The Seer Renee (8 page)

"Harry, you’re under immense stress,
and if you aren't careful, you are going to lose everything you love," I
said, for the thousandth time, trying to decide how much of the truth I dared
tell. He nodded in resignation, his dark eyes shiny with tears.

"What can I do? My wife…"
he started, and his hand contracted into fists. His head jerked up.
"Sorry, Mambo."

"I see your wife losing
everything she loves," I paused waiting to see his reaction to that. It
could mean her mother or him or both. After a few minutes of silence, he seemed
to understand, and he looked up. "If you love her, you can help her. If
you do, I see you gaining much. Otherwise…"

Now came the interesting part, as I
watched Harry work through what I had said. As he did, I could watch the future
change. But, I had to make sure he maintained his resolve.

'Harry, your future depends on helping your wife through this stressful
period."

"What's going to happen?"

"I don't know, Harry. I only know she is under enormous stress, and
only you can help her get through it. Without your help…"

"Thank you, Mambo Renee. Thank you," he said and dropped a wad
of bills on the table. "Thank you." And he wandered out the door like
a man in a trance. I hoped he could keep his resolve to help. It would
certainly be stressful for him given his personality and dislike of his
mother-in-law. When I picked up the bills, there were five twenties. I planned
to give him half of that back when I saw him next. I did what I could. No
matter what happened, it would be impossible to determine if what I suggested
meant I saw the future. I could know from another source that his wife's mother
was sick and coming to visit or stay.

* * *

The next day—no, it must have been night since I was having a
nightmare—I had six Locos enter my shop and order gris-gris bags. If this
got out, I'd soon be accused of protecting the Locos. Their money wouldn't make
up for the loss of business or worse being treated as a piranha. If this kept up,
I planned to buy stock in whoever made Tylenol. I wish I had a fortuneteller I
could go to. Maybe she could find a future that had less stress.
Oh, shit.
I didn't want to change my
life. I loved Vodou and helping people—so I guess I didn't need a fortuneteller,
I just needed another couple of Tylenol.

It was a good thing I looked at my appointment calendar because I was in
the mood to go to bed and pull the covers over my head. Ms. Jeffery was due at eight
p.m. I think I needed a gris-gris bag. Maybe I need three: one for Wisdom, one
for Luck, and one for Courage. I had a feeling Ms. Jeffery was going to again test
what I should and shouldn't tell my customers.

* * *

Naturally, she was early, and I hadn't changed into my
"fortuneteller" garb. I could've asked her to wait while I changed,
but that seemed ridiculous.

"I know I'm early…"

"It's not a problem, Ms. Jeffery… Ellen. Would you like something to
drink? Maybe sweet tea or coffee." I guess I was tired, because creating a
semi-false illusion suddenly seemed foolish.

"Yes, I'd like that Renee… Mambo?"

"Mambo is like saying, 'father' to a Catholic priest. I'm an
ordained priestess in the Vodou religion—Voodoo to most. And it's a
religion just like any of the major religions—different but the same in
many ways. And millions of people around the world practice it, and we believe
in one God like all Christians. Our ceremonies are like many other religious
ceremonies which include singing and dancing. Unfortunately, the movies and the
uninformed have portrayed Voodoo as some kind of ridiculous cult. Sorry. I'm
tired." I retreated to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and put together
a small tray of crackers.

"Yes, it must be frustrating having to dress up to be taken seriously.
I don't know if you can really tell the future—" she held up her
hand before I could respond, which, of course, I hadn't planned to. "But I
believe you do your best to help people. I didn't come to you without doing
some research first, so I know that to be fact." While she sipped her
coffee and nibbled on a cracker, she told me a little about herself. She had
graduated from Yale with a MBA. Since then, she had managed to claw her way
into a senior management position with
Hibernia Corporation and felt she
was in line for a Vice President position. She carefully refrained from
mentioning her current problem. I couldn't blame her—no sense giving a
fortuneteller too much information. Actually, she shrewdly gave me enough to
concentrate my fortunetelling on her career rather than her real problem, which
had little if anything to do with her career. I cleared the table and sat down.

"Put your hands on the table,
palms down, please," I said. She gave me a strange look but complied. I
placed my hands over her and watched as she went through her normal routine,
which proved highly paranoid. It happened several weeks later. A man broke into
her apartment and raped her. It was so violent I couldn't help but jerk my
hands away. In response, she stood quickly and knocked over her chair.

