by Mary Rickert
With an exaggerated sigh, the nurse pushed back her chair to retrieve a bucket, sawdust, and a little broom, which she handed to Nan before disappearing behind the screen, returning later with a wan-looking Eve, dressed and clutching her purse.
Ruthie was the only one who talked on that long train ride home, though Nan didn’t listen to the words but stared out the window at the flat landscape, the brown grass, the dead flowers, the leafless branches raised to the gray sky, vaguely nauseated by the stench that rose from her collar while Eve read a book.
“You can come live with us,” Nan said. “I’m sure my parents won’t mind.”
Eve looked at Nan as if she had said something inscrutable. “Why would I do that?”
Nan opened her mouth but swallowed her words.
So it was decided. They wouldn’t speak of it. Later, when they left the train, Eve walked ahead, not hurrying, really, just brisk, leaving them behind as though they had done something she wanted no part of.
FERNS The root of the fern, dug under a full moon, will cause a witch to turn pale. Royal fern is soothing if laid on wounds. Moon fern is said to be so magnetic that it will pull the shoes right off your feet.
The car has passed Bay twice, the first, going too fast on the dangerous curve, the second, much slower. Bay supposes a stranger could easily get lost out here; it’s not a road that goes anywhere important, as far as she knows. East, it ends in town, where it inexplicably splits into two roads, neither of which bears its name. West, it winds past the sign for Wood Hollow, the subdivision Thalia’s mom drove through once, clicking her tongue at the dirt lots and oversized, mostly empty houses. “Like a ghost town with no ghosts,” she’d said, then shot Bay a look. What was that look? Now that Bay thinks of it, Mrs. Desarti is often shooting darted looks her way. Why? What does everyone else know about Bay’s life that she doesn’t? What did Thalia mean about a boy who died out here? Karl? Of course not, he’s not really a ghost. Yet everything is confused. What is true about Nan, for instance? Is she a witch? A liar? What is the secret of Bay’s life? She asks herself these questions several times, but the inquisition yields nothing.
Here it comes again, the headlights mark the car’s slow progress. Bay doesn’t know what makes her duck at its approach, but when the headlights blink off, she crouches lower than the tiger lily petals, her heart beating wildly. Not a lost driver, someone looking for the girl walking alone on the side of a dark road, how stupid has she been?
The car passes slowly, a red car with a missing fender, the driver a silhouette of a man hunched over the steering wheel. Bay doesn’t move a muscle. Though her feet itch, she does not move to scratch. She doesn’t turn her head either. She listens to the car purr away until it squeals around the curve.
What was she thinking to come out here like this at such a late hour? How can she possibly hope to discover the truth of her life by wandering around in the dark? She scratches her ankle. What if he comes back?
She doesn’t know how long she crouches there before she hears humming. Because Bay is a swimmer, or at least used to be one, she is able to hold her breath for a long time. One thing she learned the day after her birthday is that actually, she can hold her breath for a freakishly long time. Bay feels the held breath course through her like smoke. The humming grows louder. She holds so still she doesn’t even blink. The person humming is now directly in front of Bay, the white sneakers close enough to touch. She closes her eyes, like a little child, and for a moment thinks it works. Maybe there is magic, after all. Maybe she can be saved by held breath and hope. The humming stops. The only sound is the peepers down the road. Perhaps Bay imagined everything else; she used to imagine things a lot as a child—people in the garden, the scent of water, colored light around her Nana’s body. When two hands part the tall grass and tiger lilies, Bay gasps.
“Are you all right, honey?”
“Ruthie?” Bay stands, a sudden giant among the lilies. “What are you doing here?”
Ruthie, her bathrobe buttoned all the way to the lace collar, her hair in pin curls, looks up at the moon. “Well, I guess I had the same idea as you, dear. It’s such a lovely night, isn’t it? Why, I remember—”
“Quick. Hide.”
Ruthie gives up her attempt at squatting behind the wild flowers in favor of sitting with her legs splayed out in front of her, her sneakers white beacons in the dark.
