Hag

by Kathleen Kaufman

  Alice talked to him over the phone the night he arrived in England. Mum was sitting in the next room with Aunt Polly, pretending not to listen. Paul was quiet, refusing to explain his utter lack of communication for nearly the past year. With negotiations befitting business colleagues rather than those of two newlyweds, Alice settled for the fact that she would move out to join him in the UK at the end of the school year. School ended in three months; she would come to him. He didn’t object, but in the same breath, he never asked her to come. Alice didn’t care; she had taken this leap and was tired of being a pretend wife. She was tired of the sad looks she received from her coworkers and the neighbors when they asked after her husband. In the beginning, she knew the gossip had been that she was pregnant and had married before Paul left town for the sake of her reputation and that of the unborn baby. Soon enough that rumor was quashed when her belly refused to swell, and after nine months and no baby, the clucky neighborhood hens were forced to abandon their theory. Now they just assumed that she was a desperate, sad girl who had latched on to a man who was never coming home. Alice was tired of the sideways glances and whispered talk. She was going to meet up with him, and they would live together as a family whether he liked it or not.

  But now, as Alice sat in her dank, concrete-walled base cottage, she questioned her judgment. She had seen this part of her path, but it had been foggy, and now she realized that her gift was more unreliable than she cared to think. Paul had met her at the airport in London on the night she arrived, a crooked grin on his wan face. He looked dreadfully thin, and she could see his cheekbones and collarbone protruding in places not previously obvious. He pulled her close and hugged her for a long minute. “It’s good you’re here,” he had said, “it’s good.” Alice had felt heartened that she was doing the right thing. She would make a life for them here, a real marriage. But she realized now, three weeks later, that it wouldn’t happen on the base. Her lemon-yellow convertible, her one indulgence, was gone, and she all of a sudden felt the sleet grey walls closing in on her in this base cottage that didn’t hold the heat and left her constantly shivering.

  There was a particular listing that had intrigued her: a Miss Lettie in an old manor-turned-boarding house, walking distance from the school and with a view of the heath and countryside. She had spoken with Miss Lettie over the phone and had already made an appointment to come and see the room the next day. Paul had stared at her, his eyes clouding over. “So you don’t want to live here with me then, do you?” he had asked accusingly. “What exactly was the point of you coming all this way, just so you could live off the base and away from me?” Alice had pointed out that the hours he worked left him little time at home anyhow, and he could easily join her on his days off; it was only an hour’s drive to town. However, for all his ostensible cold anger, Alice had whiffed an air of relief in his reaction. She was beginning to suspect that he was hiding more than she could ever guess from her. He had been here, in-country, for nearly four months by himself, and the other families in the base housing had looked shocked at her arrival. Paul hadn’t told them he was married, they said, embarrassed. Alice suspected there was more that they weren’t telling her, but she didn’t push for information, unsure if she really wanted to know.

  He still had not talked about Vietnam or what had led to his rather hasty transfer. His record retained the label of “psychological stress,” and Paul was required to speak with a base psychologist each week. He didn’t tell Alice what they talked about, nor did he explain what had led him to stop writing. It hadn’t been just Alice; Paul’s mother and sister had sent with her with a bundle of letters that Alice was to deliver to him personally. They had tried to send them to him while he was in Vietnam only to have them returned. No explanation or communication. Alice at least had the satisfaction that Paul hadn’t returned her letters with the post. Had he read them? she asked him on that first night she arrived in England. “Yes,” he had answered simply.

  The English summer was in full swing, which meant that it rained slightly less than usual and the air might hit 70 degrees at the peak of the day. Alice was always cold here; she had forgotten this part of her childhood. She thought of her Gran, who had passed away years before, her long silver braid over her thin shoulder and her eyes a bright honey-brown in Alice’s memory. All those years ago, Alice’s Mum had tried to get the old woman to move to the United States, but she had refused. “My home is here,” she had said. “My work is here.” Alice missed her with a pain that tugged from the innermost part of her heart. She had not seen her since she was six years old, but she had kept every letter they ever exchanged. Gran’s scratchy writing, in which she tried to relay the history of their family, the lineage of their tartan, and even an obscure relation to Katherine Howard and Anne Boleyn. Alice had Gran’s braid in her small cedar chest; it had been sent to her after Gran’s passing along with a quilt that smelled like sage and Scottish mornings. What she wouldn’t give to go to Gran now, ask her what she should do, how she could make this marriage into something worth having.

