Girl Get Fucked By Stepfather In Church Video

Surely this house is darker than most. The lack of light can be explainedin any number of ways - small, recessed windows, for instance, or thescarceness of overhead fixtures - but Peggy prefers the mystery. Giveher a simple answer, and she'll wave it away, reach instead for theimprobable or even the impossible. In this case, she attributes thedarkness of the house to the adobe bricks from which it's made. Theysoak up the night and release it indoors, so that instead of being arefuge, their home becomes a container. All of them - Peggy, Sophie,Ian, and Sophie's friend, Tamara - float in this dense, dark night.Light a match, then, and you'll find Peggy treading slowly toward thebedroom, a slight figure weighted down with a bottle of rum, drifting inand out of all the rooms along the way. She's hoping to hide her burden,though not in the dirty clothes hamper, or inside the linen closet,or stuffed underneath the dog's bed - all too obvious. Briefly, sheconsiders Ian's room, but her twelve-year-old son might come across it,and then what? Every gesture a mother makes is fraught with unintendedconsequences. She can just see him at an AA meeting twentyyears hence: "Mother invited me to drink by hiding liquor in my room. Shenever loved me as much as she loved my sister, Sophie." As it happens,Peggy is too weary to outsmart her daughter, which means she'll haveto sleep with the damn bottle. If Sophie ferrets it from under Jack'spillow, then perhaps she deserves a drink, despite the fact that she'sso clearly underage. Sophie is precocious, dangerously so. At long last,Peggy's begun to realize this fact.Upstairs, Tamara can't help it. She wants to call the 1-900PSYCHIC number. She needs to call the 1-900PSYCHIC number. Her whims have a short gestation period:within minutes, they hatch into desires[End Page 6]then metamorphose into needs. Tiny frantic moths, they flutter and diparound the girls' heads. Tamara is only dimly aware of wings brushingher cheeks, the way they tickle and itch. Sophie sighs then waves herhands in the air. "Get hold of yourself," she says sharply. Ever sinceher stepfather took off for Alaska, Tamara's been a real pill. It'sa big mystery, Tom's leaving: not even Tam's mother, Lucinda, knowswhat he's doing or when he's coming back. In another year, they'llfish a battered postcard from the mailbox: depicted on the front willbe a swatch of Alaskan wil- derness, verdant but still somehow chilly,on the back, a scrawled message of apology, no return address.Dressed in identical evening wear - extra-large white T-shirts stretchedover their knees - the two girls perch on a mattress in Sophie'supstairs bedroom. Underneath her shirt, Tamara wears pink panties thatare a little too snug and a bra at least one cup size too large. DespiteSophie's ribbing and her pleas to "get thee to Victoria's Secret," Tamaraprefers to stuff. Like her mother before her, she employs Kleenex waddedinto small uncomfortable balls that migrate toward her armpits as theday goes on. Sophie wears panties, too, but no bra. She keeps her sweet,sore breasts pressed to her knees. Somehow, the constant, gentle pressurecalms her. Not surprisingly, she dislikes bras on principle and yearnsfor a chance to burn hers, though she'd only torch the white ones. It'sdisappointing to come of age in the new millennium; the new millennium isboring. No one does anything outrageous anymore; Sophie theorizes it hassomething to do with shopping malls, which enforce a kind of uniformityand anonymity. Even so, she visits Cottonwood Mall as often as any ofher friends.Just now, Saturday night is spinning into Sunday morning. The girls havebeen guzzling Diet Coke for hours, waiting impatiently for Peggy to gooff to bed. Because they're at Sophie's house, Sophie is in charge ofentertainment. Earlier, she promised Tamara a good drunk or at least onegood drink, but that's not going to happen. Peggy's hidden the bottleof rum and no telling where."Please," Tamara begs. She's not above begging; in fact, sheseems to enjoy it."We've been all through this," Sophie replies. We've been all throughthis is one of Peggy's retorts, and realizing this, Sophie wants tohit something. Never any good at impulse control, she leans across themattress and jabs her friend in the shoulder,[End Page 7]knocking her off-balance, so that Tamara topples face-first into themattress, a sheath of long blonde hair spilling across the spread. Shemight be a carnival target, that's how hard she falls.Even so, she doesn't seem to notice she's been hit. "Please,Sophie," she wheedles