The Empty Cradle

by Jill Nojack

  He shrugged, palms up and open, and flashed an I-don’t-know look as he hustled out to follow her.

  As he ran to catch up with her she barked, “Stay away from me, William!” She hadn’t even looked back to see who it was.

  There! That’s more like what he’d expected earlier. But at least it wasn’t a knuckle sandwich.

  ***

  Maureen left the buggy in the living room while she went into the guest bedroom to check on her daughter. Jenny was still sleeping peacefully, thank the Goddess. It had been a good idea to slip a little herbal sleeping draft into her daughter’s morning tea to help her drift off. She didn’t feel the least bit guilty that she hadn’t told her about it.

  With three babies to feed and care for, Jenny was becoming thin and withdrawn, and Butch was no help at all. A long-haul trucker, he’d be there for a day or two, then be off again for five or six at a time, and sometimes for over a week. She was glad Jenny had agreed to move in temporarily as her belly grew bigger and she’d been less able to cope on her own.

  Butch hadn’t even been there when the girls were born, and he didn’t seem to have much interest in them now, either. He said childcare was a woman’s job; he deserved peace and quiet when he got home. Maureen wondered how he could reasonably think he’d get any of that for eighteen years or so with triplets in the house. He spent most of the time he could have spent with his wife and children sitting on a bar stool at the Toadstone Tavern. And he’d taken to sleeping in the truck like he did when he was on the road. He said it was too noisy in the house. He only showed up inside for a shower and his meals, which he insisted Jenny prepare.

  Maureen hadn’t been getting out of the house much, either, and she’d been dying to show off her grandchildren and catch up on the latest gossip. Her trip that morning had been her first chance to socialize since she’d brought Jenny to Giles.

  But things would improve—they were all just tired and not at their best. Jenny would bounce back, and even Butch would come around. And although the trip would cost her dearly, she and Dahlia were going to California soon for a consultation. The healers assured her they had worked miracles with twisted spines, hirsuitism, even a set of conjoined twins. She was sure they’d have a miracle for her granddaughter.

  She readjusted the blanket over her Jenny’s sleeping form and kissed her gently on the forehead. On her way to the living room to move the girls into their cradles from the stroller, she made a detour through the kitchen and filled three bottles, warming them in the microwave. She tested each one on her left wrist before scooping them into the crook of the right one and heading out to feed the brood. There were just too many of them for Jenny to feed without supplementing with the bottle.

  Daisy was the quiet one; her bright eyes took in everything, but she was almost never fussy. Delphinium was gentle, but she was also always the first to fuss, the first to fill her diaper, and the first to leave a huge puddle of spit-up on every available surface. But Dahlia…

  She picked the little girl up and cradled her, smiling down into her watchful eyes. Dahlia’s tiny mouth turned up at the corners in response. Maureen had heard the doctor’s hushed tones when he’d handed her to the nurse to wrap up for warmth, but she couldn’t look then, not while she held her daughter’s hand as the contractions started again and the second and third babies arrived.

  It was only later, when the doctor sat down with them to explain how two of the girls were fine, just fine, but…

  She rubbed a hand gently against the infant’s cheek and smiled at her. It didn’t matter. Dahlia was beautiful. But she was growing so fast, and her problem was growing more pronounced, too. She needed help soon. It would be difficult to hide for much longer; she didn’t want Natalie catching on that Dahlia wasn’t just big. She might be high priestess, but Maureen had never fully trusted her. Not really. The Taylor family had a long reputation for dabbling in dark magic. It went hand in hand with their affinity for the dead.

  The help she’d sought was sure to fix the girl’s deformity. Natalie didn’t need to know.

  She pulled her granddaughter in to her shoulder, hugging her tight, the child’s face snuggled against her neck.

  “Maureen?” a voice sounded behind her. “What…what is that thing?”

  She looked up, and when she saw who it was, her nostrils flared and her brows pulled in tight together. “Get out of here, Junior! I told you I don’t want anything to do with you. Go back to Zelda if that’s who you want.”

  “Look, Mo…”

  “No. I told you. And don’t you dare mention this to anyone. Do you hear me? You leave me and my family alone.”

  “Look, Mo, I’m sorry about, ya know, the Zelda thing…I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doin’.” But he didn’t look contrite, and she didn’t like the way his eyes lingered on Dahlia. She’d have to do something to keep him quiet, maybe make him forget. It would be easy enough to lure him for a drink and slip something extra into his glass. The man would drink paint if he thought there’d be a kick to it. She’d consult her grimoire as soon as the babies were settled.

  But for now, all she could do was get rid of him. “Just get out. And don’t come sneaking in here again.”

  “Fine. But you gotta listen to me. We gotta talk.” He turned, and she heard the glass patio door sliding fast along its track as it opened and closed.

  She needed to get that latch fixed up. Or at least cut down a length of broomstick to drop in the track and keep it secure.

  She lay Dahlia in her cradle and swaddled the smiling girl tightly. There was an old broom in the garage. She should probably grab that for the door.

  But Delphinium started fussing, and if she started in on a cry it would wake her mother. It wouldn’t do. The broomstick could wait.

