A Spoonful of Magic

by Irene Radford

  The two youngest protestors with infants in front slings dropped their signs and fled rapidly.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Gayla said. She whipped out her phone and poured coffee at the same time.

  “I called the press,” Ted called from the back of the line. “Nothing like a little notoriety to bring in more customers.”

  Bless the man. He set the entire shop full of people to laughing.

  I grabbed another tray of pastries and took up my station behind the espresso machine.

  Two college students came in the back door and started slicing croissants to turn them into sandwiches, customer’s choice of scrambled eggs, ham, bacon, and three kinds of cheese, then a zap in the microwave for thirty seconds to melt the cheese and warm it through.

  A siren erupted down the street. Someone propped the front door open so we could all hear the shouted arguments between the blue-clad officers and Flora. Her troops remained silent. A few more drifted away.

  “This is a public sidewalk. We have freedom of speech!” Flora’s shrill scream sounded like fingernails on a blackboard.

  “You are blocking the entrance to a legitimate place of business,” the officer countered, quite calmly. He glanced longingly at the coffee and sniffed the enticing aroma of cinnamon and sugar.

  “When this is all over,” I whispered to Gayla, “give that man whatever he wants in food and drink. I’ll put together an extra tray of cookies to take down to the station house.”

  The inside crowd cheered. Ted stuffed a ten into the tip jar. “To defray the expense of goodies for the police officers who risk their lives, and their sanity, every day for our protection.” Others followed his lead with fives and even a twenty.

  I turned the espresso machine over to a college kid who’d finished making sandwiches. Then I retreated to the relative quiet in the back for more of everything.

  Caught in a baking trance, trying to infuse as much magic as possible into my new wand, I missed the arrival of a newspaper reporter and three TV satellite trucks with their attached talking heads with microphones.

  “These people are peddling sin and death by black magic!” Flora screamed.

  I doubled the batch of cheese Danish.

  Then I heard a more chilling announcement from Mrs. Morality. “She’ll corrupt your children with homosexuality and encourage mixed-race marriages.”

  Almost laughable in this day and age—except since the election, prejudice had become valid again. I added more coconut-chocolate-chunk cookies to the mix. Nothing like decadent dark chocolate and shredded coconut to sidetrack a worried mind.

  Flora and her cohort seemed bound and determined to make the fear of the “other” a just form of faith. Along with a lot of politicians in the national campaigns.

  A microphone appeared under my nose as I exited the back door into the alley at two that afternoon. I had children to ferry about and errands to run. I tried to elbow away the intrusive reporter at the other end of the mic.

  “Ms. Deschants, this is the second time in three days that the police have been called to break up disturbances involving you. And I understand that your husband and son were mugged on their way to one of those disturbances, requiring emergency treatment and an overnight stay in hospital.” A perky blonde, not much older than Jason spilled her statement in a rush. Any faster and I’d swear it was all one word.

  “Slow news day, sweetie pie?” I borrowed a phrase from Gayla laced with all the sarcasm of her Texas upbringing. I hoped my casual smile, didn’t reveal me gritting my teeth to the camera I spied on the shoulder of another perky girl. This one was brunette, though. Network TV producers, and right-wing politicians loved blondes wearing red dresses.

  “Aren’t you angry that muggers are running loose and your husband and son had to be rescued by real estate mogul John Mooney?” Implying that John was big and strong and G was a weakling. “Mr. Mooney seems to think the incident newsworthy.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Mr. Mooney about that.” I shouldered my way past her. I pulled my car key out of my pocket, ready to scratch her with it if she tried to get between me and my van.

  “And then this disruption of your business this morning, fueled by angry Christians. Are you a trouble magnet as Mrs. Chambers implies?”

  I wanted my wand in my hand so that I could bop this child upside the head.

  The wand was in my back pocket. Reaching for it would be too obvious. It would also give fuel to Flora.

  Instead, I tried a trick my self-defense instructor freshman year at the U had drilled into the entire class. If a man exposes himself in public, laugh rather than panic. It takes away his motivation. He wants to provoke anger, fear, humiliation.

  “Sweetie Pie, if you believe everything you are told by protestors who have nothing to protest, then I think you need to go back to school.” I made sure the microphone caught my chuckles.

  The woman behind the camera gave me a thumbs-up that Miss Perky Blonde couldn’t see.

  I’d just turned on the ignition when my phone buzzed with an incoming text.

  G stuffed one more pillow under his injured knee, then sat back in the recliner. “Ahh,” he sighed, relishing a moment of almost no pain. Then his throat grew dry. He’d already drunk the carafe of coffee Daffy had left him. And the glass of water he’d had at the kitchen sink after his lunch. But now his mouth wanted nothing less than an ice-cold cola over ice.

  He swallowed, trying to banish his thirst. Maybe the television would distract him. He flicked on the remote. The first scene up was a refreshing waterfall advertising beer. That only reminded him that he hadn’t used the restroom in over an hour. . . .

  Nothing for it; he had to lower the footrest of the recliner, groaning with the effort of shifting the lever. Then he wrestled his crutches off the floor and heaved himself upward.