in a muffled voice, lips pressed to the purpleIndian bedspread, which smells strongly of patchouli and faintly ofmold. Before Sophie dug it out and pressed it back into ser- vice, thespread spent years neatly folded in Peggy's army locker. "Don't you wantto find out what's going to happen between you and Will?"Sophie glances away from her friend to the bank of windows on thefar wall. "I know what's going to happen between me and Will," Sophiereplies. Nothing could be further from the truth; this has to count asthe biggest fib she's told in a while.Tamara sighs and fingers the pimple on her chin. It's larger than it wasan hour ago, she could swear. "I can't stand not knowing what's going tohappen to me," she mutters. "One quick call. I'll keep it short, promise."Sophie shakes her head, though her heart isn't in it. For weeks now, she'sbeen hearing about Tamara's calls. The first psychic declared that Tam'sold boyfriend is a jerk. No news in that. But the second one promised thatPrince Charming is on the horizon: Tamara should wear pink every day, thepsychic instructed, because her Prince will recognize her that way. LastSaturday, the girls made a trip to Cottonwood to buy pink socks, pinkT-shirts, pink underwear, all charged to Lucinda's VISAcard. No Prince yet, but Tamara's wearing the panties right now, just incase. Any minute, he could take the stairs on his white horse, blunderright into Sophie's bedroom, a little dazed and sweaty, but all the moreirresistible for that.It doesn't happen, of course, but something else does. Entirely out ofcharacter, Tamara remembers a story Sophie told her once. "Didn't yourmother tell fortunes in that commune in Taos? Doesn't she have cards?"Sophie nods slowly, her eyes straying from Tam to Peggy's army locker onthe other side of the room. She can see them now, wrapped in a blue silkscarf for safekeeping and stowed in a pine box. With a sigh of relief,she rises from the mattress, jerking the stretched and baggy T-shirtover her butt as she crosses the room. Why didn't she think of it? Thistime Tam's way ahead of her and knows it. Her friend is gleeful, rollingback and forth across the[End Page 8]bed, squealing with happiness. It looks like they're going to have somefun after all.Around 2 A.M. - she no longer allows herself to glanceat the clock, a practice that promotes insomnia - Peggy heads back downthe long hall to the bathroom. She's smiling, enjoying a moment of smalltriumph - the bottle of rum is right where she left it. Occasionally,the older generation still rules. Her feet tread lightly over the coolbrick floor, hard enough to break a heart. Drop something, and whateverit is will shatter on impact - glass, pottery, ice cubes. Fall, andyou're liable to break a bone, but kneel gently, and the bricks willseem to give, firm but pliant sponges, porous as the adobe in the walls.Tonight, Peggy leaves a trail of blood in her wake, small drops ofbrilliant red that fall to the floor unseen. By tomorrow, the floorwill soak up the small splashes, and what's left, a dark red sheen,will be virtually undetectable. She bleeds erratically these days. Herperiods are like the rains in New Mexico. For the most part, they arrivein the evening and progress through the night. Although surprising intheir intensity, they are generally quite brief. By morning, this onewill be gone.The slight cramping in her gut she attributes to the steak they had fordinner. Sophie was craving meat and insisted on barbecuing. Afterward,the four of them sat in rockers on the front porch, plates cradled intheir laps, gnawing at corn on the cob and hacking away at half-cookedslabs of meat. Early on, Peggy made the mistake of offering to help Iancut his steak. He raised his eyes and appraised her coolly. "I'm not ababy," he replied. But that's not entirely accurate, at least not forPeggy. When she peers closely at her son, she can still make out theplacid infant interposed with the thumb-sucking toddler tucked next tothe awkward little boy, all of them shoved up against the droll, deadpanadolescent he is now. Although she needs assistance to see the future,Peggy has a very clear accounting of the past. If anything, she recallstoo much. "Ian doesn't hate you," Sophie tried to reassure her motherrecently. Peggy isn't so sure. Lately, he certainly seems to.As she makes her slow way to the bathroom, her hand slips down totrace the curve of her abdomen. The habit began eighteen years ago,when she was newly pregnant with Sophie and the slightest pressure fromher bladder caused her to toss and turn. If she didn't rouse herself,Jack would reach over and jostle her.