Truly Elemental: And Other Retro Faerie Tales

Jack Be Nimble

She roams the county highway, going north on 290. No one ever sees her face, unless they are in front of her.

And if they are,

they're already dead.

Headlights catch the back of her plenty; going south on the county's 290, where she walks the faded white line, tempting the lanes in bare feet at twelve midnight once a year. For a flicker she appears. A static shape. Mist in the dark. Her body flat as a child's and deader than the squirrels that fester, squashed, on the road's hefty shoulders.

Drivers swerve, but the rear-view mirror never catches a glimpse. A mercy. Because, if it does,

they're already dead.

• • •

It was a tradition.

But it was my family's tradition, which meant it was ten times dumber than your average tradition. Traditionally, a tradition could include turkey and stuffing or hiding shit all over the house for eight days or painting eggs pink because a rabbit left you chocolate in a basket.

My family's tradition wasn't bound to holidays or birthday rituals like hot dogs and ice cream in December. My family's tradition was hereditary.

The Cunninghams' were fortune tellers.

And it smoked balls, three-hundred and sixty-four days outta the year.

But it was my dumb tradition, or rather, my mom's dumb tradition. And I made good use of it on the one day a year, people actually thought fortune tellers were ace.

So on Halloween night, when Wilton Groves said "Hey, let's go visit the gypsy," I said, "Sure thing," and didn't correct him. We weren't gypsies, my mom was from Dallas, but Wilton was a Ghoul. The Ghoul. He ran with a crowd so tight, you couldn't squeeze a dime between them. And when he wanted something, he damn well got it with a Coke and a side of fries.

Nobody ever told him no. Nobody ever told him he was wrong.

Besides, it was that time of year...

I only had one problem: Mom. My plan to snake-charm the most popular gang in high school rested on her bird-like shoulders.

My mom never understood the nuances of social climbing. She was content to wallow on the front stoop of insignificance. Halloween was the time people went Lollapalooza over shit like séances and tarot cards—but my mom always locked up early. She could be King Kong of the senior class mystic experience. But. No.

She—the only fortune teller in Fallow County—wanted to get home early on Halloween. Every other work day she closed at seven o'clock. But not today. "We don't take 290 after dark on All Hallows,'" she said, turning the key on her rinky-dink shop at four on the dot.

We had to take 290 to get home because we lived on the side of the mountain like Davy-everloving-Crocket, and not in town like civilized people.

That was her only rule. Except for the Cunningham Clause. The one that said clear as ice: fortunes were never to be read for family. She didn't make that clause up, though, so it wasn't really her rule—it was tradition. Strangers got a peek at their futures for thirty bucks a half hour. But I couldn't even ask what was for dinner before five-fifteen.

As I said. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

I left Wilton and the rest of his Ghouls on the sidewalk when we got to Mom's shop; a red brick building she shared with a jeweler. The entrance was a skinny side door that stuck on the hinges. And unlike Steven's spacious place next door—he had his own hanging sign done up nice in block letters—Mom had a small front parlor, a single window, a sun-aged paper poster, and a bead curtain.