Since He’s Been Gone
by Cassandra Walters
The sign outside read “Cursed, Not Jilted,” but the lights in the word “Not” flickered intermittently. You could get your fortune read for $50. Or, guess the owner’s name correctly for a free reading. She opened the wooden shutters in Pirate’s Alley for business each Mardi Gras. Every night for two weeks only, she indulged herself in dealing fortunes. Her willing audience too great a temptation to resist. And so, revelers from Bourbon Street, curious tourists, and locals alike lined up to catch a glimpse of the infamous reclusive psychic. This particular Fat Tuesday, like all the others.
+++
Veronica and Duvall asked every bartender and local they could find what her name was before they joined the line. “Outcast,” “Witch,” “Sheer Evil” were the answers they received. It seemed no one knew for sure. Or, no one was willing to tell them. Still, their anticipation mounted with every step closer to the velvet curtains.
When it was finally the couple’s turn, they walked through the entrance holding hands. They weren’t expecting the sprite-like woman before them. In lieu of a crystal ball or tarot cards, a small vase of magnolias sat on the table.
“What’s my name?” she motioned for them to take a seat across from her.
“Medusa?” Duvall ventured, a hesitant smile dancing on his lips.
“Wrong curse.” She patted her short black hair. After collecting her fee, she wove tales of the glorious future that lay before them. When they rose from the table, Veronica smiled and dabbed her eyes as Duvall held her tightly. “Whether what I told you is true or false depends on what you do. Love each other,” she implored, her eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom.
+++
Anderson considered getting out of line several times before it was his turn. Even though he was hundreds of miles away from home, he still worried that he would run into someone who knew him. The congregation wouldn’t tolerate such a sin from their own pastor. But, when he saw the sign, he couldn’t resist the allure of her promises.
“Say my name, Darling,” she urged, her voice carrying a haunting familiarity.
“Cindy? Is it you?” he choked out.
“Unfortunately, no. But, I can help you,” she assured, taking the folded bill from his trembling hand. For an hour, she channeled the spirit of his late wife. She promised their love would transcend both life and death. As he left, head held high, she whispered, “Whether what I told you is true or false depends on what you believe. Keep your faith.”
+++
Ray, the mayor pondering re-election, arrived late that night. His baseball cap concealing a furrowed brow. Faint strains of jazz lingered in the air. The lights were still on when he stepped beyond the curtain. Gone were the table and the chairs.
“Don’t trust the levees,” she called over her shoulder. Her back was to him as she moved through the room filling boxes.
“What are you talking about? Aren’t you going to ask me what your name is?”
“There’s no time. Whether what I told you is true or false depends on what you say. Tell everyone who will listen,” she admonished, never slowing her frantic pace.
“Batty old kook,” Ray muttered as he left. Months later, when the levees crumbled and disaster struck, he couldn’t escape the memory of her warning. He would forever wonder if he could have done more.
+++
Had she told them her name, they wouldn’t have believed her. Legend has it there is a Cassandra in every town.
Cassandra Walters resides in New York City where she is a teacher by day and a writer by night. She has previously published pieces in Yale University’s Black Ivy literary and visual arts magazine.