[End Page 9]"Peggy," he'd hiss. "You need to go, sweetheart." And so send her offdown this same long hallway, slightly off-balance and oddly happy. Alongthe way, her right hand would cradle her swelling belly, a touch ofreassurance. Although the reason is gone now, the gesture has longsince become reflexive. Whether rounded, flat, or now, in middle age,a little deflated, like an old balloon, her belly is a kind of nightlytalisman, a reminder of who she is and isn't anymore. Tonight, herfingernails skate above the skin of her crotch, and she can't helpwondering if she's had her last real sex, if that part of her life isover now. Wouldn't that just be a bitch?The toilet is low to the floor, and the first thing she does whenshe enters the bathroom is to lean down and feel for the seat. It'sstill up, signaling that Ian was the last one here. After lowering it,she squats until her buttocks rest on the smooth surface, no gown tograpple with. These days, she sleeps in the nude. With Jack gone, sheprefers the simplicity of it. All day long she's dealing with clothes -selecting them, wearing them, displaying them, selling them. At night,she wants rid of them.Funny thing, she thinks as her bladder empties into the bowl, a sweettinkling she listens to in the darkness. For the first dozen years oftheir marriage, Jack was adamantly desirous of her nakedness at night,his own being a foregone conclusion. "Please," he'd say, a small pantingsound she equated with begging. "I need to feel your skin." The idea wasseductive, and so was his voice, thick with lust. Sometimes she gave inand spent the night with his bulky body tucked tightly against hers, butshe couldn't relax. Steeped in the Baptist faith, Peggy still clung to thenotion that familiarity leads to contempt. Sooner or later, she reasoned,Jack's eyes would fix on her flaws - that odd, distended bellybuttonfor instance, cute on a little girl but absurd on a grown woman.Only recently she's recognized the obvious, that she and Jack perceivethe world through two sets of eyes. All along, he's insisted on this- his own vision - but she wouldn't hear of it. "I find you entirelybeautiful," he swore time and again, crossing his heart and hoping todie. Now she comprehends that he truly meant the whole of her - ugly bonyknees and shapeless breasts alongside splendid green eyes and long leanarms. Here all these years she might have appreciated herself throughhim. How happy that would have made her!"You're a fool, Peggy," she sighs. Rising from the toilet, she registersagain the twist of pain in her left hip - bursitis, the doctor says. Shehasn't told anyone about it, and she doesn't intend to;[End Page 10]merely uttering the word would mark her as an old woman. She turns onthe cold tap and rinses her hands in the sink, not bothering to dry. Theair will steal the moisture from her skin before she reaches her bed."It's not fair!" Tamara cries, indignant over Sophie's wishy-washystance on the Page of Wands. First, the card was a new boyfriend. NowSophie's changed her mind and is insisting it represents Tam's stepfather,Tom. "Make up your mind for God's sake!""I'm trying," Sophie mutters, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor,her butt going numb with the hardness of her situation. Tamara facesher from the edge of the mattress, pink panties glowing from betweenher legs. Her face is rosy with excitement. In the light from the lamp,the pimple on her chin seems to pulse. She's fingered it so often overthe last few hours that it's getting infected.Sophie's deciding she's no good at fortunes. When they started this,she felt pretty sure of herself. After all, her mother is a psychic,or used to be, so Sophie might have expected to inherit the gene orthe predisposition or the magical third eye. Whatever. Now, her hopesare dimming. From one minute to the next, she can't decide what tosay. Without a book to go by - and she can't find anything resemblinginstructions in that damned army locker- she's had to resort to studyingthe cards, intuiting what they mean. They've been at this for hours,lighting candles and incense - the place positively reeks of sweetjasmine - shuffling the cards and laying them out in circles, in squares,in crosses."Looks like your stepdad, Tam," Sophie persists. "I can't help what I see,can I?""You haven't really told me what you see." Tam gnaws a hangnailon her index finger, smelling chocolate on her skin and something else.The whole fortune-telling thing begins to feel uncomfortablylife-and-death to Sophie. Should she be making these pronouncementswhen she hasn't the