spits.
“Simon, I hate to see the place like this. You need to keep up on stuff, you’re damned close to the water. Houses don’t take care of themselves.”
It’s the condescension that gets me, as though I can’t see my own house, as if I haven’t been hanging off the roof or fixing leaks. Houses don’t take care of themselves, but they do need money. “I’m well aware.”
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Just tired. Maybe you can send somebody to check out the house? I don’t know where to start.” I glance down at Peabody’s book. It’s opened to a detailed half-page drawing of a tarot card. The Devil sketched in brown, dressed as a courtier, cloven hoofs sticking out of pantaloons, a curling beard. Smiling, in each hand he holds a chain—leashes around the necks of a man and woman.
The Tenets of the Oracle has the card’s meaning not as simple evil, but secrets, a lack of knowledge, or unknowing bondage. The Devil in The Tenets is dark and frightening. The one in my book looks more like a fun kind of guy, somebody you’d like to have a beer with. It’s Peabody’s interpretation of Madame Ryzhkova’s card, but it raises the question—who was the person with such an interesting view of evil? It might be helpful to look into her, into the other names that pop up. Koenig, Meixel. The more complete the picture of the world, the more easily I’ll be able to see patterns, spot their roots. I trace the end of the Devil’s tail.
Frank says, “I’ve got a guy. I’ll see if he has time this week. Listen, I’m sorry if I yelled, it’s just that your folks loved that place.”
I’d believe him, except my father never lifted a finger on it after Mom died.
“I know.” I’m thanking him when I hear tires on gravel. They belong to a familiar rusted blue Oldsmobile. This is the sound of Enola coming home.
When the car door opens I’m already in the driveway. She falls out of the driver’s seat, a jumble of loosely held together bones. I hold my arms out and she flies into me. For a second it’s good, really good, and I pick her up, squeeze her. She reeks of the road and something stronger. She kicks, clipping my shin. Still, it’s good to hug her again.
“Simon, you look like shit.” Her words slip into each other.
“You smell like a brewery.”
“Happens sometimes.” Her laugh doesn’t sound like it comes from her body. She wiggles free.
“You drove like this?”
“Apparently.” She turns slowly, surveying the house, sniffing the air. “So, can I come in, or do I have to stand out here all day?”
“Sure. It’s your house too.” As though I’ve been keeping it for her. “Did you eat?” I look her over, taking her in. Her clothing hangs from her. A long hippie skirt, a huge hoodie—probably a man’s—a T-shirt poking out from underneath, moth holes in the fabric. Under this stuff is my sister.
She shrugs, jerks the screen door open, and then slams it behind her. It’s just me and the car and whatever she’s left behind. I search for her things among heaps of fast food containers, soda bottles, and beer cans. The floor is covered with matchbooks from bars up and down the coast. Burned out lightbulbs are wedged in the backseat. No bags.
“Where’s your stuff?” I yell.
“Trunk. Don’t worry about it. Didn’t bring much,” she calls back.
“Not staying long?” I shut the car door and head inside.
“Don’t know.”
I hear her swear, followed by a tearing sound. Inside I find her standing over Peabody’s book, ripping the sketch I’d just been looking at to shreds.
“Stop it. Why would you do that?” I shout. She flinches and scraps of paper float to the floor. “Do you even know how old that is?”
“Why would you keep that open? You can’t leave things like that lying around.” Her eyes narrow.
“You can’t rip up whatever you feel like. That’s mine.”
“Where did you even get that book? Who has this shit?” Home a few minutes and
“Simon, I hate to see the place like this. You need to keep up on stuff, you’re damned close to the water. Houses don’t take care of themselves.”
It’s the condescension that gets me, as though I can’t see my own house, as if I haven’t been hanging off the roof or fixing leaks. Houses don’t take care of themselves, but they do need money. “I’m well aware.”
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Just tired. Maybe you can send somebody to check out the house? I don’t know where to start.” I glance down at Peabody’s book. It’s opened to a detailed half-page drawing of a tarot card. The Devil sketched in brown, dressed as a courtier, cloven hoofs sticking out of pantaloons, a curling beard. Smiling, in each hand he holds a chain—leashes around the necks of a man and woman.
The Tenets of the Oracle has the card’s meaning not as simple evil, but secrets, a lack of knowledge, or unknowing bondage. The Devil in The Tenets is dark and frightening. The one in my book looks more like a fun kind of guy, somebody you’d like to have a beer with. It’s Peabody’s interpretation of Madame Ryzhkova’s card, but it raises the question—who was the person with such an interesting view of evil? It might be helpful to look into her, into the other names that pop up. Koenig, Meixel. The more complete the picture of the world, the more easily I’ll be able to see patterns, spot their roots. I trace the end of the Devil’s tail.
Frank says, “I’ve got a guy. I’ll see if he has time this week. Listen, I’m sorry if I yelled, it’s just that your folks loved that place.”
I’d believe him, except my father never lifted a finger on it after Mom died.
“I know.” I’m thanking him when I hear tires on gravel. They belong to a familiar rusted blue Oldsmobile. This is the sound of Enola coming home.
When the car door opens I’m already in the driveway. She falls out of the driver’s seat, a jumble of loosely held together bones. I hold my arms out and she flies into me. For a second it’s good, really good, and I pick her up, squeeze her. She reeks of the road and something stronger. She kicks, clipping my shin. Still, it’s good to hug her again.
“Simon, you look like shit.” Her words slip into each other.
“You smell like a brewery.”
“Happens sometimes.” Her laugh doesn’t sound like it comes from her body. She wiggles free.
“You drove like this?”
“Apparently.” She turns slowly, surveying the house, sniffing the air. “So, can I come in, or do I have to stand out here all day?”
“Sure. It’s your house too.” As though I’ve been keeping it for her. “Did you eat?” I look her over, taking her in. Her clothing hangs from her. A long hippie skirt, a huge hoodie—probably a man’s—a T-shirt poking out from underneath, moth holes in the fabric. Under this stuff is my sister.
She shrugs, jerks the screen door open, and then slams it behind her. It’s just me and the car and whatever she’s left behind. I search for her things among heaps of fast food containers, soda bottles, and beer cans. The floor is covered with matchbooks from bars up and down the coast. Burned out lightbulbs are wedged in the backseat. No bags.
“Where’s your stuff?” I yell.
“Trunk. Don’t worry about it. Didn’t bring much,” she calls back.
“Not staying long?” I shut the car door and head inside.
“Don’t know.”
I hear her swear, followed by a tearing sound. Inside I find her standing over Peabody’s book, ripping the sketch I’d just been looking at to shreds.
“Stop it. Why would you do that?” I shout. She flinches and scraps of paper float to the floor. “Do you even know how old that is?”
“Why would you keep that open? You can’t leave things like that lying around.” Her eyes narrow.
“You can’t rip up whatever you feel like. That’s mine.”
“Where did you even get that book? Who has this shit?” Home a few minutes and
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