie to a spacious living room. Three women sat on the overstuffed sofa, another on the matching love seat, a young fresh-faced woman sat beside a dowdy woman on the hearth, and one regal Victorian chair was empty — Rhonda’s seat before she answered the door. With seven readings at fifteen minutes each, plus the introduction and the shuffle between readings, Sylvie realized she was committed to a full two hours, or more. Next time she would bring Ibuprofen.


Refreshments crowded the coffee table: chips and salsa, finger sandwiches, a platter of raw vegetables and dip, and frosty margarita glasses. In her head, the psychic groaned. Drunken women meant a very long night. She prayed they tipped better than the customary Andrew Jackson. Maybe one of these bankers would hand over a Ben Franklin.


“Ladies, this is Sylvie, our clairvoyant for the evening. I’ll let her explain what she would like us to do.” A buzzer sounded. “Oops, the mini-quiches. Does anyone want a fresh margarita?” The hostess took count and left the room.


Sylvie wasn’t sure how to proceed. Six expectant faces stared at her. Each one became stony as they got a good look. She understood she didn’t look like an exotic gypsy, but she possessed ability. It was time to take control.


“Hello ladies. As Ms. Rayburn mentioned, I’m Sylvie. You’ll each receive a full fifteen minute private reading, in a separate room. When it’s your turn, let me know if you’d prefer a reading of your future or your past. Before the individual readings, I will reveal a few things I’ve sensed from the group, nothing too embarrassing, to give you ladies something to talk about.”


As she spoke, she felt a strange vibe in the room. Impressions — fleeting, but they would strengthen as she absorbed more of these women’s energies — were of pain, loss, delusions and treachery. She struggled to find a positive; bad news did not entertain, or encourage business. Meanwhile, she stalled.


“Before we start, could someone ask Ms. Rayburn where I should set up?”


A large woman with a very pretty face rose from the loveseat and offered her hand. “Hello, I’m Amy. Rhonda asked me to help. Right this way.”


Amy led Sylvie to a luxurious bedroom. A small round table and two café chairs were set in front of a sliding glass door. A huge crack, bandaged by duct tape, scarred the slider. The psychic thought it quite the contradiction to the pristine order of this home. She blinked, and the glass was intact. This vision didn’t emanate from Amy. Someone else’s story intruded.


Sylvie spread a red-tasseled, black tapestry embroidered with colorful symbols over the table — her one concession to showmanship. She lit her lavender scented pillar candle and centered it on the ornate tablecloth. At the edge of the table she placed her “Sylvie’s Psychic Studio” business cards next to the obligatory ones from Mr. Leland. The anxious psychic touched her stomach, took a deep breathe and returned to the living room.


“Would you like something to eat before we begin?” asked Rhonda. Sylvie did not want to take the time to eat.


“Just water, thank you. Ladies, I already know that most of you work at First National Bank with Ms. Rayburn...”


“Call me Rhonda.” The margaritas relaxed her, thought Sylvie.


“Okay, work with Rhonda at the bank. Except you Amy, you’re her neighbor. I see that one of you will get your promotion within two weeks, and two of you recently suffered from food poisoning. Remember, if the floor looks dirty, the restaurant’s kitchen probably needs attention too. And all of you will shop....”


Sylvie faltered. All of them would be shopping for black — either dresses, or appropriate accessories. All except one. She couldn’t say that to the group. Oh my, this was going to be an awful evening.


“Shop? For what?” asked a petite redhead with parentheses lines around her mouth and crows feet around her eyes. The psychic sensed deceit and an insane jealous streak from this one. Sylvie pitied the co-workers.


“Um, nothing special. Sometimes I see the mundane. Hmmmm.” Sylvie looked from face to face. “One of you lost an important piece of jewelry at the gambling reservation.” The spiky-haired brunette reddened, while the redhead and a stunning Hispanic woman jostled her and giggled.


“One of you just moved in with your boyfriend, two of you are married. I see a divorce from husband number four? No, not divorce... a timely break-up?


“Most of you have children...” Sylvie knew one was on the way, but couldn’t mention it, “and more will be revealed in the individual readings. Ready ladies?”


They were nervous, but excited. The clairvoyant for the evening noted that Rhonda smiled. The young woman on the hearth fiddled with her bangs and tapped her foot. Sylvie dreaded her session with this doomed, hopeful, beautiful child-woman bearing the tiny embryo of her only pregnancy.


“In the interest of each of you getting the most out of your fifteen minutes, I would like to choose you. Some first impressions are stronger than others.”


