Lafayette Hills

Mary had never heard of Miles Davis, nor did she really understand what Mrs. Longley was telling her, but she did understand what she was seeing. Mrs. Longley's hips and hands swayed back and forth, rotating and twisting in a way that tempted her and pulled her forward. It was the same magnetism as she'd seen in the pictures except in motion. Her movements were timed to the music, and yet improvised and evolving. Never the same. It created a kind of visual echo to the jazz.

At least, partially.

The more the piece played, the more Mary heard of it. The piano and bass were very prominent and steady, loud in the recording as if they'd been played nearer to the microphone, but the real soul of the piece resided within the discordant guitar and sparse horns. They spoke of sadness and conflict, both growing in magnitude without becoming any louder in the mix. The piece shifted into a minor key, a change Mary did not have the musical pedigree to identify but understood on a deeper level, and then something happened.

The more she listened, the more she realized that this was not a piece of music meant to be danced to. Mary didn't know what emotion was being conveyed, but it seemed rooted in a kind of frustrated depression. An angry diatribe against an unjust world. A manifesto of some sort.

Penelope Longley, the most sophisticated and cultured woman Mary had ever met, was making a mistake. Her joyful dancing was woefully inappropriate, and Mary did not know what to do about that.

***

"Here you are," her mother said, setting a plate down in front of her.

"Thank you," Mary said flatly.

Her mother did a double take, looking back down at her briefly, before returning to the stove. "Have you heard back from Mike yet?"

"About what?" her father said, without looking up from his paper.

"Not you."

Mary looked back and forth between them. "Me?"

"Yes," her mother said, her voice lilting as her patience wore thin.

"About what?"

Her mother waited to respond until she sat down across from Mary at the table, and pulled her cloth napkin away to lay in her lap. "About a position? At the dealership?"

"Oh yeah," her father said, perking up and joining the moment.

Mary licked her lips. "...Not yet."

"That's not like him," her father said. "He's usually pretty good about following through on interviews and applicants. I'll talk to him tomorrow. See what can be done."

"No, don't." Mary bought herself a moment by swallowing when both of her parents gave her a look of confusion. "I... haven't asked him yet."

"Why not?" her parents both said, nearly on top of one another.

"I just... haven't," she said, neatly avoiding an outright lie.

"Alright," her father said tiredly. "Well when you do, let me know so I can put in a word for you."

"Do you think you need to do that?" her mother asked. "I mean, she's always on time, and she does her work."

"It... couldn't hurt," he replied, evasively. Then both of them gave her a look without actually looking at her.

Mary had often found herself the subject of looks like that and it usually stemmed from her behavior, or the effect that her behavior had on other people. She was fully aware of the fact that she could be somewhat off-putting, without intending to do any such thing. Her parents were not affected by her quirks, but they also spent a lot of time making excuses on her behalf when they thought she wasn't paying attention. Teachers, parents of her classmates, and so on. It made her uncomfortable to see them meet with people ahead of her to prime them for interacting with her almost as much as she hated that they had to swoop in behind her and apologize for her.

"I have a plan," Mary said quietly.

"A what?" her mother asked.

"Once I finish my book, I... I have a plan."

"A plan to... what?"

"For my... life. So you won't have to do stuff like 'talk to Mike about me.'"

"Pumpkin," her father said, but Mary interrupted him.

"You don't have to worry, okay? I have a plan, and... and it's a good one."

Her parents looked at each other and nodded, slowly to each other and then more firmly when they looked at her.

"Do you want to tell us about it?"

"I will," Mary said, looking down at her plate. "I've been thinking about it for a long time, and... and I will. When I'm ready."

Mary's mother put her head into her hand, massaging her temple with her thumb, and smiled tiredly. "Okay, sweetie. I'm glad to hear that."

"Yeah," her father added. "That's good. Not to put too fine a point on it, or anything, but your mom and I were a little worried about... you know... you didn't apply to any schools for the fall, and-and just working a little at night. I mean, we haven't really talked about it, but you could... live... here?"

"Oh," Mary said, blinking. "Good?"

"I mean, right?"

"Yeah," her mother said, clearing her throat. "Yeah. For... you know..."