  The next day, Alice would take the bus to Miss Lettie’s manor house and would fall in love instantly with the dark-paneled walls and the older woman’s round apple cheeks and kind eyes. Miss Lettie would insist that Alice take the very best room, the one next to the lavatory. “A young woman, just married and wanting to start a family, would want the very best room,” she would say and then turn to brew a pot of thickly scented tea. Alice would feel warm for the first time since she’d arrived. Paul would join her on his weekends, but it would never be his room, not his house. He would always be “the other” in this place. Alice would know that she didn’t need Paul to have what she wanted from this match; the family she was creating was stronger than this ill-fated union.

  MISS LETTIE POURED A HEALTHY shot of brandy into Alice’s tea from a silver flask that she kept in her side pocket.

  “Calm yourself, love. No little French girl is worth this sort of fuss.” She spoke quietly, calming.

  Alice was shaking, her hand barely able to keep from spilling her spiked tea all over Miss Lettie’s red-and-silver oriental rug. She had arrived home an hour ago, and Miss Lettie had found her in the garden, pacing and cursing under her breath. After coercing her inside and out of the English rain, Miss Lettie had covered her shoulders with a thick handmade quilt and planted her on the stiff sofa in the formal sitting room and insisted she join her for a cup of tea.

  “Is Paul due here tonight?” Miss Lettie asked cautiously.

  Alice shook her head. She didn’t tell the old woman that Paul would be lucky if he was ever welcomed back to her room. More than ever, she saw her room in this house as hers—her space alone that had nothing at all to do with Paul.

  “Start from the beginning, love; there’s nothing I love more than a good story, and I suspect that anything that would get a Scot this angry is a good story. Take your time, there’s plenty of tea.” Miss Lettie sat back with her own brandy-tea, looking expectant.

  But where to start? Alice sighed. She had gotten the post two weeks ago. Nathalie was the name of the sender, the sister of Sylvie, who had been involved with Paul since his arrival in this country nearly five months ago. The news that he was cheating wasn’t so much the shock. That news carried the weight of inevitability, a sinking feeling in her gut that more than anything confirmed her suspicions. The part that had knocked her vision white for a full minute and had given her a pounding migraine headache was that Nathalie wanted Alice to come to their house on the south side of London and have tea with them. They wanted to meet her, and they wanted Sylvie to meet her. “To what end?” Alice had asked over the communal phone in the hallway, knowing full well that Miss Lettie and most of the residents were listening to the entire conversation. The house ran on gossip, and this sort of fuel was not to be squandered.

  “To what end?” Alice asked. “To show her,” Nathalie had answered simply. “She’s young, she’s foolish, and she won’t listen to us, but s
he might listen to you. Please,” Nathalie said. “Talk to her; talk to us.”

  So Alice had found herself outside a stone-step walkup in South London on a Wednesday afternoon. She stood on the walk in rain that wanted to be snow but couldn’t quite commit to sticking to the ground for longer than a moment. Her toes were numb in her leather boots, and the wool scarf that she had knitted from Miss Lettie’s pattern was scratching the back of her neck. She had worn a smart, slim-fitting pine-green dress with matching jacket, the sort of thing that she imagined Jackie O would approve of. Alice knew it caught the light in her eyes and accented her raven-dark hair. She stood on the walk, pulled up her sleeve, rubbed the intersecting jagged lines inked into her wrist, and straightened her spine. She was a warrior; she could do anything.

  Before her hand even reached the door, it flew open, and a hobbit of a woman stood in the entryway. She was well under five feet, and her wiry black hair was screwed into a wide bun at the back of her head. Her face was round and red-cheeked. She immediately grabbed Alice by the hand and pulled her inside.

