The Flower Bowl Spell

by Olivia Boler

  The paper rests limp, the news already old, stale, and flat, the converse of what it has supposedly evoked in this Chad Beane person.

  “It’s such a nothing piece,” I say. Maybe it’s a joke. But Ned has no time or patience for jokes.

  “Nice attitude, Zhang. You’re a bona fide go-getter.”

  I know I should feel gratitude. Real gratitude. But the overriding suspicion—these things just don’t happen—is blocking that thankful feeling.

  “Look, we’ll pay your full salary on this. Plus, Beane has agreed to match that. Travel expenses too. Per diem and all. They’ve got dough. They’re up-and-comers. There’s even talk of you writing their authorized biography.”

  There’s a genuine lump in my throat, filled with elation and panic.

  “So what do you say?” Ned holds up his hand as I open my mouth. “The only answer I want to hear is yes.”

  I shrug. “Then it looks like yet again, you’re getting what you want.”

  ****

  I’m on cloud nine. I wonder what cloud nine really is and what it’s actually supposed to evoke. It must be akin to the feeling I get during the magickal season of oestra, when plants are curling open, baby animals are born, and the world awakens from the dead of winter. Even here in the Bay Area, the land of barely changing seasons, rejuvenation is palpable. The thought tickles through my mind, and I let it: You’ve made it.

  Made what? And what comes after this? Something tells me more of the same old. Which is fine, but my fancy scratches at the possibility of great fortune, grand deeds, bold moves.

  Despite the fact that this professional coup has simply fallen unbidden in my lap, I want to celebrate as soon as possible with my man. But when I get home, it’s quiet and unoccupied.

  There’s a note next to the phone: Am out for a dinner/movie with Hil. Viveka (?) left you a message. Don’t wait up. C. Hil is Hillary, Cooper’s tween-age daughter from his first—and last—marriage, which I did not break up. I’m not a complete ho. They were already separated when Coop and I made our current love connection.

  As for Viveka, that’s another blast from the past.

  PART TWO: THE COVEN KIDS

  Chapter Six

  I dial Viveka’s number, which Cooper wrote on his note, and the phone only rings once before she picks up. The line cracks and spits.

  “Yes?”

  “Viveka?” I ask. “Is this Viveka Murray?”

  There’s a pause before she answers. “Memphis. Can I come over?”

  “Of course.” I don’t hesitate, even though I haven’t seen Viveka Murray since I was a kid. Not since her grandmother, Gru, disbanded the coven. The phrase what the hell? floats through my thoughts.

  “Great. We’ll be there in two minutes.” She hangs up.

  I stand with the phone held to my sticky ear. Outside, joggers pass by my window, the thwack of their running shoes and their breathless conversation audible. The setting sun reflects off of the monstrous white apartment building across the street as it does every early evening, each day a little earlier as autumn progresses.

  I remember to blink.

  Even though we were both coven kids, Viveka and I were not friends. She was a few years older than me, which makes a big difference when you’re a child. She also seemed pretty mortified by the whole magickal scene. Eventually the Murrays moved to Oregon, and a while later Gru retreated to Mendocino to practice solo. Without her leadership, the coven fell apart.

  Viveka’s mother, Sadie LeBrun Murray, was friends with Auntie Tess, though when we were alone Tess used to refer to Sadie as The Princess. Sadie was the epitome of a modern witch. She looked like Stevie Nicks and she had apparently never officially married Viveka’s father. I could never tell whether Tess liked Sadie because of her social status in the coven or because she sincerely deemed Sadie friend-worthy.

  The doorbell rings, and as it does the something that has been bothering me rises to the surface of my thoughts. Viveka said we. We’ll be there in two minutes. Exactly two minutes have gone by according to my wall clock. We who?

  I hurry to the door, and in an uncontrollable fit of spasticity, kick over a pile of CDs I’ve been transferring to my iPod.

  “Just a minute!” My voice is shrill. I right the mess into a precarious tower of jewel cases, take a deep breath, and open the door.

