Once a Witch (10 page)

“Did you… what do you remember?”

“My hand. Burning off. And then you touched the clock and then nothing after that.” I think back to the quiet of the room after I lifted the clock from the wall.

“You froze,” I say wonderingly. So I try to repeat the conversation, if it passes for that, as best I can for Gabriel, finishing with

“And then he said the power has passed and he disappeared.” Throughout my monologue, Gabriel keeps his eyes on the clock. When I finish speaking, he nods slowly, then says,

“Maybe that explains why once again I can tell you that that is just a clock. It's not what your professor wants. Anymore.

“We stare at each other and then both of us shift our gaze to the painting above our heads. I frown. Only two people are depicted in the room now, one man and one woman. They are still standing in the same places, but the woman is wearing a deep blue dress the exact shade of a twilight sky and her face is turned away from the wall– which is now empty.

“Gabriel,” I gasp.

“It's gone.

“There is a small and heavy silence and then we both head to the kitchen without a word. After some searching, I dig out a copper skillet and examine the contents of the ancient-looking refrigerator. Since Aunt Rennie and Uncle Chester left only five days ago, I decide the enameled white bowl of eggs that I find in the fridge must be reasonably safe. And the block of cheese on the top shelf has only a few sprouts of grayish-blue mold, which I manage to sliver off with a knife before proceeding. While Gabriel wedges bread into the toaster that looks as if it hasn't been cleaned in three years, I grate the remaining cheese and beat the eggs into a yellow froth. Soon enough I'm sliding thick wedges of omelet onto Aunt Rennie's eggshell china plates.

“So,” I say, spreading butter on the toast,

“what do I do with this clock?” Gabriel shovels some eggs into his mouth and chews for a long time, long enough so that I think he's avoiding my question.

“Who is this guy?” he demands finally.

“A professor at NYU. His name is Alistair Callum. I told you this already.”

“Tell me again,” Gabriel says, leaning across the table until I'm forced to meet his eyes. I blow on the tea I made since I couldn't find any coffee and taste it. It's still scalding hot.

“Okay” I hold up one hand, begin ticking off facts.

“He came into the store. He bought a book on the local history of the area.

Everything seemed fine. Then he asked me if I could find something for him as he had heard that we often found things for people and–”

“How did he know about that?” I shrug.

“Remember Angus Pinkerton? He has that antiques store–you know, the guy we used to think looked like a damp rabbit?”

“Sweaty guy? Never wanted us to touch anything. Anal Pinkerton?” I had forgotten about that nickname.

“He always did like Rowena, though,” I muse.

“Who doesn't?” Gabriel says, and I give him a glare. He tucks his face lower into his plate but not before I can see him smiling.

“You're such a typical guy. Falling for a pretty face and–”

“All right, all right,” Gabriel says mildly.

“I know Rowena's a harpy.” I am moderately gratified until he adds,

“You've told me about two hundred times. But back to the point. This professor of yours, what exactly did he say about the clock?”

“He said that it was a family heirloom–lost in a card game back in 1887” I turn my empty plate in circles on the table.

“But why . .”

and here my voice trails off. I don't know which why to start with. Gabriel taps his fork lightly against the rim of his plate, then harder until without thinking I reach over and take it from him.

“I think you need to talk to your grandmother about all this,” he says. I groan, push my plate aside, and let my head rest on the wide wooden table. Why, why, why did I ever think helping Alistair was a good idea?” Man, I feel like I could sleep for a week,” Gabriel says as he stands and scoops up our plates from the table.

“You did find what he asked for. It's not your fault that it isn't what he really wants” He comes around the table and I notice that he gives the clock a wide berth as he heads into the kitchen. Pausing in the doorway, he looks at me and says,

“So,” and his tone has changed completely, putting me on alert.

“Maybe we should go out sometime. You know? Like dinner, a movie?

Something kind of normal.” Feeling positive that my ears are a bright burning pink, I study a particularly fascinating knothole in the table.

“I thought you had a girlfriend. You know, that girl from the club. The one you–”

“Callie? We're just friends. She's cool and all. Not my type, though.” I consider this, remembering all the wolf whistles in the bar that night, the way she sang.