The headlights brighten as the car approaches too fast, so fast Bay worries that rather than being kidnapped, they are in danger of being crushed, though the car holds the curve as it speeds past.
“Well,” says Ruthie, picking bits of weed and grass off her robe, “is this how you entertain yourself out here?”
Which makes Bay laugh. Ruthie laughs too, her stick-out teeth accentuating her horsey look.
“The same car keeps going by,” Bay says. “Once with his headlights off. I think he was looking for me.”
“Oh, my,” Ruthie says. “One can’t be too careful these days. He turned his headlights off? That does sound suspicious. Do you think it’s safe now?”
Bay listens carefully, noting a new, strange sound that takes a moment to identify as Ruthie’s breathing, slightly labored as if she had been running. “We can get up, but we should probably stick close to the side of the road.”
“Well, will you look at that? You just pop up like a sunflower, like it’s no effort at all.” Ruthie, struggling to stand, accepts Bay’s assistance. She is surprised by how big Ruthie’s hand is, how firm her grasp.
“What in the world is that?” Ruthie asks, peering into the woods.
“Oh, that’s just the old witch’s place.”
“What old witch?”
Bay can’t believe she called it that. “Nobody,” she says. “No one lives there. It’s just something people say.”
Ruthie leans forward to get a good look. “I wonder who the new witch is.”
“No one lives there. No one has lived there my whole life. It’s just a rundown cabin.”
Ruthie squints down at Bay. “Let’s have a look.”
Bay points to her bare feet. She can’t walk through the woods like this.
“You’re not wearing shoes? Why would you do such a thing?”
Bay would like to say that Ruthie isn’t exactly a model of practical dress herself, but doesn’t want to be rude.
Ruthie turns her back, palms braced above her slightly bent knees.
“Did you lose something?”
“Goodness, what do I have to lose? Hop on.”
“Hop on what?”
“My back, silly.”
Bay doesn’t say that Ruthie is too old, but that she herself is. “What if someone sees us?”
“Oh, who’s going to see us out here? I know you’re afraid you’re going to break the old lady’s back, but I’m stronger than I look.”
Bay shakes her head.
“Now listen to me. A person doesn’t get to be my age by making foolish choices. Well, actually, I’ve made plenty of foolish choices, but if I couldn’t carry you, I wouldn’t offer. You’re insulting me. Do you think I’m senile?”
“No, it’s just—”
“All right then. The only hiccup is that I can’t bend very far. Put your arms around my neck, not too tight, lean onto me, closer, Bay. Press more like I was a boy you think you are in love with. Now this is the tricky part, when I say, well what should I say? Obsidian! I’m going to stand, and you’re going to make a little jump to bring your legs up around my waist. Ready?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, I should hope not. One. Two. Obsidian.”
Ruthie wavers, the tiger lilies tremble, the tall grass ripples, the moon glow shivers like water, but Bay holds tight, remembering the sensation of almost drowning, determined not to fall.
“Are you all right?”
/> “Just give me a minute, dear. I have to get my earrings.”
“Your earrings?”
“Bearings, I mean. All right, hiccup yourself a bit more. Yes, that’s it. Now, where is it? Oh, yes, there it is.”
“I’m not too heavy for you?”
“I should have made another course for dinner, that’s what I think. Put some fat on those bones of yours. You’re as light as a cupcake.”
Bay, her arms already around Ruthie’s neck, presses her face close, inhaling the clean scent of lemon. It’s weird to be fifteen and getting a piggyback ride, but now that she is no longer in danger of crashing to the ground and squashing Ruthie, Bay remembers how her Nana used to give rides like this when they came out here to look for fiddleheads. Back then, Bay had to be carried because her little feet got tangled in the weeds. “I think the forest wants to take you back,” her Nana would say.
“Are you having goose pimples? Did someone just walk on your grave? Isn’t it just the sweetest place? Can’t you just picture it with a little garden of daffodils? Deer won’t eat daffodils, you know, but they love tulips. And some rocking chairs and wind chimes?”
