The Fortune
Teller and the Kid
by Don Drewniak
We travel back
in time to the 1950s, my favorite of the many
decades that I have had the good fortune of
experiencing.
It was a hot-and-humid
summer day following my being freed from second
grade. I knew something unusual was about to
happen when my mother, to use a popular 50s
expression, was “dressed to the hilt.”
“Come on,
Donald, we are going to take a walk.”
I panicked.
“We’re not going to the dentist, are we?”
“No, we
are going to someplace special.”
That gained my
attention. “Where?”
“To a
fortune teller.”
“A what?”
“A
fortune teller. Someone who can tell what is
going to happen in the future.”
“How far
do we gotta walk?”
“Not far.
Just to the other side of St. Elizabeth’s
Church.”
“Okay.”
“You’ll
need to put on your school clothes.”
“Why?”
“Because
this is someplace special.”
I wasn’t
happy about having to change my clothing, but
seeing a fortune teller made putting on school
clothes okay. I thought that I might be able to
figure out how the fortune teller knew what was
going to happen. Then I could find out what was
going to be on the tests at school, and sell the
answers to the dumb kids for a nickel.
As we walked
along, I had visions of entering a palace, though
I had never seen anything remotely resembling one
anywhere near St. Elizabeth’s, or anywhere
else in my hometown of Fall River, Massachusetts.
My mother
stopped walking ten houses past the church and
said, “Here we are.”
I stared in
disbelief at a small, one-story house that looked
like it was ready to be wrecked by my father. (Among
the many jobs he had in the past was that of
wrecking old buildings.)
Any hope that
my mother had brought us to the wrong place was
dashed by a cracked, white sign with hand-painted
stars and a crescent moon topped with the name
Madam Zarkova.
So much for
getting rich.
“Mom.”
“Yes,
Donald?”
“I think
the fortune teller stole her name.”
“What do
you mean?”
“She
stole it from Doctor Zarkov.”
“Who is
Doctor Zarkov?”
“Are you
kidding? Everybody knows Doctor Zarkov.”
“Well I
don’t.”
“Betcha
Dad does.”
“I’m
sure he does. Now who is he?”
“The
scientist in Flash Gordon.”
“Well I’m
sure she didn’t steal his name.”
“Betcha
she did.”
She ended the
conversation by knocking on the front door.
Nothing happened. We waited. She knocked again.
Nothing happened, so I turned the knob and pushed
open the door.
“Donald!”
scolded my mother.
“Well,
shouldn’t she know we are here?”
She had no
answer for that and instead decided to walk into
what was a small room that was close to being
totally dark. No lights were on and the shades
were pulled all the way down, covering the room’s
only two windows. Trailing behind my mother, I
resisted the temptation to make ghost sounds. To
be honest, I was a little bit scared.
The room had
four wooden chairs and a wooden table with a
turned-off lamp on it. Nothing else.
While my
mother was debating whether or not we should sit
down, there was a creaking sound accompanied by
the slow opening of a door opposite the entrance
to the house.
In walked
Madam Zarkova. She wasn’t much taller than
my Grandma Sophie who was slightly under five
feet, but she was considerably heavier. Covering
her entire body was a black robe filled with
stars and a bunch of crescent moons. She had some
kind of black cloth wrapped around her head. I
figured her hair was wet.
“Welcome.
And who do we have here?” she asked while
looking at me.
“This is
my son, Donald.”
“Hello,
Donald.”
“Hi.”
“And your
name is?” she said to my mother.
“Catherine.”
I wondered why
she didn't already know our names.
They briefly
engaged in small talk before we were ushered into
the fortune-telling room. It was just as dark as
the first room. The only window was covered with
a black-velvet curtain that blocked out all but a
sliver of light from entering the room. A lamp
with a dim light bulb located in a corner of the
room was the only other source of light.
My mother sat
on a chair in front of a round table covered with
a black tablecloth that extended down to the
floor.
Madam Zarkova
sat opposite my mother. I was relegated to a far
corner of the room. I’m sure Madam Zarkova
would have preferred me not to be in the room.
My mother paid
up front. It was obvious that she did not want me
to know how much she was paying as she kept her
back to me so that I couldn’t see the
exchange of money.
I wish I could
definitively say whether or not there was a
crystal ball on the table, but I can’t
remember if there was or not.
Madam Zarkova
spoke in a low voice as did my mother. No matter
how hard I tried to listen, I could only pick up
an occasional word or two. The only words I
remember are “handsome stranger” and
“Cadillac.” At the time, I don’t
believe I knew what handsome meant. My parents
never owned a Cadillac and, to the best of my
knowledge, they never associated with anyone who
drove one.
As we were
leaving what for me had been a very disappointing
visit, Madam Zarkova made the mistake of telling
me that if I wanted to ask one question, she
would be glad to answer it.
Before
thinking about it, I blurted out, “If you
can tell what’s going to happen, how come
you live in a junky house?”
“Donald!”
admonished my mother.
Madam Zarkova
glared at me. It was a good thing she wasn’t
a witch or I would have been turned into a frog
or a rock.
On the way
home, I asked my mother how much she paid Madam
Zarkova.
"Twenty-five
cents.”
I knew that
was going to be told to Father Tell-Me-All-Of-Your-Sins
the next time she went to confession.
We walked a
few more steps before she said, “Donald, I
really should tell your father about your
disrespect.”
The tone of
her voice implied that she wouldn’t tell him
what I said to Madam Zarkova, if I wouldn’t
squeal about her going to see a fortune teller.
Without
another word being spoken, the bargain was made
and honored.
Copyright
©2023 by Don Drewniak. All rights reserved.
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