Rhonda interrupted. “I would prefer to go first. That way I can keep up with my hostess duties, if you don’t mind.” Sylvie didn’t mind, as long as the young brunette went last. 

~

Sylvie told Rhonda of her husband’s infidelity, of her impending promotion to branch manager and the hefty raise, of a future affair with a bank vice president that would give her an advantage at work. At the end of the reading, she gave Sylvie a cool, appraising look.


“You would inspire more confidence if you looked the part,” the hostess commented.


Sylvie gave a rueful smile. Ten years living with a jealous man taught her to dress plain. The woman’s blatant observation caused the psychic to realize she wasn’t done healing. Sylvie understood beneath the condescending tone, Rhonda was trying to help. “What do you suggest?” asked Sylvie.


“Use tonight’s money and splurge. Go to the mall. Hit a make-up counter, buy an outfit. Consider it a uniform for your trade.” Rhonda rose, retrieved her pocketbook from the closet and rummaged for her wallet. She placed two fifty-dollar bills on the tapestry. The psychic regretted her earlier judgment of this woman.

~

The neighbor Amy was next. Sylvie revealed her struggles with weight loss, her daughter’s bulimia and her husband’s secret passion for cross-dressing. The good news was her line of greeting cards would be distributed across the region by the end of next year.


The redhead was sleeping with Rhonda’s husband and recently sabotaged the Hispanic woman’s chance for a promotion by planting “unfounded allegations” in her personnel file. The duplicitous woman’s son stole money from her bedroom safe, for drugs. She would lose a lawsuit over a dog bite and owe a neighbor substantial damages. The angry woman did not tip.


The spiky-haired brunette’s gambling problem would interfere with her banking career. Sylvie gently suggested Gamblers Anonymous. The psychic hinted that not only would the gambler kick her addiction; but she also would meet a sensitive, caring, similarly inclined woman at the meetings.


Every time Sylvie returned to the living room she was surprised by the quiet — no laughing, no kidding, no gossiping — not the usual home party atmosphere. Most of the revelations were too personal, too accurate to share. Sylvie rubbed the bridge of her nose and chose number four.


The Hispanic woman’s eldest son would attain a full scholarship to an Ivy League School next year. Her husband would get a new job and take her on a worldwide cruise. Her sixteen year old daughter would make her a grandmother soon.


The dowdy woman hesitated, but entered the bedroom after the other ladies coaxed her. This woman dumped her fiancé yesterday, almost husband number four. She would meet a romantic car salesman by summer’s end, and live a life of leisure — no more banking for this one. The psychic couldn’t discern the lady’s secret weapon.


After six readings, Sylvie’s face was more haggard than when she arrived. The psychic asked for headache tablets before she addressed number seven. Disappointment crossed the young woman’s large hazel eyes.


“If you’re too tired, I understand,” she said, with a half-hearted smile. The psychic wanted so much to beg her forgiveness and say yes, she was too tired; but she couldn’t break her heart. Someone else would do that to the bright-eyed woman, very, very soon.


“What’s your name?” Sylvie asked as she led the girl-woman to the reading area.


“I’m Jocelyn. I’ve always wanted to go to a psychic. I was so happy Rhonda invited me. Have you given a lot of readings?”


“All my life, I could see things. But I only made it a career choice about two years ago.” Two years ago she was finally free of him. This talent allowed her to earn a living. “Have a seat.”


Jocelyn leaned over the candle, closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Mmmm, lavender. Does that mean anything?”


Sylvie replied, “You’re the first to ask. Yes, lavender gives protection, and aids in love and vision. Important properties, wouldn’t you say, for a woman giving seven readings in two hours?” She gave the young woman a kind smile.


“What do you need me to do? Do you want my palm, or should I think or say something special?”


Sylvie wanted to cry. This eager girl, full of trust and promise, was a younger version of herself.


“No, just sit,” Sylvie replied. “Honey, you know you don’t have to put up with his abuse, don’t you?” The girl didn’t understand the full definition of abuse.


“No, oh no. That was my boyfriend in high school. He beat me. Yeah, it was a tough time in my life, but I survived, and I learned.” Jocelyn nodded her assurance to the psychic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t tell you which reading I wanted. Please, tell me my future, not my past.”


This innocent woman was stubborn, as Sylvie was in her youth. How would she teach, in fifteen minutes, that a push leads to a hit leads to broken bones and worse? How did she explain that the rough sex was a precursor to rape — and it was rape even within a relationship? How could she convince the woman that her current boyfriend would--?


“Will my boyfriend ask me to marry him?” Jocelyn brushed a tassel of the tapestry across the back of her hand.


Sylvie bit her lip. Resolute, she proceeded.


