“Well, yes. According to Heraclitus, ‘The oracle neither reveals nor conceals, but gives a sign,’” I say.
“According to Hera-who?” asks Paula.
“He’s an ancient Greek philosopher.”
“Well, there you go!” says Paula. “I mean, it sounds like Arthur doesn’t have to do much. He just makes a little chitchat, which he loves to do. Carl can serve the tea; I can lead the dance ceremony. Then the folks jump in the pond, and we send them on their way. Nothing to it.”
“But what if one of them is a psychopath? I mean, should we be worried about our safety?” I wonder.
“I can help with that,” says Carl. “And you can borrow Cynthia.” His shepherd mix would never hurt anyone, but she does look intimidating if you don’t know her.
“Look,” says Paula, “forward all the inquiries to me. I’ll vet them. I’ll send you the ones who seem serious, and you can invite them at your own pace.”
“But you hate tech.” After all, she had hired me to doheradmin. Now she wants to do mine for free?
“I hate tech. But I like email,” clarifies Paula. “And this isn’t admin—it’s an adventure.”
“Okay. If you’re sure,” I say. “Let’s take two people a week and see how it goes. Weekends only. I don’t want to overwhelm the oracle.”
Paula and Carl light up with excitement and a sense of purpose.
“Are you sure you have time to help with this?” I ask them both. “I mean, my dad and I have nothing better to do, but…”
“It’s February in Locust,” says Paula. “None of us have anything better to do.”
Chapter 32
Over the next two months, we receive sixteen visitors. Most come from New York and New England, although one travels from California and another from Vancouver. Nearly all of their cars get stuck in the snow or mud at the base of our road, and they complete their pilgrimages on foot, arriving at our house looking dirt-splattered but eager. Everyone drinks the elixir, does Paula’s dancing meditation, takes a cold plunge, and receives a prophecy that appears to satisfy them, and, in some cases, to astound them.
Some are the expected “seekers” looking to broaden their horizons in general ways; but we also get visitors who are hoping to heal specific wounds. There is the would-be mother trying to process her recent pregnancy loss. There is the former executive who was “canceled” for a sexual indiscretion and can’t get past the shame. There is the father who is consumed by anger since losing his son to an opioid overdose. And there is the cancer patient who knows she doesn’t have long, but wants to see the oracle before her time runs out. We even get a few high-profile visitors, including a YouTube sensation who is suffering from burnout and a recently retired NFL player looking for spiritual direction.
We are upfront that the oracle has Alzheimer’s, and some of our supplicants take comfort in that fact. They trust they can divulge their secrets, knowing that he will soon forget them. In my father, these people have found an ideal outlet for their angst—a place to voice their fears, hopes, and shame. In the process, these feelings are alchemized. “So much better than therapy,” one woman muses afterher session. But to me, the most magical discovery is that nothing seems to shock my father. He receives everyone’s story with patience and equanimity; it’s almost as if he has heard it all before.
By the beginning of April, Paula, Carl, and I have worked out some of the kinks when it comes to scheduling, and our operation is running smoothly. My job hunt has stalled, and for a moment, I wonder if we should monetize our oracle visits. But it doesn’t feel right, and I don’t want to put pressure on what is still an experiment. This project feels meaningful, if not lucrative. I place a donation box in the driveway to help cover our expenses. Within a few weeks, we have received $1,200, which I split evenly between my Dad, Carl, and Paula. If we continue at our current rate, maybe the donations will be enough to carry us through the season, and then I can get serious about my job hunt in the fall. What’s more: my father has really risen to the occasion. He seems to be settling comfortably into our new weekend routine, and he looks forward to every visitor. Some days, I even think his memory has gotten sharper. I’m not naive enough to think that having a purpose will reverse his dementia, but I hope it can slow its progression. Maybe the best medicine for him is the chance to be taken seriously, despite his limitations.
One morning, I receive a call from the owner of the Locust Inn.
“Miss Campbell, I don’t know what you are up to over there at Catwood Pond,” he says, and I brace myself for admonishment. “But whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. We’ve had more reservations this April than the last few years combined—and during mud season! It’s unheard of. All these folks say they’re here to see you. To get their fortunes told or whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Oh, I’m so glad,” I say, instantly relieved. “It’s really just for fun, but all the better if it’s helping your business.”
“Sure is,” he says. “And have you seen the Yelp reviews?”
“I haven’t,” I say. “Are people finally giving the Locust Inn its due?”
“No, not for the inn,” he says. “For the oracle…”
We hang up and I open Yelp to see what he’s talking about. Sure enough, someone has created a listing for “The Oracle at CatwoodPond.” There are a few photos of Carl’s signs, and there are already a handful of reviews, all of them five stars.
I can’t believe I’m writing this, but this oracle is the real deal. Wise, modest, funny. I felt like I was meeting with an old friend.
Run, don’t walk, to see this guy. (But wear good shoes because the road is very muddy.)
I was bereft after the death of my dog who I’ve had for seventeen years. I went to see the oracle out of desperation. He described my dog in detail, right down to his orange collar. He reassured me that Sweet Potato was living a joyful afterlife. I felt such peace when our visit was over. But the weirdest part might be that the oracle has a huge cat named Dominic… and now I think I might want a cat…?!
Worth every penny. (Did I mention it’s free?)
I’ve been struggling to process a trauma for the last twelve years of my life. I’ve tried everything—therapy, SSRIs, EMDR, ketamine, and every form of woo-woo self-help out there. Nothing made a difference until now. The oracle didn’t solve my problems for me, but he helped me reframe them. He gave me hope.