faintest idea? The Page of Wands looks likea man, but even gender seems up for grabs. He/she is dressed entirely inburgundy red - including cape and hat - and clutching a staff from whichbuds sprout. Sophie peers at the card again; this time, she studies thestretch of mountains behind the figure, purple peaks that disappear offthe edge of the card. She can't help it, can she? The Page looks intenton discovering the new world or at least some portion of the Alaskanpipeline. "Basically, I don't[End Page 11]think Tom's coming back anytime soon," Sophie tries again. "I'm sorry,Tam. I know you really liked the guy.""Not a problem." Tam shrugs dramatically. "You know me. I roll with thepunches. Thing is, I would rather have heard about a boyfriend."Tamara's had a hard year in the romance department; she's had ahard year overall. Right before he took off for Alaska - they wereactually saying their goodbyes in the driveway, just the two of them -Tom grabbed her up under the armpits so that her feet actually left theground. The fingers of his large hands pressed into her carefully stuffedbra. He hesitated, stared intently into her startled blue eyes, and thenkissed her passionately on the mouth. Tam was still sixteen, and Tom'sdeparture was only seconds away. Not a word of explanation. He just sether back down and climbed into his truck. Once he was good and gone,she turned a full circle, allowing her gaze to travel over the frontwindows of her house, the perimeter of the yard, a length of street,the houses across the way, all in the hopes of discovering someone orsomething to verify her astonishment. Even a bird would have been betterthan nothing, but there were no witnesses. She had to wipe away Tom'ssaliva and go on. Since then, she hasn't told a soul, not her motherand not Sophie. Right now, she's in the process of convincing herselfit was simply a bad dream. She's had bad dreams off and on; they can bevery convincing."I spoke too soon," Sophie says apologetically. "I should have studiedthe cards first." Then: "You have to understand this isn't real, Tam. Idon't have the first fucking idea of what I'm doing.""It's real," Tamara insists. "I believe in it, Sophie." She swallowswith difficulty. "Can I have a drink of water before we go to bed?""Sure." Sophie leans forward and scoops up nearly a dozen brightly coloredscraps of cardboard. They tell stories, these cards. In the one underher finger, a man lies prone under a black sky, ten swords piercing himfrom neck to hip. He appears to be dead, but Sophie suspects he's alive,though in terrible pain and stuck in some unbearable situation. Onanother card, labeled "Temperance," an angel with red wings walks onwater while pouring liquid from one golden chalice to another. Over thetop of her head a rainbow arcs. Before she picks them up, Sophie slidesthese cards together so that the sides touch, willing the angel to riseup and pour the contents of her chalice over the man's wounds. It couldhappen, she thinks, but it doesn't. Instead, Tamara calls[End Page 12]from the doorway. She wants a drink of water. She needs a drinkof water and a good night's sleep.The sky lightens and the cholla outside the window takes on shape andcolor. Tall and contorted, the cactus resembles an ancient and arthriticman wielding several broken canes. Sometimes, the man appears furious, onthe verge of striking a blow at an innocent passerby, one of the childrenmaybe, but he has his spells of happiness, too. In early May he celebratesspring: flowers the color of fruit punch emerge from his joints, and heturns downright jaunty. By fall, the flowers have shriveled and blownaway; he is weary, at death's door, which as it happens is also Peggy'skitchen door. It's November, well past the monsoon season in a dry year,and he's thirsty. Just a minute, Mr.Bojangles, Peggy thinks. She's beenreferring to him this way for years, but only in her head.She no longer expects Jack to pull into the driveway, kicking up dust inhis old Taurus station wagon, though he occasionally still arrives totend his bees. Even so, she takes up her station at the narrow windowbeside the door. "He could come," she tells herself. In the last monthshe has added this disclaimer: "but he probably won't." You might sayshe's traveled a ways down the road.From the other end of the long room comes the drip of percolatingcoffee. When the machine beeps - signaling another day with coffee hasarrived - Peggy goes on standing at the window, just to prove she doesn'treally need it, at least not right away. This is the first of her smalldaily hurdles, tiny tests she sets for