  “Vous devez etre Alice!” Her voice was like nails on sand board. She then turned and called into the back room. “Faire bouiller la bouilloire! Nathalie! Do you hear me, girl?” Turning back to Alice, she offered a wide smile, revealing yellow- stained teeth. Alice nodded, confused as to what she should be doing.

  “Hello, I apologize for the state of the house.” She said with an accent so thick that Alice found herself having to sort out the words a moment after they were spoken. “Come, come and sit down.”

  The woman led Alice to a low sofa that appeared to have a thick coating of golden dog hair on it. With a sigh to her smart evergreen dress, Alice offered her black wool jacket to the woman’s waiting hand and sat down. The owner of the golden fur came loping across the room and buried his snout in her chest before Alice could object.

  “Luc! De! Vers le bas!” The woman shouted across the room, but the golden-faced creature with matching eyes didn’t seem to care. He sat on Alice’s toes and panted, his face one of utter delight. Alice was suddenly very glad for his presence; at least this made some bit of sense. Nothing about this meeting did. Why had she agreed to meet this girl that her husband was planning on leaving her for? She sighed as the woman reappeared, followed by a slightly taller carbon copy of herself. Nathalie carried a tray with a kettle, four cups, and a small plate of biscuits. Nathalie offered Alice a weak smile and set down the tray.

  “Sorry for the dog. He is not usually so friendly with strangers. He must know you are a good person.” She indicated an empty cup, and Alice nodded as the woman took a seat in a fur-covered armchair adjacent to the sofa.

  “You have met my mother, Beatrice,” Nathalie said, and Alice nodded. “We are most grateful you agreed to come, I know it must be so genant… I mean, odd, uncomfortable.” She looked uncomfortably around the room. “My sister is scared of meeting you. She is thinking you are angry with her.”

  “Then she would be right. That being said, please tell her I did not come here to fight,” Alice said in a steady voice, every moment feeling more and more like Jackie O, a figure on an entirely different plane than these women and their stale ginger biscuits. Nathalie nodded, stood, and left the room, leaving Alice and Beatrice to sit uncomfortably together, only Luc for company. For his part, Luc regarded Alice with his great golden eyes and seemed to be saying that he understood the ache in her chest and that it was going to be all right. Alice reached out and impulsively kissed his snout. He responded with a solid lick to her face. Beatrice wrinkled her brow, obviously confused by the exchange.

  Nathalie reentered holding the hand of the infamous Sylvie. Alice took a long look and then switched her gaze back to Luc so as not to speak her thoughts. Sylvie had by far received the middling portion of looks in the family. She stood perhaps even shorter than her hobbit mother, and her healthy hips and bosom gave her the appearance that she could in fact be rolled like a barrel rather easily if one was inclined to do so. The family’s signature wiry black hair was loose and hung in a straight clump to her waist. Her eyes were bright and dark, and her skin shared the red-cheeked splotchiness of her mother and sister. Alice ran her fingers through Luc’s fur and swallowed a string of curses.

  For the solid part of an hour, Nathalie asked Alice about her life in the United States, where her family was from in Scotland, what she thought of the English fog, and had she ever been to Manche? Of course she hadn’t, why had she asked that? Would she like more tea? Never once was Paul mentioned, and never once did the mysterious Sylvie speak a single word. Alice answered all the questions, stubbornly directing all her answers at Sylvie, the girl’s face growing increasingly crimson. Finally, as the clock on the wall struck a quiet chime, Alice stood, and to Luc’s dismay, swept the coating of golden fur off her dress.

  “I must be going,” she said in a stately voice, still channeling her inner Jackie O. Beatrice and Nathalie stood; Sylvie remained in her seat. Never had Alice, at a grand 5 feet, 4 inches tall, felt so tall. Her spine felt strong and straight. She looked the squirming girl squarely in the face.

