Big Cherry Holler - Adriana Trigiani [118]
Jack gives me a quick kiss and takes Etta’s hand. “You want to watch from up there?” he asks Etta.
“Yeah!”
“We’ve got a couple of seats down front for you.”
I turn to Iva Lou. “Do you want to stay?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I’d rather wander around.”
“Let’s wander, then.” Iva Lou turns to go up the ramp.
“Okay, we’ll catch up with you later.” Jack Mac takes Etta to the ladder and helps her to the top. She kneels down on the platform as her father explains something about the equipment. She listens carefully and nods. I can’t believe she’s my kid and not afraid of heights. In fact, she’s fearless about everything—stray animals, speaking in public, boys. Etta cares about how things work; in that way, she is just like her father. She is all MacChesney, and that’s not always easy for me to accept.
“What are we gonna do?” Iva Lou asks.
“We’re going to see Sister Claire.”
“Who the hell is that? A Cath-lick?”
“No. A mystic. She’s a fortune-teller.”
“No voodoo for me, girlfriend.”
“Come on. After she makes you drink a cocktail of eye of newt and puts a spell on you, it’s all downhill.”
Iva looks at me, buying it for a moment, and then she laughs.
Sister Claire has a small dark-green tent by the edge of the grounds. Two folding chairs are set up outside the flap. I’m surprised there isn’t a line. Sister Claire is well known in these parts; she’s from the mountains of North Carolina near Greensboro. A customer who was visiting Big Stone Gap encouraged me to see Sister if she was ever in the area. A small, gentle woman of sixty, with a heart-shaped face and skin the color of strong tea, emerges from the tent and smiles.
“Are you here to see me?” she asks.
Iva Lou turns away and grabs my arm to return to the hub of the fair, back to the music, the lights, and the fun.
“Yes ma’am. We are. I am,” I tell her earnestly, not knowing exactly how to address a mystic.
“I’m Sister Claire. Welcome.”
“I think most of the people are at the beauty pageant,” I tell Sister, absurdly apologizing for her lack of clientele.
Sister Claire turns to Iva Lou and looks her straight in the eye. “I understand if the idea of a reading makes you uncomfortable. I don’t like to have my own cards read.”
“Really?” Iva Lou says in a high pitch I’ve never heard before.
“Really. It’s a commitment to believe. It takes blind faith. Sometimes I don’t have that.”
“Well, it’s not that I’m scared, and I certainly believe in the comings and goings of the spirit world. It’s just that I, well, I live my life a certain way and I don’t want to know where it’s all going.”
“I understand.”
“Wait here then. Okay?” I give Iva Lou a wink and follow Sister Claire into her tent. There are two more folding chairs and a red lacquered table. There is an electric wire attached to a small generator, from which a bulb dangles in a protective metal sleeve. Sister Claire motions for me to sit, then pours us each a glass of water from a bottle. She sits down at the table and rests one hand on a deck of large picture cards.
“Are you an Indian?”
“Cherokee. Descendent of the great Chief Doublehead. ’Course, all of us that’s Cherokee claim that.” She smiles.
“Mother and father both?”
“Yes. But, I did have a grandmother who was African American and a grandfather who was Irish.”
“The green eyes give you away.”
“Yes, they do.”
“How did you discover your talent for this?”
“It’s not so much a talent as a way of being. It tends to run in families. My mother read cards and had visions, and so do I.” She shuffles the cards and asks me to pick one. “How can I help you?”
I was prepared with an answer, but for some reason I can’t speak. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Let’s look at you.” Sister Claire shuffles the deck and then places cards down on the table, creating an intricate layered pattern.
“What is your name?”
“Ave Maria.”
“That’s unusual.”
“Especially in these parts.”
“That’s the name of the Blessed Mother. Some people think she’s the first goddess. But it doesn’t mean that