One summer day not long after that wink, told me to sit out on the patio.
“Be sure to wear a little tank top and skirt or shorts.”
I balked, not wanting the neighbor to come around and eyeball me in a skirt.
“Just trust me on this,” she said, a mysterious smile playing at her lips.
Something in the look in her eyes told to go with it. I went out, and soon enough my unwelcome admirer arrived and sat on a chair uninvited. Naturally he commented on how pretty I looked in that skirt. He started to reach out and caress the fabric between his fingers. I cringed, but waited.
A moment later my mother came out. She had the bowl in her arms, and sat across from him.
“What do you have there, Fiona?” he asked, chuckling as a feather stirred in the breeze.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she purred.
She took a long drag on her cigarette and tapped the ash onto the contents, muttering a mix of Spanish, German and pig Latin.
She began humming as she pulled a length of twine out of her pocket and tied a knot at one end, then pulled a feather out of the bowl, and fastened it a couple inches from the first knot. She continued her crafting, pulling out holey stones and bones and feathers, one by one, and carefully attaching them to the twine with elaborate knots. Occasionally she’d look up at our unwelcome guest, and her eyes seemed to flash an unnatural blue. Once she was out of stones, feathers and bones, she tied the ends together to form a necklace.
“Seriously, what is that?” he asked, his eyes nervously darting between my mother’s face and hands. “It looks like some kind of crazy rosary.”
“I’m conjuring a little something,” she replied serenely, tipping more ash on the necklace. The air around us grew more charged, almost like it did before a severe thunderstorm.
He made a show of scoffing theatrically, but I could see he was getting uneasy. I leaned forward, watching my mother work the twine.
He turned to me. “What is she really doing?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“I’m doing a bit of magic,” she said. By then she was finished with the project, and she held it out for him to take a closer look. “Like my handiwork?”
“I guess. I have no idea what it’s supposed to do,” he said.
“Let me explain,” she grinned. Her eyes blazed like blue fire. “The twine is to bind something. In this case, your bad intentions.”
He started to protest, but she held a hand to still him. His jaw snapped shut.
“You’re going to be quiet and listen. Really listen. I know what you’re up to, sniffing around my daughter. She’s young enough to be your daughter, you realize that? And while she is mature for her age – in part because her father died not that long ago, and that type of thing makes a child grow up faster – she’s still a child. My child. And no one messes around with my child.” She smiled. “So, the twine is to bind. The bones are so you get the message deep down in your core. The stones are to weigh down your bad intentions, not just toward my daughter, but toward any young girls you prey on. And the feathers,” she said, blowing a puff of air in his direction, “are so you go away.”
“You can’t be serious.” He laughed nervously. “And what about the ash? Is there some hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo tied to that, too?”
“There certainly is,” she said. “Ash is something burnt up, that dissolves and scatters easily. It’s so you vanish into nothing.” She grew silent.
He sat there for a moment, then broke out into nervous, hacking laughter.
“You’re not taking my work seriously, then?” she asked.
He shook his head, slapping his knee in amusement. “You are one crazy broad.”
“In that case,” Mom said, “you asked for it.”
She flung her little loop at him with all her strength. It smacked him hard in the face as it landed over his head. He let out a surprised grunt and tried to pull it off, but it clung like it was a part of him and he could not pull it over his head. I had a fleeting thought that the necklace was alive and would not let him go.
“Why won’t this come off?” he whimpered. “Is it stuck on my shirt or tangled in my mullet?”
“It will come off,” my mother assured him, as she stood and motioned for me to follow her. “Eventually. But even then it will also keep you away from my daughter. It just needs to sink in and do its magic for a bit. Come on, Poppy,” she called to me. “Let’s go in and have dinner.”
I did as she instructed. Not long afterwards the neighbor moved away. We never saw him again.
“You’re talking about your little unholy rosary there, aren’t you?” I asked.
She nodded.
“I remember that creep. What did you do? Was it really a spell, or was it bullshit?”
She shrugged. “I always went by instinct, just like you do now. I knew he was bothering you, and I wanted him to leave you alone. I didn’t want some pervert sniffing around my daughter. The important thing is, I really meant it. It got results, too.”
“Well, I can’t argue with you there,” I chuckled. “I was thrilled when we saw that moving van show up in his driveway. I wonder what happened to him.” I shuddered at the thought of him preying on some other fourteen- or fifteen-year-old.
“He went to prison a year or so later.”
“How did you know that?”
“I read it in the paper. Someone found pictures of a thirteen-year-old in her underwear in his home. He went to jail. Then the prison population did what they usually do when they get their hands on a child predator. Someone stabbed him. He bled out. Poof. No more.” She waved her hand with a flourish.
“Did your spell have anything to do with that?”
“Perhaps.”
“You didn’t curse him to die, did you?”
“No. Even I wouldn’t go that far. It was a warning. He didn’t heed it.”
I was silent for a moment, then decided I wanted to think of something less dark.
“Well, Dad isn’t some perv who liked to chase young girls,” I said, “so we don’t need to be drastic. How about you tell me more about your trip.”
“Vegas was wonderful. You should visit. You’d love it.”
