The Rules of Magic

by Alice Hoffman

  “Try,” Franny urged. She nodded to Jet, who was not paying attention to anyone and seemed caught up in her own sad world. Jet stared out the window, tears flowing down her face. “Let’s just get her through this,” Franny whispered to her brother.

  Ever since the accident she had felt the burden of being the oldest. Overnight, and without warning, Franny no longer felt young. She was not going to get what she wanted or do as she pleased. She had come to understand that as she and Vincent sat together in the hospital. Today she had pinned up her straightened hair and had taken a black Dior cape from her mother’s closet, which carried the scent of Chanel No. 5, Susanna’s perfume. Franny knew that from now on she would be held hostage by her responsibilities.

  When they reached the cemetery, the Boston Owenses, most of whom they’d never met before, had already gathered. They were introduced to April Owens’s disapproving parents, although April was nowhere in sight. Some cousins from Maine who had a farm known for its miraculous rhubarb, which could cure almost anything, from influenza to insomnia, were in attendance, and of course Aunt Isabelle sat in the front row, beside Franny. A heat wave had begun, but Isabelle wore her long black dress and a shawl she had knitted to keep evil at bay. All of the women had bunches of hyacinths, which Jet and Franny were given as well. The flowers were to remind them that life was precious and brief, like the hyacinth’s bloom.

  The minister was married to an Owens and led a congregation in Cambridge.

  “I look forward to seeing you in the fall,” he told Franny. They all knew she’d been accepted to Radcliffe.

  “Perhaps,” Franny demurred, not wanting to commit herself.

  Franny assisted their aunt over the tufted grass when they left the burial site. They went into a small bleak hall where cakes and coffee were displayed on a lace-covered table. There were pots of hyacinths everywhere.

  Isabelle’s voice held real tenderness. “We never know the end of the story until we get there. Let me suggest a possibility for the immediate future. You three could move in with me.”

  Franny shook her head. “It’s not possible.”

  “At least stay for the rest of the summer,” Isabelle urged. “Give yourself some time to decide what comes next.”

  “Thank you, no,” Franny told her aunt. “We’ll go back to New York.”

  “Suit yourself. That tall boy will be happy, but will you?”

  They could hear a siren. On the street a police car led a long line of cars, including a hearse. Levi Willard’s funeral procession was passing by.

  “It’s a shame,” Isabelle said sadly.

  “Because he’s a member of our family?” Franny asked. She very much wanted to know the secret April had spoken of.

  “Because this could have been avoided if his father had learned not to hate. I think we should refrain from telling Jet that his funeral is taking place today. It’s too much for her to bear.”

  “So you’re not going to tell me anything,” Franny said.

  “Yes, if you must know, we’re related to the Willards.”

  “Why is that a secret?”

  “Why is anything a secret? People want to protect themselves from the past. Not that it works.”

  Franny left her aunt to search for Vincent and Jet, whom she found in a corner.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Vincent said. He was half-drunk, never a good state to be in.

  “There’s April.” Jet pointed to the opposite corner, where April was sitting on an overstuffed chair, a baby girl on her lap. They approached with caution.

  “Seriously?” Franny said, in quite a state of shock. “A baby?”

  “I’m sorry about your parents.” April turned to Jet. “And I’m sorry about Levi. I heard he’s being buried today.”

  Franny gave April a look that was so harsh and foreboding April felt smacked. She understood what she was being told and quickly backtracked, surprised by how much more powerful Franny now seemed.

  “Or maybe it’s tomorrow,” April hedged. “Don’t ask me. I don’t have a moment to think straight.”

  “Hello, baby.” Vincent sat on the edge of a coffee table and offered his hand, which the baby grabbed and held on to. No female wanted to let him go. This one’s name was Regina. Her eyes, of course, were gray.

  “I suppose you can fight fate, but I’m glad I didn’t fight this,” April said of her daughter.

  “You wouldn’t have wanted to,” Jet remarked with real emotion. “She’s a gorgeous baby,” she added when Franny looked puzzled.

