Hex Life

by Rachel Deering

  They rub along, the Widows, rather better than might be expected given their differing personalities and interests, and Eugenie’s tendency to swear mightily at the drop of a hat, which often offends Martha’s delicate sensibilities. She’s grown adept at pursing her mouth to communicate disapproval, which inevitably brings “Don’t you give me fucking lips of string, Martha Foster!” shouted so loudly it can be heard from the street. Yet they’ll all admit quite freely that living with each other requires less effort than living with their husbands ever did, and when matters boil over, as they occasionally must, things simply settle back into a comfortable rhythm with no residual resentment or bitterness.

  They’re all born and bred in Mercy’s Brook, the Widows, which isn’t such a bad place, and no one actively points fingers and calls “Witch!” when they see the old women doing their groceries or taking tea at Abigail Hobbes’ bookstore and café (although those of German extraction occasionally whisper hexen behind their cupped palms). No children throw stones at the pristine windows that Martha pays a local lad to clean fortnightly, nor do they run up to ring the bell and bolt away; then again, that might have something to do with a fear that the black-painted gate might somehow lock itself at an inopportune moment. But Virginia has noticed with a certain glee that folk do sometimes cross the road when they walk past; Martha says it’s so they can see the glory of the house better, not because they’re afraid. Sarah and Eugenie don’t bother to contradict her, though they roll their eyes something fierce.

  It’s early, this morning, just gone half-past five, and the light is barely scraping the sky. The temperature is beginning to dip and soon the leaves will be on the turn from green to orange-flame, as if the trees are burning themselves to stay warm. All the Widows are awake, three in the kitchen: two gathered around the coffee pot, one slicing the bread that’s fresh out of the bread-maker. No lights are on, though, not today. Virginia’s still upstairs, in the unlit tower room, which is empty but for the armchair she likes, a footstool and a small polished wooden side table where she can rest her teacup in the afternoon.

  When she calls, they can hear her voice quite clearly for it carries unnaturally well along the hallway and down the stairs. The place has always had good acoustics, Martha’s said before with a shrug.

  “Girl’s out there again.”

  Eugenie, Martha and Sarah share a knowing glance and grin. Eugenie takes a sip of her coffee then sets the mug on the counter. She opens the door to the root cellar, making sure to flick on the powerful lights that illuminate the subterranean room like a ship at sea—oh, one of the others will turn it off as soon as she’s in place. Then her slipper-clad feet take the path downward.

  * * *

  Chelsea Margaret Bloom, mindful of the warnings she’s heard about exits that snap shut at inopportune moments, has propped her bicycle in the gap between gate and fence. It’s still quite dark, and although she’s done this very same thing five days in a row without consequence, she’s not entirely confident.

  The streetlight outside Widows’ Walk never works, for the Widows find it annoying, and no number of repairmen from the local power company have managed to fix it for any great length of time. Eventually, the neighbors gave up reporting it. The Widows, strong believers in positive reinforcement, sent everyone in Carter Lane boxes of homemade cookies; some were eaten and declared wondrous and almost as good as those served in Abigail Hobbes’ café (in fact, they were identical, the Widows being Abi’s supplier), but others were sent straight to the bin, for some will always believe that no good gift comes from the hands of witches.

  So, Chelsea’s at least reassured by the remaining darkness, by the fact she knows she only requires a few moments to do what she needs to, and so is perhaps a little less attentive than she’s been on previous occasions. She doesn’t notice that the bushes of sneezeweed with their flowers of orange and yellow have been pruned back somewhat, that the tiny basement window level with the garden bed is ajar, or that a shadow moves behind its glass. It’s still quite gloomy, after all, and she’s paying more attention to the bigger windows for some gleam that will show her the Widows are awake.

  There’s nothing.