  Before me stand two versions of young Viveka—but with darker skin and curls—one about four years old, the other about eight. Two little girls, both with hair the color of rope and the texture of fluff, look up at me with their mother’s light brown eyes, the irises rimmed in black. They are dressed as alternatives of each other, the younger one in a buttoned-up pea coat and blue-and-green striped leggings; the older one in jeans and a pearl puffy ski jacket. A hand reaches between them towards me, an adult hand, and for a heart-stopping moment I think it’s a succubus stretching out from their backs, that they have tentacles of human arms and have come to claim me for a snack. But of course it’s really just Viveka standing behind them on the steps below.

  I extend my hand to take hers. Our eyes meet, and her grasp—desperate and clinging—jolts me into a sudden vision: The last time I was at the McLaren Park playground, Viveka was there too.

  We were girls. We sat on the swings side by side and tried to see who could go the highest. We were so enraptured by our little contest that we missed the Wyrt Moon ritual the coven was performing in the neighboring field. Viveka won hands down, Queen of the Swings. I remember her laughing, her cheeks dimpled, even as the women near us cried and chanted, “Bring him back. Bring him back.” A ritual, I recall now, for a missing coven member, Viveka’s Uncle Isaac. I paid no attention, thrilled to have Viveka, this older girl, all to myself.

  My memory of her gleeful face softens and refocuses, calling up an unfamiliar man’s face. He is angular, African-looking, and slim. Before I can complete a thought of recognition—the girls’ father?—the image changes again. This time it’s a person with thick black hair and features that could be Asian or Latino, the skin around his or her eyes dark and bruised-looking from lack of sleep or a sickness or both.

  Viveka steps between the girls and into my home, still holding my hand. She’s gripping so tight it’s like she needs to prop herself up. I take on the burden of her weight as she leans into me for just a moment. When she lets go of my hand the visions disappear. At a glance from Viv, the girls step inside. I close the door and show them into the living room.

  “Are these your daughters?” I ask.

  “Yeah. This is Romola.” Viveka points to the older one. “And that’s Cleo.”

  Cleo returns my gaze with all the bearing of a forty-year-old dame. I can’t help but connect her to the legendary Egyptian queen and the ancient Egyptian city, my namesake.

  “Nice to meet you.” I offer them the couch, then hurry to the kitchen. A quick survey of the cupboards produces a half-empty canister of instant hot cocoa and some peppermint tea bags.

  I’m just filling the kettle with water when Viveka joins me. I get my first good look at her. She’s gained weight, and her face is round in a way it wasn’t as a girl, a sort of moon—still dimpled. Her hair is short, a mom haircut. She’s dressed in jeans with an elastic waistband, a Fair Isle sweater, and tan loafers with a woven-basket design across the top of her foot. This grown-up Viveka is not what I would have pictured, if I had bothered to picture her over the years.

  “So Viv, are you still in Portland?”

  “Look, Memphis, I need you to watch my girls.”

  I drop the kettle in the sink and most of the water pours out, splashing me.

  “There’s something I have to do,” she continues, “and I can’t have them around.”

  “What about their father?”

  Her face becomes hard. “He’s out of town. Besides, we’re having some—problems.”

  “Oh.” I dab at my wet shirt with a kitchen towel. “Your mother can’t take them?”

  “She died.”
<
br />   I stop dabbing. “Sadie died? I didn’t know. Viveka, I’m sorry. When? How?”

  “About two months ago. She drowned.”

  “Oh my god. That’s—” I am stuck and horrified. “That’s awful.” How could I not know that Sadie died? Surely Gru would have called or at least written to me. Perhaps she’s been too overcome with the grief of losing her only daughter. I can’t imagine how she must feel. “But how? I haven’t talked to your grandmother in ages. She’s got to be devastated. Does anyone else know from—you know. Does Tess know? I guess not. She would have told me.” I am unstuck and babbling.

  Viv looks impatient. “I haven’t been up to talking about it much.”

  “Of course.”

  We stand for a moment, Viveka looking on the verge of crumpling yet unapproachable. I wouldn’t dare try to hug her. Her aura is dark and crackling. I put the towel back on its hook.

