Three of Wands

By The Shore—MORNING

I awake still sleepy and stiff to the sounds of the Sunday morning crowd, mostly comprised of a group of boy scouts. I did not sleep well, but had dreams of the Boss watching me sleep.

“See?” she keeps saying in my dreams, “What a terrible researcher you are!” But I cannot wake up to face her for fear it is not just a dream.

Eventually, I  sit up, quickly grab my things and shuffle off with nowhere in particular to go. I don’t head back towards the rooming house but opposite to the public area where I might freshen up or at least stick my head under a shower. The Waitress, still in uniform, is there in a parking lot.

“Frank, there you are!” she beams as if waiting for me. “Listen. The plan is to go out to the island on Saturday to check things out. From the city to the island shouldn’t be any longer a trip than any other, I figure. One of the girls has gotten her sports car stuck, though.”

I shrug with no idea what she is talking about, and the Waitress shuffles after a nearby group of scared teen girls that scoot away as she accosts them about the stuck car.

“Which one of you did it? Come on, dammit! Admit it!”

This hurts my head, “Forget it! It doesn’t matter who did what!” I call after as the yelling fades in the distance. I look around the lot and then, advance on a little red car flanked by police cruisers. This is no doubt the stuck car, having died before finding a parking space, blocking the through traffic.

The girls return and crowd me, one announcing, “The cops have blocked the car in!” which is patently obvious.

“Damn cops. Give me the keys.” I hold out my hand and one girl drops some keys in it. I get inside. The cops do not offer assistance.

“Push at my direction. All of you girls, together.” 

Standard. I try to put it into gear, but when I hit the pedal, I find there is a large half-empty bottle of brown colored booze and a pack of ground meat hidden down on the floorboards blocking the pedal. I wonder to myself which girl is sneaking out for a nip and a burger at night? But then again, who am I to point fingers?

I pull the contraband out and hand it to the Waitress. Now back in the seat, I am barely able to see over the steering wheel in the low bucket seat. But I am still able to get the car into gear.

“Push, girls.”

I put it into neutral and pull the wheel hard to the left. With all the girls pushing, the car just inches past the huge police cruiser in front of it. Then, with the slight slope of the lot down to the beach, I am able to coast the car downhill and into a parking space.

Six of Swords

Our Rooming House—NIGHT

Hearing about the ghost of the pointing lady, from Maggie the landlord, Andrea and I are both scared and intrigued about staying our first night in our new place. As we get into the four poster bed, I think I may see some shadowy figures in the hallway. As we are about to shut the lights, I see the shades are being pulled back, as if by an invisible hand. I think of the pointing lady and that maybe she wants us to look outside. Pointing to the window as it were. I say as much to Andrea, but neither of us dares to go take a look.

We hide under the covers. The lights go out on their own.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I can spot a figure of a young woman by the window, she is indeed pointing. Now that I see her I am not so scared. I go up to her hoping she won’t disappear. She is pretty albeit somewhat transparent. She is in a yellow dress, or at least it feels yellow, as best I can make out a transparent garment in the dark.

As I go up behind her, it seems I can feel her breath and warmth. That’s surprising. She smiles.

“Show me where,” I say and stoop to better follow her pointing arm, “There in the yard?” She shakes her head “No.” Finally I get directly behind her shoulder and look.

“There by that big tree, in the grass?” This time she nods “Yes,” smiles and disappears.

I turn back to Andrea, but she has gone for help. She soon returns not knowing who to alert on such an occasion. I tell her what happened but to keep it quiet until we find out what is going on with that tree.

Seven of Swords

Our Rooming House—MIDNIGHT

Next, I am back home. I guess I had nowhere else to go.

As I amble up to the house, that I guess I had left that morning but things jumble together on the road, it is mostly dark. The door is locked at this late hour and I haven’t brought my key.

I cup my hands over my eyes and peer into the sidelight, hoping to see someone inside. I see Sailor Lou through the window. I’ve been avoiding him as he is embarrassed that I have a new job and he on the other hand has been laid off. Ugh. Perhaps I can help him out. Get him on my crew maybe.

I knock on the door softly. I can see Sailor Lou is sitting, sluggishly in an easy chair watching TV. I feel even worse, and decide that, if he seems to not have seen me, I will leave without knocking again.

The bedroom on the second floor is lit. From the stoop I watch the room and consider disturbing the family that lives up there by knocking louder. The figures silhouetted on the shades in the second floor bedroom seem to embrace, and I decide not to disturb them with my troubles. I’ve made enough noise searching my heavy satchel a second time for my key and sighing, however, and one of the lovers peeks out of the curtains.

