Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant - Anne Tyler [44]
That left Cody, Jenny, and Mrs. Scarlatti. Mrs. Scarlatti didn’t seem particularly distressed. “Mothers,” she said mildly. She tucked the dollar bill inside her black linen bosom.
Cody said, “Well? Does that wrap it up? Because I should have been in Delaware an hour ago. Can I give you a lift, Jenny?”
“I guess I’ll walk,” Jenny said.
The last she saw of Mrs. Scarlatti, she was standing there all alone, surveying the untouched appetizers with an amused expression on her face.
After Cody had driven off, Jenny walked slowly toward home. She didn’t see Pearl or Ezra anywhere ahead of her. It was twilight—a sticky evening, smelling of hot tires. As she floated past shops in her sundress, she began to feel like someone’s romantic vision of a young girl. She tried out a daydream of Harley Baines, but it didn’t work. What did Jenny know about marriage? Why would she even want to get married? She was only a child; she would always be a child. Her wedding plans seemed makeshift and contrived—a charade. She felt foolish. She tried to remember Harley’s kiss but it had vanished altogether, and Harley himself was no more real to her than a little paper man in a mail-order catalogue.
In the candy store, two children argued while their mother pressed a hand to her forehead. Next came the pharmacy and then the fortune-teller’s—a smudged plate glass window with MRS. EMMA PARKINS—READINGS AND ADVICE arched in curly gold letters that were flaking around the edges. Handmade signs sat propped on the sill like afterthoughts: STRICTEST CONFIDENCE and NO PAYMENT IF NOT FULLY SATISFIED. In the light from a dusty globe lamp, Mrs. Parkins herself paced the room—a fat, drab old woman with a cardboard fan on a Popsicle stick.
Jenny reached the corner, paused, and then turned. She went back to the fortune-teller’s door. Should she knock, or just walk on in? She tried the handle. The door swung open and a little bell above it tinkled. Mrs. Parkins lowered her fan and said, “Do tell! A customer.”
Jenny hugged her purse to her chest.
“Keeping warm?” Mrs. Parkins asked her.
“Yes,” said Jenny. She thought she smelled cough syrup, the bitter, dark, cherry-flavored kind.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” Mrs. Parkins said.
There were two armchairs, puffy, facing each other across the little round table that held the lamp. Jenny sat in the chair nearest the door. Mrs. Parkins plucked her dress from the backs of her thighs and settled down with a groan, still gripping her fan. “Radio says the weather ought to break tomorrow,” she said, “but I don’t know if I can last that long. Seems like every year, the heat just hits me harder.”
Yet her hand, when she reached for Jenny’s, was cool and dry, with tough little pads at the fingertips. She fanned herself while she studied Jenny’s palm. It made her work look commonplace. “Long life, good career line …” she murmured, as if riffling through a file. Jenny relaxed.
“I suppose there’s something special you want to know about,” Mrs. Parkins said.
“Oh, well …”
“No sense beating around the bush.”
Jenny said, “Should I get … well … married?”
“Married,” said Mrs. Parkins.
“I mean, I could. I have this chance. I’ve been asked.”
Mrs. Parkins went on scrutinizing Jenny’s hand. Then she beckoned for the other one, which she barely glanced at. Then she sat back and fanned herself some more, gazing at the ceiling.
“Married,” she said finally. “Well, I tell you. You could, or you could not. If you don’t, you will get other offers. Surely. But here is my advice: you go ahead and do it.”
“What, get married?”
“If you don’t, see,” Mrs. Parkins said, “you’ll run into a lot of heartbreak. Lot of trouble in your romantic life. From various different people. What I mean to say,” she said,