“Welcome to the big town of Six Mile,” Marino announced.
“What town?”
There was no skyline, not so much as a single convenience store or gas station in sight. Roadsides were dense with trees, the Blue Ridge a haze in the distance, and houses were poor and spread so far apart a cannon could go off without your neighbor hearing it.
Hilda Ozimek, psychic to the FBI and oracle to the Secret Service, lived in a tiny white frame house with white-painted tires in the front yard where pansies and tulips probably grew in the spring. Dead cornstalks leaned against the porch, and in the drive was a rusting Chevrolet Impala with flat tires. A mangy dog began to bark, ugly as sin and big enough to give me pause as I considered getting out of the car. Then he trotted off on three legs, favoring his right front paw, as the front screen door screeched open and a woman squinted at us in the bright, cold morning.
“Be still, Tootie.”
She patted the dog’s neck. “Now go on around back.”
The dog hung his head, tail wagging, and limped off to the backyard.
“Good morning,” Marino said, his feet heavy on the front wooden steps.
At least he intended to be polite, and there had been no guarantee of that.
“It is a fine morning,” Hilda Ozimek said.
She was at least sixty and looked as country as corn bread. Black polyester pants were stretched over wide hips, a beige sweater buttoned up to her neck, and she wore thick socks and loafers. Her eyes were light blue, hair covered by a red head rag. She was missing several teeth. I doubted Hilda Ozimek ever looked in a mirror or gave a thought to her physical self unless she was forced to by discomfort or pain.
We were invited into a small living room cluttered with musty furniture and bookcases filled with a variety of unexpected volumes not arranged in any sort of sensible order. There were books on religion and psychology, biographies and histories, and a surprising assortment of novels by some of my favorite authors: Alice Walker, Pat Conroy, and Keri Hulme. The only hint of our hostess’s otherworldly inclinations was several works by Edgar Cayce and half a dozen or so crystals placed about on tables and shelves. Marino and I were seated on a couch near a kerosene heater, Hilda across from us in an overstuffed chair, sunlight from the window behind her shining through the open blinds and painting white bars across her face.
“I hope you had no trouble, and I am so sorry I couldn’t come get you. But I don’t drive anymore.”
“Your directions were excellent,” I reassured her. “We had no problem finding your house.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Marino said, “how do you get around? I didn’t see a store or nothing within walking distance.”
“Many people come here for readings or just to talk. Somehow, I always have what I need or can get a ride.”
A telephone rang in another room, and was instantly silenced by an answering machine.
“How may I help you?” Hilda asked.
“I brought photographs,” Marino replied. “The Doc said you wanted to see them. But there’s a couple things I want to clear up first. No offense or nothing, Miss Ozimek, but this mind-reading stuff is something I’ve never put much stock in. Maybe you can help me understand it better.”
For Marino to be so forthright without a trace of combativeness in his tone was uncommon, and I glanced over at him, rather startled. He was studying Hilda with the openness of a child, his expression an odd mix of curiosity and melancholy.
“First, let me say that I’m not a mind reader,” Hilda replied matter-of-factly. “And I don’t even feel comfortable with being called a psychic, but for lack of a better term, I suppose, that is how I am referred to and how I refer to myself. All of us have the capability. Sixth sense, some part of our brain most people choose not to use. I explain it as an enhanced intuition. I feel energy coming from people and just relay the impressions that come into my mind.”