  “Someone in heaven is laughing at me right now,” he muttered. “Payback for all my sins.” And they were numerous, he admitted to himself. But he’d also done a lot of good in this world. He still had a lot of good to do.

  He finished his business and found a small bottle of cola in the fridge. Now how did he get it back to the recliner?

  The back door slammed open.

  G grabbed his pen and pointed it toward the mudroom. Jason emerged, face caught in a deep frown, the bruises on his jaw and around his eyes looked new and bright red, not twenty-four hours into the healing processes. Twelve of those hours under the power of the pentagram.

  “You’re home early, Jason,” G said, replacing his pen in his pocket.

  “Yeah.” He didn’t look up.

  “What’s wrong, Jason?”

  “Nothing.” He slung his backpack off his shoulder and dumped it on the counter by the stairs.

  “Jason?” G stuck out one crutch to block his path. “Talk to me.”

  “Not now.”

  “Now. Before you have time to embellish it, or forget it.”

  “Dad . . . it’s . . . it’s just too humiliating.”

  “High school is designed to be humiliating. It hones our survival instincts.”

  If Jason said anything in his low mumble, G couldn’t discern it.

  “What is wrong?” This time G put some compelling magic into his question.

  Jason reared up his head, and finally fixed his gaze on his father. “Don’t do that. Don’t ever do that to me!” he wailed.

  G retracted the small spell. A habit. He’d spent more time interrogating reluctant suspects than talking to his son, earning his trust. “I’m sorry I underestimated you, Jason. Please talk to me. Whatever is wrong won’t go away by itself.”

  “I know. I know.” Jason held up his hands in mock surrender. “BJ and his bully friends called me a fag, ’cause I’m a dancer. Stupid perpetuation of a tired myth. I tried to walk away, it’s not a big deal anymore even th
ough I like girls a whole lot more than boys. But they followed me, just kept picking at me until I was so angry I took a swing at BJ. He ducked and his new best friends struck back. I think they planned it ’cause they made sure they hit me where I already had bruises. Now I’m going to have a devil of a time covering it all up with makeup for opening night—that’s only ten days away.” His head drooped and he tried to turn toward the stairs again. “Though they’ll fit right in with the ghoul role. And as a skeleton, I have a mask . . .”

  “I thought your school had a no tolerance policy for bullying.”

  “They’re supposed to. But it comes down to my word against theirs. I already had bruises. Who’s to say these are new ones. Or that the constant buzzing in my head is worse now after they hit me.” His voice dropped in despair. “The nurse sent me home before the vice principal could. She believes me. She says she knows those boys and their handiwork. But BJ’s dad is on the school board, and running for office. They don’t dare reprimand him.”

  “In your confrontation, did BJ say anything about who is prompting him to this sudden drastic change in behavior?”

  Jason’s mouth gaped at the last three words, then lifted his face, eyes brightening with new understanding. “Do you think he’s into drugs? That’s what they tell us to look for in health class.”

  “Possibly. More likely his drug of choice is a budding magical talent. An uncontrolled sport.” He looked at Jason to make sure he understood the use of the term, borrowed from animal breeders when presented with a new puppy, or kitten, or foal who didn’t look like either parent.

  Jason nodded. He knew the term. He knew his biological mother had been the same.

  “BJ seems to have adopted a small silver bell as his wand. Ringing the bell helps him withstand the charm of Belle’s wand.”

  Jason nodded. “Maybe.” His gaze went distant as he mulled through the implications. “I’m thinking that’s more than likely. And he had a new bell on his key chain today. Bright and shiny and new. And he was ringing it all the time. No rhythm. Kind of off-key and jarring on my nerves. In direct counterpoint and clash to the buzzing in my head. I thought Shara squashed the original one.”

  “She did. His mentor helped him find a new one. Did he mention a name or any kind of description of who might be guiding his abnormal behavior?”

  Jason shook his head. Then he slapped his left ear like he wanted to banish trapped water after swimming.

  G’s gut churned and his knee hurt and his balance was off.

  Jason stopped shaking his head in mid-swing.

  “What?”

  “Tom told Adam that the bitch wouldn’t like it if he damaged my eyes when he hit me.”

  G froze. Icicles in his gut seemed to stab his heart.

  “Can I go now? I need to clean up before rehearsal. Do you think Mom will kill me if I use some of her makeup to cover the worst of the damage? It’s not like she ever uses it.”

  “Go clean up. But you’re going to be late to rehearsal. You are going to take the test for your learner’s permit. I need you to drive for me on errands and work stuff, so you have to be legal behind the wheel.” And to keep him close so that D’Accore couldn’t hurt him again and couldn’t steal his eyes.

  Taking J for permit test. Pls take care of girls. Luv U. G

  That would work. Maybe while the girls were at their clubs, I could sneak away to the grocery store. Or sit at a picnic bench in the park and stare at nothing for a few minutes. Or nap in the car.