"WHAT?" She looked pale,
and her hands were shaking. Mine were shaking too, so I put them in my lap out
of sight under the table.

"I apologize, Ellen. Please
sit."

"If this is an act, I don't
appreciate it."

"Please sit." I had to
think. What do I tell her and more importantly how do I stop the rape without
disclosing what I see.
Granny, if you’re
listening, I need help.
"The future is complicated because there are
so many factors that affect each individual. Sometimes it's hard to interpret
what I see." A
nd can tell you.
"I'm
sorry I scared you. I'm not sure how to interpret what I saw and need time to
think about it, but I can tell you I see nothing to worry about for the next
two weeks. I want no money for tonight since I haven't helped; in fact, I've
caused you more worries. I'd ask you to forgive me, and come back in two weeks.
You needn't pay for that session either."

"You say I have nothing to
worry about. Are you sure?" She stood, staring down at me.

"Sit down and place your hands
back on the table, please." When she did, I placed my hands over hers and
watched the next three weeks. Nothing changed.

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm concerned
about further out, which isn't clear to me." What wasn't clear was what I
could do about it. Doing nothing wasn't an option. Some color had returned to
her face as she sat thinking.

"I don't know what to think
about you, Mambo Renee. But I do believe you want to help. It's written all
over your face and in your body language. I just hope you can. I'm slowly
losing my mind." She stood, dropped a hundred dollar bill on the table and
left. I hoped so too. I think the rapist kills her.

"Well, what have you found out about the Renee girl?" Mr.
Willis asked as Ken and Sheila settled on the brown corduroy couch. He sat in a
beige-striped lounge chair to their left. Tony stood off to the side. The view
of New Orleans out the floor-to-ceiling window was spectacular. The suite must
have cost at least a thousand a night.

"We discovered a lot, but nothing to prove whether she's a fake or
can really tell the future. Everyone I talked to said she could tell the
future, but when I pushed for details, the examples they gave were ambiguous.
If she says good things are going to happen, and they do, is that because she
saw the future or just telling them what they want to hear or based on what that
person let slip or…? There was one case where she told the man not to drive or
he'd have an accident. She told him to see a doctor before he drove again. But
there again, everyone agrees she knows medicine so she could've detected something
in his behavior. She also told him his sister would come through a serious
operation all right. But would a fake tell you she was going to die? The odds
favor the patient at least surviving the operation." Ken shrugged in
frustration.

"What about you, Sheila?" Willis asked, blowing out a cloud of
smoke and pointing his cigar in her direction.

"Pretty much the same results. Some of what she predicted could be extrapolated
from general knowledge. Like the fishing has been good, so there will be extra
money to spend. Some of her clients certainly give away information when they
are talking. And most of the woman I talked to are regular clients, so she
knows a lot about them—family, friends, work, money, etc." Sheila
paused to take a sip of the Pinot Noir she had selected from the wines on the
counter. "She's very intelligent, knows her herbs, and studied under Eshe
for many years. Consequently, she would make a convincing fake. Conversely, she
would also be able to hide the fact she could really predict the future."

"In other words, you don't know." Willis rose and walked over
to the window and stood looking out while puffing on his cigar. "There's
still time. Perhaps we should create a little test. What if we target one of
her clients? If she warns them, we will know. Of course, we have to carry through
on the threat, or it wouldn't be a future event. I leave it to you and Sheila
to arrange." He pointed his cigar at Ken. "A serious event, or she
may choose to ignore it."

Willis nodded at Tony who grabbed a briefcase and opened the door. Tony
turned back to them after Willis exited the door. "The room is yours
tonight if you wish."

* * *

"What do you think, Sheila?" Ken asked as he made himself a
seven-and-seven from the assortment of liquors on the counter. Sheila sat on
the couch with her legs curled under her, sipping a new glass of wine.

"It has to be one of her current clients who sees her regularly.
What's going to happen to him or her must be something Renee can't ignore. We
must go through with it regardless of whether she tries to stop it, or she
wouldn't be able to see it in the person's future."

"What if she can't see the future?"

"Then her client is going to have a very bad day, and she can blame Renee."

"What if she can, but chooses not to intervene?"

"Then she can blame us." Sheila smiled. "We know she
genuinely tries to help people, so—shit! If she can see the future, she
knows we tossed her place, and we aren't what we claimed. And she most likely
suspects it's related to her granny's suicide. If that's true, it can't be a
simple robbery or mugging. The incident must be serious enough that she can't
in good conscience ignore it, and we can't be seen as a part of it. The person or
his or her family must be crippled or killed."