  Now Franny’s curiosity was piqued. “What happened to Regina’s father?”

  “Drowned,” April said. “Wouldn’t that be my luck? Flash flood. What are the scientific odds of that?”

  “Not a very high probability,” Franny remarked. April’s lie had fallen to the floor, heavy as lead, but Franny didn’t dare kick it, for fear of what other disturbing information might spring out at them.

  “Well, congratulations are in order,” Vincent said, itching to have a drink. He stood and saluted, then found his way to the bar, where whiskey sours, their parents’ favorite cocktails, were being served.

  Jet bent to tickle the baby. For a moment she seemed to have forgotten the tragic circumstances of the day. “Adorable,” she said. “Look at those big eyes.”

  April seemed a bit softer than she used to be. “I really am sorry for your loss,” she told Jet. By now her daughter was whimpering. “Hold her for a minute,” April said to Franny, as she went to retrieve a bottle of formula from her bag. Franny begged off, saying she’d never had much to do with children and hoped to keep it that way. But a baby cannot be denied, and April grimaced and deposited the infant in Franny’s arms anyway. “Nonsense,” she said.

  Regina instantly stopped fussing as she stared up at Franny.

  “See!” April said, when she returned. “You’re not who you think you are.”

  Franny was stung. “I’m exactly who I think I am!” She quickly gave the baby back and gazed at their new relation, her heart softening, as the baby sucked on her bottle.

  They went back to Aunt Isabelle’s for supper, mostly homey casseroles that the Owenses from Maine had left. Creamed spinach and macaroni with pearl onions and for dessert their famous rhubarb pie. None of the siblings could eat. Jet went out to the garden. Vincent and Franny sat in the parlor and played gin rummy, which was difficult since each could guess the other’s cards a hundred percent of the time. Franny eased off her insistence on good behavior and didn’t say a word when Vincent poured himself a tall glass of their aunt’s scotch, hidden in a bureau, which they’d found in the first days of the summer when they’d come to visit.

  After the guests departed, Isabelle went to lie down for a while, fully dressed, with her boots on. Her drapes were not drawn, and she spied Jet sneaking out the gate, clearly in a hurry. It was a two-mile walk, so once Jet got to town, she looked for the cab that was usually parked at the bus station. Luckily one was there, idling at the curb. She got in and asked to be taken to the big cemetery at the edge of town, where the four boys had been buried the previous summer. They were about to pull out when the taxi’s door opened and Isabelle got in. The driver watched her in his rearview mirror, in a panic. Isabelle Owens on her way to a cemetery was a passenger no one wanted.

  “Do you have business at the cemetery, Miss Owens?” the driver asked in a nervous tone.

  “We all will have business there sooner or later,” she answered brightly.

  “I’m going alone,” Jet said.

  “I think it’s a bad idea for you to go, but if you insist, I’m going with you.” Isabelle tapped the back of the driver’s seat. “Hurry up. And I’ll need you to wait for us.”

  Levi’s funeral was over, but as they walked the path they spied the newly turned earth. The Reverend was still there. He did not have any intention of leaving his son. Jet turned pale when she spied him in his black jacket, sitting on a folding chair that had been left from the servic
e.

  Isabelle linked her arm through Jet’s and they walked forward over the grass. Birds were calling in the treetops and everything was emerald green. The grass had recently been mowed and the scent was midsummer sweet. The Reverend was looking down, and therefore saw their shadows before he saw them.

  “Do not come any closer,” he said.

  “We’re here to pay our respects,” Isabelle said. “I’m sure you would do the same if the situation were reversed.”

  The Reverend raised his eyes. Gray-green, just like Levi’s. “But I don’t have to, because my son is dead and she’s alive,” he said, nodding to Jet. “This is the reason you’ve been cursed.”

  “Your relative set that in motion, ours had no choice in the matter. And really, the truth is, because of them our fates and our histories are joined.”

  Jet looked at her aunt, confused.

