The Reading
by Bob Grubb

It was the kind of sky that reinforced a belief in God. Only a higher power could have bought it into being. The blue was solid, and deep. The puffy white clouds threatened nothing, their closeness increasing — nay — confirming the depth of the fathomless sky.

It occurred to him that people are like that also, defining the background they stand upon. What do clouds look like? Sometimes, like now, they appear as soft gentle ornaments. They can also appear threatening and dark. Some are mere wisps that can barely be discerned. Some hide the background altogether. The clouds so define the sky, that a sky without clouds is called vacuous.

So it was in his thoughts as he walked alone. Later, a dark cloud appeared in the distance, rushing his way, a threatening intrusion on a beautiful sky. Rain perhaps.

His thinking was interrupted when he noticed a bent over policeman talking down to a disheveled old man who was stretched out on a park bench with a rolled-up newspaper for a pillow.

The observer moved closer.

“I told you before - you can’t sleep here, you old fool!” the cop was saying. The old man looked blankly at the officer.

“Uncle Fred!” said the observer rushing toward the bench. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Turning to the policeman: “What’s the problem, Officer?”

“This your uncle?” questioned the cop in answer.

“He… he speaks next to no English,” the observer answered in a tone contrived to confirm the cop’s question.

“I see,” said the policeman. He strutted importantly away.

“Wh-who are you?” asked the surprised old man.

“I’m just passing through… thought you could use a little help.”

“Thanks, Mister!”

The observer shook hands with the man, then turned and walked away. He did not need to see the surprised look on the man’s face. He chuckled as he remembered the first time his Uncle John had slipped him a folded dollar in a handshake. The 50 wouldn’t save the old man, of course, but it would get him a room and a chance to get cleaned up.

He’d continued his walk for only a few minutes, when the sky darkened so suddenly it seemed a huge hand had passed between himself and the sun. It started to rain almost immediately. He looked about for shelter.

There was no choice but to go in. He was completely drenched. It was the only doorway he could make out in the downpour. The neon sign flashing ‘PALMS READ - MADAME SOPHIA’ crackled and hummed as he went through the door.

The door shut behind him, silencing the sounds of the sign and the storm outside. The tick tock of the strange wall-mounted clock, its numerals replaced by astrological symbols, punctuated the silence. Save for the clock and a single overstuffed chair the room was empty. A door on the opposite wall completed his conclusion that this was the waiting room.

How odd, he thought. People believe in this sort of thing though they do not believe in themselves. Perhaps it is because they do not believe in themselves. We try to believe in something, but this… He shook is head in wonderment.

The inner door opened. Into the waiting room stepped a tiny, ancient woman. “I’ve been expecting you,” she told him.

He restrained rolling his eyes and replied, “I only stepped in to get out of the storm.”

“No,” she said. “The storm came to give you reason to come in.” Her confidence seemed to him to consist of a practiced talent for bending logic, and a smug inference that she had access to truths ordinary mortals could not see.

“Look, if it’s a problem I can go elsewhere,” he said to firmly let her know he did not want her service.

“Afraid to be touched, eh?” she asked.

“What?” He startled.

“The mask,” she said smiling slightly. Her eyes were deep — sad. “I see the masks everyday. You are wearing yours. This despite your own recognition of masks.”

The room began to spin for him. Had she actually reached inside his mind? How could she have said what she did without divining his thoughts? “NO ONE SHOULD TOUCH ME HERE!” he screamed into his self.

“You look as though you need to sit down,” she said touching his arm. “Come. Come inside and we shall talk.”

His eyes looked down to meet the feel of her hand on his arm. This is not happening, he told himself as she led him with her touch through the inner door.

“Sit,” she said motioning to a chair parked beside a small round table. He did. She took the chair opposite. If his shock was less he would have refused being seated in such a contrived manner.

“Give me your right hand,” she said. He involuntarily reached out to be touched again. “Good,” she praised as she took his hand and turned his palm upward, “you have dropped your mask.” Her eyes danced around his face studying him, never landing on his eyes.

He was struggling to regain his sense of structure. There is nothing here but coincidence - an old woman experienced at observing reactions, he told himself.

“There is no such thing as coincidence, and what I am observing is you, not merely your reactions,” she said looking deeply into his eyes.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” he screamed silently at her. He did not try to pull his hand away though. The longing to feel her touch was too strong. She gripped his wrist and bent forward to scrutinize his palm.

“The storm is probably over, I should be going,” he said aloud in protest.

“The storm is not outside,” she repeated, almost as an aside, as she intently gazed his hand.

She was getting too close. Too close.

“The only pause from the storm within you is helping others,” she read. “You do know you have a gift. The Gift. You hesitate to use it… because you feel… unworthy. The storm reminds you of your failings. But… you are not called upon to be perfect. You are called upon to use the Gift.”

He would not confirm this for her. To do so would be to accept her touch, and to admit his failings. Lightning seared his heart and thunder exploded inside his mind.

“Wherever you go, you touch people. People who need to be touched. Yet… touch is the root of your fear… because you have misused touch.”

He reeled, almost losing consciousness. This is not happening, he told himself desperately. She came quickly at him now.

“For a while you did not use the Gift at all. After your mistake you thought it gone. It never left. It will never leave. You did not decide to begin using it again. It uses you. The choice is not yours. It will never be yours. You cannot refuse to use the Gift and you are not free to choose how it will be used.”

She was right. He had tried to abandon it, or rather allow it to abandon him. He was unsuited to bear it. The times he tried to call on it, for what he believed were good reasons, it failed him. When he tried to refuse yielding to its demands it overrode his decisions. The Gift was greater than himself in all regards.

“Before your fall, you became so accustomed to the Gift, you believed it to be a part of you. You became arrogant. Now… you will never be allowed to make that mistake again,” she said as she concentrated on his open hand.

Yes. He was hiding; never staying in one place long enough for people to find him out. Wary of calling attention to himself. Deliver the touch and move on. People didn’t see him. It was the Gift they responded to. They didn’t recognize this; they attributed it to him. If he was not careful they would discover his failings. Their rejection of him might lead to their rejection of the Gift. Shouldn’t this fact alone make him unsuitable for its purposes?

“Do not go to the other extreme. You were selected to carry this. You were prepared and equipped to deliver it. You have been given the means to touch people beyond the length of your physical reach. Carry yourself well, for you carry the Gift in you,” she said staring at his mouth, then back at his hand.

He had desired to be touched. Even as he wore his mask, even as he screamed, DO NOT TOUCH ME! - he had needed to be touched. The palm reader had met his need, even when he was unsure what his need was. He knew now. He needed this woman. To continue to hold his hand, to coax him forward, to confirm his purpose.

“Your work is done,” said the Gift gently through his lips, despite his need. She lifted her eyes to his once more, seeming to see beyond him. Then she smiled into his hand, gently squeezed it, and laid her head down on the table. Her eyes continued to stare at a world that ceased to exist for her.

The observer reached across the table and used his fingers, still warm with her touch, to gently close her eyes for the last time.

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