His coffee cup is empty and he’s waiting for the second cup.
“Can you spot me?” He says because there’s an entry fee to finding your fortune in the plastic booth in the stretch of highway between Erie and Cleveland.
It’s 3 a-fucking-m, and the only stars out are the string of lights illuminating the flattest road God ever made. I should be able to see the future coming from a long way out. But still I’m here and he’s here, his bag of runes sitting on the dirty counter next to a napkin dispenser. I used to come to him for small things, we all did, now the stakes have gotten too high.
For the cost of a plate of hash browns, three eggs, and enough jalapenos and onions to block out the cheese, the Mystic will quietly tell you the thing you hoped you weren’t paying for — the truth.
“What’s the question?” He asks, detangling American cheese from his beard.
Headlights fill up the parking lot and we hold our breath as they pass on. We’re between rest stops, the only thing near a gas station.
“Who killed my brother?” I am barely able to get out the question. My mascara has wrapped itself under my chin and my hands shake.
He raises the cup of coffee to his lips and pauses, holding it in midair with steam billowing around him like he’s coming out of a fog.
I wait for him to fish into his velvet bag of bottle caps to extract the pin scratched fortune they contain, just like every other time I’ve sat at this counter. But he just moved his hashbrowns around with a plastic fork.
The fluorescent light above me starts to flicker and the guy at the grill is trying to not look like he’s listening to us. There is never really privacy in a Waffle House. Your sins are contained and incandescent.
“That’s not really the sort of question I answer,” the Mystic says. “For one thing, we both already know who killed him.”
My face is still raw and chapped from the crying I’d done at the funeral. I am still wearing the black, shapeless clothes of mourning. Crumbs from my waffle, the only thing I’ve managed to eat in 48 hours, collect in my lap and I try to swallow my sobs along with food.
“So what are you good for, then?” I ask, my voice hoarse and my mouth dry and lined with coffee grounds black as dirt.
“I’m better at the why of things. I can tell you why he is dead.” The Mystic starts to pull out his tokens, the sort of desperate divine junk that gives you answers you hate. Not like the cards with their pretty dramatic pictures.
The smell of the cooking onions and the clang of the spatula on the grill make it almost hard for me to hear him, and he’s right next to me.
Outside it’s snowing and coming down harder by the minute. He’s put the runes next to his plate like they are spare change. I don’t want any more change, spare or otherwise.
“You’ve got Uruz, Hagalaz, and Thurisaz here. All body and aggression. All warfare and no victories. Berkano indicates there’s a woman involved, romance,” The Mystic’s hands start to move and I notice the dirt caked into his callouses. He’s got the workboots of a day laborer. Every word of his starts to fade into single words that hang in the air, money, destruction, love, harm, murder.
“I think he hurt someone and they finished him off. By the scene here I’m not sure your brother didn’t deserve it.” Everyone in the room looks uncomfortable and the cashier starts edging towards the bathroom.
I hate the Mystic, now. I hate him so much that all the lights flicker.
“This one's for me,” he says, and pulls out one final bottlecap. “Raidho, figures.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, the pocket knife in my bra digging into the side of my ribcage.
“It means I should be on my way. Give me a head start huh?” He winks and nods to the cashier to indicate I’m paying his tab.
He’s halfway out the door when he says, “One question for you before I go. Did I get it right? Is that why you killed him?”