Somehow I couldn’t see that. The desert setting didn’t appeal, and neither did all the flash, the buffets nor the casinos. That was four things going against it.
“It sounds like you had a good time.”
“Oh, I did,” she added, raising her left hand to her temple to brush back her bottle-blonde hair. I caught a flash of sparkle on her ring finger.
“Wait. Is there something on your ring finger? Did you and Tom get married?”
“You noticed. Yes, we had an Elvis impersonator marry us. It was fantastic.”
Her voice went up an octave as she launched into her story. Whether she had an audience of one or a million, what mattered was someone was listening.
“And Tom bought me this large ring. Isn’t it amazing?” She moved her left hand around so the light would catch on the diamonds.
Marrying in front of an Elvis impersonator sounded anything but amazing to me, but to each his own. Mom would love telling the story to anyone who would listen as she showed off her sparkler. It was big and shiny, and she loved compliments. Tom had chosen a piece of jewelry that truly suited her tastes. Of course she insisted Tom buy her trinkets on a regular basis, so she probably had pointed out that very ring to him a number of times already. She believed that men – straight men, at least – had no clues about buying jewelry, and needed to be guided and goaded into proper purchasing decisions.
“All I can say is wow. You probably had to buy a separate seat for that ring when you flew back to Michigan,” I said. I was laying it on thick, but she loves that sort of talk.
She grinned. “It is a bit large, I admit, but after so many years together Tom knew that I deserved both a wedding ring and an anniversary ring in one.”
“He did not disappoint.” I reached
out and gave mom a big hug. “Congratulations.”
“We also joined the mile-high club,” Mom continued, “so this trip included two milestones.”
“Oh, well…” I had no idea what to say to that. “Again, congratulations?”
She fixed me with a serious look. I hoped she wouldn’t go into explicit detail about her airplane nookie.
“So, I’m fifty-eight and am on my third husband – ” she began.
I knew where this was headed.
“But you’re now thirty,” she continued, “and aren’t even on your first.”
And there it was. I could fight, but I think just demurring with a compliment might be better. Or distracting her with wedding questions. My sorry dating life isn’t something I want to discuss with her at any length.
“I guess I’ll have to get some pointers from you, but that’s burying the lede. You just got married. I need details. Was it a surprise?”
“Yes and no. We all knew Tom and I would marry one day. He finally got me to walk down the aisle by wooing me the right way. When we arrived he had the most elegant suite reserved, with champagne and chocolates, and he had tickets to some big shows.”
“Oh, which ones?” Wait for it … she won’t remember. She never does.
“Oh, I don’t know. Some burlesque. Some Rat Pack concert. I went onstage for one show and picked a card from a magician, and he gave me some flowers. They were paper, mind you, but they were large and red, and everyone saw. I did everything with flair and the audience applauded. They loved me. The magician, though he was at least twenty years younger than me, was flirting. I could have run off with him, I’m sure, but I was there with Tom.”
“Of course. You know, all your friends are going to be so jealous. Wait until Aunt Lindy sees it. She’ll choke. You know Uncle Jim just got her a skinny little band with a tiny solitaire set in it.” My mom has a longstanding tension with her sister Lindy. This was always a good deflection tactic.
“Oh, well, Tom outdid himself. As I left the stage, the assistant led me back to my seat, and I had my flowers from that handsome magician, and the spotlight was on me all the way. Tom was standing there, clapping wildly and he had this huge grin on his face. As I approached, he held out a velvet box, pulled the lid open, and the spotlight hit it just at that moment. The assistant had a microphone and he motioned to her to let him have it, and then, right in front of everyone, he proposed. With that ring, and that unforgettable moment, I could not say no.”
“No one’s proposal story can hold a candle to that one. You’ll have a few friends steamed about how that one went down.”
“I think you’re right,” she said, her grin growing.
Her eyes darted around my store, and she froze when she spotted the seventy-five percent discount shelf.
“What!? What did you do?” she gasped, running over to check what remained on the shelf.
I shrugged, nonchalant. “What? Oh, that. I just had a bunch of extra stock I found out back, so I thought I’d try and move it by discounting it deeply. Once I marked it down, it started selling like hotcakes. I’ve had to refill the shelf several times in the last few days.”
“Most everything is gone.”
“That’s a good thing,” I said. “This is a business. The goal is to sell things.”
“But that was my stuff!”
“But this is my store.”
“Those were my items. I put them it there. When you weren’t looking.”
I tried to keep a straight face but was finding it difficult to keep up the façade.
Realization dawned on her. “Wait a minute. This is a prank. Right? Right?”
I blew out a breath. “Yes. I discovered your handiwork earlier today and decided to make some tweaks.”
“So nothing sold?”
“Nothing of yours, I don’t think. How did I manage to miss your handiwork these last few days?”
She smiled. “I tried a little something to mask you from seeing it up there.” I pressed her for the recipe, but she wouldn’t budge. “If nothing sold, maybe I masked it too well.”
“Maybe you just overpriced it, too.”
She shot me a dirty look.
“Have you used that magic for anything else?”
