A message for Hillary Clinton

America Wants to Know keeps an assortment of fortune-tellers, psychics and detectives on the payroll for the purpose of predicting the future, and on Monday, the Gypsy woman who goes by the name of Madame Lyubitshka came into the office complaining of a headache.

We offered her some aspirin but she declined and headed straight for the little table with the fringed tablecloth where she keeps her crystal ball. She sat down on a bentwood chair and put her hands over her eyes.

"Voices," she moaned. "There is a message."

Immediately we sat down next to her at the table. When Madame Lyubitshka says there's a message, it's not from anybody you can easily call back.

Madame Lyubitshka moved her hands slowly away from her eyes and held them above the crystal ball. "The lights," she said.

We quickly went around the room and turned off all the lamps.

In the dark, a faint blue glow was visible in the crystal ball.

"Ohhhhh...." the Gypsy said. "Ohhhhh Baaaaahhhhhma"

"What is that?" we asked, staring into the crystal ball. "YouTube?"

"Yooooo Tooooooob," the Gypsy said.

Sure enough, it was a clip of Senator Barack Obama on YouTube. He was speaking in a church.



"Ebeneeeeeeeeezer!" the Gypsy wailed.

We squinted to read the text next to the YouTube clip. It said Senator Obama was speaking at the Ebenezer Baptist Church in Atlanta, the church where Martin Luther King Jr. once preached.

"Well, no wonder you hear voices," we said. "There are a few ghosts at that pulpit!"

"The voice," Madame Lyubitshka whispered. "It is a woman."

It was certainly not a woman, it was Barack Obama's voice that filled the air above the little table. He was telling the congregation that there was no such thing as false hope. He was bringing the crowd to its feet.



"It is a woman!" the Gypsy cried out. Then the piercing voice of a woman cut through the air. "Hillary!" the voice called out.

It was a cultured voice, but unpleasant in tone and pitch.

"Hillary!" the voice called out again, more insistently. "Where are you?"

There was no answer. The only sounds were Barack Obama's voice and the applause of the congregation around him.

"Hillary!" the voice said sharply.

The blue glow of the crystal ball faded into a warm shade of apricot, and Hillary Clinton's face appeared in the glass. "Hello, Mrs. Roosevelt," she said brightly.

"What is this?" we whispered urgently to Madame Lyubitshka.

"We are eavesdropping on their conversation," the Gypsy woman murmured.

"We can't eavesdrop on a private conversation!" we whispered back.

Madame Lyubitshka unfolded a national security letter from the bosom of her dress and held her right index finger against her lips.

"Hillary, my dear," Eleanor Roosevelt said, "It is not your time."

"I hope not!" Hillary laughed. "I thought I was in pretty good health."

"I'm not talking about your health, my dear," Mrs. Roosevelt said. "That young man is the best thing to happen to the Democratic party in a very, very long time. If you tear him down in this campaign the party may not recover for half a century."

"What?!" Hillary gasped. "What are you saying?"

"Go home, Hillary," Mrs. Roosevelt said, and her tone was not sympathetic. "Go back to the Senate."

"How can you say that?" Hillary cried out. "I'm a woman, what about your fight for women's rights?"

"As you well know, Hillary," Mrs. Roosevelt said, "I was opposed to the Equal Rights Amendment. There are some things that must be placed ahead of equality for women."

Hillary Clinton made a sound like a stabbed doe.

"One of those things," Mrs. Roosevelt continued, "is the fight for civil rights. Another is the fight to save the young men in our cities from a devastated future of drug use and incarceration. And another is the Democratic party."

"But I want to save the Democratic party!" Hillary wailed.

"Do you?" Mrs. Roosevelt asked. Her voice softened a little. "Go home, Hillary," she said again, "It is not your time."

"It IS my time!"

Suddenly a bolt of lightning flashed sharply through the crystal ball and a boom of thunder shook the walls. Madame Lyubitshka jumped, jarring the table and sending the crystal ball crashing to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand silent pieces.

Gingerly, we reached for a lamp and turned on the light.

"Well," we said. "How's your headache?"

"Much better," Madame Lyubitshka said. "You'll pay for the ball, of course."

"Yes," we said with a sigh. "We'll pay for the ball."


Copyright 2008

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