Bay looks past Ruthie’s bobby-pinned hair at the old cabin, the door dangling on a hinge, the crooked porch littered with stones, the windows, black hollows edged with glass like a jack-o’-lantern’s smile. Ruthie picks her way across the forest floor’s uncertain terrain, talking about decorating, a little picket fence, lace curtains, pottery. For just a moment, Bay pictures it that way, as though it’s been obvious all along, but a slivered glint catches her eye and breaks the spell. “Be careful of broken glass,” she says.
“You are an extraordinarily cautious child.”
“Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I wish my son would have been more careful. You’re right to worry. Cut your foot out here, and you would turn into a fairy-tale character for sure, you know the one. Look at that stone chimney. Bay, do you think there’s a fireplace?”
“Oh, it has a big fireplace, but it’s falling apart.”
“Can’t you just imagine a nice bowl of stew cooked over the fire? And bread? Can’t you just smell it?”
Bay inhales the scent of dirt, skunk cabbage (a musky scent more pleasant than it sounds), grass, and—could it be?—she closes her eyes: the yeasty scent of fresh bread, quickly replaced by Ruthie’s lemon perfume.
“‘Whose woods these are I think I know,’” Ruthie says.
“You do?”
“Robert Frost. You’re familiar with the poem, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“Well, my goodness, what kind of education are you getting? Isn’t it just the sweetest little cabin? A person could be really happy out here, I think.”
“Ruthie?”
“Yes?”
“How do you… I mean it seems like you know my Nana really well.”
“Is that a question, dear?”
“This is kind of hard to say. But I mean, like, do you think…is my Nana a witch?”
“What did you say? My hearing isn’t what it used to be.”
Bay leans close to Ruthie’s ear. “Is my Nana a witch?”
Ruthie’s body stiffens. “We’ll come back in daylight,” she says, turning toward the road, “when you are wearing proper shoes.”
Bay bites her lip. Should she not have asked? Apparently she should not have. The silence, which previously felt so companionable, now feels thorny. When they return to the side of the road, Bay slides carefully down Ruthie’s back, trying to think of something to say, something pleasant to restore the good feeling they’d shared all evening, but she can’t think what that would be. They walk down the road in silence, staying close to the bank in case they need to dive for cover. Bay stops to brush off the tiny stones that stick to the soles of her feet, but Ruthie continues walking, as though she doesn’t even care if Bay falls behind, vulnerable to kidnappers, or “turns into a fairy-tale character,” whatever that means.
Ruthie is humming. Bay has no idea what song it’s supposed to be; it barely sounds like music at all, more like a slightly melodic throat clearing. Bay realizes she’s hurrying to keep up with an old woman wearing sneakers and a robe, her hair in pin curls. There’s more than one reason, Bay thinks, to hide if a car approaches. She’ll never live it down if anyone from school sees her.
“Well, there’s nothing like a summer’s night walk,” Ruthie says. “Though obviously one must be aware of the usual dangers. It’s been ages since I’ve done anything like this! Where I live the streets are not nearly so pleasant. And my husband was overprotective.”
“Did he really try to poison you?”
“Oh my, yes. Why would anyone make up such a horrible story?”
“Well, like I said, I understand why you would want to kill him.”
Bay worries that Ruthie is having a heart attack or something, because she stops suddenly with her hands clutched over her chest. Before Bay can even remember what she learned in health class, Ruthie says, “Don’t,” in a terrible voice.
“Don’t what?”
Ruthie shakes her head, the glittering copper bobby pins like starlight in her hair. “Don’t ever understand the urge to kill.” Still clutching her hands over her heart, she leans down to look directly into Bay’s eyes. “No one should understand such a thing. You must do whatever it takes so you don’t understand, do you hear me?”
Bay finds herself momentarily caught in the stare of Ruthie’s small blue eyes, too close to her narrow nose. Killer eyes, isn’t that what Stella called them?
