13. Easton

Chapter 13

Easton

"Uh-huh, uh-huh! Who's the man?" Wade sang, dancing a slaphappy jig while hoisting a hulking neon toucan over his head.

"Not you," Royal replied, his expression somewhere between "I hate you right now," "You're an idiot," and "I'm going to hurt you if you don't stop playing in my face."

"Hater," Wade chuckled, lowering the stuffed animal but still swaying from side to side. "I'm the man. I'm the man."

Easton interrupted Wade's gloating. "Dude, you won by default."

Wade puckered his lips. "Of course you would take his side." He jerked his head in Royal's direction. "A win's a win."

True, but in this instance, Easton wholeheartedly agreed with his ride-or-die. All of them had bombed at darts. Those balloons weren't going anywhere except in the opposite direction of the dart. The slightest breeze from the incoming miniature missiles had the inflatables bobbing north, south, east, and west, and the janky darts wouldn't fly in a straight line if straight was the only path that existed.

That had been okay with Easton because it meant they all would go home with egg on their faces—equal-opportunity humiliation. He couldn't think of a better way to waste thirty bucks than knowing his friends had been suckered as much as he had. Plus, the carny worker had made a small fortune from them. While Easton didn't treasure parting with money, he also appreciated how difficult it was for some of the game vendors to make a living. They could go for days or weeks without a single customer. Of course, Easton didn't know this worker's situation, but it didn't matter. He and his friends had been able to work off some energy while managing a kaka and a ki ki.

Well, almost everyone.

Royal and Maddox had ended up in some twisted, ostentatious competition that transcended the actual game. Yeah, they had played along with everyone else, but they only seemed to have wanted to compete with each other. Then the unthinkable occurred.

Easton had never witnessed anything like it, and he'd participated in more than his fair share of dart games. What had become a type of lightning round had been like the scene from the movie Ghostbusters when the main characters—spoiler—crossed their streams to take down the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Royal and Maddox had released their darts at the same time, aiming at different targets. Both projectiles veered off their trajectory path, collided, and wedged on either side of the same balloon, stabilizing it, which allowed Wade's throw a half second later to burst it. Thus, in their quest to best each other, they had bested themselves and allowed Wade to sneak in the winning throw. The only thing that had been more comical than everyone's mouth gaping open to catch flies had been Royal's sputter of obscenities and hand gestures. His look of disbelief crumpled Easton over in stitches.

But now, as they walked, Royal had grown silent, his eyes distant as if he was lost in thought.

What are you thinking?

The crowd had grown noticeably thicker. Easton wondered if it was due to people getting off work or if there was a big attraction happening.

"Let's go in here," Maddox suggested, stopping in front of a grayish tent.

"In there?" Easton asked, raising a brow.

"Sure, why not?" Maddox continued.

"Because," Upton argued, "some of these folks be messing with stuff they don't know."

"C'mon," Maddox countered. "It's just for laughs."

Unable to determine if the tent's coloring was due to age or mildew, Easton focused on the plastic double-sided foldable signboard of a palm with an Eye of Ra in the center. A Hamsa hand, he believed it was called. Or maybe not. He wasn't well-versed in those sorts of things. For some reason, the sign reminded him of the classic Sinbad movies of the 1970s.

"I don't know," he hedged. "I have to be at the pavilion soon."

"You've got plenty of time," Maddox rebutted.

"Well, okay," Easton caved. "But we can't stay long."

"Have you gone stupid?" Upton piped up, his mouth twisting in odd angles. "Marcel will slap you naked and hide all your damn clothes if he finds out you've been messing around with a fortune teller."

Probably.

"Who's going to tell him?" Maddox challenged.

Easton answered. "No one, because you're going in too." He jabbed his index finger on his cousin's chest.

"Oh no." Upton vehemently shook his head. "I'm having no part of this."

Easton turned his focus to Royal, who'd remained silent.

Royal held up his hands. "Don't look at me. It's your funeral."

"Yours too. Either Nonc won't believe you watched me go alone and will slaughter you, or he'll snuff you because you did. Either way, you're gourmet worm food." Easton began walking toward the tent opening.

"Shit," Royal muttered, grabbing Upton by the arm.

"What are you doing?" Upton protested, attempting to snatch his arm from Royal's grip.