herself, nothing too strenuous,no large leaps of faith.She's wrapped in her new robe, a deep purple satin number she broughthome from the store when it didn't sell. Rather than relinquish therobe "for a song" - her sales rack is marked with a sign instructingcustomers to hum show tunes while she rings up discounted merchandise -she gave it to herself. The sash is cinched uncomfortably at her waist;underneath, she's still naked. Her bare feet are chilly.Before pouring coffee, Peggy fills a green glass pitcher with water andcarries it out to toss at the cactus's feet. Afterward, she waits onthe square of cement that passes for a porch and watches the water soakinto the ground. Yes, there it is. She could swear Mr.Bojangles sighswith relief. Naturally, it's not the sort of thing you can see. Hislimbs are rigid, after all, but listen carefully and you'll hear it,a slight expulsion of breath. Other things breathe,[End Page 13]Peggy reasons. Life is all around us. Best to keep that firmly in mind.Already, Sophie is waking to a room suffused with morning light. Thelace sheers on the four windows filter the New Mexican sunshine intobrilliant patterns that splash the bare white walls, the hardwood floor,and the two girls huddled beneath one thin Indian print bedspread. DespitePeggy's pleas, Sophie won't hear of real curtains, the kind that provideswhat her mother calls a modicum of privacy. Sophie doesn't likecurtains; she doesn't believe in curtains. That's the way shetalks these days. Recently, she's announced that she doesn't believein automobiles or political candidates or even God Himself. She'sdecided in her opinions and needs very little in the way of facts toform them. Information gets in the way, makes it harder for her tocome to a clear conclusion. As Peggy might say, Sophie eschewsinformation. So, even though the coming of day in this room would wakemost anyone else, Sophie's a stubborn girl. She doesn't believein distractions like sunlight. Most often on the weekends, she snoozesuntil noon through a sheer act ofwill.Not today. Today her eyes blink open, and she finds herself staring atthe back of Tam's head, only partially covered by a lumpy pillow. Longblonde locks crisscross the white cotton sham, and dazzled by the sight,Sophie reaches out and gently fingers a strand. Tam has amazing hair,purely golden and so soft, some of the best hair God's ever made, thatis if you believe in God, but Sophie doesn't. The cards are wrapped inthe scarf and tucked under her pillow, and while she strokes Tam's hair,she rolls her cheek back and forth over the edge of the stack, imaginingpurple peaks, enormous eight-sided stars, and somber-faced moons.No one is more interested in the future than a teenage girl, thanthis teenage girl. Within minutes, she'll be tiptoeing downthe stairs, heart pounding in the narrow cage of her chest, wearing alavender terrycloth robe to ward off the morning chill. The cards willbe stowed in the patchwork pocket of her robe, a weighty little packagejostling gently against her thigh as she descends.Downstairs, Peggy huddles over the Albuquerque Journal, sippingcoffee with her toes curled against the cool floor. November is pasttime to shut down the swamp cooler and fire up the furnace, but Jackisn't around to climb on the roof, and Peggy hasn't had the heart tocall in a professional. Instead, she yells for dimwitted,[End Page 14]dutiful Lady, their fat old golden retriever, who lumbers in fromIan's room and skitters across the floor, still a little befuddled fromsleep. "Come here, Lady Luck," Peggy says, waving her hand to indicatethe space under her feet. The dog is only too happy to oblige. Shesaunters over and drops her fat old ass onto the chilly bricks, andPeggy slides her feet under the dog's wide furry belly.At most, she has only another fifteen minutes to relax. This isluminaria season in Old Town. In the late afternoon, volunteerswill proceed in small stooping steps along the perimeter of the plaza,lighting many hundreds of votive candles nestled in brown sacks; storeswill leave their doors open until eight or nine, and by nightfall,every square inch of the plaza - sidewalks, adobe walls, the twin gothicspires of the mission church, San Felipe de Neri - will be bathed ingentle flickering light. The whole area will be packed with locals andtourists, lots of good-natured jostling and Christmas carols belted outin English and Spanish. Not that Peggy will get much chance to enjoy thescene. She'll be rushing between register and gift wrap. Christmas isstill weeks away, but already she regrets this year's choice of paper,which