"I agree with your reasoning, but… is it worth it to us?"

"What's it worth, Ken?"

"I'm not a killer, Sheila!"

"Maybe you should back out now—if you can." Sheila
shrugged and took a sip of her wine, watching him over the top of her glass.

"What do you mean? What do you think Willis would do?"

"Willis will report your decision to whoever is pulling his strings.
He's a middleman, and his sidekick, Tony, is an errand boy with a gun. The
puppet-master may consider us loose ends. I would. Unless I'm wrong, this isn't
about money. It's about power."

"We could be a loose end whether she turns out to be real or fake."
Ken downed his drink and poured his empty glass half-full of Seagram's.

"I suggest we design a situation that will determine if she's real
or a fake, and a way to ensure it's worth the risk—both the reward and
our health."

"We don't seem to have any other choice."

I slept poorly after my session with Ms. Jeffery. How could I stop the
rape… murder… without giving away my secret? I didn't mind my clients thinking
I could predict generalities about the future; otherwise, why come to me? But I
didn't want them to know the clarity with which I could see the future. That
would surely get me more attention than I wanted. Worse yet, that I could
change the future. I tossed and turned all night considering one option after
another.

By morning, I was exhausted, had a wicked headache, and no solution. I
made myself a strong cup of coffee hoping it would help. It didn't. My mind was
in too much turmoil to think straight. I decided to take Mambo Monique's offer
of help and visit her after I closed the shop for the day.

With only a few customers, each minute felt like an hour. I considered
putting a sign outside offering a free something or other, just to get people
in to distract me from watching the clock, thinking about Ellen, or Granny's
warning. I closed a half-hour early, freshened up, and changed clothes. Feeling
better, I locked up and made my way down Bourbon Street towards Mambo Monique's
shop with mixed feelings. I couldn't expect her to solve my problems, but I
needed someone else's perspective. I was too close to the problem—much
too close. Ironically, I wanted Monique's advice, but I couldn't give her the crucial
details. My head ached by the time I reached her shop. It was still open, so I
entered. Monique looked up from behind one of the glass cases she was cleaning.

"Good evening, Renee. You look tired."

"Good evening, Mambo Monique. I didn't sleep well last night,"
I said with a weak smile.
Or the few
nights before that
. "Sometimes life seems overwhelming."

"And you need someone to talk to." She nodded, walked to the
door and turned the sign from Open to Closed. "You’re always welcome here,
to talk or just to visit. Sometimes just visiting friends helps."

"It feels like I'm on a speeding train. I can't stop it, and I can't
get off."

"In a sense, you are being tested, Renee. Many would claim it's the
Loa testing your faith. Maybe. Maybe it's just the capriciousness of life
striking when you're most vulnerable. Not because it knows you're vulnerable
but because life can be complicated. Some people make it complicated, like your
mother; others are merely caught in a storm, like you. It doesn't matter which.
You must face it or run. If you face it, it will either make you strong or
destroy you. If you run, you will forever give up who you are. Friends can
help, but they can't solve it for you." She put her arm around me, holding
me tight while she spoke. "You're a mambo. Seek the guidance of the Loa,
just don't expect them to solve the problem."

Monique sounded like Granny—I will help, but you must face the
problem. You cannot depend on others to solve your problems.

"Thank you, Mambo Monique, for reminding me that getting off the
train is not an acceptable option no matter where the train is headed."

"You’re welcome. I hear the Locos now consider you a powerful mambo
and are buying gris-gris bags from you."

"It's true. I just want them to leave me alone, but it seems there
is no middle ground. I must either be on their side or against them. I can't
afford to fight them, but I don't want to be associated with them."

"You do have a problem. Giving Hector a telling and selling gris-gris
bags to Locos does make it look like you are part of their clique. Of course,
having Loco tattooed on your face or neck won't be good either." She held
me at arm’s length. "However you kept the MS666 out of this area, you did
us all a favor. Unfortunately, few will know you are paying the cost alone. I
believe you are good and will do my best to support you, but I cannot solve
your problems."

