Mabel marched purposefully forward, still wearing her good work clothes from the bank. Consciously ignoring the spectacle of the carnival all around her, she barely noticed the straw and sticky snowcone wrapper stuck to her shoe as she halted in front of an ornate, glass-enclosed booth with a silk-draped mannequin inside. She had seen the fortune-telling machine every year since her childhood, each autumn when the carnival came to town. Even when she went away to the private college just ten miles away, she always came back to get her fortunes.
The fortunes emerged in the form of a small scroll from a chute, or sometimes a card that said, “Take this card. It is yours and yours alone” with a silly spell to perform. When she was younger, the chute was just about level with Mabel’s chin. Today, it pointed to her stomach.
In the past, she might have asked about what she could look forward to in school, or what she would get for Christmas. These days, her requests were calculated to reveal misfortunes she might try to avoid. Strangely, the predictions seemed to come true every time. Of course, the language was cryptic and vague, but in hindsight it was always obvious what the clockwork oracle meant to reveal. Sometimes she even guessed in advance, like the class trip she avoided where everyone got food poisoning. Another time, she used the spell card to find out who put gum in her hair on the bus.
Today’s request was different; the misfortune had already occurred. She had been fired by Mr. Vernion, the bank manager. Not just fired, but dressed down in front of everyone, bank tellers and customers alike. People she had known, who had trusted her with their savings and paychecks for years. It was shocking, the suddenness and cruelty of it, particularly because Mabel had only been trying to tell Mr. Vernion what she had discovered.
Mabel had been looking forward to the carnival all week, but today all she could think about was what to do next. Half the town had probably heard something about how she had been fired. No one here would hire her after that, and probably not in the next county, either. She wanted nothing more than to stay home and hide. But the carnival was here and the compulsion was irresistible: she had a question that needed answering.
Her coin clinked into the unseen cash box, and as a needle scratched violin music from an invisible cylinder in the box below, the fortune teller jerked into life. The lacquered wooden lips mumbled up and down. A voice like sandpaper on thin glass said, in dubiously accented English, “Ask what you would know.”
Her requests were normally short, just a sentence or two, but this time the events of the day just poured out of her while the carved face of the rigid mystic listened. She finished, then paused, thinking she had taken too long. She opened her mouth to say something, then jumped as the assembly of painted wood, silk scarves, and fake gold jewelry abruptly twisted back and forth as the music accelerated. The sound and motion halted as instantly as it began, and with the sound of a bell, a scroll dropped from the chute.
Mabel unrolled it and read: “The cobbler’s busy through the night, counting up his dues. Though his hammer taps away ’til dawn, where, at sunrise, are the shoes?”
Mabel’s lips mouthed the words again and again the whole walk home, searching for meaning. A cobbler? Shoes? Everything fell apart when she’d mentioned the Spencer account… Deposits and withdrawals from an account that had been inactive for thirty years. Then she found the obituaries, and two other accounts, long dormant, long-deceased owners, money cycling through and shrinking. She expected Mr. Vernion to be concerned, to investigate, and probably question all the tellers. She had made copies of everything and braced herself for the encounter, across from his desk, door closed. Instead, right at her teller window, he exploded in anger.
Wearing her favorite silk scarf around her neck for luck, and standing behind her teller window, she’d waved him over. “What is it, Mabel?” he’d said, a little impatient as usual. “Mr. Vernion,” she’d said, nervously: “…I’ve found some irregularities in an account.” He leaned forward close to the glass barrier and hissed, “Lower your voice. What are you talking about?” Mabel started to explain: “Well, sir, it’s a pattern of deposits and withdrawals in an account that…” He cut her off in mid-sentence and said, “The account: write it down.” She took a deposit slip, turned it over, wrote the name, “Vera Spencer”, folded it, and slid it through the slot below the glass. He unfolded it, and his face flushed. He called her a fool, said she didn’t know what she was talking about. And right there, with everyone watching, he’d said it: “You’re fired.”
Back inside her apartment, she thought about Mr. Vernion. His shaved scalp, fingernails clipped down to the quick. Always last to leave, first one there in the morning. He noticed everyone’s arrivals and departures; kept notes about lunchtimes, cigarette breaks, and personal phone calls. So, why shouldn’t he at least hear what Mabel had found? Maybe it shamed him to learn that someone might be stealing right under his nose. He’d be worried about reporting it to the directors, having to call the police. In fact, a deputy sheriff had been right there in the lobby: Rocky Secrest, doing off-duty security work.
As she hung her coat in the slim closet between the front door and the narrow corridor that ended with her bedroom, she was startled by a knock at the door. She opened a crack and saw the badge: it was Rocky. “Miss, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Did Mr. Vernion tell you what I found?” Mabel said excitedly, relieved to think that her manager had come to his senses. Her relief evaporated when the tall officer interrupted, “Let me talk first, then you can say what you want. Mr. Vernion told me that it looks like someone at the bank has been messing around with some accounts. He says it looks like one of the tellers, and he says he had to let you go recently over some problems. Would you agree with that?” Mabel struggled to understand his meaning: Had Mr. Vernion told the police that I stole from the bank? Mabel started to try to explain herself, then the officer interrupted. “This doesn’t have to go any farther than this. Mr. Vernion is investigating this himself, and he wants to give you a chance to help. If he can sort this out and the money’s all there at the end, he wouldn’t need to file charges. Can he count on your cooperation?”