“Your boyfriend, Dustin?”


“Duncan.”


“Duncan has a mean streak. When he pushes you, he’s not playing.”


Jocelyn picked at the melted candle wax. “No, it’s not like that. We wrestle, he sometimes gets rough, but he’s sooo sorry after. He loves me.”


Sylvie sat silent. She remembered the “I’m sorry’s” and the passionate love-making; the “but I love you’s” after the pain; the “but I love him’s” no matter what.


“I’m ready, Sylvie. Go ahead. What do you see?”


Sylvie concentrated on the candle flame. She saw.

~~~

The two lovers wrestled among the half empty boxes in the tiny second floor living room. His knees pinned her arms to the ground, his hands tickling her sides mercilessly. His eyes gleamed with malice and power. Jocelyn recognized that look from her past, but dismissed it as her imagination.


She begged Duncan to stop, screamed at him. He used the back of his hand and roughly pushed her face. Tears stung her eyes — his ring cut her cheek. Duncan begged her forgiveness, helped her off the floor, swept her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He promised he didn’t mean it, he got carried away. He would never hurt her. She was everything to him. 

~

He came home late from his job at the quick lube garage. Jocelyn saw his eye twitch. She hoped her new recipe would cheer him.


He pushed her out of his way to get a beer from the fridge, complained what smells awful? She rubbed her hip — it smarted from contact with the brass drawer pull — and explained how she learned a new recipe from a girl at work.


He looked in the pan and called it slop. He grabbed her by the hair, pushed her face an inch from the pan, told her to breathe deep and then threw her back. She fell hard on the kitchen tiles, bruising her tail bone. She sobbed; he apologized, with a “but”.


He didn’t mean to hurt her but, he had a bad day. His asshole boss fired him for only being ten minutes late. She made it worse by serving chicken, again. Couldn’t she fix a real man’s meal, maybe steak? She didn’t dare say they couldn’t afford steak. She gently asked him if he would find a new job tomorrow.


He raised his arm, but Duncan held his temper in check. He kissed her neck, she giggled, they moved to the bedroom. He convinced her she owed him. She felt guilty, so she tried the new, painful thing.

~

She put the flowers in a lead crystal vase. He purchased them at the convenience store where he now worked.


He swung her around and they danced in the living room. She commented on how they needed a second paycheck. Duncan yelled why did she have to be such a bitch? He got a job didn’t he?


He threw the vase against the slider. The door cracked, but didn’t break. She sobbed, he apologized — the same routine. They laughed together as they duct-taped the ugly gash on the glass door. He professed his love, and again led her to the bedroom.

~

She worried. Traffic was horrendous. He insisted she was seeing someone else whenever she was late. She wished she knew a way to prove how much she loved him and how she would never, ever cheat on him. She still hadn’t told him. The little pink plus sign excited her but also made her anxious. She hoped he would believe it was his.

~

He sat at the table, twirled his can of beer. He asked her why she was late. He needed her.


His rag head boss fired him this morning, only because he didn’t pay for a candy bar and coffee. That asshole owed him much more than a friggin’ snack. She tried to change the subject to tell him her good news. He yelled she should shut the fuck up until he was done. And who kept calling her and hanging up? Don’t lie and say ‘telemarketer’.


He called her a slut and demanded to know who she was seeing on the side. He jumped from the table, ran to where she stood and pushed her against the living room wall. A string of saliva connected his lower and upper lip as he screamed in her face, as he belittled her, as he trapped her between his arms. He kneed her in the groin, told her she deserved that for sharing her pussy.


She doubled over to hold herself and tried to tell him she was pregnant, but the sobs choked her words. He screamed more obscenities, lifted her by the shoulders and pushed her. Duncan forgot the slider glass was weak at the duct-taped crack.


Jocelyn’s body broke through the door, hit the wrought iron railing, and toppled over the edge.

~~~

A watery eyed Sylvie faced an expectant Jocelyn. The psychic looked at the alarm clock across the room and saw that only four minutes elapsed since she sat with this doomed young woman. Oh, she so desperately wanted to save her life.


“What?” Jocelyn asked.


“You will be a mother....”


“Really?” The young woman’s eyes sparkled. She clapped her hands. “Oh, I hoped this wasn’t a false alarm. I’m only two days late, but I prayed it was real this time.”


“Get a pregnancy test and see a doctor.” Maybe a doctor would see signs of abuse and lead this girl to help.


Sylvie changed tactics. “When Duncan is around, do you have many accidents?”


