Divine by Mistake

It sat innocently enough just where Receding had left it, vaguely moist spots glistening where his sweaty little fingers had smudged the glossy surface. I took a breath. A deep breath. It certainly was an intriguing-looking pot. I squinted and bent to get a closer look, careful not to touch it. The Priestess did have hair that looked like mine, only longer. Her right arm was draped in a creamy, gauzy white cloth, and there was a definite grace and beauty about the way it was stretched, palm held up and forward, slightly tilted. She seemed gracious in her acceptance of the offered gifts from the kneeling supplicants. A rich-looking gold armlet snaked around her bicep, and golden bracelets adorned her wrist. She wore no rings, but the back of her hand seemed to be decorated with a design—

“Oh, God!” My own hand flew to my mouth to stifle my screech. I felt a sinking in the pit of my stomach, and all of a sudden it was again difficult to catch my breath. Because it wasn’t a tattoo or a jewel that decorated the back side of her hand. It was a scar. A scar from a third-degree burn. I knew because my right hand was “decorated” with the exact mark.

3

“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction will now begin. Please make your way to Lot #1, directly east of the fountain. We will open this afternoon with bedroom and living-room furnishings…”

I could hear the auctioneer droning in the background as opening bids were taken for Lot #1—Victorian reproduction oak six-piece bedroom set, but the pot captivated my attention. Along with other stragglers, I remained by the item of my choice, waiting for the auction to come to me. With a shaking hand I dug into the black depths of my purse and fished out a wadded-up, aged Kleenex. Slowly, I reached toward the pot and wiped off all the smudges left by the Receding Nerd. Maybe it was just a trick of sweat and the light. I blinked hard and looked back at the priestess’s hand. Then I looked at my own.

The familiar burn scar was, indeed, there—and had been since I was a four-year-old and had precociously thought I could help Grandma boil water for macaroni faster by shaking the handle of the pot. Of course, boiling water had painfully poured onto my little hand, leaving a funny-looking scar that resembled a star. Thirty-one years later the raised tissue still evoked comments from friends and strangers. And the lady on the pot had the same scar tissue?

Impossible. Especially in a reproduction of an ancient Celtic urn.

Yet there it was, in all of its hair-looks-like-mine-hand-has-my-scar-and-makes-me-feel-like-I’m-having-a-nervous-break-down glory.

“I need a drink.” Understatement of the year. A glance toward the auctioneer told me they were only on Lot #7 (reproduction of Louis XIV armoire—bidding was fast and furious). I had time to find the refreshment stand and get a grip on myself before they got near the artsy stuff. Needless to say, I wouldn’t be bidding on Lot #25; the cool dragon print would have to go home with someone else. The pot was where my money and my energy had to be focused.

Strangely enough, I noticed that as soon as I got away from the pottery table I began feeling normal again. No hot flashes, no trouble breathing, definitely no “time is suddenly freezing” moments. The makeshift refreshment stand was situated near the farm equipment. They had cold drinks, coffee and evillooking hot dogs for sale. I ordered a “diet anything” and took my time sipping, wandering slowly back toward the pottery.

I have always had a great imagination. I love fantasy and make-believe. Hell, I’m a friggin English teacher—I actually read. For pleasure, as shocking as that seems to be to some people. But I have always known the difference between fantasy and reality—even relished the difference.

So, what in the hell was going on with me today? What was up with the strange feelings? And why did the woman on that pot look like me?! I pinched myself, and it hurt. So I wasn’t having one of my ultravivid weird dreams that seem real.

I meandered back to the pottery area, and instantly my stomach tightened. It was utterly bizarre. I should buy the damn dragon print, get in my car, go home and drink a medicinal bottle of Merlot. All this ran through my mind as my legs carried me straight back to the pot.

“Friggin thing still looks like me.”

“It is rather odd, is it not, miss?” The skeletal guy from the entrance stood behind the pottery table. He reached out and let his hand slide slowly over the pot, pausing briefly on the priestess’s hair, then tracing the line of her arm with his finger.

“So you noticed it, too.” My eyes narrowed and he pulled his bony hand away from my pot.

