Tarotica

Card 13: Death

Eli moaned his release, then collapsed on top of Miranda, huffing and puffing like a locomotive. Even before her heartbeat had returned to normal, he was sound asleep.

She rolled him over and slid out from under his weight. Feeling his fluids leak from her body, she crawled out of bed and padded across the B&B’s creaky wooden floor to the bathroom. She peed, pulled a chain to flush the antique toilet’s overhead tank, and swiped a wet washcloth between her legs.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she saw a young woman sitting in the rocking chair. One breast peeked from the torn bodice of a lace nightgown; her auburn hair cascaded down over the other. A dark stain spread between them.

“Oh my God!” Miranda rushed toward the woman, her initial surprise replaced by concern. “What happened to you?”

“He shot me,” the woman answered, her voice barely audible.

“Oh my God!”

When Miranda reached out to her, the wounded woman vanished. Only the rocker’s slight movement attested to her former presence. Miranda backed slowly away from the chair, her eyes wide as she searched the shadowy room. Where’d she go?

Eli’s snores rumbled behind her. Glancing around the room one last time, she made her way back to bed. I couldn’t have imagined that, she thought as her trembling hands pulled the sheet up over her naked body. I may have just seen my first ghost.

* * *

Sunlight spilled onto the porch at the rear of the B&B, where white wicker tables and chairs were arranged for breakfast. Only three other guests lingered this late in the morning.

“A ghost?” Eli asked, stirring cream into his chicory-laced coffee.

“What else could it have been? I told you this place was haunted.” Miranda broke off a piece of beignet dusted with confectioner’s sugar and popped it in her mouth.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“It all happened so fast.”

A heavy-set man with a puffy, florid face, seated at the table beside them, leaned toward Miranda. “You saw her too?”

“Who?” Miranda asked.

“The old lady with the big hat.”

“No.”

The man looked perplexed. “Oh, I thought you said you saw a ghost.”

'I did. Well, at least I think I did. But the woman I saw was young, with long red hair and a torn nightgown. She said, ‘He shot me,’ then disappeared into thin air.'

“That’s Annalise,” a woman at a nearby table, wearing a New York Yankees T-shirt, interjected.

“Who’s Annalise?” the man asked.

“She turned tricks here, back when this B&B was a bordello,” the Yankees fan said in a nasal Brooklyn accent, omitting all her “r’s.”

Her companion, a horse-faced woman with a blond ponytail, explained, “Even though Annalise worked as a prostitute, she had a lover who was jealous of all her johns.

One night he barged into a room upstairs where she was plying her trade and shot her.”

“It had to be the room we’re in,” Eli said, rolling his eyes.

“She died a few hours later, stretched out on the divan over there,” the woman with the ponytail continued. “But the cops never charged him with the crime.”

“Now Annalise haunts her old digs, spooking visitors,” the New Yorker added.

“Maybe she’s trying to find someone to help her bring her murderer to justice,” Miranda suggested.

“It’s a little late for that,” the horsey woman snorted. “He died more than a century ago.”

“Then who’s the old girl with the fancy hat?” the fat man asked.

“She used to be the madam here,” the New Yorker answered. “They say she feels guilty about what happened.”

“Well, if Annalise shows up again, I’m going to try to get her to talk to me,” Miranda said.

Eli stuck a fork in his eggs Benedict. “Whatever for?”

“I’m curious about what it’s like to be dead. Don’t you want to know what’s on the other side?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Not until I have to.”

* * *

Before the heat reached its zenith, they visited the Audubon Zoo. After a couple of hours, however, the temperature and humidity sent them scurrying for air-conditioned comfort. Miranda suggested the Museum of Art, a white-pillared building sited amidst huge pines, magnolias, and two-hundred-year-old live oaks hung with Spanish moss.

By the time they’d finished viewing a quarter of the museum’s collection of artwork, Eli was ready for a nap.

“I can’t look at another picture,” he groaned, slumping into a chair near a window that overlooked the beautifully landscaped grounds.

“I just want to take a quick tour of the sculpture garden. It contains fifty-seven works by noted artists, including Henry Moore and Jacques Lipchitz.”

“If you spend a minute looking at each one, we’ll be here another hour.”

“I promise I won’t take that long.”

He yawned and leaned his head against the wall. “Wake me up when you’re done.”

Strolling among the sculptures, Miranda rued the fact that she was still a long way from making her mark in the art world. She’d only had a few shows so far, and group ones at that. Most of her income came from teaching high school art classes, not from sales of her paintings. The great artists’ works live on for centuries after they die, she thought. I want to leave a legacy of my own behind. She ran her hand along the smooth curves of a Moore statue. I don’t have children. None of my work hangs in museums.

Who’ll remember me when I’m gone?

* * *

New Orleans comes to life after the sun goes down. Miranda and Eli rode through the Garden District into town on the St. Charles streetcar, past elegant nineteenth-century mansions, Loyola and Tulane Universities, and Audubon Park.

He’d wanted to dine at K-Paul’s or Antoine’s, but didn’t feel like waiting in line for more than an hour for a table. Instead, they found a quiet, unpretentious restaurant tucked away on a side street. The decor featured floor- length red-checkered tablecloths, enough plants to stock a garden center, and an odd assortment of furnishings that appeared to have been gleaned from yard sales. Bessie Smith’s jazz voice wafted through the room.

A corpulent woman with skin the color of India inkberries brought them menus and glasses of ice water with lemon slices. “Catfish good t’night,” she said. “Crawfish ettoufee’s always good.”

Eli studied the menu. “A dozen clams on the half-shell to start. And a bottle of Menage a Trois White.”

“That’s the name of a wine?” Miranda asked.

“It is. Although it sounds French, it’s from Napa Valley.” He winked at her. “I’m still thinking about a three- way with Annalise.”

She rolled her eyes, closed her menu, and stood up. “I’m going to the ladies’

room.”

He caught her wrist and pulled her toward him. “While you’re in there,” he said in a low voice, “take off your panties.”

“Oh my. What’ve you got in mind?”

He gave her a look that could’ve scalded creme brulee. “I have a fantasy I’d like to fulfill.”

When she returned, naked beneath her pink sundress, her underwear shoved into her enormous boho purse, the raw cherrystones and wine sat on the table waiting for her.