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It had been a good summer. One of the best Caroline could remember.
She had fuzzy memories of what summer had been like when she was really little - freckles, bruised knees and the taste of wild strawberries and all that - but then after that it had all been war, war, war. God, she’d been sick of that damned war. Even when it ended, it didn’t go away - Mom and Dad kept talking about it, about what would happen now, about how they’d move on, about the economy recovering… It hadn’t exactly made summer break any more enjoyable, on top of all the regular miseries that came with being a teen girl. With school, there was at least a routine - break was just endless outings and dances and sleepovers and it all got completely impossible to manage real fast.
But 1950 had been a good summer, she could conclude now that August was coming to an end. Maybe owing to the new decade, or maybe it was just Caroline’s friends finally growing up a smidge. They all seemed a lot less suffocating this year, somehow. Some of them had gotten part-time jobs, some were trying to get ahead before the next term started. Some got boyfriends.
Caroline glanced at the boy sitting next to her. Maybe ‘young man’ would have been a better word - he was a senior, after all, turning eighteen in just a few months - but Caroline had a hard time thinking about Brock Williams as anything other than a boy. A good-looking boy, for sure, but a boy nonetheless.
Her friend Molly had some fella after her - he’d asked her out more than five times now, begging her to go to the movies, to a restaurant, to Detroit for a day, stuff like that. Brock had asked Caroline to the carnival.
It was some travelling affair - nothing to get too excited about, really, but Caroline had immediately accepted the invitation. No matter how much Molly gushed about how thrilling it was to have a real man chasing after you, Caroline always found her stomach twisting up at the thought, and the more Molly talked the more she found herself paranoid that some real man was going to jump out of the bushes and start asking her to go places soon. A boy her age asking her out felt like an impossible weight lifted off her shoulders. Brock had stammered a bit, his ears had gone red and his voice had cracked. He’d picked her up a few minutes earlier than they’d agreed, practically bouncing on his heels as he waited for her in the driveway, and he had barely said a word as they walked to the field outside of town, where the carnival was set up. Caroline couldn’t have been more pleased.
He’d loosened up a little bit since they arrived, asking her about her summer, her family, school. It was sweet - he even said he was happy she’d come along. Caroline told him she was happy he’d asked her, and she meant it.
She kept her eye on him, watching as he ate his cotton candy. They’d tried some of the games, and he’d almost won her a bear, before they retreated for a bit, sitting down on a little bench on the outskirts of the carnival ground, just as far as the lights would reach. They glittered in the thin, golden bracelet Caroline had dared to wear out for the occasion, caught in the occasional strand of Brock’s hair, warm and inviting. He glanced at her, caught her eye and immediately looked away, face reddening. Caroline smiled to herself.
“I never knew you were that shy,” she teased and Brock ran a hand through his hair.
“Just get nervous,” he said. “You’re real pretty.”
Caroline giggled at that, felt her face heat up slightly against the chill of the night. She wrapped Brock’s jacket tighter around her shoulders. It smelled like tobacco.
“You smoke?” she asked.
“Sometimes. Mom doesn’t like it?”
“I like it.” She inhaled, carefully, not too loudly. “I think it smells nice.”
“It’s good.” Brock dared another glance at her, actually holding it for more than the blink of an eye this time. “I’ll- You can try one of mine, sometime. If you want.”
Caroline had smoked for the first time when she was twelve - when she and Tina snatched a box of cigarettes from the shop and tried them out deep in the woods behind Caroline’s house - and now and then she’d steal one from Mom or Dad, if she thought she could get away with it. She figured it was best not to say that, though. When she and Tina first tried smoking they’d always shared the one cigarette, passing it between each other after each drag, and the thought of doing that with a boy felt a lot more dangerous than the cigarettes themselves.
“Yes. Please,” she said, a bit too quickly, maybe. For a moment, she felt her pulse quicken as she worried that Brock might have been creeped out by the eagerness, but it didn’t look like he was. He was blushing again, looking down at his own hands as he fiddled with his nails, and Caroline thought she might sigh in relief at the sight. The brief nervousness made it all the more clear to her how calm she’d felt all night - not scared, worried like Molly had described her first date with that real man of hers. She nudged Brock with her elbow.
“Wanna go for some more games?” she asked, and he nodded quickly.