“Yes, miss. I noticed your hair when you drove in. Quite a nice color to see today—too many young women seem to want to ruin their hair by dying it unnatural colors: burgundy, yellow, black. And cutting it short. So, yours stands out.” His tone was harmless enough, but his eyes had an intensity that suddenly made me feel uncomfortable. And even across the table I could smell his nasty breath.

“Well, it’s been a surprise for me, actually, kind of a shock.” I watched him. His attention kept leaving me and refocusing on the pot with an almost sexual intensity. And he kept touching it. A lot.

“Probably Fate telling you that you must buy it.” He turned that unnatural gaze back to me. “This urn must not go home with anyone else.”

That made me laugh. “I hope Fate knows to keep the bidding within a teacher’s price range.”

“She does.” With that cryptic remark he caressed the pot one last time and glided away.

Damn, that guy was strange. More like a talkative Lurch than Children of the Corn’s daddy, though.

The auction was moving quickly and the bidding was beginning for the statuettes. Seems several people were interested in “the boys.” Can’t say that I blamed them. I stepped into the group around the mobile auctioneer’s platform as it was being wheeled into position behind the table. Bidding began at fifty dollars for Zeus, but five people quickly raised that fifty to onefifty. Finally it sold to a solid-looking woman for one hundred seventy-five dollars. Not bad. The Syrian got more interest (must have been the muscles). Bidding quickly went from the opening bid of fifty dollars to three-fifty. I was beginning to worry about the price range.

The Syrian went for four hundred fifty dollars. A bad sign. I had budgeted two hundred dollars for my auction outing today. I could scrape together another fifty, but above that was beyond my limited means.

The skinny warrior went for four hundred dollars even.

My stomach clenched again as I drifted with the crowd over to the pottery table and listened to the auctioneer talk about what excellent museum-quality reproductions of Greco-Roman and Celtic pottery were exemplified in the next six lots. Couldn’t he please just shut up? I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the disconcerting feeling that being so close to the pot gave me. The bidding on Lot #20 opened at seventy-five dollars.

There were only three people who were seriously bidding on the pottery. I noticed that all three had the look of dealers. They had the little handheld notebooks, the glasses perched on their noses and the look of professional intensity casual auction-goers never wore. It was a whole different look than just falling in love with an estate piece and wanting to take it home. The dealer has a clinical attitude about his or her purchases, an “Oh, boy, I can’t wait to get this into my store and mark it up 150 percent” attitude. I was doomed.

Lot #20 went to the dealer with the frizzy blond hair (roots desperately needed a touch-up) for three hundred dollars.

Lot #21 went to the dealer who looked English. You know: proper, prim, smart, well-bred, but in need of a bath and some orthodontic attention. He paid five hundred dollars (and, sure enough, he had an accent) for the beautiful second—to fourth-Century Roman pot which the auctioneer described as made in the Moselkeramik style, which meant (he explained to us ignorant lay-folks) that it was of the highest quality and exquisite. The English guy looked smug with his purchase.

Lots #22, #23 and #24 went to the third dealer. Believe it or not, it was the Depression Era matron I had offended with my legs earlier. Great. Ms. Matron paid three hundred, four twenty-five and two hundred seventy-five dollars, respectively, for the pots.

“Now the last of our beautiful pottery pieces is Lot #25—Reproduction—Celtic vase, original stood over graves in an ancient Scottish cemetery—Scene in color represents supplications being made to High Priestess of the Horse Goddess Epona. It is interesting to note that Epona was the only Celtic deity adopted by the invading Romans, and she became their personal Goddess, protectress of their legendary legions.” His voice sounded stuck-up and proud, like he had created the pot and perhaps was a personal friend of Epona. I hated him. “Notice the exceptional use of color and contrast on the urn. Shall we open the bidding at seventy-five dollars?”

“Seventy-five.” I raised my hand and caught his eye. It’s important to telegraph to the auctioneer (via eye contact) serious buying intent—and I was Morse-coding him to death.

“I have seventy-five, do I hear one hundred?”

“One hundred.” The Matron raised her fat hand.

“One-ten.” I tried not to shout.

“One…ten.” There was no mistaking the patronizing tone to His Majesty’s voice. “I have a bid of one hundred and ten dollars. Do I hear one twenty-five?”

“One hundred and fifty dollars, please.” It was the Brit. Figures.