“Sorry,” I wave. I guess it would be pointless to wake everyone, since I refuse to share a bed with Andrea now, and all the other beds are likely all taken anyway.

But as I look back at the door, it just swings open, so I must call out “Hello, are you there Lou?” And peek around the corner. He is now lying on the floor with a pillow. He is half asleep but mumbling sheepishly to himself.

I slouch off with a sad shrug. I’m not sharing the parlor with Sailor Lou either.

I head to the tool shed, which is unlocked, where I pull out a sleeping bag that I know the Sailor has stashed for just such occasions.

Behind the house there is side path down a bluff to the beach. I lay out the bag in the sand, shivering a little, and then lay down, head propped up on my satchel of books as a hard pillow. But I am exhausted.

III. The Empress.

The Coffee Shop—DAY

Inside I slowly look around for either Andrea or Spike and Company. The coast is clear of the latter and the former I spot at length in a booth in the back talking to the Waitress. I stomp over, feet dragging and plop across from her in the booth. Andrea is engaged in a breathless conversation—about me— with the nodding Waitress. She’s set her pillbox on the table and waves the hatpin about like a scepter as she gushes.

“...Big time! You are entirely right and I hope that Frank was just not thinking right. I sure hope that he would have fallen in love with me anytime, anywhere and in any shape—I mean my shape. I do believe in love and that overrides any physical dimension—you know, it is like if I get sick or big or even suddenly really, really mean, Frank should still love me. Well, maybe not the mean part. I know that if he gets sick, or anything, or even if he wears a worn out tee shirt, I would still love him, or as I always tell Frank— I would love him even more.”

Andrea roots around in her purse as she gabs about Us. A flowery diary has spilled out of her bag and I finger it a second then decide I am much too depressed to discover its contents. I am not here. I am out in a wheat field somewhere. A scarecrow. Hollow and alone.

But depression leads way to curiosity and curiosity to guile. If she’s been with Spike or any other man, Her Majesty has certainly chronicled it in her diary. I reconsider, and open the book. But the words swim on the page. Of course. She writes in French.

No matter, Andrea quickly notices, and slaps my hand with the waving hat pin. I pull back. She snatches the book away, and flips through it as she talks, as if to find evidence of all this love she speaks of.

“Frank said he wanted to put me on a throne. He claimed he would even love me if I would be paralyzed and stuck in a wheel chair. He even liked to push me around real fast in the chair in Wal-Mart and not stop for anything that I wanted to look at. It was really funny, I was laughing so much and the people did not know if I was handicapped or not.”

I drop my head on the table with a dull thud. I’ve had enough fond memories for now.

The Waitress exclaims, “Wow, he’s really starting to lose some hair!” and I find her pointing out the top of my head to Andrea. I’ve had enough.

“I am finished!” I yell, standing to exit, “Of course, my hair was the one thing about my body that I liked, so God had to take it away from me! I am leaving!”

Andrea squeaks “Qu'est-ce que c'est?” as I go in the cute way she always does and the Waitress shrugs.

“I said: My hair was the one thing about my body that I liked, so the World had to take it away from me! Now, if you will let such a sad beast blindly, wantonly leave, I am going.”

Two of Cups

Back In School—DAY

 Andrea hands me the large, blue binder she has crammed her notes into. She is distracted, and begins to wander from our bench in the quad. But meantime, I flip through it finding various love notes and sketches of mine are also there, preserved from our first dates last semester. I guess she had wanted to show me that she liked them. But now she is distant and I try hard not to feel ignored. I just nod and slowly leaf through.

Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, she hurriedly scurries back over to  me to point out what she means. She flicks the pages quickly past some poems (which are rare for me), dialogues and other things I have noted, added among her work, saying, “These, of course all have your usual insight and expression, which is brilliant.”

But as she comes to some pages where, I have made some brainstorming lists, trying to come up with a story idea for my next play, she adds “But these here are really important, like this.”

She points to where I had been taking some notes on race relations. By today’s standards I am a terrible person for even trying to address these issues. However, in fact, it is in retrospect legitimately a little too old timey racist. I apologize, but Andrea insists that its implied-racism made my point about de facto segregation.

“Forget it.” I egg instead, “Let’s get Lou and go get to some lunch,”

“Nah.”

