Spin Doctor (22 page)

“I think I want to know.”

The Gyspy frowned and fretted. “All right, I give you final card. One card to answer ultimate question: who is your husband's mystery woman?” She palmed the top card off the deck and flipped it over.

“What?”
I asked, trying to decipher her expression. “What is it?
Who
is it?” I couldn't believe I wanted to know this, but it's part of my training. We always risk pain as we face our issues and fears and then take the necessary steps or make the behavioral modifications to overcome them; but it is easier to face the known rather than the unknown. In fact, how can you surmount your issues if you can't even identify them?

“The final card is the Queen of Pentacles.”

“And who is she? What does she mean, I mean? Signify?”

“How interesting. This is your only card in the reversed position in the entire reading. The Queen of Pentacles is a dark lady. She is an earthy person. Perhaps not bright in terms of intelligence or education, but she has great depth of feeling and is a vibrant personality too. In reversed position, also known as ill-dignified position, she can be an untrusting person, maybe even a vicious one, who is suspicious of what she cannot understand or what is new to her, and…who…”

Mala Sonia seemed to have a difficult time getting the words out. “Who…is unable to see beyond material possessions, so she is enjoying what is nothing but a false prosperity. She can also symbolize neglected responsibilities. The suit of Pentacles also represents the domestic sphere, so the Queen of Pentacles can be someone close to your home.”

Mala Sonia took my hands in hers—holding me so tightly that her rings began to cut into my skin—and looked deeply into my eyes. Hers glittered in the amber candlelight, but I couldn't fully analyze what I saw there. It could have been triumph or it could have been the start of tears. Or neither of the
above, frankly. Years of observing Mala Sonia's behavior had convinced me that everything she did or said, each inflection, every gesture, was both calculated and choreographed. She was simply a full-time performer. I'd have a field day with her as a client. Getting her to be “real” would be a Herculean task.

“Final card,” she said quietly. “Yes. I hope you have learned what you needed to.” Then she blew out the candle and left the laundry room, leaving me sitting in the dark.

“Susan?” Faith whispered. Neither of us moved. “Are you all right?” When I didn't respond right away, she rose and turned on the light, then came over to the table and seated herself in Mala Sonia's chair.
“Ehrmh!
It's still warm from her tush,” she commented, then gently laid her hand on my arm. “How're you doing?”

“Fine. I'm fine. Now that you turned on the light. I feel like someone who's gone for the ride in the haunted mansion and got very scared while it lasted, but once I exited the tunnel into the light, all my fears were left behind on the rickety little cart. I'm just experiencing the usual wobble in the legs that you get when you step out onto solid ground.”

“Are you certain?” Faith asked sympathetically. “I have to say, that was quite intense.”

“Did you believe any of it?”

“I'm a rather pragmatic sort, Susan.”

“Was that a yes?”

“I think it's a lot like psychotherapy. If you believe that something works for you, then it will work. It you demonstrate no faith in the methodology, then it's going to be powerless.”

“Very astute, Faith!” A little dose of my own medicine might have been just what I needed at that moment. Now…the next big question was…did I believe Faith…or Mala Sonia?

ME

Lucky for me, the rest of the day became unexpectedly busy, so I didn't have a spare moment to waste obsessing over Mala Sonia's psychic reading. I did, however, spend the rest of the day making a conscious effort to be Supermom, so I certainly had internalized at least some of the Gypsy's message.

Ian was going to be the seventh-grade star of Fieldston's annual Christmas-Chanukah-Kwanzaa pageant, and needed drilling on his lines after school. Molly was in the homestretch with her college applications, which were due on January first. She did in fact invest some extra effort on her Bennington application. She hadn't been kidding about her “a slacker mind is a terrible thing to waste” campaign. Her cell phone “movie” was a pretty masterful production. It was clever, edgy, offbeat, and totally Molly; though I wasn't very pleased during the “screening” when I saw the haunts she had frequented in order to make her point. And to my utter astonishment, she had elected to write the “toads” essay after all. I'm not sure whether it was what the Bennington admissions committee had been thinking
of when they devised the assignment, but Molly had written a story called “The Ambivalent Amphibians” in which a princess is presented with an array of suitors—all toads.

She'd heard the old wives' tale that by kissing a toad, it would turn the warty creature into a handsome prince, so she bought into the cliché and started smooching. Lo and behold, the old wives had been right! Each toad turned into a handsome prince. Some were more handsome, more charming, and more accomplished than others, but they all shared a single trait: every time the princess began talking to them about marriage and commitment and little princelings all decked out in adorable velvet suits and feathered caps—just like miniature versions of their father—and what a wonderful wedding they would have with a seventy-five piece orchestra and elaborate floral centerpieces and a Viennese table that would rival that of even the most prominent Jewish American Princesses, and a gown made out of cloth-of-gold, and how wonderful it would be if they spent their Sunday afternoons antiquing together, or maybe even furniture-or tapestry-shopping, instead of staring stupidly at the TV, watching the NFL or Nascar, the toad-princes would hop like mad for the hills.

