A Broom With a View

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  Liza had looked forward to their visits more than she’d looked forward to the holidays themselves.

  Liza didn’t think there was a finer woman in the world than her Nana Bud had been, and most everyone who’d known Rosebud in her lifetime would have probably agreed.

  Liza’s heart had broken when Rosebud passed away.

  Her death was especially difficult for Liza since she’d been in Spain with her husband at the time and, due to the standard form of miscommunication exhibited by her mother and Bryar Rose, she hadn’t found out about it until her grandmother was already dead and in the ground.

  Liza, filled with grief she didn’t know she was capable of feeling (she didn’t remember her father or his death) she’d lashed out at everyone from her husband to the poor plumber who’d just come to the house to unclog the guest toilet. In fact, her relationship with her sister Bryar was still strained and had only started to improve when talk of her divorce from Mode began.

  Nothing brought sisters, or women in general, together more than a shared enemy, and Bryar always had enjoyed being in the middle of drama.

  Liza regretted not attending the funeral; she was even more ashamed that she hadn’t seen her grandmother in more than a year when she died. She’d always assumed there would be more time.

  She guessed everyone thought that.

  Liza Jane thought the guilt of not being there for someone who loved you and having nobody to blame but yourself had to be one of the most dreadful feelings in the world. It was for her, anyway. Rather than being at her grandmother’s side, she’d been following her husband around like a puppy on the beaches of Marbella during breaks while he gawked at the topless women and their rosy nipples.

  She’d been there when her grandfather Paine had passed away peacefully at the Hospice Center. She’d even been holding his hand when it happened. But that was different.

  She’d loved her grandfather but hadn’t known him well. He’d always been a quiet, gentle soul who didn’t offer much of himself to anyone but his wife. And he’d lived a good, long life. When he’d passed on, Liza had been sad but it had felt right. He’d suffered for so long, his death was as much as a relief as it was a release.

  As soon as they’re returned from England, the last leg of the tour, Liza had locked herself in the guest room. It was the only place in the house Mode said he felt comfortable with her keeping her “supplies” as he called them. (He’d always claimed he was fine with her being a witch and had even considered it a fun little novelty at first, but now Liza was convinced that he’d been partly afraid of her. And rightly so. He should have been afraid. Very afraid.)

  She’d stayed in that room for two days, holding her own vigil for Nana Bud. On her altar, she’d lit candles and placed Rosebud’s picture and some of the cards she’d sent Liza over the years. She’d chanted, she’d meditated, and she’d offered thanks for having someone like her in her life. She’d called to the elements and sought peace within herself.

  Mostly, she grieved.

  Mode had left her alone. When she’d emerged at the end of the second day, hungry and exhausted, he’d glanced up from a Science Fiction book he was reading and asked her what she wanted for supper, like she’d just returned home from the movies.

  “Jerkwad,” Liza muttered now as she remembered the moment in total clarity.

  Not all witches were made alike. While they could do similar things and for similar reasons, they were all individuals and had their own unique traits. Unfortunately, sometimes for Liza, one of her strongest traits was that she could remember things that happened ten years ago in total, accurate detail as though they’d occurred just moments earlier. She wished that gift had kicked in while her father was still alive but, like some of the other things she’d learned about herself, witchery and the skills it entailed seemed to be an ongoing process.

  But as for Mode…”Jerkwad” was one of the nicest things she’d called him. When his grandmother had died, she’d been there for him. She’d even arranged the funeral, since both of Mode’s parents were dead.

  And she’d taken care of all the guests who had filed in and out of the house after the internment. He, on the other hand, never brought up her grandmother again. Didn’t even offer to send flowers to the cemetery.

  Asshat.

  Now, as she paced alone through the rooms of the old farm house and touched its walls, feeling the same places her grandparents had also touched, she could feel a part of them near her. It was both peaceful and comforting, even when thoughts of Mode threatened to tear her up inside. (Asshat or Jerkwad aside, they had been married for a long time and she was grieving a part of him–the part she wanted him to be anyway.)

  The overstuffed chairs covered in rainbow-colored afghans held imprints from their bottoms. The stale scent of cigarette smoke (even after being diagnosed with lung cancer her Papaw Paine hadn’t given up his Marlboros) that still lingered in the air even after eight years, lace doilies on every flat surface, hundreds of ceramic teapots and ladybug statues, and homemade rag rugs scattered throughout the house were constant reminders of the two people who’d meant the world to her.

  Liza vaguely remembered living there in the house with her mother and sister after her father died but those memories felt more like dreams. Still, while they might not have been strong, something about the house felt like home anyway. When she’d returned to Kudzu Valley to take stock of the situation after her separation from Mode, she’d known instantly that the idea she was flirting with in her mind was the right one.

  As soon as she’d turned off the main road and entered the downtown proper, a calmness had settled over her. The mountains were lush with leaves then, their colors almost unnatural. She’d rolled down her windows and deeply inhaled the town right there on Main Street.

  The air itself tasted of freedom.