Her parents had never expressed feeling like they were 'stuck with her', but Mary thought they might have implied it on more than a few occasions. She nodded, looking down so as to avoid watching them hide how uncomfortable they were, and tried to eat a bite of her mother's meatloaf. It tasted like nothing, but she kept chewing.

"I, um..." Her mother paused to clear her throat again. "I invited the Clarksons over for dinner next weekend."

"Who are the Clarksons?" her father asked.

"That nice family that moved in over on Evergreen?"

"Who?"

"Remember?" her mother said, giving the word her peculiar singsong emphasis. "Jan and Elliot... and their son, Paul?"

"Right," her father exclaimed. Then he put a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and chewed while nodding. "Righ'. Next Saturday, then?"

"Sunday."

"That'll be good, right?" He turned at the last moment, addressing his question toward Mary.

Mary blinked in confusion, but knew that the correct answer was, "Right."

"Yeah," her father said, looking back down at his plate. "Paul seemed nice."

The rest of dinner passed more quietly. Nothing on her plate tasted as good as it usually did, but Mary knew better than to say any such thing. It was all very bland. Her parents did not seem to notice a difference, and her father went back for seconds, as was his custom, with all the usual gusto. She wondered if it was just her, but ultimately decided that there was no way of finding out without revealing how much she'd disliked the meal. Her mother excused her from the table after Mary ate the prerequisite amount, and she cleaned up the dishes and pots while her mother and father retired to the den.

"I'm going out," Mary said, a little later and with journal in hand.

"Okay," her mother said distantly.

Her father looked up from the paper and, after checking to make sure the coast was clear, gave her a wink. "Remember," he said, "Ten thirty."

"Ten thirty," she repeated. Her mother seemed none the wiser.

Mary looked back over her shoulder several times as she walked across the street. She wasn't sure why she was more paranoid than usual, and even briefly considered walking all the way around to Evergreen Drive to enter the Longley's backyard over a fence, but that seemed excessive even to her. When she entered the Longley house, she did so staring back behind herself to make sure she wasn't being watched.

"Mary?" Mrs. Longley called from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"Yes," Mary said.

"Wonderful," she called. "I was hoping I would see you tonight. The surprise has arrived!"

Mary made her way into the den and sat down on the edge of the couch. The den was where Mrs. Longley typically held court, giving her ample room to gesture freely or give standing reenactments when the situation called for it. Music was already playing. A woman was singing a jazz tune Mary thought she recognized, but the name of the singer, and the song, eluded her.

After a few minutes, Mrs. Longley came out of the kitchen holding two glasses. Mary could not help but notice that her silk robe was cinched around the waist where, almost every other time they'd met, Mrs. Longley wore the robe open to show off the matching nightgown underneath. So distracted was she by the change to the routine that she found herself with a drink in her hand that she did not recall accepting.

The smell of it was sweet, almost like vanilla. Mrs. Longley watched her curiously as Mary, feeling pressured, took a small sip. The thick liquid carried some of the vanilla flavor, but mostly it burned. She could feel the moment it entered her stomach, a sensation that was both intriguing and worrying. She felt quite sure that the drink had been alcoholic, though it was the first time she'd had anything like it and had nothing to compare it against.

"I don't like it," Mary said, leaning away from the cup.

"You don't drink it for the taste," the older woman laughed.

That seemed like only part of an answer as far as Mary was concerned, but Mrs. Longley's hand on her arm forestalled her from putting the glass down, and she forgot about the fluid inside entirely.

"Here," Mrs. Longley said, offering her open palm. It took Mary a moment to realize that there were two small, peach-colored pills in the middle of her palm.

"I don't have a headache," Mary said.

Mrs. Longley laughed lightly. "Just trust me, my dear."

"Trust you to what?"

At that, Mrs. Longley laughed more earnestly. "You sweet girl. Oh, forget I said that." She closed her hand briefly, and lowered herself to her knees in front of Mary before opening her hand again. "One is for you, and one is for me."

"Why?"

"Do you remember when I said I thought you were tapping into something supernatural?"

Mary nodded.

"This pill is like a door. You and I will go through it together and explore the wonders on the other side."

"What does it do?" Mary asked, and could not help but notice how her own normally blunt, severe cadence of speech had been so quickly replaced with a lilting curiosity.