"You know how Titanic ends. You're part of the band. Now let's go."

"But I don't want to be Jack," Upton whined.

"Jack wasn't part of the band," Easton clarified.

"So? Who gives a shit? He still became a floating frozen sardine popsicle for the humpbacks."

Royal gave him another tug. "Bring your ass on."

"We're doing this?" Cody asked, following Upton. "We're really doing this?"

"Quit ya bellyaching, Miss Celie," Royal replied. "You bet not tell nobody but God."

Upton shook his head. "This is such a bad idea. I mean, the worst. See, this right here is how Stephen King novels begin."

"I can't believe what a bunch of pussies you all are being," Maddox chastised, pushing aside the canvas at the entrance. "What can happen?"

Royal grunted. "Does that question ever have a positive answer? We're not about to play ring-around-the-rosy or whoever going under the mulberry bush."

Easton had no time to contemplate a response. The smells of sweet tobacco, incense, and Irish whiskey immediately drew his attention. The inner tent canvas was covered with colorful fabrics and scarves. Sparkly beads and gems dangled from the top. In the center of the area was a round wood table festooned with luminescent crystals, baubles with the icy shimmer of diamonds, and what looked to be handmade candles. Around the perimeter of the room were long tables covered with trinkets and crushed dried flowers stuffed into glass bottles for sale. At the rear of the tent was a second opening. Beside it was a life-sized resin Khmer-style seated Buddha teaching mudra. Smoke drifted from its lap to the top of the tent. A middle-aged woman wearing a maxi dress and bangles up to her elbows on both arms suddenly appeared at the entrance.

"I see I've drawn a crowd." Her tone was casual and her voice pleasant. "Lots of energy in this room."

"And body funk," Royal mumbled under his breath.

Easton rolled his lips inward to keep from laughing.

"We've come for—" Maddox began.

"I know why you've come." The fortune teller walked slowly in front of them and looked each of them over from head to toe as she passed. She stopped in front of Easton, closed her eyes, moved her hands around either side of his head, and hummed. "I'll take you first."

"No," he protested and pointed at Maddox. "He?—"

"You," she snapped. "You need me more."

Easton would have laughed, but there was nothing humorous in the woman's stare. "O-Okay."

"Come." She headed toward the second entry.

Easton followed, second-guessing each step. He shouldn't be here. What had he been thinking?

Royal followed, but the fortune teller stopped him at the second entrance and lowered her voice. "Don't worry. I won't do that. That has been assigned to you."

Royal nodded and took a step back.

What the hell?

The inner area was much cooler and darker than the previous one. The table in the center was much smaller and draped with purple linen edged in gold lace. A smaller and shorter table cluttered with an array of objects was positioned beside it.

"Sit," the fortune teller instructed, gesturing to a metal folding chair.

Why am I doing this? Obediently, he plopped down in the chair.

The fortune teller extended her hands, which were patterned with henna and looked too wrinkled for her age, palms up over the table. Understanding, Easton placed his hands on hers. She began by inspecting the back sides of his hands. She flipped them both over multiple times, running her finger along his thumbs and pressing at the tips before releasing her grip. Her head jerked backward sharply as if she'd been punched by a phantom hand, and her eyes glowed with a fierce repudiation. Observing Easton's astounded expression, she smiled wryly. "No, this will not do." She turned to her right and tapped a carved wooden box that had a brass handle.

Easton strained to see the box that was partially obstructed from his view by a stack of rolled astrological charts. The engravings on the box looked to be ancient rune symbols. But what did he know? They could have been cat claw marks.

The fortune teller lifted the top, revealing a turquoise lining with a pink satin pillow nestled in the bottom. Atop the pillow was a stack of worn tarot cards that she removed and slapped onto the table.

"Take them," she ordered, nodding at the cards. "Put your nondominant hand on the bottom and your dominant hand on the top and shuffle them. Once you're satisfied, cut the deck into three sections, and then restack them in any order you want."

The majority of his brain once again told him to walk away, but something else kept him planted in the metal chair that wobbled and creaked each time he moved. He paused briefly before doing as instructed.

After hovering her hand in a clockwise motion over the deck, the fortune teller lifted the cards one by one and placed them face down on the table in a pattern. The first card she placed vertically and the second horizontally across it. The next went below and another to the left. Easton watched, mesmerized, as she peeled each card from the top of the deck and positioned it on the table, her bangles clacking rhythmically. In total, she placed ten cards. She pointed at the center card, the first she'd placed. "This represents you," she said, flipping it. "Two of Cups."