“Yes,” Bay says. “I hear you, and I hear Stella. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing.” It’s a moment of rudeness she immediately regrets.
“I got over the urge for murder a long time ago. You never want to feel that way, Bay. It’s a terrible, terrible way to feel, and it will destroy you and ruin your life.” With an abrupt nod, Ruthie turns and continues on her way, leaving Bay at the side of the road.
Wait? What? Bay doesn’t know if she wants to catch up or run in the other direction. She watches Ruthie walking slowly up the road in her sneakers and bathrobe. Where else can Bay go? Nowhere can be safer than home. She pries a sharp stone out of her foot; it leaves a drop of blood shaped like a tear. When she looks up, Ruthie is standing by the side of the road, watching. What is it about the light tonight? Bay wonders. Ruthie, in her pink robe, moonlit pin curls, and bright white sneakers looks like she is glowing. Not sure what else to do, or where else to go, Bay walks toward her.
PARSLEY Transporting parsley is bad luck, and transplanting it will result in death. Wearing parsley increases cheerfulness. Only witches can grow parsley.
Nan looks past the moonflowers, beyond the road to the droop of weeds lining the drainage ditch while the memories swirl around her like a little tornado. Her parents, laughing on the porch swing; why has she forgotten how they used to laugh? She remembers a lavender ribbon and her mother saying, “Here, Nanolan. You have such pretty hair.” Why? Why has she forgotten that for so long, and why does this memory return tonight?
Mavis says it is time they get started on the ceremony. She scoots across the chair accompanied by that clank of bracelets. When she stands, both she and the chair rock precariously.
Nan peers up at Mavis. Old now. Dying. At a distance, as if in a dream. What is she saying? Nan can’t be sure; the taste of ash overwhelms everything else; she is filled with it as though on fire.
“I’ll be right there,” Nan says, though her words sound strange, distorted, distant. “I need a few minutes alone.”
Mavis grunts, waving her hand in that way she has, as though every time Nan opens her mouth, gnats swarm the air between them.
***
Even though it was December, Nan sat on the porch swing, staring at the black night, searching for stars in the dark embrace of winter chill.
She had taken to doing this in the past week, donning coat and mittens to sit outside. Earlier, when she went in to use the bathroom, Nan heard her parents arguing. “It isn’t normal,” her mother said. “I am afraid there’s something not right about her, and it’s been getting worse. We never should have let her develop a relationship with that woman.”
Nan sighed, glancing at “that woman’s” house. Miss Winter, recently returned from visiting her sister, with violet jelly and potted parsley as a thank you to Nan for changing Fairy’s water and filling her bowl with cat food, never suspecting, Nan hopes, that she was the sort of girl who took advantage of trust.
“It’s a sign of larger developments,” her mother said. “A young lady does not sit on the porch in the middle of winter.”
“It’s her birthday.” Her father sighed, sharply interrupted by something inaudible from Nan’s mother, he continued. “Well, all right, tomorrow. Let her be. She’s a thoughtful child.”
“But she’s not a child. That’s what you don’t seem to realize. She’s a young woman now.”
Lately, it seemed to Nan, there was no safe thing to think about. Everything was infected by what happened to Eve. Nan stood so suddenly, the porch swing rocked behind her as if with a ghost. She opened the front door and called into the house, “I’m going.”
Her mother came on noisy heels to look at Nan as though she had turned into something grisly.
“To Mavis’s,” Nan said, pretending to be cheerful. “To sleep over. Remember?”
“Where are your things?”
Nan was afraid of entering her own house, even for her nightgown and pillow. She didn’t trust herself, afraid she’d say the wrong thing, afraid she’d tell the truth.
“I took my bag over earlier. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, not waiting for a response.
Her mother hated it when she ran but Nan loved the cold air on her face, the feel of her hair blowing back. She ran the whole way to Mavis’s house. Mrs. Hearn, used to this sort of wild behavior from her own daughter, only said, “Mavis asked me to tell you there’s been a change of plans. The sleepover is at Eve’s house tonight.”