  “What about Gru? Can she watch your girls? She’s their great-grandmother, right?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “It has to be you. And please don’t tell her about this.”

  “But why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I stare at her. “You don’t know?”

  Instead of answering, she looks at me and lifts her chin. “Why not you?”

  I have a few reasons, but I doubt she’d care to listen to them. My next question is an obvious one, but I don’t ask it. With the way this conversation is progressing, I already know what her answer will be—she won’t tell me where she’s going.

  I take the kettle out of the sink and start filling it again. “How long?”

  “I can’t say,” she says. “Maybe a few days. A couple of weeks.” She sounds uncertain and I am so tempted to touch her again. Her aura has calmed down to a shimmering cool blue, like deep northern ice.

  “I have to go on a business trip,” I say.

  “The girls won’t mind. They’re good travelers.”

  I put the kettle on the stove and light the burner. I can feel the girls’ concentration, as if they are in the room with us. Especially Cleo.

  “Don’t they have school?”

  “They’re home-schooled. They’re good about doing their work. You just have to get them started.”

  I pour cocoa powder into mugs, my hands surprisingly steady. “My boyfriend doesn’t get home for a few hours. I need to talk to him about this.”

  “I don’t have time to wait. Besides, you’re going to do it.”

  I give her a sharp going-over. As a child, Viveka never showed signs of intuitiveness.

  She reaches into her purse, a black, faux-leather hunk, and pulls out an envelope. “It’s money,” she says. “And their medical records. There’s also a note from me giving you permission to watch them.” She slides the packet across the counter.

  “Viv.” I shake my head. “This is so...”

  “I know. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t have to.”

  “Can you at least tell me what this is all about?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not even—” She stops and I see her choosing her words. “Later. When I know more.”

  We stand there for a while in silence, sometimes looking at each other, sometimes not. In a panicked surge, I want to grab her hand and squeeze out whatever information I can from her, to manipulate her thoughts—change her mind!—no matter how wrong it is. And the thing is, I know it wouldn’t work. She opened up to me a little when she first got here—those faces I saw—but her guard is up now.

  Part of me is intrigued. Part of me wants to see where this thing is going to go.

  The kettle begins to whine. Viveka leaves the kitchen while I’m pouring hot water into mugs. I carry them into the living room. Viv is hunkered down in front of her daughters, who look as if they have not moved one inch from where we left them on the couch. Her words are murmured and they gaze into her face, barely moving, occasionally blinking.

  The girls don’t budge as I place the cups in front of them on the coffee table. I step back, not sure if I should go or stay. I want to stay, to witness everything about this extraordinary situation. There’s so much I don’t know. I don’t even know their father’s name.

  Viveka leans forward and the girls follow her lead. They hug her, their small fingers pressing into her sweater. She whispers something like, “Jesus bless you.” The moment is fraught with its inevitable end, and when they break away from each other, the girls’ faces are wet with tears. Viv stands up and turns to me, and for the first time since she walked into my home, the shield of defiance is gone.

  “Thank you, Memphis,” she says and reaches for my hand. There are no more visions, but a flutter of something runs from her to me—mother-strength, I hope.

  “I can call you, right?”

  She shakes her head. “My phone won’t be working. But I’ll call you. Soon.”

  “But what if something happens?” I glance at the girls, not wanting to alarm them.

  “Don’t worry.” She walks to the front door and opens it. “The girls will be fine. Nothing’s going to happen to them.”

  “But—”

  “I just know.”

  But how could she know? She doesn’t have It.

  Viveka steps forward and gives me the hug I could not give her. “Thank you,” she says. Almost instantly I feel her push me away, and she is gone.

  Chapter Seven

  At the bottom of my front stairs, Viveka has left two duffel bags and a child’s booster car seat. It’s official. The kids are with me.

  They’re sitting on my couch. I sink down across from them in Cooper’s armchair, the one he occupies to watch sports and the History Channel. The girls look at me, their faces open.

  Viveka was never magickal. She scoffed at the adults who surrounded us, a rebellious preteen bucking her heritage. But her girls, they aren’t ordinary. At least, Cleo isn’t. It’s in her face—hers is a whopper of an old soul.

