Two of Swords
By Gary Duehr
In the back room of Madame Juju's on Bourbon Street, Zoey fanned out the tarot cards on the folding table. Blake tried to keep his face eager, curious, like he was a tourist out on a lark. Behind her on metal shelves there were New Age books stacked up, as well as rows of plastic baggies of incense. It was like the storeroom of a witchy 7-Eleven.
He glanced at the bulletin board beside him. Some names and phone numbers on scraps of notebook paper were push-pinned up, next to a postcard of a naked woman with long blond tresses on a swing with the caption, "Happy Holidays."
"Weird," thought Blake. He wasn't sure what he was doing here. He'd never done anything like this back home, even though his ex had seen a psychic in a nearby town after her mom's death. Cheaper than therapy, he'd thought. This morning he'd flown down from Des Moines to soak up some warmth and check out the local JFK sites. Where Oswald lived, the corner where he passed out flyers. The house of Clay Shaw, the lawyer, who hung out with fellow conspirator David Ferrie and even Jack Ruby, who inexplicably visited him that fall in 1963 to find a stripper.
Her eyes half closed, Zoey let her right hand drift over the rows of cards, as if she were dowsing for water. "Let's see what we have here," she sighed, talking to the cards. "What do you have for me today?" Blake figured she was trying to contact the spirit world or whatever. He watched and listened, his hands on his knees.
Zoey was pale, moon-faced; a silver ring glinted in her nose. Her shaggy hair was dyed platinum and streaked with purple. Somewhere in her thirties, she had the bored air of a single mom stopping for a drink.
Her hand came to rest on a card where a red devil with ram's horns and a snaky tongue was prancing in a field of flames. Zoey looked up at Blake from under mascaraed lashes. "They're showing me the Devil card."
"Is that good or bad?"
"It all depends." Her voice was soft. "In your case, they're saying it signifies a toxic relationship you're in right now. Does anyone come to mind?"
That took him back. "Toxic? Not really." He flicked through his mental rolodex. His landlady, his ex? There weren't that many possibilities to sift through. His life had shrunk, he realized, from when he ran a photo studio downtown. He'd bump into fellow Rotarians at the lunch counter, forking down an open-faced turkey sandwich, or he'd catch sight of old high school pals at the gas station or at a wake at Merino's.
"Maybe a wife or girlfriend?" she probed.
"Nope."
"A business partner, boss?"
"No, I'm pretty much on my own," he smiled. Suddenly he thought about JFK's killers, still in the dark after 50 years. I suppose, he thought, you could look at my obsession with the case as toxic. He still felt the shock from fourth grade when the whole country went dark and silent; he could hear the clatter of the horse-drawn caisson down Pennsylvania Avenue on their black-and-white TV.
"There are some people who don't want me to find what I'm looking for." He was afraid to say too much. He had the feeling he had been followed from the airport. Instead of checking in at the Dauphine Inn, he'd left his luggage in the trunk and walked down to Bourbon.
"Neighbors, debt collectors?
"Kind of."
"Uh-huh," she nodded, setting the Devil card off by itself. "They're saying it might be time for you to break up with them, cut things off. To focus on yourself. The bad energy is keeping you stuck."
"You're not kidding." He shifted he weight in the folding chair; one leg had gone numb. The session was 30 minutes, almost half done. He glanced at the kitchen clock.
She caught him. "Don't worry," she said, "you'll get your $45 worth." Her voice had an edge.
"Are you kidding? I'm not worried."
"Does it look like I'm kidding?" She wasn't smiling. "I'm sick of clients counting every minute. This isn't McDonalds. I don't do fries." She sat back and folded her arms. Her ears had gone red. She glared at him.
Behind her the AC sputtered. He rubbed his arms.
"Look, I'm sorry. Really. I didn't mean anything. I'm sincerely interested in what you have to say."
"Ok, I'll keep going. But watch yourself."
"Deal."
