Knows All, Sees All, Tells All!

FROM SAN LUIS OBISPO, Highway One veers west until it reaches Morro Bay. Then it turns north, passing through artsy-fartsy Cambria, skirting Hearst "Castle" - the second most popular tourist attraction in California (after Disneyland) and concrete (mainly) proof that bad taste don't come cheap - before devolving into sixty desolate miles of hairpin turns, which accord the finest vistas to be found "where sea and sky meet" (Robert Louis Stephenson, in the 1880s).

For the Olsons, that would be the route of their overdue weekend get-away. Stephen would take "Monsieur," as they called their Peugeot, in for a fill-up and a clean bill of health on Friday evening. Vanessa would pack a wicker basket with some sandwiches, fruit, and a bottle of Rodney Strong's Cabernet Sauvignon for an al fresco snack. They would leave Occupied Glendale about 9 A.M., stop in S.L.O. for lunch, consume their nosh near Point Lobos, have dinner on Cannery Row in Monterey, spend the night at Highlands Inn, poke about Steinbeck Country on Sunday, then in the evening join the lemming rush back to "Los Angeles the Damned" (H.L. Mencken, in the 1920s).

Come Saturday morning, Stephen placed the suitcases in Monsieur's trunk. Vanessa put the basket on the rear floor, so it wouldn't fall over, and deposited her broad-brimmed sun hat on the back seat. Totally coordinated, from Sergio Valenti sunglasses down to his-'n'-her Reeboks, the Olsons settled in. Stephen started Monsieur and pointed him toward the Ventura Freeway.

