THE PSYCHIC EYE

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

I walk into a store called The Psychic Eye. There are white lights and black velour.

Would you like a cup of tea? The psychic comes close and she is leaning back on her heals. Will you have a candy, a piece of fruit? Would you like some crackers?

Yes, please. Thank you.

The room opens as a guitar. 
I have felt the moment change this way before. There was one time, in an atrium—the bartender began to howl. The psychic directs me to a little table. I sit down. There is her crystal ball on the table. In just a moment she returns and she sets the tea in front of me and a package of brown ginger cookies in the shape of tombstones—old fashioned tombstones, not the new suburban stones that are flat in the ground so that a lawnmower moves easily on top of them.

So.

She is looking up at me from beneath thick eyebrows and thick eyelashes.

So.

You should know, I am not a psychic.

She’s not a psychic.

I am a woman of the night.

I see. I think a woman of the night must be very nice, but I do not say this.

So, she says again, folding her hands on the table. You want a husband.

I open my package of biscuits.

You know, says the woman of the night, London is the only place to buy a proper pork pie.

Yes, yes I know. I had a proper pork pie once in my life, when my friend’s grandmother met us in Prague. She had just been in London, visiting family.

So, she says again. I take a drink of my tea.

Why don’t you go on vacation? You want to go far away.

I’ve thought about visiting Clovis.

Clovis?

Outside of Fresno.

You’ve been there already.

Yes.

You will never find someone when and where you look for them. 

She says, there are a lot of ghosts in Clovis. (Yes. Every time I see one, it starts to rain.)

I have been friendly with ghosts. [[All along the river—drops of sap, and silver kisses.]]

And what about Michigan, have you thought of going there again?

I never think of Michigan. But that is where my friend’s grandmother can prepare pork pie.

She is from London?

She is.

Your friend’s grandmother is a ghost.

Yes.

Any ghost can make a pork pie. The dead don’t worry about a thing. They can get the lard. They can get the cloves and the nutmeg. Whatever they need, the ghosts can get what they want.

Yes, I am sure it is true.

So then you’ll go to Michigan?

No, I am going to Clovis.

Be careful around the rodeo. Stay away from the parades.

I would never attend a parade.

Smart girl.

I take another drink of my tea. It is a Japanese green tea, with the taste of toasted rice. The little dish that the cup is sitting on feels sticky. The table is draped with a long purple skirt.

Once I had a man take me to London.

Oh?

We saw the big clock. We had Indian food. I remember an enormous wheel. Coming back from the theater, a drunk threw up on me.

Oh!

It was awful. The subway was packed full and there was no way to move. If you go to London with a man, watch out for drunks.

It is difficult to tell the woman’s age. She seems very old and very young. She is like a turtle. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s been in this store at least a thousand years. Her store is in Costa Mesa. On Newport Blvd. This is three hours north of Mexico by car. A place made of mulch and sky.

The woman of the night wears glasses that come to point on each side around the rim. The glasses have flecks of purple that match the furniture and flecks of cream. Suddenly she gets up from the table and, when she returns, she has brought a cake.

So, she says. As she sits back down, she breathes an old woman’s sigh. She sets the cake on the table in front of me. She cuts a piece and puts it on the plate that my tea had set on. The cake is yellow with flecks of confetti and the frosting looks like butter cream.

I take a bite and it is the best cake I’ve ever eaten. You would never expect it from a cake this colorful, you would never expect it to taste this good. The frosting is so sweet that I suck my cheeks. It is smooth and with little granules. It reminds me of the sand that sometimes accompanies a sea oyster or a scallop. The whole thing is dense and firm.

This cake is very nice.

My sister baked it. She baked it last night and she frosted it this morning.

Then she says, my name is Alison.

Then she says, I never had a father.

She says,

My mother was like all mothers. I learned to throw stones. Here is my heart in a million pieces.

(She cuts another slice of cake.)

Across from The Psychic Eye is a shopping center called Triangle Square. There is a cinema and a lot of clothing stores and stores selling shoes and iPods. There is at least one sushi restaurant, but the fish must be terrible, and there are a dozen or so places to buy sandwiches.

So, you want a husband.

I am eating my second slice of cake and I’ve finished my tea. I’ve finished the ginger cookies. Yes, I want a husband.

Why? The woman of the night asks.

Have you got any hot milk? And in an instant she returns with a warm glass.

I don’t know why.

Tomorrow I am going to dress as a bear. My head will be big and lumpy.

What about JP Moonsberry? What about NYC?

He doesn’t need any name on the wall. (Everyone knows the bank is yours.)

Will you go to NYC?

I will dress as a bear.

That is the perfect way to find a husband. You will visit Chinatown. You will eat the buns with the sweet red bean. Look for a little farm and a broom made of sticks. Remember, keep your head down. Remember to go to sleep.

Yes, thank you. Thank you. I feel like a fat cat, so full of cake and hot milk.

I can get you a husband.

Really?

It’s nothing.

The crystal ball is on the table and, at the same time, both of us look.  

I put one finger into my empty teacup. The woman of the night gets up from the table and walks to the back of the room. There is one shelf with one vase and she reaches for it.

Suddenly my eyes are full of roses. My nose is full of roses. My skin and even my hair. 

You are a friend of Death?

Yes.

And what about True Love?

I know. Shoot love dead.

Smart girl.

You know we can’t have friendship, but it isn’t up to us. It’s not our fault.

Whose fault is it?

We’re birds and cats. At best, we’re cows.

Whose fault is it?

You’re better to ask the moon.

And everything is changing?

Yes and no.

What about the speed of light?

There’s always that.

You’re so pretty. I take the teacup from the table and hold it in my lap.

You’re a rose.