  And when the old farm house had come into view, despite the headache she was getting from the various washouts in the gravel, she’d felt her name being called, not heard.

  Liza had no experience when it came to living in the country, or even living in a small town–at least no recent experience.

  “You lived at home for college for Chrissakes!” her mother had scolded her. “You’ve never even been responsible for a house by yourself!”

  Which was true, unless you wanted to consider the fact that Mode only did what he thought he had to.

  “You’ve never lived more than a ten-minute walk to a store,” her sister had pointed out, which was also true, although to Bryar “the Boondocks” meant someplace that couldn’t get Chinese delivered to you thirty minutes or less.

  At least in her adult life, Liza had never lived in isolation, never lived without neighbors within a stone’s throw distance, never lived without an active nightlife and restaurant scene just minutes away (now, if she wanted to go to a nightclub, she’d have to drive for more than an hour and a half), and had never been responsible for only herself.

  Hell, she’d only even lived by herself just recently. After moving out she’d ended up renting a dinky little apartment in Beverly that cost a fortune but had a closet the size of a shoebox and a view of a couple who were either newlyweds or just really, really amorous.

  Still, standing there in the yard, her yard now, and feeling the ground beneath her feet–the same ground generations of her relatives had stood on as well, she knew she was home.

  She knew it as a witch; she knew it as a woman.

  “You can have it,” Bryar Rose had sworn as soon as Liza asked her permission to move into it. “What the hell am I going to do with it?”

  Her mother had echoed the sentiment.

  She didn’t remember the shotgun house on Ann Street where she’d lived with her real father or the trips to the local park she’d apparently taken with him when he was alive (though she’d seen the pictures). Her only memories of Kudzu Valley had come from her brief and infrequent visits growing up. In her college sociology class, however, she’d read about h
ow people from Appalachia could get the mountains in their blood and never really shake them. No matter where they went, the mountains stayed with them, softly beckoning them to return home.

  Liza figured she was one of those people. All those years of living in the city, she’d teared up every time she’d watched “Matewan” or “Coal Miner’s Daughter” or even “Next of Kin” and “Justified.” Movies set in eastern Kentucky or nearby had pulled at her, even the bad ones, and she’d watched the credits feeling a yearning, like she was missing something she’d never even had.

  ***

  The farm house had four bedrooms and two had actual bedroom furniture. Another was what looked like her grandmother had used for a junk room. It was a mess but, more importantly, if she was going to get that board off the window and replace the glass she’d have to straighten it up. As it was, there was no direct path to get to the other side of the room.

  There wasn’t a path at all.

  The room was full of boxes of patterns dating back to the 1970s, scraps of random material, Christmas tree lights, bags of unopened junk mail, and boxes of 3-ply toilet paper. Seriously, there was more toilet paper than two people could ever use. And her grandfather had been gone for a long time.

  “Aw Nana Bud,” Liza chuckled. “You really got the use out of your Sam’s Club membership, didn’t you?”

  Well, at least she wouldn’t have to stock up on that necessity any time soon. Nana Bud had always believed in being prepared; you could never have too much toilet paper or chicken broth.

  She bought both every time she left the house, even if it was to just make a run to the post office.

  With Luke Bryan blaring on the portable CD player she’d found in the room she was using as her own bedroom, Liza sashayed around, singing along and bobbing her head in time with the music while she sorted and organized.

  She’d listened to country music stations on the whole ride down. It might have sounded stupid to others, but one of the things that excited her about living in Kudzu Valley was the thought of being a part of those things the songs talked about: a sense of community, bonfires with neighbors, and adventurous drives down backroads that turned to dirt…

  After what she’d been through with Mode and his menagerie of extracurricular activities, she couldn’t wait to dive into the bucolic life those singers crooned about and live a more peaceful existence.

  Goodbye to pop opera bands, naked boobs on the beach, and 2:00 am Chinese. Hello to four wheeling (whatever that really was), horseback riding (she could learn), and gardening (she did have a green thumb).

  When Luke got into his song about the woman dancing in his truck, Liza, who was in the middle of bending over to pick up an old tennis racket, paused mid-air.

  Did she need a truck?

  Oh, she thought with glee. Maybe I do need a truck.

  The idea thrilled her to the bone–the thought of cruising through town sitting high above the road, being able to haul…stuff.

  But she changed her mind as quickly as the idea came to her. She had a car and Christabel had been good to her. More than that, when she made the payment on her next week, she’d own her free and clear.

  And it only took six years.

  “Okay, okay,” she grumbled aloud, just in case Christabel had been able to hear her thoughts and desires from her position in the driveway. There were times when Liza was certain her car had a sixth sense, but she hadn’t been able to prove it yet. “No truck for me. I have a good car.”

  Sighing with regret, Liza leaned back over to reach for the tennis racket again and then popped back up.

  “Hey,” she cried, her eyes bright with excitement. “Do I need a gun?!”

