Readings by Jane Snyder
The first in line, two girls and a boy, were straight up pigs. The only good thing about holding their sticky palms was knowing they were going to get exactly what they deserved. I made it sound wonderful, of course; I couldn’t stay in business if I didn’t. They were too stupid to know better, crazed by the burnt sugar smell from the cotton candy machine, demanding some before I’d even finished.
Wait, I said. The other child with them, a girl, thin, sullen, should have her palm read too. The other three, the big children, were amused by the idea of that Plain Jane receiving equal treatment but she smirked like a little princess when I told the nanny the other three were better fed than bred.
The girl wasn’t a nice character either, taking pleasure in another’s discomfort, but what a fortune revealed in her palm. Proof that luck isn’t based on merit. You’ll get everything you want, I told her, though it won’t be easy. Adults are hypocrites, your best friend dies, and sometimes you won’t have enough to eat, but you’ll find the one who loves you best of all.
You’ll leave him once for your own self-respect, I said, and someone will try to kill you, but you’ll do fine. Inherit money. Earn friendship and respect. When I touched her deep Girdle of Venus, the crescent that starts at the base of the little finger and ends at the base of the index finger, I felt warm, damp, sick with pleasure. Stop, I wanted to scream.
No, don’t stop.
Love, I told her, pulling my hand away from hers. All the love in the world.
The next one, a boy, his hands red from washing, was another story. Prosy, stolid, beat down. Well now, I told the parents, this one will give you cause to be proud. I addressed my remarks to the parents; I knew the boy didn’t matter. He’ll be a hard worker, I said, disciplined, self-effacing. He’ll repay all your love and care. I didn’t mention romance because the hand I held would provide such excitement as he’d experience.
You never tell them when their life line is cut short. Some kind of illness in his case, I guessed. He wasn’t meant for war. I had a closer look at the faint squiggle at the end of his line. Vermin. Someday you’ll stop liking milk, I told him. His mother scoffed, “Greg’s devoted to it. He has to have his bread and milk every night.”
Why have his palm read, I wondered, if he’s an open book? I wanted to tell her about the taste her son would develop for garbage.
Home, they told him, and we’re not going to the shooting gallery; tomorrow is a school day. He was smiling anyway, imagining himself drinking beer, not milk, with his friends, having a good time.
The next girl wasn’t much to look at. Could have been if her mother had taken pains but she wasn’t the sort who would, hadn’t fixed her own self up either. Aggrieved, self-important, sharp-voiced. A scold as they used to call them in New England. The little girl would be such another, I knew, even before she thrust her moderately clean hand at me. She wouldn’t know the little ways needed to endear herself to her children, keep her husband’s love.
She’d fight it. Come in late, draw attention to herself, joke about not wanting to leave her dishes in the sink. The others would be indignant. She should just accept it, they told each other, bending down to pick up the stones.
Children, I promised her. You’ll have healthy children. Boys and girls. A hard working husband. A fine farm.
She could see for herself how much joy children had brought her mother. “That’s not a very nice fortune.”
It wasn’t but, Lord, she was shrill. Her mother tightened with excitement. She’d been waiting for this.
“It isn’t fair,” the child cried.
Was she just now finding that out? Stupid.
“You want something to cry about, Tessie? Do you? I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Tessie shut her thin lips tightly, scowled, gripped the table, braced her feet against the chair legs, fought fate.
Didn’t win.
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Jane Synder is a writer from Spokane WA, USA.