38 WHAT HE VALUES LEAST

38

WHAT HE VALUES LEAST

Sam Crockett is a boy of many enthusiasms, each embraced as fully as any other. The mysteries of ancient Egypt, who built the pyramids and how. The myths of the ancient Greeks and Romans. UFOs, life on other worlds, what waits to be discovered on the dark side of the moon. The United States Marines, their history and triumphs and sacrifices, this battle and that, the details of their dress uniforms, their courage and sense of honor. Trains, their lore and history, the Irish Mail , the Orient Express , the Night Ferry from London to Paris, the California Zephyr . Psychics, clairvoyants, mediums, and fortunetellers.

The year that Sam is thirteen, the woman in a white robe and yellow sneakers sets up shop in an old house rented from Vance Burkhardt. In calligraphy on both sides of her VW van are these words: L OOK WITH KINDNESS ON THOSE WHO SUFFER , WHO STRUGGLE AGAINST DIFFICULTIES , WHO DRINK UNCEASINGLY THE BITTERNESS OF THIS LIFE . A sign in the yard promises that the seer will reveal the truth and the future.

That is an irresistible offer to many in the county, not least of all to Sam, especially because he is enduring the most difficult year of his young life. Of those whom he knows to have visited the fortuneteller, few will discuss what she told them. Those who do make revelations all claim to have received predictions of good health, of unexpected money soon to come into their hands, of love on the way, of wrongs done to them that will be set right; however, they appear unsettled, are unable to make eye contact, and seem to be lying. If they are disturbed by what the seer actually told them, Sam should not want to subject himself to whatever the cards or the soggy tea leaves tell her. But the price is so right. They say the woman takes no money, asking only that you bring her the thing that you value least. Sam knows what that is. No brooding is required.

Besides, he wants to be a Marine when he grows up, and no one with the thinnest thread of cowardice sewn through him can hope to be a Marine. Courage is required no less than honor. He need not be fearless; fearlessness is foolish. However, every fear must be faced down, chained, and kept in check. If the seer has something godawful to tell him, he'll just have to hear it, consider it, and then get on with life.

The rental property in which the woman has set up shop is eight miles from the house where Sam lives with his mother, Pauline, but that distance is no obstacle. He has his bicycle, and school is out.

He arrives as a man and woman drive away in a Buick sedan. They look grim.

The fortuneteller, who stands on the porch to watch them leave, is somewhat of a surprise to Sam. Although he knows about the robe and the canary-yellow sneakers, he imagined that she must be witchy or maybe sinister like the Romany crystal-gazers in those old movies about werewolves and the like. Instead, she has a pleasant face; something about the way she looks, something that he can't define, encourages him to trust her and feel safe in her company.

She welcomes him into the old house and conducts him to the shadowy kitchen, where he sits across from her at a painted table. The window blinds are drawn shut. Candles glimmer in three small, red glasses. The room should be spooky. Instead, it feels mysterious but unthreatening, the way places are in adventure stories set in exotic lands, like a hidden room in an abandoned palace or a chamber in a castle tower where a wizard casts and conjures on behalf of the righteous king.

"What have you brought me, Sam?"

"How could you know my name?"

"How could I not?"

"So wow. You really have power."

"No power. I want none. But I see."

He thinks about that, wondering how much she sees, how deeply. Having come here to ask about the future, specifically his mother's future, he only now considers that the banner staked in the yard, the blue cloth with silver moons and stars, promises not only that this woman will reveal the future but also the truth. She knows his name. How much more about him will she come to know as they proceed? There are a few things about himself that he would rather she not see, faults that he must conquer if he's ever to become a Marine. Perhaps the true cost of her revelations isn't the thing he values least but also the full truth of himself in embarrassing detail.

"Yes," she says, though he has asked no question.

His heartbeat accelerates. Being committed to going into battle and putting your life at risk is only one kind of courage. Another and necessary kind of courage, which he has come to understand by reading adventure novels, is to know yourself for what you really are, accept what that is, and correct those habits and attitudes that need to be corrected. You can't be a hero if you run away from either the enemy or the truth of yourself. Now he understands what he hasn't quite appreciated before: The second kind of courage is harder than the first.

"Exactly," says the seer.

His hand shakes as he shuttles the large manila envelope across the table, past the triangulated candles.

When she opens it, twenty-six snapshots slide out and spill across the many layers of color in the scarred and chipped tabletop. "These are of your father."

"Yeah. I don't want them. They're the thing I value least. That's what they say you want."

"Why don't you value them?"

"You're a seer. You know already."

"To receive what you came here for, you must hear yourself say why you would throw these away."

Sam affects a deadpan voice. He dares not allow himself anger, for that will give rise to other feelings he can't control. He is determined to be strong, self-controlled. "He left us. Seven months ago. He wanted her more than he wanted my mother."

"And more than he wanted you."

"It's my mother I'm worried about. He went out of state with that ... that woman. Another state where it's not easy for Mom to make him do what's right. He's got money, not just what he took from the bank without telling her, but he won't send her a dime. She took a second job to keep from losing the house. She cries at night in her room."

Sam stops speaking, stares at the candle flames. He has allowed resentment to enter his voice, which could lead to stronger emotions that will undo him. The seer sees, and she waits to be told what she already knows. In time, Sam says, "He never calls. She emails him. He answered just one, said he's never coming back. She kept hoping, but now she's finally going for a divorce. I never want to see those photos again, his face."

"What about your father himself?"

"What about him?"

"Do you value him?"

