She eases into life as she does most days in October, buried under blankets. That happens when you’re obsessed with your personal carbon footprint, you set your thermostat all the way down to freeze-your-butt-off. Be one with the cold, she thinks, reaching for socks on the floor. Visitors find that mantra tough to swallow through chattering teeth, but still they come around. It’s hard to resist a red-headed witch who can read your palm just as surely as she can read your mind.
It was fifty years ago last month that Lorelei Olive Leigh slipped out of her mother’s womb just ahead of her not-quite-identical twin Layla, sending a stern psychic warning to the obstetrician on call. Save my sister, she signaled. And thank goodness the doctor listened, because while Lori was on the way out, Layla was on the way down, with a cord wrapped just too tight.
As luck would have it, the girls survived being born and grew up more or less sane in the coastal Carolina town of Sunrise Beach, where the family occupied a sturdy block house on the corner of Oak and Shell. Early on, the twins looked alike, their hot red hair and cool green eyes overshadowing all else until middle school when they parted physical ways. Layla gained a three-inch advantage in height, while Lori took honors in the boobs department. Daddy got over-interested in both. So when mama came home one day and found him inspecting the girls in the bathtub, she called him to the bedroom and shot him in the stomach.
After the accident, that’s what the police called it, mom and dad managed to stay out of trouble for a few years, doing enough drugs along the way to kill two people, which is more or less what happened to the fiery couple. On the night of high school graduation, the girls came home to dead parents, who left just enough insurance to pay off the mortgage.
In the wake of the overdose, Lori found herself preferring the company of just about no one, except for her sister. She all but withdrew from life, the press of human stupidity proving more than she could bear. Her only socializing involved hanging out on Eddie’s Pier, where she learned to handle a knife cleaning fish for next to nothing.
Meanwhile Layla moved in a different direction, falling for any guy who breathed. One of those breathers, a fortune-teller named Zeke, would look into a crystal ball for five bucks and tell you every truth. Their romance burned out fast, but not before it delivered two mixed blessings. Zeke became Layla’s first paying customer, launching her impressive career as a tattoo artist. And Lori discovered she had a few more senses than she knew what to do with.
“How long you been talking to dead people?” Zeke asked the first time he read Lori’s palm.
You mean like right now? Lori thought.
Zeke flinched, the shock of those words burning a hole in his brain. “Damn. You are one scary witch.”
“And you are one horny jerk,” said Lori, pulling her Buck fishing knife from the sheath on her belt. “Touch my tits again and I’ll cut your hand off.”
The threat worked well enough to deter Zeke, but he guessed Lori’s smart mouth would eventually get her into trouble, and it did. One night on the beach a few years later, she found herself trading harsh words with three college boys from N.C. State. She was out alone watching the Perseid meteor shower, a summer ritual that started when she was five. That’s the year her mother said the lightshow was a sprinkling of god’s magic. Thinking back, Lori figures mom must have been tripping, since she had never bothered to mention god since then, unless you count a few thousand god damns.
As she lay against a dune watching the skies for streaks of goodness, Lori heard the drunk guys laughing, full of trash talk, heading her way. Knowing the risk, she drew her fishing knife from her belt and stilled herself to stone.
“Well lookee here,” said the biggest boy, when he stumbled over her. Built like a football lineman, he wore one of those fraternity shirts with Greek letters.
“We done hit us some white meat,” said another boy.
“You all don’t want to mess with me,” said Lori.
“Oh yes we do, sweetheart,” said the biggest drunk, lunging for her. Lori managed to slice his arm open, but his buddies piled on and raped her. The police didn’t believe Lori’s version of what happened, not even when it turned out she was pregnant.
But being believed was the least of her worries.
“You know about that new law, don’t you?” said Layla. “Abortion is now officially murder in North Carolina.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Lori.
“Good god, sister. Don’t you watch the news?”
“Not unless it’s important.”
“Well this is important. If you’re over sixteen and you get an abortion, they’ll charge you with murder. Premeditated murder. They’re working to get the death penalty, too. All they need is a few friendly judges.”
“They? Who’s they?”
“They is a bunch of rich, white assholes like that Jock Shaw character.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You have now.”
After a lifetime of listening to Layla say the sky is falling, Lori knows enough not to argue. Her best bet is to sit tight and let things blow over.
“This isn’t going to go away, Lori,” says Layla, reading her mind. “It’s already happening. In ten years this fucked up state will be just like Afghanistan.”
“I’m not going to have some rapist’s bastard child.”
“Better get moving, then. If the Tarheel Taliban have their way, you’ll end up in jail, or worse.”
It didn’t take long to discover the truth of Layla’s words. Lori couldn’t find a doctor on the coast who would help her. They were all scared. The state had hired an army private security contractors to enforce Shaw’s Law. They only got paid when women got screwed.
Lori decided to hitch from Sunrise Beach to Chapel Hill where she managed to get an illegal abortion. It wasn’t quite back alley, but it was close. And it didn’t end the threat of her frat boy fetus. It just made her a wanted woman.
With mercenaries sniffing around, Lori laid low, moving to the country near Hillsborough where she set up shop as The Medium Miss Olive, offering practical advice with a psychic twist to anyone with cash. Harold was typical of the customers who stepped into her parlor.
“Your wife died six days ago, Harry,” said Lori. “And she says you’re already behaving like a jerk.”
“She ain’t talking to you.”
Lori held her tongue and waited.
“What’s she saying?” Harry asked.
“She told me to tell you to stop drinking so much and keep that crazy girlfriend away from your kids.”
“It don’t take no genius to figure that out.”
Lori waited again.
“What’s she saying now?”
Lori let the room go quiet, then exploded, channeling the dead wife’s rage.
“Harry!” she yelled. “Stop staring at Miss Olive’s tits!”
Harry sank into his chair under the weight of those familiar words.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars,” said Lori. “See you next week.”
1411