“Well, yes, but I’m clumsy. He says he never met such a clumsy girl. Wait. I’m not here to answer questions. I want to know my future. Will Duncan marry me, how many kids will we have, will he get a great job, will we have money?”


Sylvie hesitated. Should she tell this girl all she wanted to hear? No. The psychic tried again to guide the innocent girl to the truth.


“You could have it all: a great career, lots of beautiful children, a handsome appreciative husband. All you have to do is break up with Duncan. He is an abuser. You are a lovely, innocent, trusting, compassionate, generous, beautiful woman. You deserve better.”


The disillusioned girl argued, “Duncan loves me. He appreciates me so much that he worries about losing me. Sure, he has a jealous streak, but... I love him. He didn’t abuse me, it was just a push. He didn’t mean it. You have no right calling him an abuser. Trust me, I know abuse. My last boyfriend put me in the hospital. You can’t compare a push to black eyes and broken bones.”


“But Jocelyn, it escalates. Recognize the signs! Do you want your son to be born to a life of tears and pain? Do you want him to learn it’s okay to push women? Please, think of the life you carry inside you.”


“No, Sylvie. It’s his. Duncan wants to be a father. This is the good news he needs. It’ll be his incentive to find a new job and be more responsible.”


Sylvie tried a new argument. “How did you get to come here tonight? Does Duncan mind that you’re at a home party?”


Jocelyn’s eyes clouded and her face turned pink. “Well, he doesn’t know. Boys’ night out.”


Sylvie gave her a knowing look. Jocelyn’s pink face deepened to crimson.


“I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that. It’s just... easier not to tell him.”


“Jocelyn, does he make it hard for you to go out with friends? Visit family? Talk on the phone? Does he call you fat? Or stupid?”


Jocelyn snapped her mouth shut and pressed her lips together. The older woman sagged as she saw the anger. She lost the battle, and didn’t know what else to do.


“Jocelyn, I’ve been there. Ten years of abuse before I got out. And barely with my life. Please....”


“Maybe he is a little critical, but you have no right insulting him. He’s my man and I love him. He promised to change. A baby will thrill him and he’ll prove you wrong. He will be a great father and a wonderful husband.”


Sylvie’s headache was now a migraine. She felt helpless, but not surprised. All those years ago, no one convinced Sylvie. The weary psychic chose to tell the young woman something she could hold on to next time she was hurt, or humiliated; to give the doomed young woman hope.


“Your son will grow to be handsome, strong, and intelligent. He’ll become a lawyer. You will have a beautiful girl two years after your son. She’ll be an athlete. I think she’ll compete in the Olympics — gymnastics.


“You’ll have many friends, get involved in city politics, and even write a memoir. You’ll meet celebrities and get to tour all fifty states.”


Sylvie lied.


I’m here to entertain, not save the world. Sylvie rubbed her temples and glanced at the nightstand. Blessedly, time was up.


“Thank you for allowing me to peek into your life.” The psychic rose and offered her hand along with a business card. She almost added, “If you need help….”


Jocelyn’s eyes sparkled. She reached in her pocket and pulled out two crumpled tens. Sylvie cringed. The last thing she wanted was this young woman’s money.


“Jocelyn?”


The young woman hesitated in the doorway.


“Um, fix your slider.”

~~~

Sylvie dabbed on lip gloss and appraised her new look. The slacks and blouse flattered her trim figure. She felt great. Her experience at last month’s home party was exhausting, but an eye opener. Rhonda’s observation and generosity spurred Sylvie to work harder on self-healing. Two years ago, she kicked out the man; at last, she was free from his influence. The whistling kettle intruded.


As she let the tea cool she went to the front entrance to retrieve her mail. Among the junk mail and bills was an envelope with the return address of Mr. Leland’s Extraordinary Clairvoyants, her percentage from the home party.


A tentative voice called her name. From the sidewalk, a young woman with dark glasses waved. Sylvie’s first thought was great, the check and the client, but a tiny spark of pride ignited. Maybe she’d made a difference.


Jocelyn limped to the doorway. A shiner’s ugly stain spilled beneath the rim of the dark glasses. “You gave me your card. I… I didn’t know where else to go. I wasn’t gonna fix it, you know. Your warning made me… angry.”


“It’s okay….”


“He said it’s a waste of money, but after Rhonda’s… the duct tape scared me.”


Jocelyn swallowed a hiccup and rubbed her stomach. “I told him about the baby. He threw me, Sylvie.”


Sylvie nodded. Awkwardly, Sylvie placed her arms around the young girl’s shaking shoulders. Jocelyn’s tears stained Sylvie’s new blouse. She didn’t mind. It had been a very long time since she’d hugged.