"That's the thing," the older woman said, leaning in a little closer. "It's a little bit different every time. Do you remember, in chapter... twenty-nine when I had to see the Scryer?"

Mary's heart leapt. "It was chapter thirty, but yes."

"The hag gave clues at a price, and the price was small relative to the reward, wouldn't you say?"

Mary stared down at the pills and nodded.

"Take it with me."

Mrs. Longley plucked one of the pills between the tips of her long, elegant fingers, and Mary found herself doing the same. The older woman gave her a beaming smile tinged with what Mary could only describe as bursting pride. Mary instinctively reached for her glass to aid her in swallowing the pill, only remembering as she was tilting her head back that she did not care for the taste of it.

"You won't regret it," Mrs. Longley said, sighing happily.

Mary did not realize that regret had been a possibility.

"Here. Help me move this table."

The two of them dragged Mrs. Longley's coffee table out into the middle of the floor, into the space the woman usually reserved for her monologues. Then they knelt around it, on the soft carpet, facing each other, and Mrs. Longley smiled as she produced a small cardboard box from the pocket of her robe.

"This," she said reverently, "is a tarot deck. Have you ever used one?"

Mary shook her head.

"Are you familiar with them? What they do?"

Mary shook her head again. Though she had heard stories, she knew no specifics.

"That's alright. The gift here lies entirely within you, and in your tremendous vision, so you will be doing the shuffling and picking. I will merely help to interpret what we draw. For now, though," she said, withdrawing the cards and laying them in a stack on the table, "just place your hand upon them."

Mary looked down at the innocuous deck and did so, and then shifted to sit a little more comfortably.

"If, or when, you feel the need, shuffle the deck. As often as you like."

Mary nodded. Her father played poker often enough with his army buddies that Mary was familiar with the concept of shuffling, though her technique was sloppy by her own admission. She picked up the deck in one hand and dropped a few cards from each side into her other hand until the order had been rearranged. It was less flashy than the card-bending flurry shuffle her father had tried to teach her, but it worked. She then replaced the deck on the table and put her hand over it again.

"Now, whenever your hand is on the deck, I want you to be setting your intention. Intention is important. The cards will tell us about your intention."

Mary nodded. She did not really comprehend what intentions were possible, so she put it in her mind that she wanted to write. She then immediately amended her intention to storytelling, and bringing her vision for her story to a satisfying ending. After a moment's consideration, she nodded.

"Alright. Now, this may take a little bit, so you just stay there and I'll be back."

Mrs. Longley stood and walked out of the room while Mary looked down at her hand. Then she shuffled the deck. She heard the sound of clinking coming from the kitchen, and was not surprised when Mrs. Longley returned with a glass in her hand with a spirit the same color as Mary's. What did surprise her was the fact that the older woman had untied her robe, and though it still sat upon her shoulders it did not cover her middle. What surprised Mary the most was that Mrs. Longley was wearing nothing underneath it.

"Have another sip with me," Mrs. Longley said, gesting to Mary's glass with her own.

Mary looked at her glass apprehensively. She did not like the taste. However, she drank water all the time and did not particularly care for the taste of that either, and Mary knew that drinking water was important for a variety of reasons above and beyond the taste. So, with a deep breath to settle herself, Mary picked up the cup, tilted her head back, and drank the rest of it in two mouthfuls. Her stomach roiled.

"I knew you were special," Mrs. Longley whispered.

Mary wiped her lips with the back of her hand and blinked. The burning sensation was disturbing, up and down her throat, but it began to subside after a few moments. After a few precarious breaths, in which her middle threatened to revolt but ultimately settled, Mary picked up the deck of cards and shuffled them again. It helped to distract.

"Now, it's important that you continue to work on your intention. Hone it, and keep it in the forefront of your mind." She punctuated her statement by pressing the tip of her index finger into the center of Mary's forehead.

Mary nodded and looked down at the cards as they slid from hand to hand. She'd been stuck trying to wrap up loose plot threads for a while, and was having trouble getting the right characters to be in the same room together. It had been easy to create conflict and get things moving, but resolving it was eluding her. More than the gift of storytelling, Mary wanted to know about the path forward.

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," Mary said, noting that her skin felt very warm. "Very good. What was in that cup?"

