Soul Identity Page 5

  She chewed on this for a second. “I think if she was really ticked off, she wouldn’t be bringing you to the back.” She slipped off her robe and tossed it onto the couch. Underneath she wore jeans and a pink t-shirt. “That robe is like so hot,” she said. “Anyway, what’s Soul Identity?”

  “I was hoping you knew,” I said. “What’s this machine your grandma’s talking about?”

  “Let’s go and see.” She parted the curtain, and I followed her through.

  We were in a hallway. There was a kitchen on the right and a bathroom on the left. Further down on the left was a bedroom. I peeked in and saw two single beds with pink covers.

  Rose stood in front of the doorway on the right. “This is the office.”

  I saw my parents standing next to a beige fax machine. Rose was talking to her Grandma. How was that? I looked behind me, and Rose smiled at my reaction. “Meet my little sister, Marie. Marie, this is Scott.”

  “Twelve minutes and eleven seconds doesn’t make me your little sister,” Marie said. “Is the fax machine broken?”

  “It’s not a fax machine,” Madame Flora said. “It’s a secret contraption that Soul Identity members use when delivering messages of utmost importance.”

  Marie rolled her eyes. “Grandma, that’s not a secret contraption. That is a fax machine. Just last week I used it to send some stuff to Mom.”

  Madame Flora looked from Marie to Rose. “You kids think you have answers for everything. Somebody came here from Soul Identity and asked if they could keep this contraption here, because they needed a way to communicate their secret messages.”

  Rose giggled. “I guess it is a secret contraption to you, Grandma. But to us, it’s just a plain old fax machine. We really do use it to send papers to Mom.” She walked over to the machine and pointed. “We put the papers in here. This part takes a picture and sends it over the telephone to Mom’s machine. She gets a copy.”

  Madame Flora shook her head. “Sending papers to your mother over the telephone. What will they think of next?”

  “I just heard of an invention that sends movies through the airwaves. They’re calling it television,” Rose said. She turned and mouthed “Di-no-saur” to the rest of us.

  “Are you laughing at me?” Madame Flora asked.

  Rose patted her on the back. “It’s fine, Grandma, that’s why we’re here this summer. We’re easing you into the twenty-first century.” She turned toward us. “Next week we’re getting her a computer, broadband, and an email account. Woo-hoo, Grandma’s going surfing!”

  “And it’s a good thing, too, because I’m dying from being offline for so long,” Marie said. “All my friends must think I hate them.

  I looked at Madame Flora. “Why did Soul Identity ask you in the first place? Did you know about them before?”

  She looked at Rose and Marie. “Well, girls, it’s time you knew anyway.”

  “Time we knew what?” Marie asked.

  “My grandmother was a member of Soul Identity many years ago. She was also a soul reader.” Madame Flora unlocked a cabinet in the corner and pulled out an old, battered traveling suitcase. “I kept her equipment somewhere. Here it is.” She lifted out a wooden box from inside the suitcase and put it on the counter.

  We gathered around the box. “Was your grandmother also a palmist?” Mom asked.

  Madame Flora smiled. “Yes, the oldest daughter of each generation in our family always becomes a palmist.” She nodded at Rose and Marie. “Or in this case, the oldest daughters.”

  Rose looked at us. “Grandma says we both have to do it, but neither of us really wants to.”

  “I’m going to be a children’s rights lawyer,” Marie said. “And Rose is going to be a marine biologist.”

  “As long as you also read palms, you can be anything you want,” Madame Flora said.

  “Yeah, that’s the problem.” Marie looked at me. “Picture a lawyer’s office with a large hand stuck outside. Madame Marie—children’s advocate and palmist.”

  “Or how about a palm on the side of a boat?” Rose asked. “Madame Rose’s underwater readings.”

  “A good palmist is hard to find, and it pays the bills. And that’s not even counting the Soul Identity commissions.” Madame Flora turned the box around. “Now let’s see what’s in here.”

  “Wait a second. You get commissions from Soul Identity?” I asked.