  I acknowledged receipt of the text and headed toward the middle school. Neither of my girls waited for me under the outside awning. A light drizzle and chill wind had probably kept them indoors until they spotted the van. Three long minutes later when they hadn’t appeared, I turned off the engine, gathered my purse, and stepped out of the vehicle. Two steps toward the office door, and both girls came running out to me, tears streaking their faces. The urgency of their pelting progress sent me reaching for my new wand.

  Both girls wrapped their arms around me sobbing incoherently.

  “What?”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Deschants, may I have a word?” Mr. Andrews, the principal asked. He followed the girls more sedately.

  “Of course.” I gave the keys to Belle and told the girls to wait for me.

  “No,” Shara insisted. “We have to stay with you.”

  “Daddy said,” Belle added on a whisper.

  I looked toward the principal. He nodded acceptance that the girls could stay while we talked.

  “What have they done this time?” I asked the minute the office door closed behind us. Shara continued to cling to me. She hadn’t done that since she was five.

  “It’s not Shara. Or Belle for that matter. Both girls are innocent in this matter.” He assumed a professional bland face as he folded his hands together on top of his desk.

  Belle faced him, a newly adult fierceness on her face. Shara buried her face against my side.

  “Shara will have to drop out of the computer programming club at the high school,” Andrews said. “We made an exception for her because she is very talented. And Mr. Mooney who sponsors the club recommended her. But now he threatens to withdraw his sponsorship if we continue to allow underage students into the high school clubs. Quite frankly, without Mr. Mooney’s support we cannot operate the computer club. And if we remove Shara from participation because of her age, then we have to extend the same policy to all middle schoolers who belong to high school activities.”

  “That means Belle must drop out of Math Olympics, too,” I finished for him. “Even though she is taking Advanced Placement high school classes and is captain of the team.”

  “Yes, I am afraid so.” Andrews had the grace to look abashed.

  “Does this affect anyone but my family?” Anger began to boil in my mid-region. I had to rub my wand in my back pocket to contain my emotions.

  “Very few families have a genius of the caliber of your girls. Fewer still produce two so close together in age. . . .”

  “Anyone else have middle schoolers participating in high school academic extracurricular activities?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Andrews.”

  I gathered both of my girls and took them home. None of us spoke during the ten-minute drive. But my mind spun right, left, and sideways. As I pulled into the driveway, I asked, “What do you need to host your clubs here at the house?”

  “Computers networked to a couple of national sites,” Belle said.

  “Computers with ten terabytes of hard drive and a couple of external hard drives with as many more terabytes as we can afford.” Shara sighed wistfully, as if those requirements were a million miles away because we didn’t have them. Yet.

  “Flash drives would be better because they have no moving parts to wear down. But ten teras or more will push toward a thousand dollars each. Externals are better,” Belle told me.

  “If we get those external hard drives, will laptops and tablets with the house Wi-Fi suffice?”

  “I guess,” they both replied on a shrug.

  “Get on the phone. Our living and dining room just became math and computer central.”

  “And I have a project that will take the wind out of Mr. Mooney’s sails,” Shara said smugly.

  “Nothing illegal!”

  “Of course not.”

  I didn’t like the conspiratorial look the girls exchanged just before they ran into the house.

  Thirty-One

  G’S CAR WAS GONE, so I presumed he was with Jason. I called him anyway. He’d had his own agenda for so long I often wondered if he ever listened to what I needed, or needed him to do.

  “He passed the test. Only missed one question,” G said by way of introduction.

  “Where are you now?” Ten days from opening night, Jason needed to be at
rehearsal. I feared that he’d get so caught up in practicing driving that he’d let his obligations slide.

  “At the theater, of course. Even an opportunity to practice driving in the parking lot of the abandoned warehouses northwest of town couldn’t keep our boy away from dancing. Actually, he’s having a final fitting of his costume. You did a good job sewing it. The seamstress just wants to add more trim.” He sounded bright and affable, as if we had no worries about magical practitioners ready to pounce on us at any minute.

  “More sparkling trim and all the audience will see is trim and not his dancing,” I grumbled.

  If G heard me, he ignored me with silence.

  “I’ll be in the greenhouse if you need me. The girls are in the house, making phone calls to avert the latest disaster.”

  “What’s wrong?” G went from hearty to alarmed in one heartbeat.

  I told him.

  “I’ll kill that man,” he said, seething danger.

  Suddenly I was reminded of his true profession, law enforcement. How many magicians had he killed in the line of duty over the last fifteen years? I didn’t want to know the number, but I knew him capable.

  A thrill of excitement bubbled up from my tummy, warring with the chill of fear running up and down my spine. I’d married—and divorced—the ultimate “bad boy.” A very dangerous man, both to my well-being and my heart.

  With my magic wand firmly in my jeans pocket, I entered the greenhouse and let my hands hover over the long beds of herbs and vegetables. The familiar ritual soothed me.

  I had enough late lettuce and tomatoes for a salad to go with dinner. A few stubborn radishes, green onions, and the last stunted cucumber came to hand and went into my gathering basket. What else?

  Nothing called to me overtly demanding to be picked. The beauty of a greenhouse was that weeds were kept to a minimum. I’d already composted a number of plants that had withered with the changing light of autumn.