“The gentleman bids one hundred and fifty dollars.” Now his voice was ingratiating. What a little weasel. “One hundred and fifty, do I hear two hundred?”

“Two hundred,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Ah, the lady bids two hundred dollars.” Back in his good graces. “Do I hear two twenty-five?”

Silence—I was holding my breath.

“The last bid is two hundred dollars.” Expectant pause. I wanted to throttle him. Say “once, twice, sold,” my mind was screaming. “Do I hear two hundred and twenty-five dollars?”

“Two-fifty.” The Matron again. Before I could raise my hand to spend more than my budget allowed, the Brit, in a flutter of long white fingers, softly raised the bid to two seventy-five.

Above the pounding in my ears I could make out the bidding war between the Matron and the Brit. It culminated at three hundred and fifty dollars. Beyond my budget—way beyond my budget. I backed away slowly as the crowd moved on to the next set of lots, and found myself sitting on the edge of the rotting fountain. I watched as the auction assistants began boxing up the pottery. The Brit and the frizzy-haired blonde were hanging around, obviously done bidding—they probably owned shops that specialized in works d’art. They were laughing and talking with the good-natured camaraderie of peers.

The pot wasn’t going home with me. It looked like me. It made me feel neurotic, but it was going home with the Brit. My sigh came straight from my confused heart. I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but I felt, as I’m sure the Brit would say, buggered and bloody awful.

In Oklahoma we’d just say I felt like shit.

Maybe I should ask the Brit for his card, and save up enough money to…what? Put the damn thing in layaway? Maybe I could pick up a summer-school class and…

I noticed the Brit lifting my—I mean, his pot. He was examining it with a proprietor’s smile as he waited for the assistant to pack the waiting box with enough tissue to keep it from breaking. Suddenly, his smile changed to an angry, distraught expression. Hmm—I stood up and moved closer.

“My God! What the bloody hell is this?” He was holding the pot up above his head, looking intently into the interior.

“Sir, is there a problem?” The assistant was as confused as I.

“I should say so! This pot is cracked! It is totally useless to me.” He set it carelessly back on the table, and it rolled around on its bottom edge, coming precariously close to tipping over.

“Sir, let me take a look.” The assistant grabbed the pot and held it up to the light, mimicking the Brit’s actions. His expression blanched.

“Sir, you are correct. Please accept my apologies for this damaged merchandise. Your bill will be corrected immediately.” As he spoke, another minion rushed off to the accounts payable tent.

“Excuse me…” I tried to sound nonchalant. “What will happen to the pot now?”

All three turned to stare at me.

“It will be reauctioned, as is, of course.” And he handed the pot to yet another assistant, who hastened toward the auctioneer area. I followed on rubbery legs, feeling suddenly like the proverbial moth to a flame—or more appropriately Okielike, the mosquito to the heavy-duty two-acre bug zapper.

“Oh, my. It seems we have an error in need of correcting.” The auctioneer’s voice was annoyed. “Before we continue to Lot #31, we need to reauction Lot #25. The reproduction pottery evidently has a hairline crack running the width of the base. Quite unfortunate.”

I pushed my way through the crowd as he held up the pot, open end to the audience, so that we could all peer into its imperfect depths. I squinted and looked…and the opening of the pot seemed to ripple, like the surface of a black lake. I felt dizzy and blinked hard several times, trying to clear my vision.

The auctioneer looked into the opening and shook his head, contorting his face into a grimace of disdain for such abominably damaged merchandise. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Do I have an opening bid of twenty-five dollars?”

Silence.

I couldn’t believe it—I wanted to shout, but contained my exuberance as he surveyed the mum crowd and quickly revised the bid downward. “Fifteen dollars? Do I hear fifteen dollars?”

Silence. Just ten minutes before, the bidding war had been on, and it had brought three hundred and fifty dollars. Now it wasn’t perfect, and the guy couldn’t get fifteen bucks. Fate whispered in my ear.

“Three dollars and fifty cents.” I couldn’t help myself. It was some kind of quirky justice.

“Sold! For three dollars and fifty cents. Madam, please give your number to my assistant.” He grimaced. “You may collect your pot immediately.”

4

“My number is 074. I’m here to settle my account.” The accounts payable person appeared to be an hourly employee…she moved very slowly. I tried not to fidget. I want my pot I want my pot I want my pot. I was turning into a psycho.