“I think I saw a fortune teller somewhere ‘round here,” he said. He stood up, then offered Caroline his hand as she followed. It felt a bit silly, but his hand was warm and surprisingly soft, so Caroline really didn’t mind at all.
“A fortune teller?”
“Yeah, uh, she’s the real deal, supposedly. There’s a sign outside her tent.”
“Nice.” Caroline couldn’t remember if she’d ever gotten her fortune told, but it certainly felt like a good time for it. Brock held onto her hand as they walked through the crowds and when she squeezed it, a bit hesitantly, he squeezed right back. She couldn’t claim she wasn’t curious about where this could go.
The fortune teller’s tent was unassuming, compared to some of the others - just a plain, dark thing. Blue, maybe, but it was hard to tell in the darkness. There was, just like Brock had said, a sign outside, announcing its resident as Madame Margaret. Caroline couldn’t help but be a little bit disappointed - she just didn’t think it was a very good name for a fortune teller. She’d have liked something a bit more mysterious, not a name shared with one of her old choir teachers.
It couldn’t be helped, she supposed. She followed Brock inside, finding the inside of the tent almost completely pitch-black. Only a single candle was lit inside, placed on a small table behind which sat a woman, obscured in shadows. Caroline thought she could make out blonde hair, the ember of a cigarette and a crooked smile.
“One at a time, please.” Madame Margaret’s voice was nothing like Caroline had expected - not the cackle of some old witch, but a smooth, almost sweet tone. A purr, maybe. She wished she could see the face behind the voice clearer.
“What do you think, Caroline?”
“What’s that?”
“What do you think?” Brock repeated. “You wanna go first?”
Caroline gave it some thought. She supposed the polite thing would be to insist that Brock go first, maybe, but she was so very curious…Madame Margaret moved slightly in the shadows, perhaps resting her head in her hand, and something glimmering caught the candlelight. Was she wearing jewels? Caroline pictured a string of them, a necklace draping down across her chest, coiling on the table like a shimmering snake.
“Could I?” she asked, sheepishly, and Brock laughed.
“I’ll wait outside.”
With a squeeze of Caroline’s hand goodbye, he opened the tent and stepped outside. The brief moment where all the sounds from the carnival flooded in made Caroline realise just how quiet the tent was - when it closed again she thought she could hear every noise within, no matter how faint. The rustle of fabric as Madame Margaret moved again, the soft sounds of her breath, something scuttling across the floor. An insect, maybe.
“You want to know your future?” Madame Margaret asked. The smell of cigarette smoke enveloped Caroline, and she had to force herself not to cough.
“Yes,” she said, then quickly added “Please.”
“Come closer.”
She did as ordered, and watched the shadows fall from Madame Margaret, revealing the face of a woman who couldn’t be older than Caroline’s mother, probably closer in age to Caroline herself. But her hands were bony, crooked like those of the crone Caroline had thought she would see. Or a corpse. Her nails were painted green, but where the polish had chipped away Caroline thought she could see a sickly yellow hue. She smiled, and it struck Caroline that there was no sign of the cigarette she thought she had seen glowing in the darkness earlier. The smell still hung in the air, though, albeit faintly. Perhaps Madame Margaret had just put it out.
“Sit,” she ordered, reaching across the table with one of her corpse-hands to gesture to a soft stool and Caroline sat down, smoothing out her skirt. “You’re wondering about the boy?”
Caroline could only bring herself to nod, feeling her face grow hot. It was embarrassing, really, taking this up with a fortune teller. It’s not like Molly, or any other of her friends, would have. They could just ask boys these kinds of things, presume they were wanted, most of the time. It was supposed to be a fun game, nothing to get too caught up in, but here Caroline was, sitting on her hands to keep from nervously fidgeting with them.
“He seems like a nice enough kid.” Madame Margaret drummed her fingers against the table, once - four taps so quick in succession they melted into one, sharp noise. Caroline could have jumped at the sound, only the intensity of Madame Margaret’s eyes on her kept her still. Green like the wings of a beetle - had she chosen the nail polish to match? Did she ever blink?
“You’ll be married,” she finally said, and Caroline breathed out. “Until the day you die, that boy will be yours.”
She said it so self assuredly, like there was no doubt in her mind, no other possibility in the world. Sometimes, Caroline would tune into a radio psychic who read the futures of lucky members of a live studio audience, and he was always so vague about it. Something great change might lie ahead of one of the listeners, a choice or a sudden shift, good or bad, it was always hard to tell. Maybe they’d find the love of their life, maybe their mother would die. The radio psychic would say a lot of ‘maybe’s. Madame Margaret sounded like Caroline’s wedding date was already set.