“Okay. Then, I propose you tell us a story because I both do not want to talk myself up and because you are interesting and have such a beautiful voice and an endearing way of speaking.”

“Oh, no!” she giggles, a little surprised.

“Oh, yes. I’ll even give you possible topics. How did you come to this City from France? Where did she get that shirt? How did you pick the name of your pet rabbit?"

“How did you know I had a rabbit back in France?”

“A lucky guess,” I smile back, “I can always tell.”

III. The Empress. [Reversed]

The City—DAY

I rush out of the shop and into the street, smashing into a woman who is passing with some groceries. We both clatter to the ground, fruits and cheeses flying everywhere.

“Sorry. Sorry!” I apologize getting quickly back up, so as to offer a hand, “I guess I didn’t see you!” I wave the stars from my eyes.

“Or perhaps maybe didn’t want to see you!” I add looking at the figure on the sidewalk who I now realize is Andrea, the cheat. She is nearing tears at a scuffed knee or perhaps maybe they are tears of guilt for what she’s done.

Still, I help her up and she smiles, smooths out her dress, and rights her sequined pillbox hat. Readjusted, she smiles again and then puts an arm around me, “Bonjour, Piteux Frank.”

I squirm under her touch. She calls me the Pitiful One. She thinks it’s cute, but it isn’t really nice is it?

“You know, I desperately want to reciprocate but I won’t.” This is as much an explanation to myself as it is to her.

“Comment ça va?” She ignores my comment. Stoic.

I give no answer but a groan and a wave. Her brave face crumbles at this. Floodgates open.

“Frank, I have something important to discuss with you.” She pleads in a waterfall of tears. “Come with me to the coffee shop so we can talk. Venez avec moi?”

“Fine, coffee,” I groan again and acquiesce, “I guess I am miserably along for the trip.”

We begin to gather Andrea’s things from the sidewalk; I continue to avoid conversation. She sniffs back the remaining tears. She is only sad when I am outright mean. She is perfectly happy with frustrated silence and misery.

Andrea puts a hand to her chest to find she has lost the heart-shaped locket she keeps close to her breast. I had given her that trifle a lifetime ago. She’s never taken if off. She looks frantically for a moment then finds it on the sidewalk with the groceries.

“Rappelez-vous?” she asks holding it up glinting in the sunlight.

“Of course I remember. It’s just some doo-dad from the past.”

She frowns at the word. After all this time, occasionally I come up with a new English word for her.

“A Doo-dad? It means a trinket. A chotsky. Un bibelot.”

“Oui, je comprends.” We both stand up and she stops and hugs me, showing me the heart as if I’ve never seen it before.

“Remember? It’s your heart. You were supposed to give me the real thing—”

I pull away, “Remember, you were supposed not to have another boyfriend.”

Andrea doesn’t answer. The ugly Truth is now known for sure. I repeat louder, “I am not sure if I said this aloud or not: you were supposed not to have another boyfriend!”

She ignores the accusation, “Piteux! Ayons du café!”

“Typical.”

Andrea is back at the Coffee Shop door. She disappears with a final plea, “Piteux! Café!”

I groan and follow.

Page of Cups

Back In School—EVENING

I am chatting, flirting really, with Anna Feng as she packs up her things for summer break. And I am getting somewhere with her, I think. It’s too late of course. Summer break is and endless time to be apart when you are young. She will live and love to the fullest in the next two months, return next semester a different person. No matter, there is always the ebb and flow of Andrea for me.

Speak of the devil, trouble-causing Andrea storms in into Anna’s room gushing about this guy Spike. It seems he is quite the dapper fellow and though a bit early to tell, she thinks she has a new boyfriend in him. He even has his own apartment. I wince at this as it suggests a maturity and freedom I hadn’t counted on and cannot match. It seems to me I have perhaps lost them both.

I am crushed and look for a way to slink off unnoticed. Andrea shows pictures of Spike to Anna who says what a cute couple they are, before excusing herself from the room. I am a puddle of misery oozing away, when Andrea calls me back and shows me the photos of her with a bunch of furniture in a field.

“An attempt at moving in,” she says, “Spike helped get me that far.”

Already shacking up! I am dead. Burst.

When she sees I am broken-hearted, Andrea smiles and pats me on the back and tells me that she talks Spike up just for the benefit of Anna and the other girls. To seem like one of the crowd.

“Spike is a close-friend,” she says, “And I suppose he does love me. But I don’t love him. We’re just friends. Don’t worry.”