The Book of Speculation: A Novel

An enormous man in a Hawaiian shirt lumbers by; a scraggly braid dangles down his back like a possum tail; he heads toward a striped tent and ducks under a flap—the sideshow. This must be George the Fat Man, the one with the weed. I search around for Doyle, but he’s nowhere.

I walk toward the small purple tent, past the shouting and the funnel cake, French fries, and zeppole, each with its own fry-oil perfume. The back of the grounds is marked by the Zipper, a rotating conveyer belt that whirls riders in spinning cages in the sky. I took Enola on it when she was too small; the lap bar didn’t lock right and she knocked herself out. For weeks she had a goose egg with the dark purple imprint of waffled chain.

Dunk the Freak has a short line of people waiting to throw softballs. The Freak is a skinny guy in a dirty tank top who shouts that I throw like a girl. Behind him is Enola’s tent—purple velour and duvetyn, spangled with gold moons and stars, hand painted. A sandwich sign leans against the tent corner, a picture of a hand floating over a crystal ball with the name Madame Esmeralda written in Gothic style.

Esmeralda. Really.

The interior is lit by a lamp covered in a red silk shawl. At a card table draped with paisley cloth, Enola is a child’s idea of a fortune-teller—head wrapped in a purple scarf, gigantic gold hoops in her ears. She’s got two clients, a couple of teenage girls; twin ponytails, blond and brown. And there is Doyle beside her, his tattooed hands slithering over the table.

Lifting the curtain lets in light, making the girls turn their heads. Doyle squints. Enola glares at me through rings of black eyeliner. In a thick accent she barks out, “Outside! Esmeralda will be with you.”

“Enola, I—”

“You. Out. Now.” She smacks her palm against the table. Doyle eases from his chair to usher me out.

“Five minutes, okay? Chill.” He pulls the tent closed.

I push a fold of drape to the side, enough for a peephole, and watch as Enola rocks in her chair, speaking in a low voice to the ponytail girls, who huddle in close.

“You want to know of love, yes?” Enola asks. The blonde starts to speak, but is shushed by my sister’s hand. “Not to me, darling.” Dahlink. “Tell the Painted Man,” she says. “The Painted Man keep your secret. He hold your secret. I fix it. Future has two doors, yes? One to open, one to close. Painted Man closes.” She touches a fingernail to a sucker on Doyle’s forearm, then touches her chest. “Esmeralda opens.”

It’s crap, but there’s something about her eyes; they’re different, not hazel like Mom’s, more black—someone else’s. The blonde leans over and whispers in Doyle’s ear, her ponytail brushing his arm, tentacle meeting tentacle. He nods and puts his hand over Enola’s. There’s something disturbing, something that reminds me of a notation: Wild Boy promoted to apprentice fortune-teller. I’m not looking at Enola, but Madame Ryzhkova, mixed with Mom, echoing through my sister’s body.

Enola’s eyes roll and her spine shoots out of its chronic slouch, pole straight. There is a blur, movement and slapping sounds as she lays the cards in a perfect Celtic cross. I recognize the spread from The Tenets of the Oracle. Ten cards. Two in the center, forming the cross, one above, one below, one to the left, and one to the right, then four cards dealt in rapid succession in a line up the side. I can see their faces. They’re different from the ones in The Tenets, but common. A Waite-type deck, delicate, with pictures even I know. The girls angle their chairs, ponytails swinging like pendulums. When she sets the last card Enola’s head falls back sharply, as if her neck has snapped. With perfect timing, Doyle snakes a hand around and tips her back up. Her eyelids flutter open and she bends over the cards.

“Yes, yes,” she says. “Two of you love one man. Yes. Always same.” She laughs; in another woman the sound would be sexual but in Enola it’s carnivorous. “This one.” She points a finger at the blonde. “She is one with force behind her. Always chase, this one is.” The brown ponytail bobbles up and down. “This boy, he like a strong girl. See here? Swords. He like decision, confrontation.” She waves her arms, an air of madness in the gesture. “You.” She stares at the brown-haired girl. “You wait for scraps, yes? Second best for you always.” A small giggle from the girls, a joyless ripple. “See the cups?” Enola continues. “Water. In this position is change, flowing. Communication. You talk to him, yes? She does not speak.”

The girls crowd together like hens to grain, studying the cards. Abruptly Enola’s voice falls away and her jaw goes slack. She stares through the girls, beyond the tent and into something I can’t see. Her hands move, sightless birds navigating migratory patterns. A new arrangement overlays the old, six lines of six cards, each set atop the others. She turns and turns, and when she speaks again it is without trace of accent, without a glance at the cards; discarnate, the voice moves through her. I can see Death, the Devil, and the Tower, and a heart that’s stabbed with swords.