  Chelsea does what she’s done the better part of the last week: takes a deep breath and begins to tiptoe along the cobbled path in her worn sneakers, and tries not to think about how hungry she is, hopes that her stomach won’t betray her by growling (Honestly, how loud could it be?). She tries not to think about the tales they tell at school of boys who’ve set out to explore Widows’ Walk and disappeared, only to be found a few days later, wandering in the woods, with no memory of where they’ve been—although no one can ever give the names of those boys, and it’s not as if Sheriff Taylor has ever been reported as looking for them. Or the stories of the girls who’ve gone to live in that house and come out changed, moving away from Mercy’s Brook afterward, or staying. Chelsea shakes her head, eyes her prize.

  Two milk bottles on the top step: full cream with silver-blue caps on top. The milkman has already been, left the daily order. Chelsea only takes one, just one, she’s not greedy. Heck, she’d only take half if she could, but it seems kind of rude to leave a half-empty bottle of milk… it’s not like folk are going to drink the leftovers, right? Who knows what might have been done to it?

  Besides, it tides her over, that whole bottle, so she’s only a little hungry by the end of the day, and when she gets home… well, generally, her mother has roused herself to get some groceries, make pancakes, or to bring something home from the café where she gets a few shifts a week because Miz Hobbes is kind. But lately Ellie’s been more distracted than usual…

  Chelsea creeps closer; hard to believe that this is the easiest house to steal from, but there you go: it’s on her route to school, the neighbors aren’t too near, and Chelsea’s got an idea in her head that old folks sleep more than they actually do. She thinks, for a second, she hears something: a scrape, a creak, a crack, and she freezes. But though she freezes forever—or maybe only fifteen seconds—nothing else stirs. She hears a crow caw, and decides that must have been it, a fat crow on a branch too thin. Chelsea keeps going; she makes it to the top of the path, does what she always does, which is not go up the stairs, lest she be too visible from the glass-paneled doors, but rather step to the side, half-in-half-out of the garden, the sneezeweed brushing her scrawny legs. She shuffles so her stance is solid, then leans forward, and her stick-fingers are reaching for the nearest bottle, slowly, slowly…

  …when a hand grabs her ankle, and she almost pees herself.

  She certainly lets out a god-awful shriek that conjures a laugh, only a little malicious, from the cellar window, and activity at the front entrance, where two old women swarm down to her, embroidered dressing gowns flapping like cloaks, like wings. When it’s sure she’s in the crones’ custody, the hand around her ankle lets go, the laughter gets softer as its owner moves away from the window, and Chelsea is bodily lifted up the stairs and into the house, astonished, in the beats between her fear, at how strong the Widows are.

  * * *

  “She’s too young for coffee, really.” Martha fusses with more slices of toast.

  “Well, hot chocolate will send her to sleep, then how will the girl fuc–function at school?” Eugenie seems to be mindful of keeping her language under control, given their company.

  “You could give her tea?” ventures Virginia. She’s quelled by the looks of the other Widows.

  “I like coffee just fine,” says Chelsea in a small voice. These are certainly the most peculiar witches… unless this is some sort of a Gingerbread House situation and they’re trying to fatten her up. She doesn’t mind, the bread and jams are the best she’s ever had. The first proper breakfast she’s had in the longest time.

  “Make it weak,” says Martha, and when she turns her back Eugenie pours the blackest of brews and lightens it only a little with milk. Chelsea takes it with a grin, not sure she should be so happy.

&n
bsp; “So,” says Sarah, who has long silver plaits neatly intertwined with blue ribbons that match her eyes, “little thief.”

  “Little thief,” Virginia repeats with a smile. Her hair is iron-grey, short and wavy, and her eyes an indeterminate mix of yellow and brown. “You know, they used to accuse witches of stealing milk straight from the cows, leaving them with empty udders. Did you know?”

  Chelsea is silent, but her gaze goes wide.

  “Bottles are more convenient,” says Eugenie lightly. She’s got more color left in her hair than the others, black but with many rivers of white, coarser, thicker than the rest, like serpents with minds of their own.

