THE PORTALS OF TRUTH OR CONSEQUENCES
by Mandy Trichell
“If you want a peek inside, you must make an offering. If you reach inside, you will receive a gift.” A shirtless woman with waist-length gray hair that made no attempt to hide her naked breasts held out a crumpled brown fedora, extending the invitation to choose one or the other.
“Can I look inside before reaching?”
“No, child,” said the woman.
I’m not a child, but I found myself feeling like her child. I let my eyes wander from the hat to the woman, taking her in. Half her body was tattooed, almost head to toe, while the other half was, as far as I could tell, totally ink-free. Her bare, calloused feet didn’t seem bothered by the mid-day heat of the sidewalk, nor did the little tiger-striped kitten curled up beside them.
My hand, of its own accord, found its way inside the fedora. My eyes locked with the woman’s, which were so brown that they were almost black, her pupils and irises barely distinguishable. My hand felt as if it were breathing, inhaling and exhaling through my fingertips, while the finest sand I’d ever touched sifted through my fingers. I closed my eyes for what seemed like a few fleeting seconds. When I opened them, I was alone, save an ancient orange cat who was matted, dusty, and quiet.
I turned in every direction, looking for the woman. There were a handful of tourists strolling down the main drag of Truth or Consequences, discussing the art they saw in galleries and complaining about the heat. I stopped a young couple and asked if they’d seen a shirtless, gray haired, half tattooed woman. They asked if I was okay, if there was someone they could call for me. As the woman pulled out her phone, I walked away.
I’d gone a couple of blocks when I realized the cat was trailing me. Not with any sense of urgency, mind you, but it never let me out of its sight. As I walked back toward my kitschy-cute hotel room at the Pelican Spa, I felt light on my feet, a gentle forward pull on my heart.
As I approached the faded blue door of my room, the cat stepped in front of me and began meowing incessantly and loudly. I said to her, “What’s up, old lady?” She walked a few steps northward, then turned and looked at me, as if to say, “We’re going this way.” I put my room key back in my fanny pack, then fell in behind the cat as she trotted forward.
We crossed the street at a mural with a dancing angel skeleton (it had wings!) surrounded by rainbow colored stars, then started up a hill. We passed an abandoned house that, despite being in drastic disrepair, was the prettiest watermelon pink I’d ever seen. It had blooming cane cholla cacti growing out of its front window, flowers matching the pink of the walls, undeterred by the shards of broken glass still embedded in the window frame. Just beyond the house, we turned a corner westward at the top of the hill, in front of a group of children disembarking from a school bus that was pale green, instead of the usual yellow, with the letters TCSM painted in orange across the side.
I hadn’t put on any sunscreen, and there was no shade to escape to on this block. The scraggly old cat finally came to a halt in front of a cerulean blue door trimmed in a lighter blue and inlaid with ivory flowers. The windows offered no hint of what was inside, only my reflection staring back at me. I looked down at the cat and asked, “You want me to knock on this door?” She responded by weaving herself between ankles.
The woman who answered was about my age, late forties, with her black hair tied up in two little Bjork buns, wearing overalls and cat-eye glasses. Even though she was smiling at me, she spoke to the cat, “Who have you brought me today, Miss Ginger?” I immediately felt comfortable and safe, much like I did when the old woman called me child. I introduced myself, and Donza invited me into a cozy little space with pothos trailing everywhere, nag champa burning, and a bath that I could hear running behind a violet velvet curtain. I’d been in Truth or Consequences often enough to recognize the sound of water from the mineral hot springs filling a stone tub. They are legendary waters, with a centuries-long reputation for healing the sick and injured. I’d spent my share of time in them as I visited annually for the Wayward Writers Camp.
Donza didn’t bother to make small talk. She directed me to the bath, pulling back the curtain, showing me that there was a chair beside it to set my belongings and clothing on. “Once you’re in the bath, I’ll be on the other side of the curtain, sitting on the chaise, guiding you with my voice.” Guiding me where? I thought, but I didn’t ask.