  She picked up the hungry infant, who was soon sucking eagerly at the warmed formula as Maureen crooned a soothing tune about the land of Nog and rocked her.

  ***

  When William showed up at Natalie’s door with a gallon of butter pecan ice cream, her foster grandson Marcus’s special favorite, she agreed to let him stay for dinner. She left him with Marcus in the kitchen, where they worked together preparing the meal.

  She excused herself from the preparations in favor of a trip to the attic where she kept her grandmother’s grimoire and a small collection of other family books. Some were about magic, some contained the Taylor family history. The collection was nowhere near as extensive as Robert’s library, but the history did go all the way back to the family’s origins in Scotland, long before the Salem witch trials that had sent them packing to become one of the founding families in Giles.

  As a girl, Natalie had been shocked to discover in those books that she was a Taylor on both sides of the family; her mother and father were first cousins. That’s why her affinity for the dead was so strong; she’d been bred for it.

  It had always been a Taylor’s job to take care of the dead in Giles, and she was the last of her line. Being a death witch wasn‘t the sort of thing an independent young woman who’s looking forward to a career among the living wants to commit herself to. Everyone had assumed she would marry a witch and the family tradition would continue. But, as it turned out, she’d married no one.

  She perched on an old leather ottoman with a large book across her lap, her head down and her reading glasses threatening to take a dive off the tip of her nose. She pushed them up with one finger just in time. But preventing their leap to freedom didn’t help her find anything of use on the page.

  When she’d stalked out of the shop earlier that day, she hadn’t known what felt so wrong about Maureen’s trio of infants; they looked ordinary. One was definitely big for her age; otherwise they seemed no different than any of the babies she’d had shoved at her for approval over the span of her seventy-four years.

  But as she’d stormed by Ling’s Things Boutique that morning, a large gold button on a dress in the window reflected a glint of sunlight into one eye. The quic
k stab of discomfort knocked down the barriers that held back what had been banging around in the back of her brain. It was just a small detail, but an important one.

  One of the babies had the dark blue eyes common to newborns, and one of the other’s eyes were already brown. But the big one, the swaddled one, hers were golden like the button. Extremely rare in a human. Unheard of in an infant.

  The dusty old books didn’t hold any answers. She picked up the last one with a frustrated sigh. None of her ancestors had noted any experience of a witch with eyes like that—for the child could certainly have magic; both the mother and grandmother did.

  Those eyes. What did they make her think of? Weren’t there stories of demons with yellow eyes?

  Her chest tightened, making it hard to breathe.

  But demons aren’t born, she assured herself. Demons possess. She’d never heard of a infant being taken. What could a demon do with an infant’s body? No, it was an untenable thought. She relaxed a little and continued paging through the book, but her heart was no longer in it; it was time she stopped jumping at shadows.

  A tentative knock sounded at the open attic door. When she finished the paragraph and looked up from her reading, Marcus stood leaning against the door frame, waiting patiently for her to give him her attention.

  “Umm, Ms. Taylor? William says it would be great if you come down now. Dinner’s ready.”

  The light at the top of the stairs ringed his head like a halo. She didn’t flatter herself that any true great-grandson of hers would have turned out to be as respectful as this slim, studious black teenager. She’d forged generations of birth records to claim him as a descendant for the good of the local witch community because he knew things about them. At least that’s what she told herself; with him in her home, she could make sure he didn’t reveal what he had learned. And that foster home he’d been in was no place for a child. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t good.

  Natalie slammed the book shut and a small dust storm blew up around her. “He sent you to fetch me instead of risking it himself, did he? He knows I hate to be disturbed when I’m researching.” She hmphed and shook her head.

  “No. I offered. I mean, he did most of the cooking. It was nice for a change.”

  She softened. “Was it?” She extended a hand, and he helped her up. Everyone knew better than to let her near the dinner preparations if they wanted an edible result. “If you’d like me to start cooking more often…”

  Marcus’s eyes went wide before he could stop them. “Oh no, I’m fine with the cooking. I am.”

  Natalie started down the narrow stairs carefully, grinning widely now that the young man behind her couldn’t see her face. She never stopped being surprised by how much she enjoyed having him around. Even that Twink, the boy’s girlfriend, was turning out to be a respectable witch. Strong-minded and pushy at times, but Natalie could hardly claim she saw anything wrong with that.

  Yes, children could be cheering to have around, she decided. She ignored the voice in the back of her head that chimed in, unwanted, but they shouldn’t have eyes like demons.

  2

  The bright early morning sun shone through the lacy cafe curtains above the sink, and Natalie’s hand made a long shadow on the kitchen table as she waved Marcus away when he tried to slide a plate with a sunny side-up egg on it next to her tea.

  “Well then, what are you going to eat for breakfast, Ms. Taylor? Because you hardly ate anything last night. Tea isn’t enough to keep even a mouse going all day, and you’re no mouse. You’re always after me to clean my plate, and since you’re the only person I know who’s skinny as I am, I’m going to make you clean yours, too.” He left the plate in front of her and turned away when two perfectly browned slices of toast popped noisily from the toaster. One of those was also on her plate before she’d stopped glaring about the egg. “You want butter, jelly, or both?” he asked.