Mrs. Caroline Williams. Caroline felt almost lightheaded as she repeated the name, over and over in her mind. Mrs. Caroline Williams, Mrs. Caroline Williams.
“And then?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. She must be redder than an apple by now. Madame Margaret rapped her fingers against the table again.
“You’ll have children,” she declared. “A son and a daughter. He’ll be a troublemaker, she’ll be an angel, but they’ll love each other. And they’ll love you very much.”
Caroline tried to picture a home, only able to conjure up a mirror image of her own - the kitchen warmer, the sun brighter, the smell of fresh food and clean laundry. She pictured herself sitting at the kitchen table, maybe reading the newspaper like her own mother did in the mornings, while children - her children - played in the garden outside. She’d leave the window open slightly, listen to them laugh and shout, and she’d open it wider to remind them to be careful, to watch out so they didn’t hurt themselves, to be back inside in time for dinner. Brock would be at work, of course, but he’d come home just in time, and she’d kiss him in the hallway and he’d ask her how her day had been and she’d tell him they’d all been terribly lonely without him. He’d laugh, and he’d lift the girl up on his shoulders, ruffle the boy’s hair. Maybe he’d bring them something from town, candies to eat after dinner, and Caroline would chastise him for spoiling them, but she truly wouldn’t mind at all…
The sound of Madame Margaret’s fingers against the table snapped her out of the fantasy, cut her mental game of house short, and she felt like she’d been caught spacing out by a teacher.
“Your children.” Madame Margaret’s tone was just the same as it had always been, but Caroline still felt her stomach twist into a tight, anxious knot. “Your children are going to suffer.”
Caroline’s mouth hung open, she felt her gums and tongue grow dry. Madame Margaret just looked at her, a blank expression on her face. Like she’d told Caroline tomorrow’s weather report, not that .
“What?” Caroline’s voice was little more than a croak. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“I couldn’t tell you.” Madame Margaret shrugged, and Caroline had to stop herself from screaming out loud. Why choose now to get vague? She’d supposedly been able to see everything else in great detail, but this was her limit?
“It’s easier with the good,” she continued, like she’d been reading Caroline’s thoughts. Maybe she could? How would Caroline know? “There’s not too much of it. Makes it easier to get a grasp of. The bad just gets muddled.”
Caroline felt sick.
“What do I do?” she asked. “There has to be something I can-”
“There’s nothing,” Madame Margaret cut her off. For the first time since Caroline had walked into her tent, she thought an air of sympathy crossed the woman’s face. “It’s been decided, for longer than you can imagine.”
She drummed her fingers on the table again, over and over now, and Caroline found herself more agitated with each repetition. Who was this woman anyway? She had to be some hack - someone who hadn’t yet figured out that if you wanted to make it as a fake psychic it was surely better to try and tell your marks something good, something vaguely optimistic. Like Caroline’s radio psychic. She stared at Madame Margaret’s hand as her skeleton fingers continued their tapping, had the sudden urge to hit it, crush it like a particularly foul bug.
“I know it’s not what you’d like to hear,” Madame Margaret said, her voice soft. Careful. Maybe she felt Caroline’s hostility. “But I’m not lying to you. I’m sorry.”
“No.” Caroline shook her head. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’m sorry you can only make a living working shitty carnivals in the middle of nowhere.”
Madame Margaret didn’t show any indication of even hearing what Caroline said, but she didn’t care, just continued as she stood up, knocking the stool over in the process.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t make it as a real psychic and have to resort to scaring people out of their money.” She rifled through her purse, digging out a few coins and slamming them down on the table. “And I’m sorry you have creepy old witch hands.”
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the tent. She thought she could feel Madame Margaret’s eyes boring into her neck, even after the opening fell shut behind her.
Brock asked what happened, of course, immediately noticing that something was off, but Caroline managed to wave it off, saying that Madame Margaret just wasn’t all that, without having to delve into the details of her visit. She knew already that she would never tell Brock what she’d heard, no matter what happened between them. Even as the night went on, and she could relax and convince herself it was nothing to worry about, that the fortune teller was just some hack, she stood by that she could never let him know. It felt safer, somehow.