"I know. With Granny gone… I just needed someone to tell me what she
would have if she had been here." Somehow, I felt better even though none
of my problems had been solved. Well that wasn't entirely true. I had Mambo Monique's
support to offset the impression that I was delving in the black arts because
of my apparent association with the Locos. That had certainly been a major
concern. Monique made us a rose mint tea, and we sat around talking about my
upcoming wedding ceremony. I felt better or maybe just determined when I left.

* * *

The next morning I called Granny's friend
in Oregon.

"Mr. Waldoff, my name is Renee.
My grandmother, Mambo Eshe, commissioned several rings from you last year. I
was wondering if you could make one or two for me?"

"How is your grandmother? I
haven't talked to her for a long time."

"She...she died a year ago. I'm
sorry I didn't let you know. I remember now, Granny telling me that you had
been close friends since she was a young girl."

"I am sorry to hear that, and
I understand. Her sudden death must have been terribly hard on you. I know you
and she were very close, more like a mother and daughter. I hope she didn't suffer."

"No, she didn't suffer. Could
you make me two rings."

"Of course, just like
before?"

"Yes and no. This time I would
like them dressier. Perhaps one a nice looking Indian-like ring I could wear as
a good-luck piece or souvenir. The band should be gold."

"I can do that. When do you
need them?"

"I know I'm being
unreasonable, but I need at least one as soon as you can get it to me. I will
pay whatever you ask," I said, crossing my fingers—a silly gesture.
The rings weren't illegal, but he didn't know how I intended to use them.

"Eshe talked about you a great
deal, so I feel I know you and can trust the rings won't be abused. I can have
one ready in a few days, and ship it overnight if you want."

"Thank you, Mr. Waldoff. I
appreciate your help and promise I won't misuse the ring."

"Harry, please. Call me
anytime. Eshe was a dear friend. And if you are up this way, stop in. I'd love
to meet you face to face."

"Thank you, again." I
hung up and sat back somewhat relieved—somewhat because there was still
the matter of what I could or should tell Ms. Jeffery, what poison to use, and
the police. I suspected there would be lots of questions and possible charges
depending upon the outcome. Being the victim didn't guarantee some district
attorney wouldn’t take issue with the way you defended yourself. It wouldn’t be
the first time the criminal was viewed as the victim. My head pounded. It would
be easier to just let the future be the future.

* * *

I entered the pavilion thirty
minutes early intending to spend time talking with the wedding couple and any
friends and relatives that might attend. I spotted Elva and Gualter standing
with several people off to the side.

"Good evening, Elva,
Gualter."

"Good evening, Mambo Renee. I'd
like you to meet my mother, Cezelia, Aunt Arilla, Uncle Clovis, Gualter's
father, Betrand, and mother, Alma, and our friends, Remy and Eula,” Elva said,
going around the circle of people, each nodding or smiling when their name was
mentioned. “Some of our other relatives should be arriving soon."

"We heard a lot about you, Mambo
Renee," Elva's mother said. "Mambo Monique speaks highly of you. Arilla,
Clovis, and I are members of Houngan Amedee's congregation, and Betrand and
Alma Mambo Heloise's."

"I had concerns when Gualter
and Elva decided to join your congregation. You're very young, but I like what
you did to prepare them for marriage. You've helped them understand there is
more to marriage than sex and kids. Many other priests tend to be more
concerned with the ceremony."

"Thank you, Cezelia. Mambo
Asogwe Eshe, my grandmother, would have been disappointed if I'd done anything
less." I excused myself and wandered around talking with the gathered
people. Most of the members of my congregation were there as well as a few new
people. A few were there just to observe a wedding ceremony. A few came with a friend
but were new to Vodou. I spent a few minutes talking about the ceremony and Vodou—my
favorite topic—before entering the pavilion.

I began the ceremony by drawing the
ve-ve for Legba-Papa Labas on the floor with brick chalk to open the gates.
Then I asked Elva to read her personal vows to Gualter, and then Gualter to Elva.
I gave each a gris-gris bag mixed for love and happiness, then transferred the
four-foot corn snake from around my neck and draped it over them. Many
outsiders wouldn't understand, but Vodou is a danced religion, where the sound
is a magic all of its own which heals and creates the energy to invoke the Loa.
Jermain began beating a rhythm on the drum, his mahogany face slick with sweat
as he swayed with the rhythm, while I chanted to Loa Anaisa Pye—the Loa
of love, money, happiness—to bless them. The dancing began. Lost in the
dance I could feel the python on my arm move and felt the presence of the Loa.
I knew Elva and Gualter felt it too.