Reading Leaves

Loud, throbbing music blared from surround sound speakers. A woman, leather-faced from too many unprotected days on the beach, tapped her foot to the King of the Hill theme song. The telephone rang, but she didn’t hear it, at first. When she did, she scowled at the interruption, pushed the mute button on the remote control, and put down her embroidery hoop.

The woman took a moment to admire the pink roses on the pillow case she was finishing for her sister, who was confined to a nursing home back in their home town of Transylvania, Louisiana. Lucette and her older sister Sabelline grew up in Transylvania, but they spent most summers in southern Louisiana with Taunte Nazaire near Broussard in St. Martin Parish. Mamere and Papere Thibodeaux lived on the bayou, so the girls had a diverse upbringing. They learned to set an elegant table and the art of embroidery from their well-bred mother, and how to trap and cook crawfish from their father’s Cajun clan. How Rémi Thibodeaux managed to get Charles Robichaud to give up his daughter remains a mystery. Everyone agreed Rémi had something on Charles, but no one knew what. All of which took place long before Lucette moved to California and became Lucy.

The answering machine clicked on, Lucy grabbed the receiver, turned off the machine, and then stubbed her toe on the door jam. Her spit-fire temper hurled a few expletives into the phone before she was able to get out a pleasant, “Hello?” Of course, it was her best friend, Myra, who went to morning mass seven days a week, and who was not only offended, but embarrassed by fowl language.

“Oops,” Lucy said. “Sorry Myra.”

Surprisingly, no lecture ensued, only Myra’s excited voice, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Grady called.”

“What? Who? Grady?”

An exasperated breath was closely followed by, “You know! Grady. From the internet?”

“Oh, yeah, Grady from that Find Your Mate website you’ve been frequenting. You actually talked to him? Isn’t that a little dangerous?”

“Lucy! No. He’s a wonderful man.”

“And you know that, how?”

“Just because you were taunted by all those horny men while performing acrobatics high up on that red velvet swing. In that skimpy outfit, I might add. You think all men are out for no good. Besides, at his age, all he’s likely to want is companionship.”

“Myra Post, I’m shocked! You actually said the word, horny.”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry.”

“Anyway, you make The San Francisco House sound like a sleazy bar. You would think I was turning tricks over at the Orange Blossom Motel. San Francisco House was an expensive restaurant in its day. The best of the best ate there. And I would have killed myself if I wore loose clothing while performing highly skilled acrobatics.”

Myra interrupted Lucy’s lecture, “Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start an argument. I have good news.”

“I’m sorry, too. Sometimes our differences rear their ugly heads. What’s your news?”

“I’m meeting Grady for coffee at Muddy Java. I want you to come with me.”

“No way!”

“Oh, Lucy. Please. I can’t do this by myself. I haven’t had a date since Walter died twenty years ago. And this is important to me. I need your opinion.”

Lucy looked in the mirror, fluffed her recently dyed red hair, removed her John Lennon style glasses, and heard herself say, “If you’re going to get your panties all in a wad, I’ll go. He’s probably a perve, but I can see you’ll have to find that out for yourself. What time?”

“I’m supposed to be there at four.”

“Four! You can be ready in an hour?”

“I’ll be ready. Since you already know where Muddy Java is, will you drive?”

“Be here by 3:45, and don’t be late. You know how I hate to be kept waiting.”

With a voice full of happy, Myra teased, “If I didn’t know you had a heart of gold beneath that gruff exterior, I’d find someone else to be friends with.”

Laughing, Lucy responded, “No you wouldn’t, you live next door. I’m too convenient.

Lucy hung up the phone, reached down and picked up Hairy, her hairless Sphinx cat, and opened the front door. Hairy snuggled up under her chin and started purring. Lucy bent down to pick a red rose, inhaled its sweet fragrance, and watched as a limo driver tried to maneuver the sharp turns of Lombard Street. Lombard wasn’t only the crookedest street in San Francisco, it was also steep. She wished the city had kept it blocked off to tourist traffic, but too many tourists complained, and San Francisco catered to the tourists. Lucy went back inside.

Upstairs, she dropped Hairy on the bed and opened the closet door. Inside she picked out a vintage tie-dyed, granny dress, and pulled a pair of sandals from the shoe rack. She donned the granny dress, and slipped her polished red toes into barely there sandals. She hated shoes, but they were always necessary when entering establishments serving food or drink. Besides, it was an unusually warm day for San Francisco, so the sidewalks were sure to be hot.

Peering into the mirror, Lucy applied make-up, pink blush, and eye-shadow to match her startling blue eyes. She opened a plastic case, took out a pair of velvet black eyelashes, glued them on, and finished by running a brush through her garish red hair.