Lunch in the patio at Sebastiani's in San Luis Obispo was pleasant. The tall trees according ample shade from the mid-day sun which pounded the valley. After their second cup of coffee, Monsieur was on the road again. They were well past the California Prison for the Criminally Insane (although, of course, it isn't called that), when Stephen noticed a curious odor and glanced at the control panel. The temperature gauge was slammed up hard against "H."
"Something's wrong with Monsieur, Van," Stephen remarked reluctantly.
"Oh no! What now?" Vanessa (Van) asked in an exasperated voice - one not without a touch of smugness.
"Seems like he's overheating," Stephen replied, gesturing toward the temperature gauge.
"I told you we should have bought a Volvo. What are you going to do now, drive back to S.L.O.?"
"That's a little far. Here's the turn off for Cayucos. Maybe we can find a station with a mechanic. If not, we'll let Monsieur cool down, then call the auto club."
With that, Stephen pointed Monsieur to the off-ramp. On gliding into Cayucos, much to their relief, they spotted a Chevron station that not only pumped gas but also boasted a mechanic on duty, one who was lubing a car. Stephen went over to talk with the man while Vanessa retrieved her sun bonnet and glanced around the town, which was a little slice of - nowhere.
"He says the thermostat's probably stuck. We'll have to let Monsieur cool down first, then he can take a look at it."
"And how long will that be?"
"About twenty minutes. Maybe a half-hour on a day like this. He says there's a diner down the road. We can have a Coke or something while we wait."
"Stephen, you stay with Monsieur and grab a Coke from the vending machine. You wanted the Peugeot; I wanted a Volvo."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'll be over there." With that, Vanessa pointed across the street at a large sign shaped in the form of an open hand. At the top was painted "Psychic," at the bottom "Palmistry." The badly faded and peeling sign stood amongst the weeds in what had once been the front lawn of small, white-washed bungalow: a typical example of the boxes thrown up in the 1920s, when roads were put through to connect the beach towns that dot the California coast. These boxes had been given a "Mission" touch by screening the tar-paper roof with a useless parapet to which red Spanish tiles were affixed. A layer of stucco and a coat of whitewash sufficed to make them marketable to retirees fleeing westward to enjoy the good life on twenty-dollars-a-week.
Vanessa, never one to let a trend escape her, had been an early convert of Shirley MacClain: movie actress turned Helena Blavatsky. Van was now a regular at the Philosophical Research Society, an impressive pile located on very expensive real estate in the Los Feliz district of Los Angeles, not far from their Glendale home. Most any New-Age Cagliostro working Lotus Land could count on at least one customer: Vanessa Olson. Although she was too sophisticated to place much credence in the powers of a roadside fortune teller, Vanessa had a good half-hour to kill. Better a fake clairvoyant than a Coke.
So Vanessa crossed the curb-less, sidewalk-less street, followed the all-but-submerged path to the weather-beaten front door, and rang the bell. No response. She rang again, and when that failed to produce any results, knocked briskly. "Hold ya hosses!" in a cracked voice, came from inside the house. As Vanessa waited, her glance fell on the front window that was covered by thick, drawn drapes. Then the door opened.
In the doorway, standing in a pair of battered, pink chenille mules, was a diminutive crone, no more than five-feet tall if that; swathed in a cheap, black, rayon kimono that was much worn and seldom washed. Her grey hair, some traces of black remaining, was pulled back to form a bun. Her features had a Slavic cast, which combined with copious wrinkles made her look like the ugly sister of Maria Ouspenskaya, Hollywood's resident babushka during the Golden Age.
Vanessa had expected the figure to respond, "Velkom! Madame Zaza knows all, sees all, tells all!" Instead, "Madame Zaza" eyed her suspiciously and asked,
"Wadda ya want?" - in tones more Texan than Transylvanian.
"I ... I've come for a reading."
The crone stepped aside and gestured for Vanessa to enter. She removed her sun hat and dark glasses, then stepped into the cramped living room. Because of artificial gloom created by the drapes, the reading-living room appeared steeped in darkness, save for a few shafts of light coming through chinks in the drapes.
"The palm, that's ten dollahs. The kahdz, they's fifteen, 'n' the crystal ball, that's twenty. Ya gotta enter the tranz before ya kain see in the ball, so's more expensive. Wat's ya pleasure, dearie?"
("Great! She looks like the Wolfman's mother and sounds like Ma Kettle.") Vanessa's eyes were adjusting to the dark. Among the meager furnishings of the living-reading room were a battered sofa, an old television set, and in the center what looked like a small library table. There was a high-backed chair on one side, two similar chairs own the other. One end supported a deck of what appeared to be the Tarot; at the other a clear glass ball rested in a carved ebony holder. Midway between them reposed a mottled tabby, which seeing Vanessa approach sprang from its perch, to find a spot uncontaminated by the presence of a stranger.
Time was of little import, so Vanessa opted for "the ball." The divinator shoved the superfluous chair to the side, gesturing for Vanessa to be seated. "That'll be twenty dollahs, dearie." As Vanessa dug in her purse, the crone explained. "Best to collect in advance. Sometimes when they don't like what Ah sees, they's wont to leave without payin'. Ain't fair. Ah juz calls 'em as Ah sees 'em." Vanessa smiled and handed over the bill, which disappeared into the bodice. "Name's Abagail," the old one ventured.
"I'm Vanessa."
"Pretty name, 'Vanessa'." The crystal ball, after the dust had been removed by the bottom of the woman's kimono, was placed in the center of the table. "Touch it please, dearie."
Vanessa touched the ball lightly with both hands then returned them to her lap. She gazed at the woman now seated opposite her and even more intently at a large piece of embroidery mounted on the wall behind. It consisted of a midnight-blue field, on to which had been worked, in silver metallic thread, the Sign of the Pentagram. Circumscribed were two circles, between which were arranged the symbols of the zodiac. The whole was adorned with various arcane, hermetic representations. Vanessa could recognize the Hebrew letters of the Cabala. Most of the other figures were unknown to her. But not the one in the very center. In the center of the five-pointed star was the Egyptian hieroglyph of the All-Seeing Eye of Ra. The whole was a splendid example of the art of needlepoint, executed with consummate craftsmanship.
"Ya like that? Ma gran' ma made that in the ol' countrah."
"It's striking," Vanessa replied."The 'old country'? Which old country?"
"Wall, then was Ahstr'a-Hung'ry. Ah guess today it's Roo-mainya. ..."
("I knew it!")
" ... Yep, ol' gran' ma Ay-va. She was ma ma's ma. She had the real Gift. Still duz."
"Still does?"
"Why yeah, dearie. That's wha' the tranz is all abou'. That way I kain tahlk with gran' ma. Get 'er to tell us wha' she sees."
"Oh!"
"Now, put ya hands on the tayble an' stare inta the ball. Real quite now."
Vanessa placed both hands on the table, stared into the crystal, and remained "real quite." Abagail, too, stared into the vitreous sphere. That's the way it remained, several minutes of - well - nothing happening. Then Vanessa noticed Abagail was breathing harder. The breaths were markedly longer and deeper. ("Self-hypnosis, that's what a trance actually is.") Still, Vanessa had paid her twenty dollars. She wasn't going to leave until the curtain fell and the lights came on. If the car was ready, Stephen could just play bezique with Monsieur.
Several more minutes passed, then Abagail's head snapped back, as if she were staring at the ceiling. From her throat came a voice totally unlike what Vanessa might have expected. It was both deeper and possessed a completely different accent.
"Abbie, chilt, vye you don't let me sleep? Vye you zummon me? Let me sleep, chilt. Let me dream."
Slowly the crone's head returned to its normal position, and unseeing eyes stared at Vanessa. "Oh Vanessa, Dotter of de Zun, hear me! You are in great dane-cher! You muss leaf de man you are viss im-mee-dee-att-ly! If you don', 'iss von vill kill you! ..."
"Oh, that's horrible!" Vanessa cried. She grabbed her purse, glasses and hat, then bolted toward the door, found the handle, and fled the accursed house. She dashed across the street, where Stephen was standing by Monsieur.
"Hi, Van! It was just a hose. It's all fix ..."
"Are we ready to go?" she asked - pleaded - asked.
"Yeah [?], like I said, it was just a hose. He put new cool ..."
"Good! Let's get out of here!" Vanessa jumped in the front, threw her hat in back, and locked the car door.
Stephen climbed in and started Monsieur. He looked nervously at Vanessa. "What happened?"
"I'll tell you later. Just get the fuck out of here!"