features endless lines of howling coyotes decked out in Santa hats.Sophie slips up behind her mother's chair and peers down at Peggy's wildmane of grayish-brown hair, piled into something resembling a bird'snest. Her mother's hunched shoulders shimmer in the dim light. She'sgetting very thin; the notches of her spine are clearly visible throughthe silk wrapper. Distracted as she is, Sophie can't help worrying. In agesture of concern, she slides a hand down the curve of her mother's neck."Who touches there?" Peggy asks, not that she needs to. These days,Ian goes out of his way to avoid contact, shies away from hugs andkisses. It's Sophie who can't keep her hands off things: paintingsin museums, stalactites at Carlsbad Caverns, young men she thinks sheknows. Her hands reach out and probe whatever is under her gaze. It'snot enough to see something; no, she must feel it,too."Will you read my cards?" she whispers. She can't wait any longer;for heaven's sake, she's been waiting all night long."What?" Peggy asks.The Tarot cards arrive over her shoulder with a loud pop, scatteringacross the article she was skimming, a so-so review of a communitytheater production that stars an acquaintance, someone Peggy doesn'tcare for. She was enjoying the review, but it[End Page 15]doesn't matter. This is more interesting. "Here I thought I'd hiddenall the intoxicants," she mutters, then, with a deft movement of herleft hand, sweeps the cards into a stack.A whole lifetime ago it seems, she read these cards for her dinner,for a place to crash, and occasionally for a little pocket money. But,it's been a long time, maybe a dozen years since she last touchedthem. Vaguely, she recalls a desperate reading before Ian was born butnothing since. Even so, they feel familiar - the resistance of the edges,the sheer size of them, bigger than regular playing cards and a littleunwieldy. After handling them for a minute, she raises the stack to hernose and takes a deep whiff. They smell faintly of their pine box and ofsomething else forgotten and sweet. "I hope you and Tamara haven't beenplaying with these," she says. "A deck of cards belongs to one personand one persononly.""Playing?" Sophie is offended and also a little guilty. Shehopes she hasn't ruined the cards, though her worry is entirelyself-interested: She wants to know her future; she needs to knowher future. "Remember, Peggy," she says haughtily. "The trunk is inmy room. If it's all so damn private, what's it doing up there,anyway?""It's been in your room for years, but it's always been off limits. Youknow that." Already, Peggy has shifted the cards into her lap and beguna fumbling shuffle. "You have your things, and I have mine." Isn't thisthe same weary sermon she gave the little girl who scribbled in openbooks and bathed the dog in her mother's sweet-scented bath oil?Sophie leaves her post behind the chair and arrives on the otherside of table. Her hands are on her hips; she looks serious, ready todrive a bargain. "I want you to read my cards." Her hair is a storm ofbrownish-black curls, that one white lock hanging across her left eye. Afew months back, she began bleaching a handful of her hair a shockingshade of platinum so that now she's reminiscent of Lily in that oldsixties show, The Munsters. Sophie could be the daughter Lilynever had, all grown up now and sporting her mother's severe hairdo."I don't do readings for free, you know," Peggy says.It's a stalling strategy and Sophie knows it. "Charge my account," shereplies. She's kept one card back, and she holds it up now, the facehidden from view, recalling for her mother their endless games of OldMaid. Little Sophie loved the game but detested the Old Maid card. Eachtime she drew it, she'd arrange it exactly[End Page 16]in the middle of her fan, holding it up for her mother to choose,a grimace of concentration on her small face. Peggy couldn't bear todisappoint her; she took it every time. No harm in letting the childwin, she used to think, secretly pleased to have raised a daughter sorecklessly in favor of her own happiness. Now, she's not so sure.Today, Sophie holds the Page of Pentacles. After revealing it, she brushesaside the paper, sweeping it to one end of the long table. "This is mysignificator," she says, pushing the card between them and plopping downin a chair. "I'm ready when you are.""How do you know about significators?" Peggy asks, her browfurrowing. "You haven't been going to see that ridiculous woman in OldTown, have you?" Just down the sidewalk from Peggy's shop, EverydaySatin, there's a small storefront specializing in palmistry and