"What's to value? He's a creep. He wasn't who he seemed to be. He pretended to be someone he wasn't."

"Do you love him?"

"No. Hell no." He considers the hardness in his voice. "I don't hate him, either. There's nothing to hate. He's a big nothing. He's empty. It's almost scary how empty he is. No, not almost. It's scary how empty he was. I don't want to feel anything about him. I won't give him that. Don't say I have to love him no matter what."

"You don't, Sam. Nor do you have to respect him."

"Yeah, well I don't."

"But you must honor him."

"Honor him? What's to honor?"

"He's your father."

"He's got no honor himself."

"That's on him. Let it not be true of you. You don't need to respect him, but you must not disrespect him. Never seek to harm him. Never allow hatred in your heart. By dishonoring him, you would dishonor yourself. Pity him and leave him to his own destruction. That's already your intuitive reaction, and it's the right one."

She slides one photo back to Sam, a shot of him with his dad in front of a Christmas tree, the year he got his bicycle. "I'll take the rest as payment, Sam. But you keep that one all your life, to remind yourself not to dishonor him as he dishonored you and your mother."

He stares at the photo. "Keeping it feels weird."

"But does it also feel right?"

"No. It feels ... I don't know."

"Those are my terms," she says. "I keep the rest, but you keep that one. Now what did you come here to ask me?"

There must be a draft that Sam doesn't feel, for the flames in the votive cups swell and lick above the ruby rims. Shaped on the wall, their light undulates like spirits swaying to music in some sphere beyond his hearing.

He has come to a sudden recognition that knowing the future can be a burden too heavy to be carried, a cause for despair. He winnows through the many questions he has conceived and finds only one that seems safe to ask. "My mother's depressed, so beaten down by what my father's done. Will she ... will my mother ever be happy again?"

"In time, yes. Your mother is stronger than you think."

That is good to know. The seer's answer brings Sam much relief. He could ask how long his mom will be sad before she's happy again, how long her rediscovered happiness will last, whether he will make her proud and be part of the reason for her happiness. However, each question opens the door to dark knowledge. No one is happy all the time and forever. He doesn't want to hear that his mother will be happy for five years and then be struck down by disease or violence before she's forty.

"What else?" the seer asks.

"Maybe that's enough. Knowing she'll be happy."

"What about you?"

"There's a lot of stuff I'm better off not knowing."

"True. But maybe there's a question or two worth risking."

He watches the three figures of light pulsing on the wall, looks down at the photo of him with his father, and meets the woman's eyes again. "Will I be like him?"

"Your father?"

"Yeah."

"Like him in what way?"

"Will I betray people?"

"No. Not you. Never."

"Will I . . . be happy?"

"Your life will be full of good cheer and delight until there comes a valley of great suffering and sorrow. But if you do not despair, then beyond that valley will be new heights of happiness greater than anything you had experienced before. There will be dogs and one even better than dogs."

He doesn't know what to make of that prediction, what he should feel, whether he can feel anything other than dread in anticipation of that "great suffering and sorrow."

As other questions come to mind and seem urgent, Sam rises from his chair, with the photo in hand. "I better go."

"I am glad you came, Sam Crockett."

"Me too. I guess."

At the threshold to the hallway, he looks back at her.

Whatever draft caused the fire to dance high on the wicks has withered away. The candle flames are contained within the red-glass cups.

The kitchen has grown darker, but the woman has not, as though shadows are enjoined from diminishing her presence.

Outside, Sam puts the photo of his father in his shirt pocket. After he has cycled halfway home, he stops along the side of the road and extracts the snapshot to look at it again. He considers tearing it up and throwing it to the wind.

He didn't promise the seer to keep it. Not directly. Yet in a way, leaving that house with it was a promise. Breaking an implied promise is a kind of betrayal. He returns the picture to his pocket.

He doesn't go directly home. He doesn't have the heart for home just yet. He cycles, cycles, and the afternoon wanes, and the summer light distills toward a brandy hue.

His mother is back from work by now. Soon she's going to start worrying about him. Whether he has the heart for it or not, he has to go home.

Leaving his bike in the backyard, he stands staring at the house. Then climbs the porch steps. He hears music. She hasn't played music in seven months. It's that Paul Simon album she has so long enjoyed. "Graceland" is playing when he steps through the back door into the kitchen.

His mother is spooning a mixture of sliced fresh peaches and raisins into a pie shell. The kitchen smells wonderful. She used to love cooking. But for a long time, they have been eating takeout, pizza, sandwiches.

She looks up and smiles. "Where've you been, Sammy? I was just wondering if I should be worried."

Because he doesn't trust himself to speak, he goes to her and puts his arms around her as she sets aside the ladle.

Hugging him, she says, "What is it, sweetheart?"

He cannot speak. He holds fast to her.

Smoothing his hair with one hand, she says, "Everything's going to be all right."

Sam finds his voice. "I know."

"I mean it. We're going to be fine."

"I know."

"For a while," she says, "I didn't think so. But then today, something changed."

"What? What changed?"

"I don't know really. A feeling. Suddenly it felt like none of it mattered so much anymore. I just knew we'll be okay. We have each other, and we'll be okay. I've been frozen in worry, like encased in ice, and the worry just melted. We'll get through this."

He says, "I know we will. And we'll be happy."

"Of course we will. Why wouldn't we be happy?"

"No reason," he says.

Good cheer and delight ... until there comes a valley of great suffering and sorrow ... then new heights of happiness ... dogs and one even better than dogs.

"No reason at all," he says, and he puts out of his mind the predictions he paid for with the photographs of his father.