I noticed Jenny, sitting in the dark. Her thin red hair was tied in a little knot at the back of her head, and her table had no candle. She looked pale and crabby.
“I’m getting candles,” I told her as I passed. “Do you want one?”
“I prefer the dark,” she said, with an unconvincing smile. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her. There was a rumor going around that she was sick, that she had a disease, but I didn’t know what kind or even if it was true. Jenny did not confide in me.
Ancient Grace Batsummer had the candle boxes. She was trying to shove some leftover candles into a box that was clearly already full; the cardboard was tearing and she was muttering angrily to herself.
“I’ll take one of those,” I told her.
“One of what, dear?” she said, flustered. She was so tiny and shrunken her dress dragged on the floor.
“A candle. Please.” Something about this evening was wearing on me, already. The flickering, pseudo-romantic light gave me a headache.
By the time I made it back to my table with the candle and a pack of matches, Tony K. had started letting people in. Two short, middle-aged women with matching perms were at my table, their purses on their laps.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Naomi Ash.”
They nodded and looked at each other. One of them, the one with glasses, said, “Are we supposed to tell you our names? Or are you supposed to guess?”
“Well,” I said. “I may never guess. But it’s up to you.”
They looked at each other again. “I’m Judy,” said one with glasses. “And this is Ginny.”
“Nice to meet you.”
There were still three empty chairs. I didn’t really like to do more than four, but so many of the mediums had already left town for the winter we had to double up. As it was, some people were probably going to have to be turned away.
A couple of teenagers came over. “Is this table two?” the boy asked. He had a long, rabbity face and a shock of blond hair. The girl was shorter, plump and nervous. She kept pulling her T-shirt away from her stomach.
I said it was and introduced myself again. Their names were Kevin and Elise.
I lit the candle and got ready. I let my hair down from its ponytail and shook it out, then took some deep breaths and closed my eyes.
“Fancy meeting you here,” said a voice.
It was Dave the Alien, who worked in Train Line’s cafeteria during the summers. He was a small young man with a surprisingly deep voice and no chin whatsoever. He did have very large, rather beautiful dark eyes, and I thought of him as Dave the Alien because an insane woman, a tourist, once insisted he must be an alien, because of those eyes. She had a complicated theory about aliens. Another Dave—Dave Wood—worked as Train Line’s groundskeeper.
“Are you sitting at this table?” I asked, a little bothered but trying not to show it. Reading for people I knew could be tricky when they were mixed in with strangers, like this.
“You bet I am,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this. You promised all summer you’d give me a reading and you never did.”
“Have a seat, then,” I said, not too coldly, I hoped.
The hubbub died down. Tony K. shut the big wooden doors with a bang. Grace Batsummer tottered over to the podium at the front of the room. I could just see the top of her head behind it. “Welcome, all of you wonderful spirits,” she said in her reedy old-lady voice.
“Microphone,” yelled someone in the back.
Grace paid no attention. “Let’s just skip the preliminaries, shall we,” she went on. “Now. I’m going to say a little prayer. Bless us, spirits, and speak to us tonight. We’re all ready and waiting. Amen.”
Everyone at my table was looking at me. I hated this part, the beginning part. “All right,” I said. “It would help if I could hear your voices first. If you could all just say a little something; I don’t care what. Starting with Dave.”
“Put the pressure on!” he said. “Okay. I
“I’m getting candles,” I told her as I passed. “Do you want one?”
“I prefer the dark,” she said, with an unconvincing smile. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her. There was a rumor going around that she was sick, that she had a disease, but I didn’t know what kind or even if it was true. Jenny did not confide in me.
Ancient Grace Batsummer had the candle boxes. She was trying to shove some leftover candles into a box that was clearly already full; the cardboard was tearing and she was muttering angrily to herself.
“I’ll take one of those,” I told her.
“One of what, dear?” she said, flustered. She was so tiny and shrunken her dress dragged on the floor.
“A candle. Please.” Something about this evening was wearing on me, already. The flickering, pseudo-romantic light gave me a headache.
By the time I made it back to my table with the candle and a pack of matches, Tony K. had started letting people in. Two short, middle-aged women with matching perms were at my table, their purses on their laps.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Naomi Ash.”
They nodded and looked at each other. One of them, the one with glasses, said, “Are we supposed to tell you our names? Or are you supposed to guess?”
“Well,” I said. “I may never guess. But it’s up to you.”
They looked at each other again. “I’m Judy,” said one with glasses. “And this is Ginny.”
“Nice to meet you.”
There were still three empty chairs. I didn’t really like to do more than four, but so many of the mediums had already left town for the winter we had to double up. As it was, some people were probably going to have to be turned away.
A couple of teenagers came over. “Is this table two?” the boy asked. He had a long, rabbity face and a shock of blond hair. The girl was shorter, plump and nervous. She kept pulling her T-shirt away from her stomach.
I said it was and introduced myself again. Their names were Kevin and Elise.
I lit the candle and got ready. I let my hair down from its ponytail and shook it out, then took some deep breaths and closed my eyes.
“Fancy meeting you here,” said a voice.
It was Dave the Alien, who worked in Train Line’s cafeteria during the summers. He was a small young man with a surprisingly deep voice and no chin whatsoever. He did have very large, rather beautiful dark eyes, and I thought of him as Dave the Alien because an insane woman, a tourist, once insisted he must be an alien, because of those eyes. She had a complicated theory about aliens. Another Dave—Dave Wood—worked as Train Line’s groundskeeper.
“Are you sitting at this table?” I asked, a little bothered but trying not to show it. Reading for people I knew could be tricky when they were mixed in with strangers, like this.
“You bet I am,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this. You promised all summer you’d give me a reading and you never did.”
“Have a seat, then,” I said, not too coldly, I hoped.
The hubbub died down. Tony K. shut the big wooden doors with a bang. Grace Batsummer tottered over to the podium at the front of the room. I could just see the top of her head behind it. “Welcome, all of you wonderful spirits,” she said in her reedy old-lady voice.
“Microphone,” yelled someone in the back.
Grace paid no attention. “Let’s just skip the preliminaries, shall we,” she went on. “Now. I’m going to say a little prayer. Bless us, spirits, and speak to us tonight. We’re all ready and waiting. Amen.”
Everyone at my table was looking at me. I hated this part, the beginning part. “All right,” I said. “It would help if I could hear your voices first. If you could all just say a little something; I don’t care what. Starting with Dave.”
“Put the pressure on!” he said. “Okay. I
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