He had no idea of the significance but nodded anyway.

She flipped the horizontal card and paused. "Hmm."

Hmm? What do you mean, "Hmm"? What's hmm? He stared at the image that looked to be a cross between Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, Botticelli's Birth of Venus , and Michelangelo's David.

"The Lovers," she finally stated. "This is what crosses you."

"I—"

"Shh." She flipped another card. "The Five of Wands. Inverted." She peered up at him without raising her head. "You have someone in your life who you care about very much, but you're conflicted."

The tiny hairs on Easton's arms began to stand.

She continued. "Two of Wands. Inverted Ten of Swords. Death."

"Holy shit! I'm going to die?"

"We all are, honey. Someday. Calm yourself."

Calm? How can I be calm? I'm going to die.

"The Death card doesn't always mean literal death. From what I'm seeing so far, it doesn't look like it this time either. Often, it means a change or an ending—possibly to a relationship or friendship. However, you're also entering a new season." She tapped one of the cards. "Trauma. Looks like you've been hurt… recently, and you're not healed. You're out of sorts, and it's affecting your emotional availability to others." She flipped another card and made a soft tsking sound. "Queen of Cups. Inverted. So much self-doubt and feelings of vulnerability. I think…. No, let's see." She flipped the remainder of the cards, reared back in her chair, and studied the entire spread. "The Two of Cups," she said, pointing back to the first card, "indicates that you have someone in your life who balances you, your equal, but…. Hmm."

"What? What is it? Why do you keep saying that?" Easton had scooted to the edge of his chair, and both his legs bounced restlessly.

"I sense you're hiding part of yourself, and that's causing a division. It seems that you're at a crossroads, and you need to decide whether you want to move forward and follow your intuition or allow other forces to hold you back and detain your growth. Choosing what you feel isn't going to please everyone. You will lose something important. It will be painful—like being hit by a freight train—but you can't allow fear to continue to be your cloak and hide in the midnight shadows. There will be new people and opportunities at another station. Some you may already have encountered, but they'll get on board if you allow them a ticket."

Easton rubbed his hand along the rear of his neck, smoothing the hairs that were now standing up there as well, and frowned. "You just said a whole bunch of words and nothing at the same time. What does any of what you said mean?"

"Oh, I think you know deep down. You not taking action may be destructive." She retrieved a pewter vase from the side table, removed the lid, and held it in front of him. "Put your money in the offering vessel."

He started at the vase that looked more like an urn. It's a vessel, all right. "How much is it?"

She told him the price, and he paid, adding a tip. Why the tip? He didn't know. She hadn't told him anything that he wanted to hear. Had she told him anything that he hadn't known? Had she clarified the situation? Had he even been entertained?

He stood to leave.

"Send in your friend—the one with the centuries-old reincarnated soul."

Reincarnated soul? Well, she can't be talking about Upton, and I doubt she means Maddox. Wade barely has any soul. Dude can't dance worth a lick and amasses enough static energy crossing a carpeted floor to fry anything inside him to a pork skin crackling. Cody? Naw. Cody's wife wouldn't be having any reincarnation bullshit. If she thought for one second that anyone other than Cody was crawling in bed with her, there would have been a WWE smackdown a long time ago.

His process of elimination left one person: Royal.

He exited to the outer area, where the air not only felt warmer but cleaner, yet he shivered. Only Royal remained.

"Where is everyone?"

"Just outside." Royal nodded toward the tent opening. "The cell reception isn't good in here, and Upton wanted to livestream his last will and testament—or testimony, as he called it."

"Why aren't you with them?"

"Who do I want to talk to on the phone?"

"Cinderella's ugly stepsister? I don't kn—" He stopped his protest. There was more to this story, but there wasn't time to explain if everyone was going to have a turn before his call time at the pavilion. "She wants to see you next."

"I bet she does. What did she say to you?"

"I have to buy an Amtrak ticket."

" Quoi? " Royal cocked his head as if he'd suddenly pulled a muscle. "To where?"

"Georgia, I guess." He jerked his thumb toward the entrance to the inner area. "Go on. She's waiting for you."