"Rum," Mrs. Longley said. "Spiced rum, specifically. It tends to be sweeter than whiskey or scotch, my own usual fare, and I thought you might appreciate that."

"I do," Mary said. She licked her lips, noting that they felt a particular tingle, and then licked them again. And then she reshuffled the cards. "I do."

"Good!" Mrs. Longley shuffled across the carpet on her knees, moving right up against the table, and leaned forward over it. "That pill was a happy pill."

"That sounds wonderful," Mary said, tilting her head.

"I know! Very soon, you'll start to feel the effects. You'll feel more connected. You'll suddenly be aware of that section of the floor and how it supports you, and how good it feels against your legs."

"I do," Mary said, looking down. She ran her free hand over the soft carpet and marvelled at the way her brushing stroke changed how it reflected light. "I do! It's marvelous."

Across the table, Mrs. Longley was doing much the same. "It's got this job to do and it's so great at it!"

"Thank you, carpet." Mary shifted how she was sitting, straightening her back, and smiled when she and Mrs. Longley looked at each other. The urge to look away was gone. There was no judgement in the eyes of the older woman. No disdain for Mary's differentness. It was not scary, nor did her insides twist the longer she held her gaze. "Thank you, too."

"My pleasure," Mrs. Longley said with a slow smile. "I left some of the windows open. Can you feel that night air?"

Mary looked down at herself and nodded. "Is this what you meant? When you said it agrees with you?"

"Partially, though I would be lying if I said I took a pill like that often, or even frequently."

The thin, nearly transparent hairs on her arms registered the slight breeze that moved over her, and the wind whispered her name.

"I think you're ready," Mrs. Longley said.

Mary looked over at her, smiled, and nodded.

"Three cards. Doesn't matter which three. Doesn't matter where in the deck you draw them from. What matters is that you pick three that you feel are the right three to pick."

Mary picked up the deck and shuffled the cards over and over. "These cards are incredible," she said. "So crisp."

"Honestly, it was harder to get that deck of cards here in Indiana than it was to get those pills."

"I think, if they could just feel these cards in their hands, people might feel differently about them."

Mrs. Longley reached out, across the table. Her palm came to rest against the back of Mary's wrist, and those long fingers delicately cradled Mary's forearm.

"Your hand is so warm," Mary said. "I... I can feel it pulsing."

Mrs. Longley smiled and nodded. "It's time."

"It is," Mary said, "isn't it." She quickly took three cards from the top of the deck and laid them across the table face down. The world seemed to crowd over her shoulder, watching that most joyous moment, and Mary was glad for it. She wanted to share what she was feeling with all of creation.

"The Hermit," Mrs. Longley said, narrating the cards as she flipped them over, "the Queen of Wands, and the Fool. Oooooh."

"The Hermit is me," Mary said.

"Yes," Mrs. Longley said, her eyes wide with joy. "Lonely and reclusive... but open to seeking more in life. Living within their mind but wondering what might lay outside of it. The Queen of Wands... well..."

"What does she do?"

"The Queen of Wands is... courageous. Confident."

"Is that you?" Mary whispered.

"It's possible. It's certainly one interpretation." She ran the tip of a red-polished fingernail over her chin. "The cat? There at the bottom? Signifies that the Queen is in touch with the darker aspects of herself."

"It is you," Mary gasped. "This is about us. Right here. Right now."

"That is possible," Mrs. Longley said, smiling. She ran her fingertips down her neck, and her eyes rolled back. Mary, watching, mimicked the movement, and gave a low moan at the sensation of skin against skin. Her own skin, feeling twice.

"And the Fool?"

"The Fool is one who has stumbled into opportunity. A new beginning, perhaps, or potential? See how he dances at the cliff's edge? Things will change for him, and soon."

"I asked for help," Mary said, thinking in the back of her mind how talented her tongue was at forming words. "With my intention. I asked for help with my story."

"Then perhaps," Mrs. Longley said, biting her lip briefly, "I am just the person to help you."

"I would like that," Mary said eagerly. "Yes. Please."

"Come," the older woman said, taking a more firm grip on Mary's hand and rising to her feet. "Follow me."

It only took the slightest pull for Mary to want to follow. The older woman led her back through the house, to the stairs, and then up.