The princess was quite puzzled. She removed her pointy hennin so she could scratch her head. Why was it, she wondered, that each one of the toad-princes had exactly the same reaction to her endless rhapsodizing about domestic bliss? While in many ways the toad-princes didn't resemble one another in the least, being tall or short, muscular or wiry, dark or fair, athletic or creative—not to mention the fact that some were better kissers than others—they shared this common trait. When she quietly sat with them side by side; or silently strolled with them through the kingdom's deep and verdant woods or along its many beautiful powdery beaches; or while she and the toad-princes were engaging in a bit of nookie, where only nonverbal expressions of contentment were exchanged; or indeed
when the princess was inclined to compliment them on one of their many favorable attributes, or indulge them by ardently rooting for their favorite sports teams, the toad-princes were the very models of modern, major chivalry. But every time, without fail, that the toad-princes heard the princess raise a subject that had anything whatsoever to do with commitment, or heard her wax lyrical imagining what their coat of arms might look like once their two households were connubially conjoined, the toads bolted, even though they acknowledged that the nookie with the princess had indeed been very, very good.

Why did each of these toad-princes respond so positively to her cheers of “Go, Knights!” but experienced a fight-or-flight (invariably flight, actually) response when she tried to tally aloud the exact number of times that they would wish one another a good night during the long and happy years of their marriage? The answer soon became as clear as the well water in which the princess washed her flowing hair. Evidently, the toad-princes hadn't liked what they'd heard.

The princess thus arrived at the unhappy conclusion that given the selective nature of their behavior in her presence, toads had the capacity to hear. She then tested her theory on the toad-princes who subsequently made her acquaintance; and to her great dismay, her hypothesis proved correct each and every time.

“Molly, this is brilliant!”

“I hope the Bennington people weren't expecting science on this one. I did say on my application that I want to study creative writing.”

“Well, this is creative problem-solving, so if I were them, I'd be delighted by the way you tackled the assignment. You found a way to play to your strengths, and provided what I'm quite certain is an unexpected response to their question.”

Molly grinned. “Yeah…well. Could you see me poking
around in a terrarium or something?! Not! I had to do the toads, though—by default. I didn't even understand the first essay question, and the third one was so boring. And these people do claim to encourage individuality, right?”

And what had been the catalyst for this newfound diligence? Sylvia Plath. After devouring
The Bell Jar,
Molly Googled the poet, and learning a little more about her life, found a role model in the teenage Plath's constant striving for perfection, particularly in academics. Molly's grades had shot up (amazing what happens when one applies oneself!) during the second half of the fall semester. She was now pulling down A's and A-minuses in everything but math and science, where her test scores were nearly miraculous (for her) solid Bs.

“And don't worry, I won't stick my head in the oven,” she assured me. “Just because I admire her doesn't mean I also want to be fucked-up like her. Or that I'm going to marry an adulterer!
Duh!
”

Duh.
Gee. Nice to know she was still Molly under all that scholastic achievement. I was so pleased with her accomplishments, though, that I lifted one of her shoplifting punishments. She was no longer on incontinent dog duty.

 

I hadn't neglected Eli either, although I'd been unable to locate his lucky boxers and Mickey Mouse sock. I'd mentioned the missing undergarments to Faith when she asked me right after Mala Sonia's reading if I had noticed any strange behavior on his part. I wanted to play the hero, so that evening, after I left the women's health center, I braved crush upon crush of holiday shoppers, visiting four stores before I found another pair of Betty Boops. They weren't quite the same as the aqua-colored missing pair (the new ones were green with Betty dressed in a red and white Santa minidress and stocking cap), but it was the
best I could do. Heedless of calorie, cholesterol, and carb counts I cooked Eli's favorite dinner, listened to him gripe about his long day at the drafting table, and massaged his aching shoulders, before I began to vent about my day in the dark and narrow trenches of shrinkdom. When he shrugged off my advances in the boudoir, pleading fatigue, I decided not to push it and waited instead for him to make the first move.

 

It had been like Santa's Dysfunctional Workshop at the women's health center as they were gearing up for their annual office Christmas party. I got to the sign-up sheet late and found that all the easy responsibilities, like paper goods or candy, had already been taken. So I was stuck with either cookies or music, both of which are never guaranteed to please everyone. With the cookies, there are the store-bought devotees and the homemade ones, neither of which can agree on a choice. Some people hate ginger, others hate peppermint, some can't tolerate nuts. Music isn't much easier. Too much “Christmas music” is either too denominational or too depressing. Statistics show that many people commit suicide over the December holidays, and I didn't want to be responsible for anyone's overdose of sentiment.

Still, cookies are a one-time thing, while CDs are forever. As far as the office party was concerned, if I did it right, I'd only have to do it once. I scribbled my name next to “Music.”