She seemed pretty perfect to me.

“So,” Gabriel continues,

“dinner?”

“I don't know. I mean, you just took me back, like, a hundred years. Dinner would probably be so… anticlimactic now” There is a small silence and finally I dare to look up at him. One eyebrow jabs upward.

“If you and I went out on a date, the last thing it would be is anticlimactic.” My stomach gives a little leap that has nothing to do with the most likely expired eggs that I just consumed. And then, all unbidden, the image of Gabriel in the circle, standing in the place of honor at my grandmother's side as he lit the tapers, comes rushing back to me. The way he walked so easily into my family's house that night, so sure of the welcome he'd receive.

“My family would love that,” I say at last. Now both of his eyebrows scrunch down.

“Tam. Can we leave your family out of it for one minute?” I look at him despairingly. How? I want to ask. Tell me how. The silence stretches and pulls between us like a rubber band. Then it snaps.

“No big deal,” he says with a shrug in his voice, although his shoulders are stiff.

He turns away. Over the scrape and clink of dishes being washed, I stare at the clock. I picture Alistair's face when I present it to him and wonder if that other Alistair will flash out behind his eyes. I put one finger out, touch the ruby numeral twelve. Somehow I know this is not the last of it. Monday night, after I find myself reading page 143 of my Art After 1945 textbook for a solid fifteen minutes, I slam the book shut. Then I look over at Agatha's side of the room. Her bed is a jumbled sprawl of clothes, books, and notebooks, and in the middle of all this mess she's curled up on one side asleep, her right hand covering her forehead as if in an exclamation of distress. I open my book, slam it shut again. No luck.

She doesn't even twitch. Sighing loudly, I reach for my cell phone and pick it up, and then for extra protection, even though I feel like an idiot, I tuck myself into our closet. After kicking aside some shoes, I wedge myself into a corner and close the door, then nearly jump out of my skin when something whispers against my arm. But it's only this gauzy dress that I bought last year and still haven't worn. Agatha and I were browsing in the East Village when we came across a tiny store. Most of the stuff was junk, and I don't use that word lightly, but in the back we found a rolling rack of dresses from the 1920s and '30s.

Somehow I left that day carrying this rose-colored dress circa 1935 that was perfect for me, not counting the fact that it had a small stain on the hem and that it smelled entirely of mothballs. Oh yeah, and that it cost way more than I could afford. In the dimness my cell phone keypad glimmers and I dial the numbers. The phone rings once, twice.

“Hello?” my mother's voice on the phone is hesitant, as if she isn't really sure she means what she's saying.

“Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Tamsin” Now her voice is full of surprise. I brush aside a pair of leggings, which have draped themselves over my head.

“This isn't your usual–”

“Hello?” a voice says at the same time–slow, melodic. I grit my teeth.

“On the phone, Rowena,” I say brightly.

“Well, well,” Rowena drawls.

“What's the occasion? Are you in jail?” I'm sure she can hear the grinding noise I'm making with my back molars.

“Tamsin, what's going on?” my mother interjects. Undoubtedly, the word jail has thrown her into a tizzy.

“Nothing. I just wanted to–”

“Tam,” Rowena says over me,

“I'm glad you called, actually. I'm coming to the city in a few days and–”

“What? Here?”

“Yes. To. New. York. City” Rowena enunciates each word slowly and carefully.

“Where you live, right? Right,” she agrees with herself. I pull the phone away from my ear and check the signal bars hopefully. Damn. A solid three. No chance of a dropped call.

“Anyway,” Rowena continues,

“I've made a few appointments with some bridal salons and I'd like you to come along.”

“Bridal salons,” I repeat.

“Yes” Rowena is back to using her super-slow voice again.

“Remember? James and I? Getting married. Dum, dum da da dum, dum…”

“Don't call me dumb,” I say feebly. It's the best I can do. She sighs, and at the same time my mother begins with

“Now, girls…”

“Even though you and I have wildly different tastes in clothes, I think you should come along. Besides, since you'll be a bridesmaid–”

“Wait, nobody told me that,” I say, startled.

“Aren't you supposed to ask? And do witches even have bridesmaids?”

“Well, not–” my mother begins again.