  Martha, ash-blond, green-eyed, just butters more toast, adds lime marmalade without asking if the girl likes it. Chelsea, thievery notwithstanding, has good manners and eats it without complaint—plus, she’s starving. Martha says, “Little thief, tell us your tale before we pass judgment.”

  “I…” Chelsea looks around, takes note of the three cats sitting on the sill of the kitchen window, all watching her attentively as if what she says next is of great importance. She’s old enough to understand that her position is one of shame; not because of the theft so much as being a child whose parents cannot feed them adequately. The shame isn’t hers, but she still feels it, suffers for it on her mother’s behalf. She says lamely, “I leave home too early for breakfast.”

  And the faces of the Widows are all painted in varied shades of disappointment at the lie. Not much surprise, and a lot of understanding. But still, disappointment. Silence hangs for a long moment.

  “Hungry thief, then.” Sarah’s gentle expression doesn’t waver.

  “Well, you need to make restitution,” says Eugenie sharply. “We need help around the house, especially Martha in that damned garden.”

  “I’d be happy of a scribe,” chimes Virginia. “I’m cataloguing the library.”

  “Sarah will be bottling jams and preserves soon enough,” says Eugenie.

  “What do you need me for?” ventures Chelsea.

  “I’ve no need of help.” Eugenie looks the girl up and down as if finding her of no use. It’s not a mean glance, just frank.

  “Then it’s settled,” Martha announces, and no one gainsays her. “Your penance will be to come here for breakfast before school every weekday. And after school, there will be chores.”

  “For how long?” asks Chelsea.

  “Until your debt is worked off or you’re no longer hungry.”

  The girl nods slowly, then looks at them in turn, as if reluctant to bring up a problem. “My mother…”

  “Never fear, my dear, we’ll talk to your mother—” Virginia raises a finger to forestall any objections—“but we’ll not mention the small matter of dairy larceny.”

  “Thank you!” Chelsea smiles with relief. “My mother worries, she gets stressed…”

  All the Widows hide their lips of string, hearts warmed that the girl is kind enough to defend her parent, but hardened that the child must lie to keep herself protected from the truth.

  She looks apologetic now as she adds, “I do need to get to school. If I’m late…”

  “Here.” Martha hands her a paper bag. “A sandwich and some fruit. Don’t throw anything away, Chelsea Margaret Bloom.”

  Virginia sees her to the door.

  It’s only when she gets down the stairs, retrieves her bike from the maw of the gate, that Chelsea realizes between her capture and her breakfast she hadn’t ever given the Widows her name.

  * * *

  “The mother works at Abi Hobbes’ place sometimes,” Virginia says as all four of them cluster at the largest window in the parlor (where the Widows have been known to read fortunes for the townsfolk and whisper charms for the lovelorn), and watch Chelsea pedal off down the street toward Mercy’s Brook High. Thin legs pump up and down, and flossy blond hair flies behind her like something woven of spider webs. The heel of one sneaker is flapping, her jeans have been washed fragile, and her red t-shirt’s faded beneath a coat that’s nowhere near warm enough.

  “Pretty woman, terrible waitress,” adds Eugenie. “Always gets the order wrong.”

  “Always?” Martha asks.

  “Always. It’s a talent, if you think about it,” Eugenie says with a shrug. “Consistency is rare.”

  “That’s surprisingly generous of you.”

  Sarah interrupts to cut off the inevitable bickering. “That girl needs new clothes for a start. The problem at home?”

  “The boyfriend,” says Virginia.

  The Widows have been observing Chelsea Margaret Bloom for the better part of a week. Alerted by the cats, they’d watched her from the upper windows the first day she stole a bottle of milk, and every day thereafter. They took in her expression, her general demeanor, the fact she looked half-starved and all scared. They started making enquiries around Mercy’s Brook. At Abi Hobbes’, Eugenie and Sarah began a discussion about daughters with other women who were there. Everyone chimed in but Ellie Bloom, who showed a striking lack of interest in joining the conversation, which the Widows noted. And they also noted, when Sarah introduced the topic of husbands, boyfriends and lovers, that Ellie was only too anxious to chat about her beau, Teddy Landreneau.

