Shadows Out of Time

“Melania, listen! You gotta listen to me!” he said. “You know what I’m gonna do?” She shook her head, but he didn’t care. He was talking to himself more than to her anyway. He rushed on, filled with the sense of his own magnificence: “I’m gonna run for President, Melania! And you know what else? I’m gonna win!”

Kingsport Tea WILL MURRAY

I came to Kingsport for its tea. I had worked all over New England. Mine is a gypsy existence. One does not remain in one place for very long. And if one does not regularly improve his skills, one soon grows stale and unreceptive.

The late Colonial house stood at the crooked end of Nightjar Lane, its back to the pounding Atlantic, within sight of the obdurate hulk called Kingsport Head. Salt hung in the early Spring air like a cool astringent. The establishment was a decorous New England white, trimmed in stark black. White paint had stopped being a luxury a century before, but the older homes clung to this opaque sheen of wealth and propriety the way a naked corpse clings to the sere dignity of its burial shroud.

The shingle beside the door spelled it the old-fashioned way:

KING’S PORT TEA ROOM

The apostrophe had been dropped at the close of the Colonial period. The town name collapsed to a single word — after a brief period of unsatisfactory hyphenation — at the end of the 19th Century. I learned these trivial facts only later.

A doleful chime announced my arrival. I stepped into the house’s substantial confines, whose wainscoting was unexpectedly heavy, almost coarse. The hardwood flooring under my feet felt warpy but solid. It was as if I had stepped on the deck of an old Arkham merchantman in dire need of holystoning.

The tight-faced hostess bore a black leatherette menu.

“I called earlier,” I told her. “The name is Carl.”

“Take a seat, Carl,” she said, retreating with her unopened menu. “Miss Theresa will be with you presently.”

I took the table nearest the door. The reading area occupied what had been the connecting parlor and dining room of the old dwelling. A dozen round ebony tables filled the dual space, each emblazoned with a gilt sign of the Zodiac. The wallpaper was tan and gold. One had to look closely to notice the subtle Egyptian motif. Odd touch.

Miss Theresa slid into the chair across from me and smiled with vapid sincerity. Gray and sixtyish, she possessed the toothy demeanor of an old-time Yankee. I took her for a faded Leo.

“I’m Miss Theresa.” Her S’s whistled Yankee-style. “I understand you’d like to come to work for me.”

“I can read any deck,” I said firmly. “Also, crystal, flame, smoke, water, you name it.”

“That is all well and good, but do you do tea?”

“No. But I—”

“We’re very traditional here. Kingsport is an extremely conservative town and our clientele is a bit on the mature side. Most querents prefer tea to Tarot.”

“I’ve been reading cards for nearly 20 years,” I stated.

“Can you read palm?”

I nodded. “Intuitively. I never studied.”

“Good. If you can read the palm, you can learn tea leaves.

Are you willing?”

Keeping my face a mask, I appealed to her Leo Sun: “If that’s what it takes to work for the famous Theresa Terrill.”

She beamed. “Excellent. You can start instanter.” Theresa lifted her voice. “Dorinda. Two cups of the special blend, please.”

The tea came in white bone China cups, with a traditional pewter creamer. I drank mine straight, with just a touch of sugar. Theresa sipped hers clear and unsweetened with the watchful concentration of a cat lapping milk.

“I will read your leaves and you will read mine,” she announced at last.

I drained the last of my cup, leaving only the dark dregs. Taking the cup from my hands, she turned it around three times. Peering deep within, she began speaking in a dim, distant voice.

“I see you are not merely psychic, but clairvoyant.”

“True,” I admitted.

“Good. What happened when you were twenty-seven?”

“A lot of things.” She was good. I had buried that indiscretion after paying my debt to society.

One fading eyebrow crawled upward. “Do I see a quarrel with your last employer?”

I shrugged. “I was their top cartomancer. You know how it goes. Too many appointment readings came my way. Jealousy followed.”

“The Foxfield Tea Room has a surly reputation.”

She hit the nail on the head. I hadn’t mentioned my prior employer by name.

“‘The MacDonalds of fortune telling’, they called it,” I admitted. “Pull them in and shove them out. Popcorn astrology. Rainbow readings. Sunshine séances. The whole gamut of carnival-style fortune telling.”

Theresa’s tone grew firm. “We do not use that term here. You are a psychic reader. We stand for no gypsy stuff here. Nor do I allow death predictions. Prognostications of inheritance are allowed if they do not point to a specific death event. You may inform a client of infirmity or disease, but you are not under any circumstances to suggest specific medicines or treatment. Instead refer them to their personal physicians. Is that clear?”

“I understand.”

“And you must learn tea. Starting now.”