“The total is $3.78…that’s with tax.” She even blinked slowly, reminding me of a calf.

“Here ya go. Keep the change.” I handed her a five-dollar bill. She grinned at me like I was Santa.

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll have your merchandise brought right out.” Over her shoulder, “Zack, bring out number 74’s stuff.”

Zack emerged from behind the building bearing a box like those I had observed the other pots being packed into. The lid was open and he held it so that I could see that it was my pot. But I didn’t need to actually see it, that now-familiar yucky feeling was back in my stomach.

“Thank you, I’ll take it from here.” Before I could chicken out, I grabbed the box, slammed the lid shut and headed for my car. “I’m getting the hell outta Dodge.”

Talking to myself kept my nerves at bay. Well, almost.

I double clicked the passenger’s door unlocked, and gently set the box in the seat. On second thought, I decided I had better seat belt the thing in; I didn’t want it flopping over, falling out and making me grab at it while I was driving. Gulp.

The air conditioner began its magic as soon as the engine rumbled to life. Trying not to peek sideways at my passenger, I threw the Mustang into gear and retraced my path out.

“What now!”

Children of the Corn’s daddy, aka Lurch, was back at his post, again waving the orange wand in my direction. I rolled to a pause and tapped the window open—halfway.

“I see Fate was faithful.” His eyes skittered back and forth from the closed lid of the box to me. God, his breath was awful.

“Yeah, there was a crack in the bottom of it, so I got a great deal.” Letting up on the clutch I started to roll forward. Couldn’t he take a hint?

“Yes, miss, you have no idea what an extraordinary deal you have purchased for so little.” His eyes pierced me, then he glanced up at the sky. “The weather is changing. You be sure to drive—” pause “—carefully.” (What the hell was he implying?) “I’d hate to think of you having—” pause “—an accident.”

“Not a problem. I’m an excellent driver.” I pressed the window up and let loose the clutch. Glancing in the rearview mirror I saw Corn Daddy take a few steps after me. “Freak.” I shivered.

Turning onto the gravel road felt good, and I gunned the engine, enjoying the juvenile rush of pleasure that spewing gravel with my tires gave me. Glancing in the rearview mirror again, I could see that Corn Daddy was now standing in the middle of the road staring obsessively in my direction. The Freak’s warning about the weather flashed through my mind. I looked up at the sky. “Oh, great, this is all I need.” Puffy gray clouds towered, giving the blue horizon a bruised look. I was heading southwest, the way back to Tulsa, and apparently the way into a lovely example of an Oklahoma summer thunderstorm.

“Well, friends and sports fans, let’s check what the localyokel weather stations are predicting.”

Flipping through my radio all I could tune in clearly was a country-music station, a farm show discussing how bad the ticks are for June (I’m not making that up) and a gospel preacher who seemed to be screaming about adultery (I didn’t listen long enough to figure out for sure if he was for or against it). No weather—not even any jazz or the elusive “soft rock.”

“What say we just pretend like we’re Meatloaf and drive home like a bat outta hell?” I was talking to the damn box. Great. I was stuck in the middle of friggin nowhere, driving smack into (another look forward and a little to the left told me the bad news) a wall cloud, and I was talking to a box filled with a pot that made me feel as if I had taken several diet pills and chugged a large frappa-cappa-mocha-latte. “That’s it—first town I come to I’m stopping at the bumpkin gas station. I’m going to get something chocolate to eat, and find out what the hell is going on with the weather.” Suspiciously I glanced sideways at the box. “And get some fresh air.”

For an instant I almost regretted my cell-phone phobia. I don’t own even one cell phone. All of my friends do—usually multiple phones, like it’s some contest to see how many they can have and how small they can be, kinda the opposite of the penis thing. My best girlfriend (the stuck-up college professor) has a special one installed in her car so she can blab on the phone without taking her hands off the wheel. She also has a cute little deceptively harmless-looking model that nests in her purse. I tolerate the ridicule of my peers because I’ve decided that when they are all dying of brain cancer I am going to tell them “I told you so.” I continually explain to them that, no, I am not a Neanderthal out of synch with the modern world. I simply do not need a phone in my car, my purse, my desk, my gym bag, etc., etc. And I will visit them as they are pitifully wasting away from basketball-size brain tumors caused by constant cell-phone radiation waves bombarding their skulls as they chatter about where to meet for lunch and whose stepkids are the most screwed up.