“Yes, Mother! They do,” Rowena interjects, and suddenly I feel as if I'm eavesdropping. The truth is, my family doesn't really have weddings. At least not like the ones on TV. There's a hand fasting ceremony, but that quickly turns into the same party we have for most any occasion. Dancing, singing, invoking the four elements, burning flowers on a bonfire in the woods. Drinking Uncle Chester's disgusting brew.

“Are you having a wedding?” I ask, fascinated in spite of myself. Who knew that Rowena would ever even think to break with tradition?” It's still under discussion.

In any case she needs a lovely dress and so do you,” my mother replies hastily.

Then she draws in a breath.

“You know, Aunt Linnie is very good with a sewing machine and–”

“I'll call you in the morning, Tam,” Rowena says shortly, and then she's gone.

“So,” my mother begins yet again, and then she makes an attempt at normalcy.

“How are your classes going?”

“Fine,” I say.

“And what are you taking this semester?”

“Art history, English, pre-calc–you know.”

“Pre-calc?” my mother says doubtfully, as though it's some sort of disease.

“Math.”

“Oh, well, good. That all sounds very… interesting,” she says at last. My stomach clenches on that word.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could talk to Grandmother. Is she around?”

“Well, she's not out playing bingo,” my mother says, and I blink, then start to laugh. The image of my grandmother in nylons and pumps, clutching a purse to her chest and squinting at a score sheet, flashes through my head. It feels almost sacrilegious and I quiet down.

“But . .”

My mother hesitates and I try to fill in the blank. She won't necessarily want to talk to you right now. Or she's busy in the stillroom brewing up some love spell for any number of idiotic women in the town who–”She may be sleeping. She's not been… well lately.” Suddenly, I am all too aware of my own heartbeat.

“What do you mean she's not well? How is–”

“She's old, Tam,” my mother says, as if this is somehow new information.

“It will be her time soon. She knows this.”

“Mom–this is a lot of mumbo jumbo, okay? What about a doctor?”

“Your grandmother is a doctor.”

“Oh, really? Excuse me, but I don't exactly recall where she got her MD?” My mother blows out a sigh, short and gusty, and it crackles down the phone wires into the hollows of my ear.

“You know your grandmother is skilled in healing” And before I can retort, my mother adds abruptly,

“Hang on, let me see if she's awake,” and puts the phone down with a clunk. I shift and push away a few more shoes before cracking open the door and peeking into the room. A gentle snore coming from Agatha's bed reassures me.

There is a soft rustling noise on the other end of the line and a rush of breathing before

“Hello?” My grandmother's deep voice floods my ear. Instantly, I concentrate on clothes. Thrift-store T-shirts and fishnet stockings, preferably purple, my favorite color.

“Hi,” I say through all this.

“Sorry to bother you.” My grandmother is silent.

“But I have something I need to . .”

Confess? No, too guilty-sounding already.

“I have something I need to tell you” More silence. I take a breath. The cell phone is growing hot against my head, but I lost my earpiece more than a week ago.

“In the store the night of Rowena's engagement party, I met someone. A man came in looking for something.”

“Ah,” my grandmother says. It's one of her favorite words. Depending on the inflection, it means a whole bunch of different things. It could mean I was wondering when you would get around to telling me this. Or you continue to amuse me with your oh-so-predictable troubles. Or I see the solution to your problem even if you cannot. Right now I'm hoping it means a little of all three.

“Anyway… ” There is a large thumping going on above my head and I finish in a rush.

“I didn't tell him that I couldn't. I said I would help him find what he wanted to find. ”

“And did you?”

“I did,” I say, and pride creeps into my voice. I didn't need your help or Rowena's. Okay, so I needed Gabriel's, but I'll get to that in a minute. But before I can continue, my grandmother says,

“Congratulations. So what's the problem, then?” Um… how to answer that one? Let's see. I pretended to be Rowena, lied about being able to “find”

something for a stranger, found it in 1899, and nearly got killed in the process.

Finally, I whisper,

“I think what I found for him is not what he wanted. And I don't think I should have found it anyway. ”

“Ah,” she says again, and I wait for what feels like an hour until she speaks again.