  Madame Flora’s hand flew up and covered her mouth. “Did I say that? I have become such an old lady.”

  Right.

  “But now that it’s out,” she said, “please tell your Soul Identity friends that I’m very upset that they rejected the Berringer fellow. They should find a way to make him a member and pay me my share. I was the one who brought him in.”

  “Grandma, open the box,” Marie said. “You can talk money later.”

  Madame Flora lifted the lid and smiled. “Look, Granny’s membership card.” She showed us its picture of a triangle with two eyes in the middle. There was no company name on the card; just the picture and an illegible handwritten name half covered with an embossed seal.

  Last night’s dream flashed through my mind. “Do you know what this symbol means?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I see it on the sides of the vans when the delivery men stop by.”

  I tried to picture Bob’s green van. I recalled an image, green on green, barely visible, on the sliding door. It could be the same.

  Dad picked up the card and examined it. He looked at me. “Looks like your formula, Scott.”

  With the triangle and two eyes, it did resemble my delta formula. So I wasn’t a genius after all. “What else is in there?” I asked.

  Madame Flora rummaged through what looked like tubes of oil paint and brushes. She held up a green velvet bag. She pulled out a shiny gold instrument built around some lenses and mirrors. It looked a bit like a small pair of binoculars. “Granny called this her reader,” she said.

  I held out my hands. “May I?”

  “Be careful with it.” She handed it to me.

  Other than its lenses, the reader bore little resemblance to the electronic one I used on the bluefish. I saw some hinges, and I carefully unfolded the attached gold rods.

  “Those look like the temples from a pair of eyeglasses.” Dad pointed. “Look at how they curve at the ends, like they could fit over your ears. And here’s the nose bridge.” He took the reader out of my hands and held it up. “My head’s too big.” He examined the reader again. “Hold on, there’s another set on this end.”

  I looked at the twins. “Would you two try this on?”

  Madame Flora nodded, and Rose and Marie stepped forward.

  Dad put the temples over Rose’s ears and settled the bridge on her nose. He maneuvered Marie closer and put the other temples over her ears.

  Marie gasped. “Rose, you have one big eye right in the middle of your forehead.”

  “I can’t see anything,” Rose said.

  “What else do you see, Marie?” Madame Flora asked.

  “I’m not sure, Grandma. Just a sec.”

  We were silent as Marie looked again.

  “Okay,” she said. “Rose looks like she has only one eye, but the colors are a little off, like they’re too bright in some parts and too dull in others. There’s a bunch of triangles and crescents around the edge of the white part.”

  “Cool, let me see, Marie,” Rose said.

  “Wait!” Madame Flora said, but the girls were already taking off the reader, turning it around, and putting it back on.

  “Wow, Marie, your eye is huge. You have some funny shapes around your iris.” They took off the reader and gave it back to Madame Flora.

  Madame Flora folded the reader and put it back in its velvet bag. She looked at the twins. “Maybe you can make us some tea?”

  “Yes, Grandma,” they said together. They left the room.

  Madame Flora frowned. “You’re not Soul Identity members, are you?”

&nb
sp; “No,” I said, “But we’re about to work for them, and we want to know what we are getting into. Do you trust them?”

  She shook her head. “Trust isn’t part of the formula. It’s business. I tell hopeless people their lives will improve, and Soul Identity members come along and do the rest. Then I get a commission.” She paused for a minute. “Their lives do get better. They stop worrying all the time. And they become repeat customers.”

  One of the girls called out, “the tea’s ready, Grandma.”

  We sat with Madame Flora at a little kitchen table. Rose poured the tea and Marie brought out cookies.

  “We’re not very good at house stuff. But I can make tea, and Rose can sort of bake cookies,” Marie said.

  “What do you mean sort of?” Rose looked at us. “Go ahead, taste them.”

  Mom bit into her cookie. “Interesting. What are they?”