So I won’t die from brain cancer, but the thunderstorm-wall-cloud-possible-tornado was making me just a little nervous. Studying the sky as I drove quickly down the road, I realized the incoming storm was definitely getting worse. Oklahoma storms have personalities, big mean personalities. It has always amazed me how the summer sky can change so quickly and completely. I remember one time I was lying out in the sun at the current flavor-of-the-month boyfriend’s pool. As proper sunbathing etiquette requires, I was facing the sun and drifting in that wonderfully relaxing sunbathing la-la land (obviously the boyfriend wasn’t home, you can’t drift in la-la land while a male is telling you what great tits you have) when suddenly the wind shifted and cooled. I opened my eyes and glanced behind me to see puffy gray clouds forming. I grabbed my stuff, left a thank-you note for the boyfriend and took off. I only lived fifteen minutes away, but I didn’t make it home before the skies opened. The gray puffy clouds had morphed into blacks and greens. The bizarrely cool wind bent trees. Sheets of rain made driving impossible. I was lucky that I made it to the little hospital in Broken Arrow. I just had time to run through the E.R. entrance and into the basement before a tornado blasted through the center of town.

Okay, maybe I was more than a little nervous. And the damn pot wasn’t helping any.

The green-and-white road sign said Leach 10 miles, which turned out to be the last road sign I could make out, because at that moment the sky puked ropes of rain that began to beat up my Mustang.

Now, I love my car. Really. But the little sucker is truly not the car to drive in rainy weather. It loves to slide and hydroplane all over the road. So I downshifted to slow, turned my wipers on high and tried to keep to my side of the centerline.

The radio was static. The trees I could vaguely see on the side of the road were bent over at insane angles. I flipped the headlights on, trying vainly to help visibility. It felt as if the wind was slapping my car around; it was taking both of my sweaty hands to hold the wheel still.

Sweaty? “What the hell?”

The car felt warm. Why? There was cool air blowing from the vent, but I was still uncomfortably hot.

And then I noticed it. The heat was coming from the damn box. My eyes darted from the nearly invisible road to the box. I swear it was glowing, like it had a heat lamp inside it, and someone had just flipped on its switch.

I tore my eyes from the box and back to the—

“Oh, God!” Suddenly there was no road! I could feel the tires crunch in the shoulder gravel and, too quickly, I yanked the wheel to the left. My overcompensation began a spin and I tried desperately to correct back to the right. No good. The wind and rain completely disoriented me. I struggled, just trying to keep the wheel straight; my heart fell into my stomach as the spin carried me across the road, tires screeching. And then the world turned upside down.

At the same time I felt a slice of pain shoot through the side of my head, I realized that I smelled smoke. My eyes must have been closed, because I wrenched them open and it was like I was trapped in the middle of the sun. The pot had burst from its box. It was a ball of heat and light hurling, slow motion, in my direction. Time stalled and I seemed to be suspended on the outskirts of hell. Staring at the luminous globe, I got a bizarre glimpse of myself, like I was looking into a rippled pool of water that had been set afire, but was still able to show a ref lection. My mirror image was rushing forward, naked, with arms outstretched and head flung back like a glorious pagan dancer being submerged into the fiery ball. Then fire and smoke enveloped me, too, and I knew I was going to die. My last thought wasn’t a flashback of my life, or regret about leaving friends and family. It was simply, “Damnit, I should have quit cussing. What if God really is a Baptist?”

PART TWO

1

Consciousness didn’t return easily; it was an elusive thing. It felt like a dream, like the kind of dream I have had during an especially yucky period, complete with awful cramps. In my dream I change the cramps to weird, sugar-laced labor pains and then I give birth to a Twinkie, which somehow makes me feel better. I know. I’m Freud’s wet dream.

My head hurt. A lot. Worse than a sinus headache, even worse than an I-can’t-believe-I-drank-all-that-tequila hangover. And my body felt like—no, I couldn’t feel my body at all. Couldn’t open my eyes. Oh, yeah, I’m dead. No wonder I felt…