  “How’s the cocoa?” I ask.

  Romola, the older one, picks up her mug and takes a sip without slurping. Cleo looks at her sister. “It’s too hot for her, ”Romola says. “Better wait a little bit.”

  Afternoon is wearing into evening. What was I going to eat for dinner before all of this happened? Oh, right. Celebrate my professional coup with my feller. I go to the refrigerator. One foil-wrapped slice of pizza, two bottles of a six-pack, condiments. Nothing here for little girls.

  Back in the living room, Cleo has scooted onto the floor and is blowing furiously on her mug. Romola sits with incredibly good posture.

  “Do you take ballet?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Gymnastics.”

  “Me too,” Cleo says, tipping her mug. I’m expecting disaster at any second, but I don’t want to scare her into spilling the drink. No sudden movements. I try to think about what it was like with Hillary. She was close to Cleo’s age when I started babysitting her. She was bratty sometimes. She also knew something was going on between her father and me before we did.

  Well, that’s not entirely true. I knew, but I didn’t let myself know. After all, I was one of his underage students. But Hillary caught on.

  “Daddy likes you,” she said once out of the blue. We were playing a game in their backyard—this was in their Inner Sunset house and he was still married to Hil’s mother. I remember looking around to see if any of their neighbors were within listening range.

  “That’s sweet,” I said. “He’s a cool teacher.”

  “Yeah, but he likes you, you know, like, not like a girl but like a grown-up.”

  I didn’t reply. We continued with our game and I thought perhaps the embarrassing subject was forgotten. But after a while, Hillary said, “Do you like my daddy?” Her voice was full of sly knowing. “Do you want to be his girlfriend?”

  “You’re being silly, Hil,” I said. “Your dad is married to your mom. And I like her a lot too.” That was no lie. I did like her, and I still do. Any bad blood she might have tried
to infuse between us has been erased by her shiny, new venture-capitalist husband.

  But what to do with Viveka’s girls? Cleo has successfully brought her mug to her mouth with both hands and is slurping down lukewarm cocoa, her head tipping far back on her slight neck.

  “What would you like to eat?” I ask them.

  Romola shrugs. And then her eyes widen. “Can we have French fries? Mommy says they’re only for special occasions.”

  “French fries, French fries!” Cleo chants.

  There are a couple of burger places on Twenty-fourth Street that would do, but it seems better to get out of my neighborhood. I rack my brain until it comes to me—the perfect spot. I haven’t been there in years. We’ll have to drive, but a car ride will kill time, give us something to do.

  I hold out my hands to the girls and they clasp them in their own. “French fries it is.”

  ****

  Installing Cleo’s souped-up car seat requires skill sets I didn’t know I possess. The buckles and clasps seem like a test designed to determine I.Q., dexterity, and luck. Romola helps.

  “I like your doll,” she says as I make a right turn into a parking lot. I’m not sure what she means until my eyes land on the hula girl I’ve glued to the dashboard. She bobbles not so gracefully as I pull into a parking spot.

  “Thank you.”

  The girls crane their necks up at the red on white sign, which hangs dully against the gray, twilit sky: Lucky Penny. Neither one moves, even after I get out of the car. They just sit there in the backseat, staring at the sign, mouths hanging open. I give them a moment, fussing with my bag and pretending there’s something in there I really need to hunt down.

  “Come on,” I say after I’ve palpated every inch of the bag’s interior. I’m not even sure why I’m stalling. They undo their seatbelts. Romola helps her little sister open the door. Once they’re both standing in the parking lot, she slams it shut with both hands.

  We sit at a booth with a view of the parking lot. Cars line up to park at the Trader Joe’s next door, and I make a mental note to head over there after we eat. Must stock up on kid-friendly foodstuff. I’ve ordered the same thing at the Lucky Penny ever since I was a girl, coming here with my parents or Auntie Tess: grilled cheese on rye. Back then it was called the Copper Penny. Maybe the owners decided the association between copper and food isn’t really all that appetizing.