 

When I got home, I noticed that someone from the building management had strung some colored lights and tinsel in the lobby, and erected the shabby faux fir, decking it with dime-store ornaments. Taking a quick peep in the basement, I saw that they had neglected the laundry room, as usual. I thought it could use a large dollop of holiday cheer. After dinner, I went back downstairs and covered the door with wrapping paper, so
it resembled an enormous present. I ringed the washers with twinkly white lights, which didn't create an obstacle to doing the laundry, since for the past several days only one unit was working. We were now down to a single washing machine from half a dozen. Stevo appeared to have completely abrogated his superintendential responsibilities. He was no longer even offering the tenants false hope that new washers would be forthcoming.

Crowds had been gathering in the laundry room, and more than one fight erupted over whose turn it was for the washing machine. Last week, in an effort to ensure a fair and balanced washday (since no one else had taken the initiative to make order out of chaos), I posted a blank schedule where the tenant (or their housekeeper) could pencil in their name and apartment number next to a time slot, but it went largely unheeded. At the best of times, it resembled a coffee klatsch down there; at the worst of times, it was like the first day of the Barney's Warehouse sale.

The day after Mala Sonia had given me the psychic reading was Christmas Eve. It was a madhouse in the laundry room; everyone seemed to have extra loads.

As Sigmund had not given
me
a break from his sporadic incontinence, I had a laundry emergency, dashing downstairs that afternoon only to find the washing machine in mid-cycle. It was clearly one of those days I've described previously: where if someone was absent when the red light went out, their stuff would get “evicted” and dumped on one of the tables in a damp heap by the next person in line for the machine.

Claude and Talia—who no longer needed her crutches, but did rely on a cane—were already waiting. Meriel came down with a bunch of things to wash for Eric and Amy, but had to keep running back and forth from their apartment to the laun
dry room, since Amy didn't want her to waste the entire workday waiting for the washing machine. Alice and Izzy—who, well into her third trimester, was still negotiating her reconciliation with her husband, popped their heads in and were ready to give up when they saw how many people were ahead of them. Faith had a load of purple clothes to be laundered, and she was up next. If the nearest Laundromat weren't over a quarter mile away, it certainly would have been a more viable option. And at the rate the snow was falling, we were practically guaranteed a white Christmas.

Although they'd been discouraged at first by the lengthy wait, Alice and Izzy suggested that we look at the bright side and turn the gathering into a festive occasion, so they went back up to Alice's apartment to fetch homemade holiday cookies, which they brought downstairs to feed the masses.

The red light went off, and we all stared at the machine. “After you,” Claude said to Faith.

Faith hesitated. “You know, I've never done this. It just doesn't seem right.”

“Bite the bullet, Faith,” Alice encouraged her. “C'mon, we're all waiting.”

“Whose is it?” Izzy asked, pointing to the washing machine.

“I tink it belongs to Mala Sonia,” said Meriel. “She was in here when I first came down. She wanted to do more den one load, but I tell her daht everyone waiting, and she should do one and go back to de end of de line. So, she load her bigger load, de colors, and say she come back to do her white tings later.”

“I know you say I should be bold, Susan…”

“Hop to it, Faith,” Talia teased. “Don't make me hobble over there and do it for you.” She pointed to the small table. “Dump 'em. Believe me, she'd do the same to any of us.”

Faith set up her cart beside the washing machine, then lifted
the lid and began to remove Mala Sonia's colorful array of garments, including the ruffled yellow blouse the Gypsy had been wearing when she gave me the psychic reading. She placed them in an unceremonious though remarkably tidy heap on the table.

Faith suddenly paled, and standing with her back to the clothes-covered table, beckoned to Claude. “Sweetheart, would you mind helping me with something?” Claude quizzically regarded the older woman. “No, I mean it,” Faith added anxiously. When Claude was too slow to respond, Faith said, “I think I need some assistance. I must have wrenched my back when I bent over the washing machine to pull out the clothes.”

“Oh, my God! I'll help you,” I offered.

“No! No! Claude is…younger. And…and
taller.
If I collapse, she'll be able to catch me
much
more easily. You just sit tight, Susan.”

Claude approached Faith, who drew her close and furtively whispered something in her ear.

Claude stifled a gasp, then nodded and turned to Talia, who was seated on one of the dinette chairs with her bum leg stretched out in front of her. “Talia, weren't you telling me about this new equipment you got from your physical therapist? I was just thinking that Susan…being…being a therapist of a different sort…might be interested in seeing it. And as long as you both have a bit of a wait before you can do your wash, you might want to take her up to your apartment and show her. While…while I help Faith get rid of her back spasm.”

“
What?
Y'know, I have no idea what you're talking about, Claude.”

Claude crooked her finger at Talia, and the dancer slid herself away from the table and limped over. Faith draped her arm over Talia's shoulder and whispered to her.

Talia winced. “Actually…that wouldn't be a bad idea, y'know? Meriel…? I can show Susan the equipment, but I may need…uh…would you just come
over
here for a sec!”