Jeff Jackson - Mira Corpora

“It’s no big deal,” I say. “Just some old sheet of notebook paper.” I pluck the page from my back pocket and stretch it between my hands. I find myself holding it up like a blank billboard toward Sara’s window. My fingers are quivering.

“You’re getting it wet,” she says.

I crush the paper into a wad and toss it on the ground. With the toe of my shoe, I stamp on it and rub it apart. The soggy sheet breaks into smaller and smaller pieces, until there’s nothing but hundreds of dirty white flecks that resemble the rubbery shavings of an eraser.

A small audience of onlookers has gathered on the edges of the road. They stand with eyes averted, as if they’ve just witnessed some tragic event and are trying to downplay its importance. More people leave the abandoned houses and venture into the rainy street in twos and threes, covering their heads with bags and old newspapers. I figure they’re coming to offer advice or consolation about the blank page, but they push past me and flock toward the oracles’ porch. They all begin to file inside.

“Time for the nightly concert,” the skinhead girl says. “Maybe you can talk to Sara after the show.” She grabs me by the wrist and leads me toward the entrance.

Everyone has assembled in the living room, huddling on sagging couches, squatting on scratchy wool blankets, standing with backs hugging the plaster walls. A sickly sweet jasmine incense fills the air and masks the stench of stale sweat. A semi-circle of candles provides the light. The melted wax marks off the stage area, spreading like tree roots across the warped floorboards.

I sit on a coffee-stained sofa, balanced on wobbly box springs that threaten to uncoil. It feels like I’m getting sicker by the minute, alternating between face-reddening fever and teeth-chattering chills. Maybe I really am dying. People’s gazes circle back to me with vulturous curiosity.

The room hushes. Three pairs of white athletic socks appear through the slats of the staircase, then the oracles swish their nightgowns and make a full-bodied entrance. They assume their place at the center of the candlelit circle. The two assistants throw their arms open and announce: “We are The Chorines!”

Muted whoops, muffled applause, a stray whistle.

This time the oracles don’t seem so imposing. The nylon threads of their pink nightgowns shine from constant wear. Their cuticles are stained ochre from smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. They pick the gum from their teeth. They unfold the tops of their socks and scratch the inflamed insect bites on their calves. They let the silence of the room deepen.

Then The Chorines shut their eyes, clear their throats, and start to sing. Their throats vibrate together in a simple wordless tune. The voices circle one another according to an undetectable logic until they settle on a single resonant note. The sound builds to an immersive drone. The walls of the room begin to vibrate. It defies understanding how such a huge noise can radiate from the bodies of these three girls.

The audience seems to know what to do. They begin to join the song, fixing their voices to the choir, one person at a time. They start in the far corner and work their way around the room. Soon it feels like I’m in the middle of a hive. With each new voice, the delirious hum grows more intense.

Despite myself, I get goose bumps. Tears streak my cheeks. The buzzing inside my chest is perfectly attuned to the vibration of the music. Maybe this song is a sort of funereal requiem. Maybe it’s meant for me. Sara stares purposefully in my direction. An emotional current surges between us that’s understood only by the raised hairs on the back of my neck.

I begin to tremble. My breathing becomes shallow. I part my lips to join the chorus but no sound comes out. I’m choking. My throat gags. My arms and legs convulse. My body pitches itself onto the floor. The voices slowly break apart and a gallery of curious faces hovers overhead, their overlapping shadows smothering me like a blanket. Only Sara continues to sing, that one blissfully sustained note held by her open mouth.

I regain consciousness in a darkened storeroom. It’s piled high with bundles of instruction manuals, cases of empty green bottles, and the propeller from a small crop duster. My body is crumpled in the corner, bundled in musty beach towels. The entire house is still. I listen to the clattering music of a thunderstorm pelting the roof and the wind whipping against the windows. Somewhere overhead I start to make out the soft sounds of a late-night colloquium. The voices of the oracles.

Maybe we should have a viewing… But what if he’s not… We didn’t do anything the last time it happened… There could be a cool ceremony… Yeah, you might as well invite the cops… Maybe it’s easier to pitch him in the river… But what if he’s not… We could have roses everywhere and pennies on his eyes… But what about afterward… There’s always the garbage dump… But what if…

I let out a series of soft moans. The voices overhead trail off into silence. Soon there’s the sound of tiptoed steps skulking down the hallway. Sara appears in the doorway with crossed arms and observes me. My forehead blazes. Every hair root on my head is a pinprick of pain. The hum of the song still rings in my ears. Eventually I find the words that have been circling my mind for most of the day. I wheeze: “Did the last person who got the blank sheet really die?”

“That’s right.” Sara’s speaking voice is unexpectedly harsh, a pinched nasal twang. “Not every prophecy comes true. But that one sure did.”

I say: “Maybe there was a mistake this time.”

I say: “How about another reading.”

I say: “I don’t want to die.”

Sara chews her lip. In the faint glow filtering through the window from some distant street lamp, her lovely features appear almost embryonic. It’s as if her body has cultivated an ability to erase traces of emotion, the way unprimed canvas absorbs paint. “I’ll give you a second reading,” she says. “But you have to promise you won’t tell anyone.”

I nod, but she’s not finished.

“And you leave tomorrow morning,” she says. “I never want to see your sorry ass again. If there are even rumors that you’re lurking nearby, you’ll regret it.”

My fevered mind traces Sara’s path back upstairs by the diminishing echo of her footfalls. She’s greeted by the tense murmurs of the other oracles. This time their conversation is more discrete, volleys of whispers discharged like soft fireworks. They all seem to be pacing at once. Several minutes pass before the trio arrives in the storage room, the assistant oracles ferrying candles to better light the proceedings. In her upturned palms, Sara cradles the red sugar bowl. She calls us to order by rattling the ceramic lid against the edges as if it were a bell.

Sara tips the contents of the bowl onto the wooden floor. It’s a collection of neon yellow capsules. She pinches a pill between her thumb and forefinger. It’s embossed with a smiley face. “We use these to tell the fortunes,” she explains.

“They’re pretty mind-blowing,” one of the assistants adds.

As Sara selects the pills, my fevered mind hits upon an idea. “If I took it, could I see my future?”

Sara and her assistants exchange a look that’s more complicated than I am right now. “I guess so,” Sara says. “But it’s a bad idea. Most people can’t handle it.”

“I want to take it.”

The assistants shake their heads but Sara remains noncommittal. She squeezes her eyes shut and sucks in her cheeks. Finally she hands me the capsule. “There’s no guarantee you’ll get a different reading,” she says.

I balance the smiling capsule in my sweaty hand. It seems to be winking. Patches of dye rub off the edges. A yellow stain spreads across my palm like a rash. I try to calculate the odds the pill could be hazardous, then I take a deep breath and swallow it. It has a distinct sweet-and-sour aftertaste.