  “And yet here I am,” the Reverend said. “At the grave of my son.”

  Jet sank to the ground, dizzy. Isabelle did her best to get her back on her feet. The Reverend stood and watched, alarmed.

  “Help us,” Isabelle commanded.

  The Reverend took one of Jet’s arms and Isabelle the other and they guided her to the chair.

  “Breathe slowly and deeply,” Isabelle said. She went to stand beside the Reverend, her cousin, since his side of the family were direct descendants of the man who was the father of Maria Owens’s daughter. “She’s just a young girl who happened to have fallen in love,” she said to the cousin who denied their shared family lineage. “In what world is that a curse?”

  The Reverend couldn’t answer. He was broken and carried three hundred years of history and hatred.

  “When we can forgive one another, we can begin to break the curse. You know that as well as I.”

  The Reverend looked at Jet and Jet could see how he’d been devastated by what had happened. She managed to get to her feet. She stood before the grave, wishing she could be buried there as well, that her hands could be intertwined with Levi’s, and she could live in this place beside him.

  “We should go before they close the gates,” Isabelle said.

  The Reverend followed them at a distance.

  “He should hate me,” Jet said to her aunt. “He has every reason.”

  “Hatred is what got us here in the first place,” Isabelle said.

  When they reached the taxi, Isabelle told the driver to wait. As soon as the Reverend arrived at the gates, Isabelle asked the driver to get out and assist him and have him sit in the front seat so he could be driven home. The Reverend looked surprised, but he was exhausted, so he did as he was told. He got into the taxi and stared straight ahead and there was no talk of any kind until they reached his house on the far side of town. The taxi stopped and the Reverend got out without a word or a look back.

  When they returned to Magnolia Street, Isabelle asked Franny and Vincent to join them in the garden. They would be leaving for Manhattan in the morning, so it was time. On some nights it was best to remember the past, and not shut it in a drawer. Three hundred years ago people believed in the devil. They believed if an incident could not be explained, then the cause was something wicked, and that cause was often a woman who was said to be a witch. Women who did as they pleased, women with property, women who had enemies, women who took lovers, women who knew about the mysteries of childbirth, all were suspect, especially to the fiercest and cruelest judge in the area, John Hathorne, a man so terrible that his great-great-grandson, the author of The Scarlet Letter, tried to deny his own heritage by changing the spelling of his name.

  The affair happened when Maria was young, and it was unexpected for both of them. Hathorne showed her one side of him, for he was a brilliant man, a magistrate, a justice of the peace in Essex County, and he had a soul, before it had been shattered by unhappiness and pride when he sent nineteen innocent people to their deaths and ruined the lives of many others. But when Maria met him none of this had happened, and she was enamored of him and perhaps he truly loved her. He was the one who gave her the sapphire and sent her away with a small bag of diamonds when the affair ended, hoping to ensure she would never be back, for he had a wife and a family and she was a young girl with whom he should never have tampered. Perhaps he felt he’d been enchanted, for from then on he looked for witchery in the world, and was the only magistrate associated with the trials who had never repented his actions.

  They were therefore all descendants of a witch-finder and a witch, and therein lay the very heart of the curse’s beginnings, for they were fated to try their best to deny who they were and to refute their true selves. The Willard side of the family was related through one of Hathorne’s granddaughters, who had married a relation of John Proctor, hung as a witch when he tried to defend the innocent women being brought to trial.

  “We were not there when these dreadful things happened, when women were accused of being crows and messengers from hell. We were neither the judge nor the accused, but we carry these things with us, and we have to fight them. The best way to do this is to be who you are, every part of you, the good and the bad, the sorrowful and the joyous. You can never run away. There is nowhere to run to. I think your mother knew that in the end, and that is why she came back here to be buried. We are who we are from the start.”

  It was very late by now and the moon was red. Jet sat in the grass, her mouth set in a thin line. When you are young you are looking forward and when you are old you are looking back. Jet was young but she was already looking back. On this evening, when the crickets were calling, when the birds were all sleeping in the thickets and even the rabbits were hushed, Jet didn’t know how it was possible to forgive those who had wronged you or how it was possible to forgive yourself for those you had wronged.

