Sylvia sat across from me in the booth, her face once again in close-up, the weather map replaced by this Saturday lunch crowd’s bustle—mostly young families heady from a morning’s shopping at the nearby mall. How uncanny that she had chosen to meet here: this was the same diner where almost two years ago I’d given away one of my objects—a doll’s soft plastic hand—to an older woman whose face couldn’t contain her misery. I’d given away so many objects since then.
We let the easy chatter of our neighbors serve as our conversation. Sylvia hid behind her outspread menu while I recalled how that unhappy woman had searched through the circular song file of her table’s jukebox.
“The rice pudding is great here,” Sylvia offered.
I nodded. “So’s the peanut butter pie.”
Our eyes met. Yes, we both knew this place.
After we’d placed our orders, Sylvia said, “Well, you have some grand plan?”
I hesitated, suspecting more than the weather fueled Sylvia’s caution. “My advice may sound pretty strange, actually. But bear with me. What you do is science, but because of that butterfly thing, uncertainty is built in. So why not simply give it your best guess?”
Sylvia’s stiff face told me I’d have to speak with care. “There was a time not so long ago when I went through real trouble in my life, and I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but what helped me through it was the horoscope.”
“The horoscope.”
“It’s not that I believed, but I didn’t really disbelieve, either. I found it comforting that a few words might help me influence what happened the next day, especially since every day was so sad and dreary. For a while it gave me something to hold on to. I think that’s its main attraction for a lot of people.”
She reached for her water glass, then stopped and rested her hand on the placemat, her fingers tapping. “I’m not about to do star charts for my audience, Michael. There’s no such thing as Sagittarian or Aquarian weather—”
“No, that’s not what I mean. Remember when you complained that you’re as accurate as the horoscope? That’s actually truer than you think. I’ve thought about what you said, about weather predictions being so imprecise. But if yesterday’s prediction was completely wrong, then why would people listen to today’s weather report? Because they want to believe. If a prediction is wrong now and then, well, they forgive without really thinking about it. The way I used to forgive the horoscope.”
“This is not a joke?”
“No,” I laughed, trying to hide my dismay. “Just emphasize accuracy less, and oracle more. I’ll bet most people in your audience aren’t expecting perfection. They mostly want assurance, and maybe that’s enough. They’ll remember your concern, not your prediction.”
“Well, I’ll certainly mull this over.”
The waitress interrupted my miscalculation and brought our meal. Sylvia glanced out the window at the blue sky, the wispy streaks of clouds. “At least I was right about today—there’s no chance of rain.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” I agreed hopelessly.
Sylvia smiled a smile of no pleasure. I’d become just another unpredictable weather pattern. She dabbed at her lips with a napkin, then set it down on the table. The faint red image—a disembodied, slightly open mouth—seemed about to speak. Instead we tucked into lunch, my chili, her omelet, and reverted to strained small talk about the co-anchors at her station. I could see us after lunch offering apologetic good-byes and then driving away in our separate cars.
I almost reached out to our booth’s jukebox, but I needed far more than some song’s pointed message. That desolate woman in the booth two years ago had whispered to me, “I hear voices.” For too long, she said, they’d taken hold inside: her mother’s efficient criticisms delivered with a giggle; a brother’s telephoned wheedling and whining; a high school teacher’s sarcasm; the dismissive monosyllables of her teenage children; voices that so multiplied they hemmed her in, making any decision impossibly difficult. Yet when I’d offered her the doll’s hand she’d gladly accepted. Small as it was, it reached out to pull her from her own drowning.
I’d welcome similar help, and when the waitress approached our booth I knew she would ask if we’d like to order dessert, offering, without knowing it, the possibility of a small reprieve.