cardreadings. "Because Josie's not smart enough to tell you your cat's name."Tamara told her about significators, not that Sophie's about to admitit. Instead, she shrugs and slouches more deeply into her lavender robe,feeling constriction in her chest at the mere mention of Alexandra,a sleek black cat with a small white star tucked under her chin. Alexis wild and defiant - as apt to scratch as she is to purr - but shegenerally stays close by. Usually, she's curled in a rocker on the porch,that is when she's not chasing lizards. "I haven't seen Alex for weeks,"Sophie admits. "I'm worried.""Maybe we should do a reading about your cat," Peggy says, smiling."Not now, please. This is important.""Really? Isn't Alex important?" Peggy reaches out and runs a finger overThe Page of Pentacles, the very same card she used to represent herselfwhen she was Sophie's age. "All right, then," she agrees, hoping shestill remembers the Celtic Cross. "Frame the question carefully. Makesure it's clear in your head. Then shuffle."For once, Sophie does as she's asked, awkwardly rearranging the deck,mixing them up as best she can before returning them to her mother,silently, her green eyes evasive and fearful. That part doesn't surprisePeggy; she's seen it dozens of times; first readings are always a littlescary. Immediately, she begins laying out the cards with sharp littlepops, keeping her cross large and using all the available space. Shemutters the words to remind her: "What covers her? What crosses her? Whatcrowns her? Beneath. Behind. Before. Herself. Her house. Her hopes andfears. What will come?"Sophie scoots back, startled. She's never seen her mother like this. Overthe years, Peggy's movements have grown more and[End Page 17]more circumscribed. When she's angry, she yells, but she doesn't waveher arms or stomp her feet. The most she might manage is to strum thetabletop with her fingertips. If she's sad, she goes as still and stiffas the cholla outside the kitchen window. Now, Peggy's hands sweepacross the table, slapping the cards face up, one after another. Thesleeves of her brilliant purple robe fill with air and rise around herarms. She doesn't hesitate or hold back.Once the cards are down, she glances first at them and then at Sophie. Allthe energy of the last few seconds is gone. Suddenly, the robe seems toswallow her; she's a rag doll of a mother."You okay?" Sophie asks, her heart pounding. Oh God, she thinks. Thisisn't just a little game they're playing."I'm sorry," her mother says, shrinking back and folding her handsin her lap. Underneath the table, she jabs Lady's side with her toes,again and again. She can feel the poor old dog flinching. To stop, shehas to pull her feet out onto the cold floor. "Guess I'm not up to this,"she says quietly."Try," Sophie says. "Won't you just try?"The pleading confirms it. How simpleminded mothers are, Peggy thinks. Wethink we can hide a bottle and have our duty done. "Sophie," shewhispers. "Don't let's do this, please, sweetie.""I have to," Sophie whispers back."But why?" Peggy wishes she could lie like other people - like Jack, forinstance - and she wishes she could forget occasionally as well. Why isit she has to remember every blessed thing: the Celtic Cross, the facesof the cards, the deepest desires of all the desperate souls who've eversought her counsel? Most often, the questions are about love or money,or sometimes love and money. Cups or Pentacles, Pentacles andCups. In Peggy's experience, you can toss out the Wands and Swords;that's how seldom they enter the picture. Sophie's question is Cups,of course it is, three in a row straight up."Please, Peggy. Please, please." Sophie's wheedling, but she can't helpit: that's her future in front of her, so close she can practicallysmell it. If she has to, she'll bend over and press her chest to thetable, intuit the cards' meanings using only her heart. "What about thisone?" Sophie points to the number five card - what may come to pass. TheFool sallies forth, his gaze on the bright yellow sky, his feet onthe edge of a cliff. Another step and he'll plummet to his death, buthe never takes it; eternally, he's on the verge. "Does this mean I'vebeen foolish?""Not necessarily," Peggy replies. "The Fool's about expectations[End Page 18]and impossible goals. He's hope, baby." Reaching a hand over the spread,she squeezes Sophie's arm. "The Fool tells you to take the plunge andfollow your heart."Across from The Fool, in the number six spot, is the Knight ofSwords. "The decision," Peggy says slowly, "has to do with a young man."Sophie gazes at the Knight on his horse, sword raised