  “Chocolate chip,” Rose said. “Only Marie and I ate all the chips yesterday. And I couldn’t find the salt, so I substituted with extra—”

  “Maybe it’s better to keep your recipe a secret, sweetie.” Madame Flora took a sip of tea and grimaced. “Oh dear. What flavor is that?”

  “Green tea with rosehips,” Marie said.

  Madame Flora put down her cup and stood up. “That designer stuff is not tea.” She collected our tea and cookies and placed everything in the sink.

  “Grandma, it wasn’t that bad,” Rose said.

  “Yes, it was,” Madame Flora said. “Just what does your mother teach you anyway?” She sat back down and looked at us. “Is there anything else? We have a client coming in ten minutes and we must prepare the room.”

  “Did your grandmother tell you why she became a reader?” I asked.

  Madame Flora frowned. “Our family has been involved with the organization for many generations.” She stood up. “I don’t want to be rude, but I must get ready for my next client. If you do speak with somebody from Soul Identity, please inquire about my commission on Arthur Berringer.”

  The restaurant was a few minutes from Madame Flora’s. We sat on the patio and watched the boats pass under the bridge.

  “Soul Identity sounds creepy,” Dad said. “They’re paying commissions to their recruiters—they must be bilking their members for piles of money.”

  “Scott, you said that your neighbor Berry has a new purpose for living,” Mom said. “They sound like a cult that steals their members’ possessions.”

  “But her grandmother was involved. What cult lasts more than a generation?” I asked. “Don’t they burn out or kill themselves off? Or dissolve when the leader kicks the bucket?”

  “So maybe they’re not a traditional cult,” Dad said. “But they sure don’t seem to be a religion either. What religion doesn’t advertise?”

  I ordered cream of crab soup, figuring I should load up while I was still in Maryland. I asked the waitress, “Do you believe in past lives?”

  She gave me a funny look. “I have only one life, and I have given it to Jesus. Past lives? That’s the devil talking, son. Don’t listen to him.” She walked away.

  Guess not. “Hey, was Madame Flora for real or was she just playing us?” I asked.

  Dad shrugged. “It’s hard to believe she’s never used a fax machine before.”

  “Let’s talk about her granddaughters,” Mom said. “Did you think those girls were cute?”

  Even though I work with my parents and we spend a lot of time mired in each others’ business, I try to draw a line of separation at the edge of my love life. “They’re what, nineteen years old?”

  Dad laughed and grabbed Mom’s hand. “I try to keep her off your back, son, but she’s been wearing me down. You owe us a couple of grandchildren sooner or later.”

  Mom shook her head. “Scott, you’re thirty-two years old. You still have most of that curly dark hair. You’re in shape, intelligent, and some people think you’re pretty funny.”

  I sighed. “You’ve told me all this before.”

  She leaned forward. “I have. Now stop fooling around and settle down before the rest of your hair falls out, your belly hangs over your pants, and you forget how to make the girls laugh.”

  The soup came just in time to fend off the rest of that conversation. The waitress gave me my bowl and placed a religious pamphlet next to my spoon. “I’d like you to read this,” she said.

  I looked at the back of the pamphlet. It was rubber stamped with the address of a local evangelical church. “Thanks, but I’m really not interested,” I said.

  “Read it now, son. It will save your soul.” She left.

  “Everybody seems to be worrying about souls these days.” I opened the pamphlet. It talked about the meaning of life, hope, love, forgiveness, clean starts, and eternity. “You know, these guys are offering the same things that Berry was searching for.”

  “How can that be?” Mom pulled the croutons off her salad and dropped them onto her bread plate. “Christians believe that we have only one life.”

  “Isn’t heaven just a way to stuff your same soul into a new body?” I asked. “That sounds like reincarnation to me.”

  “That’s an interesting twist.” Dad grinned. “You want to bounce that idea off the waitress?”

  “I doubt she’d appreciate it,” I said. “But both Soul Identity and the Christians seem to be focused on our souls’ futures.”

  “But doesn’t the Soul Identity approach seem more selfish?” Dad asked.

  I shrugged. “When you strip the candy coating away, don’t all religions hinge on a ‘sow now and reap later’ plan?”