"Alright then." She flattened her palm over the table again. "We're cool. But you gotta chill, dude. You're making me nervous."
Blake slouched down and let his hands fall to his side. He watched her close her eyes in concentration and did his best to surrender to the moment. Like he was standing in the surf waiting for a wave to sweep him up.
Zoey leaned forward. Her hand scanned the cards one at a time like a ouija board. It came to rest on a blindfolded woman in a white gown by the water, holding two long swords crossed in front of her, pointing up in the air. "They're showing me the Two of Swords. This one's all about making tough choices."
She pointed at the card. "She can't see what's going on, and all those rocks in the sea behind her can cause problems. The two swords, how they're evenly balanced in her hands, mean there's no clear way. Maybe even a stalemate. Sound familiar?"
"Yeah." He frowned.
"Something's going to happen soon, a big change, and it's up to you."
He sat silent, taking it in. He felt like he was already in the midst of a big change, his whole life was up in the air. He'd sold off everything he owned, paid the last month's rent. It was all or nothing now.
"Could be work, a relationship, maybe the toxic thing the Devil Card was talking about. But there's something big coming this way."
"Maybe." She was getting close. He thought about the black-and-white photo in his car that he'd bought on eBay. It showed Ringo in a Dallas hotel room, date-stamped February 1964. What was Ringo doing in Dallas? He had to find out, to see if it was a missing piece to the puzzle.
She paused and tilted her head to one side like she was listening to music. From next door he could hear the low boom of a bass walking through a scale.
"They're telling me it's major, but it means freedom too. You're going to be free of something that's been bothering you for a long time." Her voice got quieter. She looked straight at him. "You sure there's no girlfriend?"
"No, no, nothing like that."
"That's what they all say." She grinned. "Then they call me three months later desperate to make an appointment. They gotta see me right away. Their wife or girlfriend or whoever has left them out of the blue. They had no idea. Believe me, nobody ever sees it coming, like a freight train in the dark. Bam." She clapped her hands together. "You positive?"
He frowned and opened his mouth to answer.
"No, don't saying anything. Don't try to answer right away. Just sit with it." She placed her hand lightly on his arm. "Let it percolate. See what's there."
He squeezed his eyes shut. He listened to some customers chatting up front, the clank of a cash drawer being opened and shut. He could smell the smoky scent of sage being burnt. He kept his eyes closed. "Funny."
"What?"
"A Kinks song just flew into my mind. Should I Stay or Should I Go?"
"Exactly, dude. What does that mean to you?"
"I don't know. I feel like I'm caught in a situation that I can't see my way out of." He kept talking like he was halfway in a trance. "Right now I'm on a kind of vacation, trying to find some answers. That's why I'm in New Orleans."
She tapped his arm and released it.
"That's it!" she cried. Blake opened his eyes.
She brushed some strands of hair behind her ear. "The Two of Swords is telling you to make up your mind: stay or go. Should you keep chasing after these people, old friends or whatever, or just say goodbye."
"I can’t. I've spent my whole life trying to figure this out."
"That's what the Devil Card is for. Maybe it's time to cut bait, try a different direction."
She gathered the cards back into a deck. "Our time's about up, but let me give you some aids to help you on your journey."
She reached behind her and pulled some plastic baggies of incense off a shelf. She laid them on the table. "Cedar and juniper, they're good for worry."
"That I can use."
"You don't have to buy them now—I’m not a pimp—but I want you know what's available."
She lifted the silver medallion on a chain around her neck. It shone in the overhead fluorescent. "This is Michael, the Archangel. You can appeal to him if you get stuck. He helps travelers in trouble."
Blake looked closer. The metallic figure had feathery wings and a halo, with a sword raised over his head. Blake could feel its heat throb in his chest. This is who he was now, an avenging angel, and he would seek out the wrongdoers and make them burn with his righteous fury. No longer hollowed out, no longer fused to his computer screen, Blake would watch his life rise up in terrible glory.
He stood up clutching the medallion and shuddered, fighting back tears.