Stephen pulled out on to the road, then found his way back to Highway One. From time to time, he would look at Vanessa, who said nothing. The road followed undulating hills, never too far from the ocean. Then Vanessa turned to him and asked,

"Do you want a glass of wine?"
"No thanks. But I'd really like to know what happened back there in Cay..."
"I think I'll have one," Vanessa interrupted. She twisted and squirmed in the safety harness, but there was no way she could reach the basket with that wrapped around her. She took it off and groped behind, bringing the basket up front. After extracting the cork, she filled the glass about two-thirds full. (Picnic stemware, not the Waterford, but good blown glass.) She quaffed that and refilled. "Back in Cayucos, my inquisitive spouse, I was warned that if I did not leave the man I was with immediately, he would kill me!"
"What?"
"Yes, Sweets; after pocketing twenty dollars in advance, the superannuated love-child of Minnie Pearl and Bela Lugosi declared most emphatically: Leave the man you are with or this one will kill you!"
(Stephen suppressed the urge to guffaw.) "Oh, Van, come on! It was a rip-off. She took your money up front, then concocted a zinger of a horror story to get you out - pronto. After that, it was probably back to her soap operas. Let's face it, you were taken."
They'd past Cambria. Far off on a hillside, the Hearst pile stood bathed in the afternoon sun. Vanessa seemed deep in thought. Then she looked at Stephen, who was nodding in rhythm with "Lovers' Concerto" coming from the stereo. "Funny, I never told her I was with a man. I didn't tell her anything."
"Wha...? Well, she'd never seen you around Cayucos, and you've got Tourista tatooed on your forehead. The ol' biddy probably has it down to a science." Stephen went back to the castrated strains of Johann Sebastian Bach.
Vanessa took another sip. They were approaching the point where Highway One is transformed into a series of hairpin turns, carved out of the Santa Lucia Mountains that plunge into the Pacific. Suddenly, her eyes grew wide with terror. Wine slopped from the glass she held in one trembling hand, as she both latched on to and shook Stephen with the other. "She didn't say 'this one'," Van screamed. "Her grandmother was Hungarian. The spirit said 'István', Hungarian for ...
Stephen stared at his wife, her face now grotesquely contorted, and gasped. In total panic, she clawed at him and continued to scream ...
" ...Hungarian for - Stephen! ... STEPHEN, LOOK OUT!!"

Too late! Mesmerized by Vanessa's terror, Stephen had let Monsieur slip across the painted dividing line, just as a Winnebago Chieftain debouched, its driver anxious to pick up speed after hours of crawling along the serpentine ridge. The large motor home caught Monsieur in the solar plexus, sending the hapless Peugeot caroming off, spinning, bouncing, then rolling. Stephen barely heard the crash, didn't feel the airbag pushing him back against the seat, didn't see the wine glass splintering in Vanessa's hand, nor the razor-sharp stem imbedding...

When Stephen regained consciousness, he found himself strapped to a movable stretcher. The needle in his arm was attached to a tube that ran to a bottle suspended above. The tube in his nose ran to a pressurized tank on the side. In his mouth was yet another tube, which gently sucked up surplus saliva. What portion of his body wasn't in a cast seemed to be in bandages. Could he move? He didn't know. It wasn't the most pressing item. He saw a nurse standing near and tried to speak.

"Whaa happpnd to mu... wi..f?"
Hearing sound coming from him, the nurse scurried off, returning after a brief interval with one of the residents. The doctor approached, and with a smile engendered more by relief than joy, removed the suction device from Stephen's mouth. "Where's my wife?" Stephen was able to say intelligibly if not articulately.
The youngish doctor dropped his gaze and twisted his foot in a mild nervous reaction. "Mr. Olson, I'm sorry ... There was nothing we could do."

FINIS