  We discussed this for the rest of the meal. Since it was a celebration, we ordered our traditional single serving of cheesecake, three forks, and three coffees. “Here’s to our new wacko client.” I raised my coffee cup. “May they bring us a happier neighbor and lots of money.”

  “And may you be safe,” Mom said. “I’m worried.”

  five

  I kept my eyes closed so I could fall back asleep, but the voice on the phone penetrated through the fog of sleep and pierced into my consciousness. “Mr. Waverly,” it said, “this is Bob from Soul Identity. Are you ready for your six o’clock trip to Boston?”

  I opened one eye and peeked at the clock. It was a few minutes after four. “Why are you calling me now?” I asked.

  “We are on a tight schedule, sir.”

  “And just how long does it take for you to get ready in the morning?” I demanded.

  “Thirty minutes at most.”

  “Call me back at five thirty.” I hung up the phone, but my sleep had fled. Damn these guys. I kick-started my coffee maker and glanced out the kitchen window. A stretch limo idled outside on the street; its lights illuminated the Chesapeake pre-dawn fog. If my ride was here, I might as well get going.

  Twenty minutes later I filled two travel mugs with coffee and stepped outside. Before I reached the limo, the door opened and the driver stepped out. It was still dark, and I could only see his silhouette.

  “Mr. Waverly? You’re an hour early.”

  I recognized that voice. “You called me an hour early, Bob.” I nodded at the limo. “Don’t tell me you also moonlight as a chauffeur.”

  “Mr. Morgan has assigned me to be your driver for the duration of your contract with Soul Identity.”

  A driver would be nice. I held out the mug. “Pleased to work with you, Bob. But call me Scott from now on.”

  He scrunched up his face. “How about I call you Mr. Scott? Soul Identity requires our formality.”

  “Good enough.”

  He opened the back door. I hopped in the front seat instead. “I’d rather ride shotgun,” I said.

  Bob drove out of my neighborhood and turned north. I pointed at his dark green suit. “What is it with you guys and green?”

  He smiled. “Our uniforms and vehicles are green. Our buildings and tools are gold or yellow. Always.”

  He turned east on Route Fifty, away from the bridge. “Whoa, B
ob,” I said. “BWI is that way.”

  “I’m driving you to Massachusetts, Mr. Scott. We’ll take 50 to 301 to 95, then over to the New Jersey Turnpike, across New York, up Connecticut, and into Massachusetts. Arriving no later than,” he looked at his watch, “three o’clock this afternoon. Maybe two o’clock, since you woke up early. But that depends on the traffic and the number of stops you require.”

  These crazy guys were paying for my time whether we flew or drove. “Driving works for me,” I said.

  Bob pointed over his shoulder. “Mr. Morgan sent me some materials for you to review before we arrive. I put them in the back, along with your uniform.”

  “Do I get to wear green suits too?”

  “No, sir. Only Soul Identity employees may wear green on the campus. Contractors all wear black.”

  I looked in the back and saw three couches arranged around a narrow center table. A pair of black jeans, a black leather belt, and a black polo shirt lay on the couch in the rear. A manila folder, a DVD case, two pillows, and a blanket sat on the one running back to front. I stuck my head through the partition and looked down, and I saw a flat screen television monitor on the countertop just below me.

  I pulled my head back. “Last week you told me that you had worked for Soul Identity for many years, but you don’t look very old,” I said. “How long has it been?”

  “Only for five years this time.”

  This time?

  He continued. “But if you add it all up, next Friday makes exactly one hundred years of service.” Bob smiled. “They’re throwing a big century party for me at headquarters.”

  “If you add what up?” I asked. “Overtime?”

  “Overtime doesn’t count.” Bob glanced at me. “You really don’t understand what we’re about?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, sir, Mr. Morgan did say to help you in any way I could.” He paused. “Maybe you could ask me some questions.”

  “All right. Let’s start with Soul Identity. How old is this organization?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, sir. Pretty old, I would say.”