So … she’d much rather have her child with her soulmate, of course. But that might mean having to spend too much time finding him first. And in the real world, a person could easily wait years for the perfect man to come along. If he ever did. But then, let’s say she did find him, then she’d have to get pregnant. But what if she didn’t find Mr. Right until the last four months, say? She’d need to get pregnant right away.
So, if she were to tell Randi she wanted both, she could miss the deadline.
And she wouldn’t risk it. A year felt like too little time to soulmate-shop.
The thing was, in order to conceive with no Mr. Right, she’d have to sleep with more than one man, maybe even two. Or several. A terrifying thought, although thrilling, too. And if she did it that way, even if none of the more-than-two turned out to be her soulmate, she could still have her child.
“I think I won’t be greedy, Randi. I’ll settle for either. If the one doesn’t happen, the other will have to be enough. ”
“Soulmate or child,” the gatekeeper wrote. “Okay. And pregnancy-only within the specified time limit? Not birth?”
Frannie nodded. “Write that down.”
Randi smiled.
“And one year, then?”
A year had been feeling like two weeks lately. She nodded once again nevertheless.
Randi filled in the expiry blank:
“Twelve months,” she breathed the words aloud.
Then she blew lightly on the parchment to dry the ink and passed it to Frannie to read. Frannie smoothed it flat upon the tabletop and read it slowly through.
It seemed straightforward and simple enough. “Young: beautiful”; “Twelve months from this date (March 6) at 8:22 pm”;
Was it only 8:22?
“Non-revocable damnation (eternal).” And then a section of smallish, yet readable print:
Upon default, body, soul and mind of said signatory become the property of Satan, otherwise known as.…
There followed a long list of names.
Could it really be this easy?
But Frannie was struck by a brilliant idea. There would be lawyers in this casino, she thought. She could find and talk to one right now.
“Now,” Randi broke in briskly. “Give me your hand.”
Frannie clasped her hands together in her lap.
“What’s the matter?” Randi asked. “Cold feet all of a sudden? Second thoughts? Other clichés?”
She snapped her fine-boned fingers, and above the booth where they sat, moving slowly through the smoky air, Frannie saw what looked to be a Chippendale mirror, its wavy old glass pocked and rippled like a silvered stream. It settled itself about a foot away from her, and when she looked into its depths, she saw the sag, the lines, the bloat, once again: the loss and disappointment, the emptiness, the ache.
She turned from her own reflection to the razor blade in Randi’s hand.
“That’s not rusty, is it?”
“You’re adorable!” Randi laughed and plucking one hand from her lap, she swiftly and painlessly slit Frannie’s thumb across the ball. For a split second, Frannie imagined she saw her lick up an oozing bubble of blood. But no, as her thumb turned down to the parchment, she glimpsed one crimson bead.
Incredibly, then, it all fell away – the croupiers’ patter, the miasma of cigarettes, the roulette wheel’s tick, the seductive clang of the slots – and within Frannie’s head, a faint susurration – it had begun only moments ago – crescendoed within seconds to a nearly intolerable roar. Her hands flew to her ears. The cut on her thumb pulsed with fiery, close to unbearable, pain. She heard herself screaming.
Abruptly, the noise and pain subsided, and she opened watery eyes to find the room around her … hadn’t changed. She was sitting in a corner booth alone. No one was looking her way.
Randi was gone.
Fearfully, now, she lifted one hand to her eyes and turned it, front to back, back to front. And yes, there was a small dab of blood on the knuckle of her thumb, so something, indeed, had happened. But even within the booth’s dark enclosure, even in this feeble, evil light, she could still see the alligatored texture of her thinning skin, the ridges on her nails.
Frannie clawed at the seat beside her for her purse, grabbed at her compact and held its powder-filmed mirror in front of her face. After swiveling her head left and right, she shakily arose to find a better light.
For there she was. Frannie Turner.
Still old.
Dear God, still old.
Frannie stumbled to a chair.
What had just happened?
Was Randi in the ladies’ room, laughing at her? Had that finger been just sleight of hand? Hairdressers, she thought, as a tiny light bulb flared: hairdressers have more than their share of manual dexterity, don’t they? But how could she be so naive, or so drunk, to have been taken in like this?
She was grateful for her anonymity. She twisted her gold wedding ring.
But was she disappointed?
Oh my God, she was, she was! She’d been completely ready to give up everything for this shining second chance. Her very soul. She’d offered that Randi her soul. What a vile, despicable trick to play on an old woman.
But wait. Perhaps she was lucky it hadn’t been real?
Well, maybe.
And had anyone seen … whatever it was that she’d just experienced? She looked around, but no, no one was paying the slightest attention to her, which must mean that no one had seen a thing. So she walked back through the half-light to the booth, clicked her compact softly closed and dropped it in her purse. How gullible she seemed to herself right now. She probably was. But was she really that desperate?
Or maybe this was all something she’d imagined.
And had the same thing happened to Arlene? She would call her tomorrow. No, she wouldn’t. It would be too humiliating, even if it had.
So, here she was. Good old Frannie Turner once again. Not always good, maybe, but most definitely old. And nothing was any different. Nothing had changed. Which wasn’t so bad.
Really. It wasn’t.
And then, despite the mysteriousness and peculiarity of the events of this day, Frannie brightened.
And so. And so, since nothing she’d bargained for had happened – not even beauty tips – she might as well go home. She was still trembling, though, and steadying herself (her legs felt terribly weak) Frannie headed in the direction of the stairs, detouring to set her empty glass on the bar.
But as she passed the roulette wheel, she stopped and checked her watch. It was early yet. Not even 9:00. And here she was, in a gambling casino with money in her purse and – given that she’d just been ready to take a huge, inconceivable, risk – why not just, well … risk a little something? Even though she didn’t usually gamble. Even though Stanley said gambling was throwing your money in the toilet. Even though, basically, she agreed, but still … five minutes, maybe. Just for the Hell of it?
“The Hell of it?” Frannie smiled lopsidedly.
So. Roulette? Blackjack? Craps?
She thought she’d choose some game that