“I think I’d better talk to my lawyer,” Mabel said nervously. It occurred to her that she didn’t have a lawyer, or even know one. The deputy’s expression darkened. He spoke his next words slowly and carefully: “When we get out-of-town lawyers involved, things get… complicated. You think about it, and I’ll tell Mr. Vernion what you said.” She closed the door, a little too fast and forcefully.
A lawyer…If she could get a lawyer, it would have to be “out-of-town”. The bank had every local attorney on retainer. Mabel recalled that Mr. Vernion had been the trustee for the sheriff’s last election campaign. She remembered the “special help” her former manager had gotten years ago when his late wife had been getting unruly at the Gaslight Grill.
Peggy Vernion was crying about some pictures she’d found, which she called “obscene filth”. She called him “sick in the head” and said she was going straight to the police, then a lawyer. Rocky had been there too. He got up from his steak and wedge salad and marched her right out of the restaurant. The next night, Peggy took sleeping pills. The paper quoted Mr. Vernion who said she “hadn’t been herself” lately and had been imagining things.
What did Mr. Vernion expect from Mabel? To cover it up? She hadn’t threatened or accused him. She was just trying to do the right thing. She became aware that she was rolling the scroll containing her fortune between her fingers and thumb. She read the rhyme again: “The cobbler’s busy through the night, counting up his dues. Though his hammer taps away ’til dawn, where, at sunrise, are the shoes?” She imagined Mr. Vernion tapping away relentlessly in the dark with a hammer. After hours, tap-tap-tap. There in the morning, tap-tap-tap. Mr. Vernion, the cobbler, tapping away all night… The truth came clear to her like a film coming into focus on the last reel.
She went to her purse and pulled out the copies she’d made, evidence of money appearing and disappearing. She had the proof, but who could she show? Mabel drew the curtains and picked up the phone book. She looked under M for Morris, the name of one of the bank directors. She had met him once at a picnic. An older, well-groomed man, she remembered thinking that he had liked her. She found the number and dialed. After three rings, a voice answered: “This is Mr. Morris’ answering service. Would you like to leave a message?” “Yes,” Mabel answered in as calm a voice as she could manage. “Please tell him that this is Mabel Tyler from the Moundsburg Branch, and I have some documents he needs to see. Please have him call me back.”
A chilling thought occurred to her: Can I trust him? Will he believe me, or Mr. Vernion? She knew she should wait for Mr. Morris to call, but, spiralling into anxiety, Mabel grabbed her purse and coat and headed back to the carnival.
She cut through the cemetery to avoid anyone who might know something or want to talk to her. She kicked her suede moccasin-style shoes through the orange and red leaves all the way to the far side of the graveyard, then down to the carnival gate. She bought a ticket and headed in the direction of the fortune telling machine. As she walked down the midway, she saw a teller from the bank catch her gaze then quickly look away, saying something to her date.
Reaching the machine, Mabel forced her coin into the slot and her wooden counsellor straightened abruptly. “Ask what you would know” emerged from the speaker, and Mabel said, “How much trouble am I in?” The scroll shot from the chute into her waiting hand. It read, “The situation is grave, this much is clear. The lie will travel from ear to ear.” Mabel contemplated the blunt truth in rhyme. She pressed another coin into the slot. Mabel could barely wait for the mannequin’s query before saying, “What about my proof?” The next scroll said, “Those who believe will see no proof. Those who mistrust will believe no truth.” Shattered one scroll at a time, she steeled herself for one final fortune. She asked, “Is there any way I can clear my name and get my job back?” The response read, “Try to pull the river down, and find that you will surely drown.”
Mabel slept fitfully that night. The next morning, as she gulped her coffee, there was a loud knock at her front door. She shouted, “Who is it?” without opening. “Sheriff’s department” was the curt reply. She slid the door open slightly and saw Rocky staring in at her. “Yes?” she said in a guarded voice. “Miss, we got a call from Mr. Morris. He said you have some documents that belong to the bank. You need to give those back right now.” She thought, You idiot. How could you be so stupid as to trust him?
She tried stalling: “Could you be more specific, please?” The deputy shook his head and said, “Miss, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Either put those papers in my hand, or you’re coming with me.” Mabel forced herself to retrieve the folder and pass it through the door. It felt as though she were being swept under a raging river, never to surface again. Her brain racing, she wondered what would be next. Without that evidence, they’d have no reason to hesitate. She wondered, would she leave in handcuffs next time? Go to jail? Worse?