  “Listen, girl. Have your fun. He will not marry you. He will go back to the States and leave you here. You’ll marry that boy with the lazy eye who you knew from school.” Sylvie’s face lost its crimson tint and went entirely white. Nathalie gasped and nearly dropped her teacup. Alice gave each of the women a long stare before continuing. “You will have a whole tribe of children. Your third will fall ill from pneumonia on the day after his fourth birthday, and you’ll regret it all your days if you don’t get him to the doctor. My husband will tire of you soon, girl, so have your run at it while it lasts. It matters not to me.” With that, Alice turned to Beatrice, whose chest was heaving in anger or shock, she could not tell.

  “My coat, please. I am leaving.”

  Beatrice was frozen, and Sylvie was screaming a string of French curses so loudly that even Luc’s ears were bent in discontent. Nathalie hurried to the tiny closet and gingerly handed Alice her jacket. With a backward glance, Alice turned the knob to the front door.

  “Take the baby to the doctor, girl. Your lazy-eyed husband will tell you not to, and you’ll regret it all your days if you listen.” With a nod to the stunned Nathalie, Alice swung her coat over her shoulder and stepped out into the English rain that wished to be snow. She could hear the chorus of French curses rise in pitch as Beatrice found her voice. Alice smiled broadly to herself as she strode down the South London street. It wasn’t until she stepped off the bus at Miss Lettie’s manor house that her bravado gave way and the outrage hit her like a wave. The path shone in front of her as clearly as it had that afternoon on High Street in Glasgow, but now she could see the cracks in the veneer. Paul knew she would meet this Sylvie. This girl was no more dear to him than she was a pawn to hurt Alice. He had used the wretched creature to torment Alice, and once news of this afternoon’s tea reached his ears, he would laugh and laugh.

  That was the pacing and cursing that Miss Lettie found Alice entrenched in. It wasn’t the infidelity; it wasn’t the breach of trust or loss. It was the manipulation and the fact that she had played straight into his game. As Alice finished her story, Miss Lettie poured two more cups of tea and added brandy accordingly to both.

  “Love, if there’s anything I know, it’s that men hate to be beaten at their own game. Of course, if you refuse to play, it’ll really cheese him off. Your man’s blinkered when it comes to love; he doesn’t see half of what you are. You want to win this match, you keep on. Not sure about your Jackie O, but the Queen herself would take notice of you in that dress.” Miss Lettie reached out and squeezed Alice’s hand. Alice found herself sinking back into the stiff couch, the feeling of home all around her, and the inevitability of life left outside in the English rain that wished it were snow.

  CATRIONA REID, THE DAUGHTER of the great Moira Blair, grew up in a rapidly changing world. The expectations that held her mother were largely ignored by t
his fire-haired girl who grew up half in and half out of the world of spirits. Catriona learned the arts of card reading and how to interpret the future from the lines on the palm of a hand. She read tea leaves and interpreted signs. She knew what it meant when a raven shed its feathers on your steps and how to undo a string of bad luck set about by envious thoughts. Her mother taught her everything she knew, and soon Catriona had her own following of ladies who came to her for teas that would bring love, or herbs to ease depression. The combination of her wild beauty and her mother’s money made for a great number of suitors, but married life held no appeal for Catriona. She largely ignored the young men who seemed to hang about her mother’s parlor waiting for a chance to hold audience with her. Her interests were far beyond anything they could provide.

  Her mother warned her about spending too much time with the spiritualists of the day. One in particular, a Russian woman transplanted into Britain, was forming a society based on the truth and order of things. They are insulting the spirit realm, her mother told her, her brow furrowed in concern. They do not have the sight, and they take advantage of the fools who do not know better. Catriona ignored the warnings; the Russian woman’s teachings were fascinating—dark and filled with poetry and verse from India, the Orient, Tibet. She traveled to London and met the short woman with the azure eyes in person. The woman took Catriona’s hand and told her she could see the gift in her; she invited the fire-haired girl to go to New York with her, travel the world—India, Peru—touch the places where the truth and the light were being spread.