  Teddy was a mechanic, employed at Hannigan’s Garage; a man with long black hair, dark eyes, and pock-marked skin. He was not Mercy’s born, nor was he pretty, but he was big, seemed like he might be protective—which was a mistake several women before Ellie Bloom had made. Others might continue to make it too, if she ever got her head right and gave him the boot. At the moment, however, that seemed unlikely. They’d been seeing each other for four months, living together for two (which was convenient, whispered Abi Hobbes, after he’d been thrown out of his own apartment for fighting and not paying his rent—Sheriff Taylor had had to deliver warnings to him on more than one occasion). And these last two months, rumor had it, coincided with Chelsea Margaret Bloom looking thinner than she was genetically wont to be and terrified to boot. The Widows had seen plenty of girls with that same look, and they recognized it the first day she’d stolen their milk.

  Now, while Sarah butters more toast, Martha pours more coffee and asks, “Who should take Mr. Landreneau?”

  “Me. I love a bully,” says Eugenie.

  “Play to one’s strengths. I’ll try talking to Ellie Bloom, then,” says Martha.

  “Good luck,” says Virginia with an uncharacteristic sneer.

  “Now, now. There’s always hope,” Sarah says gently. “In one form or another.”

  “You know where I’ll be then,” Virginia finishes; she goes to one of the cupboards and pulls out a bright blue vial. “I’ll have this ready soon.”

  * * *

  School had never been enjoyable, but Chelsea kept her head down and didn’t draw attention; she didn’t yearn for friends or a greater connection, she did her homework assiduously, made sure her marks were good enough to keep her below anyone’s worry radar. She loved reading and spent her lunch hours and free periods in the library. Chelsea tried to make herself as small as she could, so no one noticed her and she didn’t attract her mother’s random tempers; she was doing well at it until Teddy entered Ellie’s life and, by unfortunate association, hers as well.

  Yet it had been manageable until he moved in with them.

  That crossing over, that incursion, caused a bleed in the rest of her life. She became actively miserable and that drew notice to her as surely as a beacon. The mean girls, like tall blond Becky Silverman, suddenly found in her a target for their barbs. Worse, the bully boys, whose eyes had passed over her unseeing for so long, suddenly saw her. Her schoolwork suffered, which meant teachers who’d had no concern for her now talked about her in the staff room as “at risk”. It didn’t occur to Chelsea that her previous invisibility had been a kind of magic, something she could do without thinking, but also something that could, unfortunately, be easily sent awry by unhappiness because, unaware of it, she wasn’t in consc
ious control of it.

  Since the shift in Chelsea’s universe, since the veils around her parted, she’s been in Becky Silverman’s sights, which would have been bad enough on its own. But unfortunately Becky’s boyfriend has also noticed Chelsea. It wasn’t like he was paying her court or anything nice. But Becky’s kind of fucked-up about relationships, and can’t tell the difference between what’s healthy and what’s not, so even though Evan’s been making jokes at Chelsea’s expense, it’s enough to set Becky’s jealousy off like a rocket.

  So, this afternoon, during English, which is the last class of the day, when Chelsea asks to go to the bathroom, Becky follows. Chelsea can hear the footsteps behind her in the hall, risks a glance over her shoulder and clocks the look on the other girl’s pretty face. It’s enough to make her break into a run. She knows Becky’s faster than her, too, coz she’s on the track and field team, but that’s no reason not to try to escape.

  As Chelsea bangs through the big double doors into the fresh air she trips on the flapping sole of her sneaker. She tumbles down the stairs, grazing elbows; the knees of her jeans tear away to leave the skin of her legs vulnerable to bruises and cuts. As she rolls to a stop, she finds a pair of old suede boots, red in color, very close to her nose. Chelsea cranes her neck to see a pair of black leggings, a burgundy tunic and a thick knitted long black cardigan. Yellow-brown eyes, iron-grey hair, and a kind smile look down at her.