glass, not wanting to put it down amid all the photos.
“More?” I ask, surprised that he’s finished it so fast. He holds up a hand—he’s had enough. “Eva was part Irish,” I say.
“You’re kidding,” he says, and I can tell he is surprised.
“On her mother’s side.” I remember that Eva used to tell us that our Irish blood is what made all of us good “readers,” that all Irish people have the gift of blind sight, or at least all Irishwomen do. But I don’t have any Irish in me. My grandmother was G.G.’s first wife, Elizabeth, who died giving birth to my mother. May is quite psychic as well, though she goes out of her way to deny it. So the gift must come from both sides of the family.
The stories from the other end of the room are getting too loud for us to carry on any other conversation.
“Remember the time she told the Republican candidate for governor not to run?” Jay-Jay says, and Beezer does a spit take. “What was it she said to him?”
“No good could come of it,” Beezer says.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Jay-Jay turns to Anya. “The guy had a ton of money. People thought he actually had a shot at winning. A week before the election, he slipped on one of his glossy four-color campaign flyers and ended up spending six weeks on his back in some Podunk hospital out in East Cupcake that he didn’t dare leave because he was afraid he would, quote, ‘alienate his constituents.’”
“Who voted straight Democrat anyway,” Beezer tells Anya.
“So he lost?” Anya asks in disbelief.
“A Republican? In Massachusetts? Of course he lost. Doesn’t take 80 Brunonia
Barry
a psychic to predict that one.” Jay-Jay is laughing his ass off.
“You think we should tell him about our recent run of Republican governors?” Rafferty asks, then decides against it. Anya and Beezer are laughing so hard they can’t tell him either.
“What?” Jay-Jay says, but Beezer’s got his whoop laugh going now, and no one is immune to it.
Rafferty looks at me. The whole party is laughing now. Beezer laughs silently, his face in a grimace that looks like something out of a horror film. The only noise he makes is on the intake, a big whooping wheeze that sounds like he’s kidding, but he’s not. People start to calm down, and then he whoops, and they are off again, weak with laughter and release.
Jay-Jay’s girlfriend, Irene something-or-other, comes running up to us.
“Where’s the bathroom,” she says urgently. “I think I’m gonna pee my pants.”
“Great,” I say, pointing to the hall, and I follow to make sure she gets there.
Rafferty follows me out into the hall.
“The last door,” I point, and she goes in.
Rafferty and I are in the hallway then, where it is slightly quieter, the voices muffled. He seems grateful for the quiet. He looks relieved, then awkward, searching for words.
“This was a hard case,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“This case. Eva’s. Usually when somebody disappears without a trace, it’s Eva I go to.”
“Really?”
“She’s helped us more than once, actually.”
I remember Eva talking about her friend the cop. How she had done a reading that helped him find a missing boy. So I was right; the friend she’d talked about was Rafferty.
The Lace Reader 81
“She was a hell of a lady.”
“I’m glad you knew her.”
“She talked about you all the time.”
I hate the thought of Eva talking about me, and he can tell. I try to cover, but it’s too late.
“All nice things,” he said, but I can tell he knows more than all nice things. Everyone in this town knows more than nice things about me; they’re public knowledge. I can’t imagine the discussions he might have had about me with Eva—about my hospitalization. God, if he got curious and looked up my police records, he’d have enough material to talk about me for the next year.
“I need to sit down,” I say, realizing it’s true only as I say it. I feel a little sick. It’s
“More?” I ask, surprised that he’s finished it so fast. He holds up a hand—he’s had enough. “Eva was part Irish,” I say.
“You’re kidding,” he says, and I can tell he is surprised.
“On her mother’s side.” I remember that Eva used to tell us that our Irish blood is what made all of us good “readers,” that all Irish people have the gift of blind sight, or at least all Irishwomen do. But I don’t have any Irish in me. My grandmother was G.G.’s first wife, Elizabeth, who died giving birth to my mother. May is quite psychic as well, though she goes out of her way to deny it. So the gift must come from both sides of the family.
The stories from the other end of the room are getting too loud for us to carry on any other conversation.
“Remember the time she told the Republican candidate for governor not to run?” Jay-Jay says, and Beezer does a spit take. “What was it she said to him?”
“No good could come of it,” Beezer says.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Jay-Jay turns to Anya. “The guy had a ton of money. People thought he actually had a shot at winning. A week before the election, he slipped on one of his glossy four-color campaign flyers and ended up spending six weeks on his back in some Podunk hospital out in East Cupcake that he didn’t dare leave because he was afraid he would, quote, ‘alienate his constituents.’”
“Who voted straight Democrat anyway,” Beezer tells Anya.
“So he lost?” Anya asks in disbelief.
“A Republican? In Massachusetts? Of course he lost. Doesn’t take 80 Brunonia
Barry
a psychic to predict that one.” Jay-Jay is laughing his ass off.
“You think we should tell him about our recent run of Republican governors?” Rafferty asks, then decides against it. Anya and Beezer are laughing so hard they can’t tell him either.
“What?” Jay-Jay says, but Beezer’s got his whoop laugh going now, and no one is immune to it.
Rafferty looks at me. The whole party is laughing now. Beezer laughs silently, his face in a grimace that looks like something out of a horror film. The only noise he makes is on the intake, a big whooping wheeze that sounds like he’s kidding, but he’s not. People start to calm down, and then he whoops, and they are off again, weak with laughter and release.
Jay-Jay’s girlfriend, Irene something-or-other, comes running up to us.
“Where’s the bathroom,” she says urgently. “I think I’m gonna pee my pants.”
“Great,” I say, pointing to the hall, and I follow to make sure she gets there.
Rafferty follows me out into the hall.
“The last door,” I point, and she goes in.
Rafferty and I are in the hallway then, where it is slightly quieter, the voices muffled. He seems grateful for the quiet. He looks relieved, then awkward, searching for words.
“This was a hard case,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“This case. Eva’s. Usually when somebody disappears without a trace, it’s Eva I go to.”
“Really?”
“She’s helped us more than once, actually.”
I remember Eva talking about her friend the cop. How she had done a reading that helped him find a missing boy. So I was right; the friend she’d talked about was Rafferty.
The Lace Reader 81
“She was a hell of a lady.”
“I’m glad you knew her.”
“She talked about you all the time.”
I hate the thought of Eva talking about me, and he can tell. I try to cover, but it’s too late.
“All nice things,” he said, but I can tell he knows more than all nice things. Everyone in this town knows more than nice things about me; they’re public knowledge. I can’t imagine the discussions he might have had about me with Eva—about my hospitalization. God, if he got curious and looked up my police records, he’d have enough material to talk about me for the next year.
“I need to sit down,” I say, realizing it’s true only as I say it. I feel a little sick. It’s
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