I undressed and climbed into the water, wisps of steam rolling off the surface. I settled in up to my collarbone, then closed my eyes and let my body feel weightless.
From the other side of the velvet curtain, Donza asked, “Comfy?” After I confirmed, she asked me to keep my eyes closed and to slowly inhale, as if I were collecting all of the steam from the bath into my lungs, then to gradually release it back to the water. “Who do you need to speak with?”
I was well past trying to guess what might happen next in this scenario, but this question surprised me. Even though it had been at least five years since I lost her, an image of my grandmother, my beloved Mamaw, appeared in my mind’s eye. “My grandmother,” I said, “Ruby Jean Fleming.”
“What color do you associate with her?”
I thought of all her gold lamè things: shoes, belts, handbags, not to mention the way her dressing table was piled high with gold costume jewelry, and one of her favorite evening TV shows was Solid Gold. “Gold,” I said.
Donza told me to imagine a bright gold light filling the room while telling her about my Mamaw.
“She took me to the beauty shop with her every Friday. She’d buy me a Sprite, in a glass bottle, from the kind of vending machine that would allow you to open the door and choose your soda. The ladies who worked there greeted her (and me) like celebrities. I’d spin without reprimand in one of the empty chairs while she had her copper curls set. Inevitably, one of the stylists would come over and braid my waist-length hair. I snapped peas with her, picked muscadines with her that grew from the vines that bordered their property to the south, and she’d let me stir cornbread batter. When she took the laundry down from the clothesline in the backyard, it was my job to collect the clothespins. We went to garage sales almost every Saturday. She made my birthday cake from scratch and sent the photos from my party to the local newspaper. At Christmas time, she dressed me like a little doll and took me to have my portraits made at Sears. Even after we moved away with my mom and her new husband, when I was six, she sent me and my brother packages every Valentine’s Day, and she wrote me long, sweet letters that I still pull out to read.”
I was sobbing. I had wept at her funeral, but this was a guttural sob that came from a primitive place.
Donza said, “Whatever happens next, it’s important that you keep your eyes closed and stay in the water.” I heard the door open, and then her unmistakable north Louisiana drawl stretching out my name, “Mayundy, baby. Mamaw’s here.” I could feel her in the room. I smelled her perfume, Charlie by Revlon. I heard her rifling through her (gold lame, surely) purse, and then the snap of her cigarette purse opening. Next, the schick of her lighter as she lit a Misty Blue 120. The scent of it wafted into my space, behind the velvet curtain. “I’mma sit in this chair right here and want you to tell Mamaw everything I done missed.”
I didn’t dare open my eyes or move my body, for fear that she’d disappear, so I put my soul self in a chair beside her, and my soul self touched her hand and put my head on her shoulder. We cried and talked and laughed and told each other secrets. I asked her if my mother killed her, which is what we all thought without ever really saying. She told me that it didn’t matter, and that I should spend as much time with her as I could because her time would be coming soon. “But she’s not even 60 yet,” I said. She patted my knee. “I know, baby. I know.”
Mamaw eventually said to me, “Your water’s gettin’ cold, honey. That means my time is just about up.”
My soul self hugged her and kissed her cheek. My nose took in all of her scents and locked them away. My lips did the same with her wrinkles. We said “I love you” simultaneously, and I opened my eyes. My fingers were pruny, and the water was freezing. I called out to Donza, but there was no answer. I climbed out of the bath, got dressed, then opened the curtain. I was alone, save Miss Ginger sitting on the chaise, cleaning herself. I said goodbye and thank you to the cat. As I opened the door to let myself out, I called for Donza again, to no avail. I took one last look around the room, where I noticed a crumpled brown fedora hanging on a hat rack.
Mandy Trichell lives under the devil’s tongue, aka Houston, TX. She is a writer, an artist, a fitness professional, and an avid traveler. You can find more of her words at https://open.substack.com/pub/mandytrichell