as he rushesheadlong into battle. Behind him, the sky is streaked with dark clouds,and in the distance, heavy winds bend the cypress trees."He has a strong - will," Peggy adds. The word hangs in the airbetween them."You know my question, don't you?" Sophie insists. "Just say it, whydon't you?"But Peggy won't; she can't. Instead, she sweeps her hand across the table,scattering the cards. Several lift briefly into the air before drifting tothe floor - The Fool and then The Empress, still insisting on her due -but Peggy refuses to look at them or at Sophie. "I had no business doingthis," she says. "It's been too long, and besides, I'm late for work.""You can't do that, god damn it!" Sophie cries out. But it's already done.In her rush to get away, Peggy kicks Lady in the side, raising a howlof protest. "I'm so sorry!" Peggy calls over her shoulder, a blanketapology. She's flying down the hallway, the satin robe rising around herthin frame, her feet slapping at the bricks. In another minute, she'sshrugging off her robe in the bathroom, turning on the shower. Tearsare running down her face, but that's okay. She can weep in private,and, if necessary, pretend later she hasn't wept atall.By the time Peggy returns, dressed for work in a flowing green pantsuitthat passes for holiday cheer, Sophie is hunched at the end of the table,her back to the door and her head bent forward. All that wild hair hidesthe movement of her hands, but she's concentrating, doing something thattakes all of her attention. Briefly, Peggy watches from across the room,and as she calls out goodbye, Sophie straightens and turns, revealinga house of cards.Peggy shouldn't be surprised, and she isn't, not really. After all, shetaught her daughter this trick years ago, using the Old Maid deck. Onthose rare occasions when little Sophie lost in spite of her mother'sbest efforts, Peggy would console her by building[End Page 19]a house with the cards, saving the Old Maid for last. "Look, sweetie,"she'd say, balancing the cards against each other, like a line of handsraised in prayer.To the outsider, the structure probably appears delicate, but thefirst story is sturdy. Blow as hard as you like; you won't knock itdown. The second is another matter; it's as apt to collapse as it is tostand. Already, Sophie's finished the first two floors. The Tarot cardsmake a large and handsome house, all bright colors - red, green, yellow,blue. As she attempts the third story, Sophie bites her lip - she holdsfour cards, two in either hand. To stand, they must be planted at thesame instant. Steady, Peggy says, or maybe she doesn't say it. Maybeshe's just thinking it. Once the cards are in place, Sophie leans backand takes a ragged breath. "This next is the hardest," she says."I know.""You chickened out on me, Peggy.""I wanted to protect you," her mother admits, bending to collect TheEmpress and The Fool from the floor, then handing them off to herdaughter. For now, neither notices the loss of the Knight of Swords,carried away in Lady's mouth. The Lord of Wind and Breezes, as he'scalled, is already buried in the depths of Ian's cluttered closet and,like the cat Alexandra, won't be seen again.Scattering the cards didn't change a thing; Peggy sees that now. TheEmpress is still in her all-important number ten spot - what will come. Alarge and lovely woman, she sits regally on her throne, the very visionof fecundity, another of Peggy's favorite words. Later today,she'll turn it over in her head - fecundity, fecundity - but shewon't say it aloud just yet. Perhaps it's a trick of the imagination,but the house of cards seems to glow, filling the murky room with allits available light. Peggy sighs. Life's sweeter, she thinks, when youtake it one day at a time, one hour at a time, this moment and then thenext. No one is less interested in the future than a middle-aged woman,than this middle-aged woman. Still, her heart lifts a little asshe says the words: "If I had to guess, I'd say you're pregnant, sweetie."Sophie pinches the cards, yellow sky to yellow sky, and holds them,trembling, above the fragile foundation. She doesn't look up, but shegives a slight nod. "I think you're right," she replies.

Sharon Oard Warner is authorof Learning to Dance and OtherStories (New Rivers P, 1992) and Deep in the Heart (The DialP, 2000), and editor of The Way We Write Now: Short Stories from theAIDS Crisis (Citadel P, 1995). She is the founding director of UNM'sTaos Summer Writers' Conference.// -->Next ArticleA Very Good Walking, The Thing That Keeps Us Watching, Juanita and Nancita at the Cantina, The One We Call Uncle Ed