  She pushed the plate away to make room to fold her hands in front of her. “I’ll have neither, thank you. And you can mind your own business about my diet.”

  “Nope,” he said, then sat down across from her, his own plate full with the same meal along with two strips of bacon. “And there’s half a banana. I already ate the other half, but I read that people your age need the potassium.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yup.”

  “And what brought on this sudden interest in my health?”

  “I just figure you’re doing such a good job looking after me—and I haven’t had much of that even though my mom really tried—I mean, I just want to help you out too, to say thanks.”

  Her throat tightened slightly, and she cleared it to loosen her vocal cords. Then she pulled the plate toward her and said, “Pass the butter, please.”

  “Sure. The strawberry jam Ms. Winterforth gave you is pretty good, too.”

  “Yes, fine. Some of that. Slide it over.”

  The jam really was good. Gillian had made it from the bounty of strawberries she’d harvested last year from her garden. Natalie supposed she might also need to plant something other than herbs in her own plot now that she had a youngster in the house.

  They ate in silence until Marcus sat up straight, looking a little uncomfortable, and said, “You know, I’ve been living here for over a month now, and I was wondering if there was anything else I could call you instead of Ms. Taylor? It sounds kind of formal. My social worker might think it’s strange, you know? I don’t want this getting messed up if she digs around and figures out that maybe my father’s grandmother isn’t who she thinks it is.”

  She chewed the last corner of her second piece of toast, wiped her mouth carefully with her napkin, then said, “You can call me whatever you’d like—Mary Poppins, Babaloo—if it keeps your social worker happy.”

  The boy had perfected a polite and patient look over the past month or so and was putting it to good use in response. She shrugged. “I suppose you could call me Natalie.”

  Marcus, whose plate was now empty, got up to scrape it into the trash and set it near the sink. His voice drifted over his shoulder as he said, “Thing is, that’s not really what I meant. I can’t call someone so much older than me by their first name. I don’t want people thinking I don’t respect you.”

  Natalie felt a tug in her throat again. Goodness. Was she coming down with something? She cleared it a second time and asked, “Then what do you suggest?”

  He didn’t turn around as he spoke, instead opting to put a squirt of dish soap in the sink and run the water for washing up. “I thought maybe, you know, if it wouldn’t bother you too much, ‘cause I’ve never had one and…well, maybe I could call you Grandma Taylor?”

  Natalie grabbed for the napkin she unexpectedly needed as she said, “That’s fine.” She stood up abruptly and dabbed furiously at her left eye. “Goodness, I’ve got something stuck under my lid somehow. Eye wash…that’s what I need, eye wash.”

  She hurried out of the kitchen toward the bathroom as she commanded, “Go on now. Off to school. I’ll finish the dishes. You don’t want to lose your perfect attendance record so late in the school year.”

  ***

  Cassie yawned as she unlocked the front door to the Giles Gallery of Art. She almost never had the morning shift, which had required her to get moving earlier than usual. Today, Dash Simmons, her boss and friend, had gone with his partner Jon to keep each other company at their annual physical exams. She was more than glad to cover his shift; he’d been worrying himself sick about the appointment all week. He was convinced that because he had recently been more tired than usual, it meant something dire would turn up in his tests.

  Cassie was pretty sure he was tired because he was in his mid sixties but still worked a fifty to sixty hour week at his beloved gallery and stayed up late watching art films with Jon when they weren’t dashing off to Boston to see the latest show. But her attempts to soothe him only made his long, upturned Daliesque mustache tremble with indignation. Dash could be vain; he�
�d rather be sick than old.

  She was going to lock the door behind her to have time for coffee before she had to meet the work day, but when she turned to accomplish it, Zelda and Deborah James stood just outside.

  Her first reaction was an automatic one—the adrenaline started to flow and her body prepared for escape. She forced herself into a calmer place. Sure, they’d once tried to place her under the control of a demon, but they’d been enthralled themselves at the time. Her pulse slowed.

  No danger here.

  Zelda James was in her late forties. Below her shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, her body had been hard at work spreading its boundaries just a little more each year. If her annual weight gain continued, she would someday be wider than she was tall.

  Her daughter Deborah, who bartended part-time at the Toadstone Tavern, carried most of her weight in her top half, but Cassie would rather have her own average-sized, perky breasts than Deborah’s big floppy ones set on a thick body that otherwise went straight up and down over long, skinny legs that didn’t match the rest of her. Some men saw nothing but those breasts, though, Cassie knew. Plus, people said Deborah was skilled with glamours—the ability to appear to be someone she wasn’t. Prudence was she used them to get what she wanted from a man if her natural endowments didn’t work.

  Nice, she thought, ashamed of herself, I just went straight from terror to cattiness.

  Despite everything that had happened, the coven had forgiven both of the James women after the events during last year’s Witching Faire, and they were back in its good graces on a probationary basis. It’s not like Cassie could avoid them altogether.

  “Hello, Deborah.” She faked perky as she opened the door for the women to enter. She added, “Zelda, how are you?” as the mother followed behind.