The old woman sits unmoving in the armchair, hands folded over the top of her cane again and chin resting on her bony knuckles, eyes half closed.
"Jeannie," she says, without turning to look; her granddaughter's feet make no sound on the carpet, but she doesn't need to see the girl to know she's back.
"Yes, popo?"
"You got your iPod, honey girl? Come sit." She points with her chin to the couch opposite her. "I want a reading for our last customer."
Jeannie sits down, drawing out the music player and holding it between her hands. "Anything in particular, popo? Past, present, future?"
"Just a general reading. Present." There's almost no trace of accent to her English. There shouldn't be; she's third-generation American, and what accent she has is more her father's San Francisco cadence than anything else. "Why he came here. What he goes home to now." She rests her chin on her hands again, and listens.
The girl nods, closes her eyes to concentrate -- none of the usual Song Oracle flourishes this time, just closes her eyes -- and moves her thumb to touch the Play control. There's a pause, and then the music begins, soft mournful guitar in a minor key. After another moment a woman's voice comes in: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody home? / I only called to say I'm sorry...
When the last notes of the song die away, Madame Chen doesn't move.
"I thought so," she says softly, finally. "Poor boy. Oh, poor boy."
no subject
The old woman sits unmoving in the armchair, hands folded over the top of her cane again and chin resting on her bony knuckles, eyes half closed.
"Jeannie," she says, without turning to look; her granddaughter's feet make no sound on the carpet, but she doesn't need to see the girl to know she's back.
"Yes, popo?"
"You got your iPod, honey girl? Come sit." She points with her chin to the couch opposite her. "I want a reading for our last customer."
Jeannie sits down, drawing out the music player and holding it between her hands. "Anything in particular, popo? Past, present, future?"
"Just a general reading. Present." There's almost no trace of accent to her English. There shouldn't be; she's third-generation American, and what accent she has is more her father's San Francisco cadence than anything else. "Why he came here. What he goes home to now." She rests her chin on her hands again, and listens.
The girl nods, closes her eyes to concentrate -- none of the usual Song Oracle flourishes this time, just closes her eyes -- and moves her thumb to touch the Play control. There's a pause, and then the music begins, soft mournful guitar in a minor key. After another moment a woman's voice comes in: Hello, hello, hello, is there anybody home? / I only called to say I'm sorry...
When the last notes of the song die away, Madame Chen doesn't move.
"I thought so," she says softly, finally. "Poor boy. Oh, poor boy."