  They sat in the garden where Maria Owens had planted seeds so long ago. Life was short, it was over in an instant, but some things lasted. Hate and love, kindness and cruelty, all lingered and, in their case, all had been passed on. When they finally straggled inside, rain had begun to fall. It was a green, fresh rain, the sort most needed in summer, when everything is burning hot and thirsty. Usually the sisters shared the attic, but on this night Jet said she was too hot to go upstairs. Instead she sat in the parlor, waiting for the sun to rise, her suitcase packed. In the morning she told everyone she was perfectly fine, even though she wasn’t, even though she wished she was still on that green hill where Levi had been buried, where the grass smelled so sweet, where there was no beginning and no end.

  The limo drove them back to Manhattan through a gray drizzle. The streets were empty and hot. They piled out onto Eighty-Ninth Street and stood on the sidewalk. They’d lived here all their lives, yet it didn’t feel like home. Franny found she couldn’t bring herself to go inside. Vincent helped Jet out of the car, then looked at Franny, wanting to know what was to happen next.

  “Go on,” she told him. It was now thundering but Franny wouldn’t budge. “Go,” she insisted, and so they did while she remained where she was, though soon enough the clouds opened, leaving her soaking.

  She had lost not only her parents but her future as well. Cambridge was no longer a possibility. How could she leave Jet and Vincent and go off to school? Though she was eighteen, little more than a girl, she, too, had begun to look backward.

  When it came to the future she was certain she would never get what she wanted.

  When Haylin didn’t hear from her as promised, he sprinted to Eighty-Ninth Street. He spied her standing in the driving rain and ran faster. When he reached her, he pulled her close and bent to kiss her. There was no need to say anything. The weather was still hot and pavements steamed as raindrops hit the cement. All of Manhattan smelled of hyacinths. “I’m always going to love you,” Hay said.

  He came upstairs with her. They slipped through the parlor and went to the cook’s bedroom. They could hear the wet gusts of rain as the windows rattled. Hay took off Franny’s sopping clothes. She was shivering and couldn’t
stop. The sky outside was murky and black with yellow heat waves rising from the pavement. Haylin kissed her, and when he grabbed off his own clothes they fell onto the bed together and neither thought about anything but each other. It was a single bed covered with the white coverlet that Susanna Owens had bought in Paris when she was a young woman mourning her lost love. The more Haylin loved her, the more Franny broke apart. Was this what had happened to her mother in Paris?

  She told Hay that she wanted his hands all over her, and he was happy to oblige. She yearned to forget everything that had ever occurred in the past and only be in this moment.

  “Oh, Franny,” Haylin said. This was his first time, too, which was what he had always wanted. To only be with Franny. When they were done, Haylin was lying on the floor on his back, naked and exhausted, terrified that he had already lost her as she drifted away. He watched Franny where she was poised on a chair by the window. The rain had stopped and Lewis was outside, his plumage gleaming wet as he pecked at the glass. Franny let him in and toweled off his slick feathers.

  “Come back,” Haylin called to her.

  Franny shook her head. She was naked except for Haylin’s T-shirt. She had exquisite long legs.

  “Franny!”

  She ignored him, for she had already decided what was between them must end. After what had happened to Levi, she no longer had the courage to take the chance of ruining Hay.

  “We’ll be all right,” Hay said as if he knew her thoughts. “We’ll be happy in Cambridge.”

  But it wouldn’t be all right. Franny went to lie down beside him. She stroked his shoulders and torso. He was so beautiful and young. “Where did we meet?” she asked. She wanted to remember everything when it was over.

  “Third grade. The lunchroom. You had a tomato sandwich, which I thought was very strange. Who eats a plain tomato sandwich?”

  Tomatoes were in the nightshade family and Franny had always adored them. “How do you recall these things?” She kissed his cheek, which was rough with stubble.