The Fortuneteller
3

She stared at him. "Well--I guess. If you say he's going to live to be an old man." She still eyed him with suspicion.

He could not stay in his apartment at lunchtime anymore. Even though he put up the "CLOSED" sign on the door, it seemed like someone always came anyway and he couldn't turn away from the urgency in their eyes or the possibility of what he might discover. So after the woman with the red-haired boy finally left he took his brown paper sack and headed for the park to eat his lunch in peace.

Mrs. Del Vecchio stepped out of the Pizzeria and spoke to him. "Your business is doing well, Mr. Michaelson."

"Yes, not too bad for only three weeks."

"You're looking a little tired, though. You working too hard maybe?" She peered into his face.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Del Vecchio. Gotta go eat now." He waved the sack and strode off down the street.

"You should take a day off. Get some sleep!" she called and looked after him a moment when he did not answer.

Beside his tuna sandwich a flake of red paint curled and peeled away from the picnic table the way long-dead flesh withdrew from its bones and left naked white obscenities. Tom shook his head and stuffed the stale bread into his mouth without tasting it. It was getting so he didn't know whose thoughts he was thinking sometimes. Also he needed to be more careful. Shouldn't have jumped away from the kid like that, but God!

He had to know more, to confirm what he had seen. His gaze automatically toured the park and he saw some children taking turns pushing each other on the swings.

Nice to just sit here and be free of it for awhile, but so hard to escape the mosquito-buzz of worry informing him that now at this very moment the one child who could confirm everything he wished to know lay waiting in his or her mother's arms before Tom's apartment door.

As he closed his eyes and let his face bake in the sun he heard a familiar voice.

"Ah, there he is!" His former landlady from the hotel, Marita Gomez, approached in the manner of one who has led a successful expedition to the seven cities of Cibola. A man with a TV camera and one with a microphone trailed behind her. Tom felt the stirrings of panic and a strong urge to run.

"Tom! Mr. Michaelson, these gentlemen are from the television news!"

"I'm Ron Kennedy, Mr. Michaelson, station KITY."

Tom looked at the outstretched hand and the man smiled and withdrew it. The cameraman chewed gum.

"I told them it was my hotel you stayed in when you first came here," said Marita.

"Mr. Michaelson," the reporter began again, "your fortunetelling business has caused quite a stir. There are a lot of rumors. Would you let us interview you and get your side of the story?"

Tom was on his feet, scooping the remains of his lunch into his crumpled sack. "Uh...no, I don't think so," he muttered. "Maybe some other time. I've got to go--have customers waiting."