“I’ve only tried it on Tom a couple times. To hide some shoes I bought, or some chocolates I wanted for myself.”
I was impressed. “That sounds useful. Is it a form of glamouring? I really want to know how you did that.”
“Normally I would tell you, but now I won’t, because you were so cruel, tormenting your dear mother like that.”
I waved off the comment. “Your precious antiques and collectibles are still intact, awaiting your inflated prices. The only reason you probably still knew about their existence is because they weren’t in your house, lost in all that junk and clutter.”
The expression on her face was murderous. I knew I was asking for it.
Fortunately, Tom chose that moment to saunter in the store. I went over to him to give him a hug. “Hi Tom. Congratulations! I just heard all the details from my mom. You really dazzled her.”
Tom is a big, tall friendly guy with jolly blue eyes and white hair that was always slicked back with pomade. If he had a beard and gained fifty pounds he’d make a perfect Santa Claus. He winked at me as he returned the embrace and lifted me up slightly. He knew my mom’s love of drama, but clearly he relished the moment.
“Yep, I finally made an honest woman out of your mother.”
“Oh, Tom,” my mother pooh-poohed him, a smile lighting her face.
“My lovely bride, I’m hungry. How about we go get some coffee and a slice of pie at Morley’s Diner?” he said, pressing a devoted kiss on her cheek. “We can start spreading the news.”
“Sure, my husband. I do confess, I like the sound of that. I’ll be ready in a moment.”
“Okay. I see old man McAlister next door at Farley’s. I’ll go tell him you’re off the market,” he said, snickering, as he slapped at my mother’s behind, before leaving my shop.
I waved goodbye to him. “I’ll see you at supper some night this week.”
He waved and exited, and my mom then turned to me. “Well, I made him happy.”
“Hopefully yourself, too.”
“Yes, well, I’m not getting any younger. Sound familiar?”
“A broken record often does. But you love him, too. He’s always been good to us. Plus, he fights back a bit, which is quite frankly good for you.”
My mother fixed me with a look to argue, but an impish grin played at the corners of her lips. She likes to boast, sure, but deep down I knew she loved Tom. I’d never seen her that happy with my dad nor with anyone else she’d ever dated. She just loves to complain, and fluff her ego when necessary – which is often, mind you.
“I guess I’ll follow my husband,” she said, batting her eye fringe and dragging out the word as she turned to leave. “I need to make sure he doesn’t polish off all the fudge samples in that shop. Old man Farley sent me a bill the last time he did that. You will come out for dinner one night this week?”
“Yes, I will.” I usually did eat there once a week. “Um, what are you thinking of cooking?” I asked, fear of sampling one of her experimental dishes clutching at my heart. I wanted to make sure I chose the right day to drop in for family dinner.
“I’m making a ham, and then a split-pea soup from the leftovers. Is that acceptable?”
“Sounds great. And congratulations. Now go show that big sparkler off to all the folks at Morley’s. And you should go run a big announcement in the local paper, too, while you’re at it.”
Mom pursed her lips in thought for a moment, and nodded. “That’s a great idea,” she said, as she waved and drifted out the door to Farley’s Fudge Shoppe. “Maybe I’ll buy a quarter-page ad. It’ll be good for business, too.
“And be sure to remove my things from that clearance shelf!”
“What? I should put a sign by them that s
ays ‘Free’?”
My mother flipped me the bird as she slipped out the door.
6
A couple hours later a truck parked in front of my store. A tall, good-looking man exited and looked up and down the street, clearly searching for someone. Finally his eyes lit on my shop and he made his way inside.
He was maybe in his late twenties and had piercing blue – think Paul Newman blue – eyes that were slightly downturned, giving him an almost sleepy yet playful look. A few fine lines framed the outside corners of his eyes, like he’d spent a lot of time reading or if he’d spent a lot of time outdoors squinting into the sun. His nose was aquiline, perhaps a bit larger than is Hollywood-attractive, but it suited his strong features. His ashy light brown hair was cropped short. His build was solid, not like he spent a lot of hours in the gym, but more like he’d done a fair amount of labor, perhaps chopping wood or some other physical activity.
I realized I was spending a lot of time eyeing his looks, but something about him genuinely appealed to me, and it was beyond his pleasing exterior.
He had a cool aura about him, of a frosty blue-gray, almost as if he were cloaked in a light fog. It was nothing sinister, but something clearly troubled him. l picked up the smell of rosemary, carnations and lilies, and a suggestion of rose, but sterile, hinting of funerals and not summertime. He was shrouded in the scent of remembrance (hence the rosemary) and mourning, clearly deeply tinged with grief. I also noted something else, young and familiar, a scent from my teenage years that I couldn’t quite place because it clashed with the other odors.
I welcomed him as he made his way to me. “Can I help you?”
“I was just looking for my brother,” he started. “He drove with me into town earlier, and I know he was going to handle some errands along this stretch of road.”
“Is his name Wyatt?” I asked.
His eyes lit with recognition. “Yes. Have you seen him?”
“He was in here a while ago. We chatted for a few moments, but he was waiting to go next door. Are you his brother? Roger? Is that right?”
Giving Up the Ghost Page 6