She grabbed a balled-up tissue and, swabbing tears, turned her attention to the scrolls on her desk. She unrolled and creased each one to stay open. Frantically arranging them in order, she began studying them. Each question, asked too late, she thought. She had known the carnival was coming. Why hadn’t she waited to ask the machine before opening her mouth to Mr. Vernion? If she had, would the fortune teller have warned her? If only she’d asked each question sooner. I’ll ask it what I should have done, she thought. But what good would that do now? Stupid. Mabel waited until the evening to go back to the carnival. Fewer people, and time to work up the nerve, and think of what to ask.
By the time she stood once again in front of the machine, she was as stiffly resolute as the lacquered wooden face that returned her stare. As colored lights reflected all around, she dropped her coin in the slot. The painted figure gyrated and the familiar question came, but slower and quieter than usual: “What is it…you would know?” Mabel’s fingers tightened around her purse straps, and she whispered, “How do I get revenge?” There was a long pause, but Mabel knew she had been heard. Then with a clack, a card appeared.
It emerged face down, the back covered in decorative patterns framing an illustration in the center. Mabel saw that it was a white gloved hand with a fancy lace cuff holding a dagger, index finger against the blade. At the bottom, as always it said, “Take this card. It is yours and yours alone.” Mabel looked up at the mannequin. It faced forward, unblinking, kohl-ringed glass eyes meeting hers. Mabel turned the card over and began to read:
“Incantation to cause anguish and ruin: This spell reaches the wretch by spoken word conveyed from lips to ear, lips to ear, in a chain of whispers.
Speak what follows to the seventh person encountered after receipt of this bitter blessing, and they shall do likewise. The words shall travel like a needle in the heel, insinuating its way to the heart. Know also that the infernal tax levied for this transaction is heavy indeed. If you remain willing, proceed with all your black heart, in sure and certain knowledge that a terrible revenge shall be visited on those who have offended you.”
And then the spell itself followed: a thirteen-verse nonsense rhyme that seemed to have no meaning. It began, “One and three/You owe me/Three plus four/Settles the score” Line after line, Mabel recited it in her mind again and again until the words were embossed on her consciousness. As she repeated the gibberish, she thought, “No reason to feel foolish; so what if I’m playing a silly carnival game? It’s not real anyway… probably. What have I got to lose? And if, somehow it does work… If only it could work…”
Just then, she became aware of a sensation… mild at first, like the nagging urge to wipe a runny nose or tie a loose shoelace. Then it was stronger, more like the compulsion to wash a pair of particularly filthy hands. She had to repeat the nonsense rhyme to someone. The seventh someone.
She looked back at the fortune teller, once again a mannequin gazing at nothing. She turned to walk down the midway, counting people as they passed. Four… a woman eating cotton candy with her fingers. Five… a teenage boy with a dirty face. Six… a little girl running toward the ring toss booth. Seven… She grasped a man’s coat sleeve and pulled close to his face. Older, in his sixties, still handsome, with freshly clipped hair and talc on his neck. He’ll do, she thought, as she leaned into his peppery aftershave.
He looked and saw Mabel’s lowered eyes, her pink-painted lips drawing closer to his cheek. She saw his mouth start to spread into a surprised smile, which faded as he heard the rehearsed words. As the last breathy weapon slipped from her mouth to the man’s ear, she glided her hand down and away from his arm, index finger pointed as it slid. Mabel stood and watched as he walked, at first slowly, then faster down the midway, his lips moving, counting people as he went. She lifted her palm to see the card once again, but it was gone. It must have slipped from her hand…
What form would Vernion’s “anguish and ruin” take, she thought? A bank audit? He’d retire, pay the money back, but the directors would never disclose it. Sickness and death? He’d be mourned as a “pillar of the community”. Then she remembered Peggy Vernion and the pictures…. maybe that? She hoped that was it. Should Rocky also get a portion of anguish and ruin? He should, she decided, and hoped he would. And Mr. Morris, and every one of the bank directors who probably knew the whole time. All of them.
Reassembling herself with a deep breath, Mabel turned toward the shooting gallery. She put her purse aside where she could see it from the corner of her eye, and took up the tethered rifle that launched ball bearings. “The lady’s up! Pick yer next victim!” barked the man in the straw hat. Mabel gave the man some coins from her pocket. Parsing the copper and silver with a dirty index finger, he said, “Four cents more to play.” “How much?” Mabel said, raising her voice above the noise. With a yellow-toothed grin and a wink, the man answered, louder this time, “You owe me four! One and three, ‘case you don’t remember.”
Mabel looked down at her purse, raised her eyes and reached out to pay, but he was already distracted by the next man in line. Sliding the pennies toward the man, Mabel took up the rifle. Lining up her first shot, Mabel heard a noise coming from the direction of town, like the rhythmic pounding of an enormous drum. She heard the stamping of feet in time with the booming beats, as all the other customers walked out of the booth to follow, leaving just Mabel and the grinning barker.
As she rested her elbows on the high bench to take aim, she thought, “My terrible revenge.” Before each pull of the trigger, Mabel continued whispering the rhyming prayer she had learned by heart as she launched each missile toward its deserving target, caring not in the least for any infernal debts charged to her eternal account.