  A heavy box of books fell off the top of a shelf just then and came within a hair of crashing down on her toes. Liza had reacted quickly enough that she was able to stop it mid-air and gently move it a few feet to the left before letting it continue its drop.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she muttered again. “I hear you. Grandpa. Or Nana. Or whichever one of my dead relatives you might be. I won’t get a gun. I don’t even know how to use one.”

  Before returning to work Liza did stop and listen to the room for a few minutes, however. If there had been another energy there moments ago, it was gone now.

  If either one of her grandparents had been watching over her, and in the very room with her, they were no longer there.

  Liza was sorry about that.

  Chapter Two

  PROSTITUTE RUMORS aside, Liza Jane really felt like her life was going to fall into place in Kudzu Valley.

  Her new business, The Healing Hands, was on the corner of Main Street and Broadway. At one time Kudzu Valley was a thriving railroad town, a town built to house the workers of the tracks that ran right through the middle of downtown. The houses and businesses were all laid out in a perfect grid, a perfectly planned community.

  At one time the town boasted not one but two cinemas, a handful of restaurants, two department stores, and several dozen locally-owned businesses.

  There had even been a drive-in and Liza could almost remember going to it as a child, sitting on the hood of the car with nachos and popcorn between her and a man who was now blurry in her mind.

  However, things had changed. More of the storefronts were empty than used now, their dusty windows overlooking a street that saw little traffic. Liza expected to see a tumbleweed blow by at any moment.

  A crazy part of her considered running out in the middle of the road and laying down under the one and only red light, just to see how long it took for a car to come by.

  But that would’ve been immature. Right?

  Now everyone just drove to the next county over; the next county that served alcohol and had a Walmart.

  Still, whether the town was dead or not it still needed her kind of business; she was sure of it. There wasn’t a single place in town where anyone could get a massage and more and more people were looking for natural treatments for their ailments. There were forty-thousand people in Morel County and some of them were bound to get sick and in need of somebody to pound on their backs and legs for half an hour.

  Liza Jane Higginbotham was just the person to do the pounding. She had a lot of issues to work out.

  It took her several tries to get the key to turn in the lock. When kicking, cursing, and throwing a mini tantrum with her red hair flying from her knitted cap and whipping her in the face didn’t work, she turned to something else.

  Liza calmed down, gave up the lock and key, said a quiet little charm to herself, and then let go of the knob and watched as the door creaked open in reluctant welcome.

  “Yeah, well, you and I need to work on that,” she murmured as she stepped inside.

  Of course, she wouldn’t always be able to charm it open. She’d have to figure out what made it stick and get that fixed and go about things the right way as often as she could. In the meantime, however, she was keen to explore her new building now and she didn’t want to wait.

  There were three rooms downstairs: a large space upfront, a bathroom, and a smaller room in the back.

  The smaller room was around 10 x 20, an awkward size, and had unfortunate peeling linoleum on the floor (and smelled faintly of pickles for no discernible reason whatsoever) but she could work with it. With new floors, new paint on the walls, a privacy screen where people could change clothes, and some aromatherapy it would be a fine treatment room.

  Someone had tried painting the bathroom a shocking shade of blood red, without priming it first. The original blue bled through in parts, making it look like someone really had splashed blood against the walls. She wasn’t totally against the Texas Chainsaw Massacre look but figured it might not be soothing to some of her more sensitive clients.

  There was also an upstairs’ apartment which was available for her use as well. It consisted of a living area with a dining space in the back, a bedroom, a galley kitchen, and a bathroom that had a toilet and shower, but no sink. (The sink
wasn’t missing; there just wasn’t enough room for one.)

  Liza had no reason to live in the apartment but she could use it for storage. She hoped that her actual products, as well as her services, would bring her some income. She had oils, herbs, tinctures, supplies for making one’s own tincture, and even gemstones for sale. She’d also ordered a ton of lotions, bubble baths, creams, and organic juices and supplements. She was eager to start making her own body scrubs and shampoos, too, and stock them as well.

  She used to get a kick out of making them and using what she could, giving the rest out to friends for Christmas but Mode had ridiculed her for doing it whenever he saw the opportunity.

  “Why do you want to keep buying brown sugar and olive oil?” he’d ask with that condescending smirk of his. “I’m making good money now. Just go to the mall and pick out what you want. It will save you a lot of time and you’re not really saving us money by doing this. I don’t know why you want to do it.”

  What she wanted was to make her own damn bubble bath. She didn’t care that the DIY approach wasn’t saving them money, she just enjoyed it. And she secretly thought they were safer and better for her skin.

  Besides, it wasn’t like she had much of anything else to do anymore anyway.

  She hadn’t worked in years. When she’d gone back to school and received her massage therapist license she’d had a ball doing the certification and being in a classroom setting again. Liza had always liked school. Then she’d taken the job at the day spa and that had been fun, too, even though it was only part time. At least she was getting out of the house.

  And her clients liked her.

  Since she’d married Mode, most of the people she knew were his people. There were the bandmates, their girlfriends, their publicity people, their accountants, the groupies (oh God, the groupies-who would’ve thought a pop opera group brought groupies), and so on and so on.