Back in the closet, she took down the jewelry box Papere Thibodeaux made for her when she graduated college, and pulled out a turquoise necklace, silver hoop earrings, and a small cloth bag. She reached behind her neck to close the clasp on the necklace, put on the earrings, and slipped the bag inside the pocket of her dress.

Lucy checked the clock on the wall, 3:40. Turning this way and that before a full length mirror, she lifted her arms as if belting out an aria from La Boheme, and said to herself, “Girl, you’re beginning to look like an old hag. But, for an old hag, you look kind of groovy.”

While waiting for Myra outside, a yellow Mercedes went flying around the curve nearest Lucy’s house, honking as it passed. Lucy laughed, and then frowned while shaking her finger at young William, who lived in the last house at the bottom of the hill.

Myra came out her front door, “One of these days, that boy is going to miss one of those curves and smash his pretty new car.”

“That would be one hell of a crash.”

“Lucy! Whether you believe or not, God’s listening.”

“Sorry. Get in. No wait! I forgot to clear out the passenger seat.” Lucy popped the trunk/hood of her blue, 1964 Volkswagen Bug and threw several shopping bags inside, before tossing an errant French fry into the grass, “Okay, it’s safe now. Let’s go.”

After a hair-raising ride through the streets of San Francisco, they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, making their way to Sausolito in record time. Lucy parked beside Muddy Java and turned off the key. She reached into her pocket and handed Myra the cloth bag.

“What’s this?” Myra asked.

“That’s a Gris-Gris bag. Taunte Nazaire gave it to me when I first moved to California. It’s for good luck.”

Myra tried to hand it back, “Thank you Lucy, but you know I don’t believe in those voodoo things.”

“Put it in your pocket. It couldn’t hurt.”

Reluctantly Myra tucked the bag inside her purse, “Okay, but understand, I’m giving it back the minute we get home.” Myra frowned as she watched Lucy put on a thick layer of bright red lipstick. The gesture caused Myra’s insecurities to rear their ugly heads, “You’re not going to flirt with him are you?”

Lucy laughed, “Well, I hadn’t thought about it.” When she realized her friend was serious, she added, “Of course not, silly. Besides, I had Indian food for lunch and have a really bad case of curry breath.” Chuckling, Lucy added, “I’m not even going to sit with you. I’ll be inside if you need me. Hmm. We need a signal.” Lucy thought for a moment, “I know, tug at your ear like Carol Burnett used to do, and I’ll come to your rescue. Oh, and don’t order coffee, order the Spring Pouchong tea. I want to read the tea leaves.”

Myra frowned at her friend, but agreed.

Inside the two women went their separate ways. Lucy took a seat in the far corner, making sure she was near enough to keep an eye on the now blushing Myra, and ordered her usual latte.

Grady wasn’t someone Lucy would have been attracted to. He was a bit too colorful for her taste. He had a scarf tied tightly over his head, which wasn’t so bad in itself, but it wasn’t a quiet scarf, it screamed color, as did the cabana hat resting on top of the scarf, and the jacket he wore over tattered jeans, none of which matched. His beard was a mixture of salt and pepper, and could use a trim. In the plus column, he wasn’t dirty. At least he must not smell bad, since Myra accepted a quick hug before sitting down in the chair he pulled out for her. Okay, another perk, he did have manners.

Lucy sipped her coffee and watched as Myra finished her tea, and then Lucy walked up to the table as if she worked there. She took the cup and returned to her table. Lucy drained off the excess tea and shook the cup. Starting along the rim at the handle, she read the leaves in a downward spiral, present to future. Lucy saw a house, which symbolizes change or success, followed by a mountain, the symbol for a journey of hindrance, which probably meant there would be a few bumps in the relationship. Lastly, Lucy saw the distinct shape of a heart, which symbolizes true love.

Lucy smiled as she placed the cup on the table. She watched the couple laughing together, satisfied Myra had found true love, she whispered. “Laissez les bon temps rouler.”

What Lucy didn’t notice was the activity inside the cup. The heart slowly, carefully, changed its shape into that of a snake, ready to strike. The snake’s tail pointed directly toward Grady. The Gris-Gris bag slipped out of Myra’s pocket, spilling its contents across the floor. Lucy rechecked the cup, glanced at the scattered contents of the Gris-Gris bag, and panicked, she had to warn Myra.

Lucy stood up, overturning her chair, and looked at Myra. Myra caught her eye, and then tugged her ear. Without bothering to make excuses, Lucy grabbed Myra’s arm and practically dragged her outside. Inside the car, the two women grinned at each other. Their grins quickly changed to near hysterical laughter.

Once she caught her breath, Lucy asked, “So, what was he like?”

Myra shrugged. “As always, you were right. He’s a perve!”

To post your own Portrait of Words, or just read some really great stories, visit Portrait of Words.