Vicious Circle

by Linda Robertson

  Pursing my lips, I tried to decide how to word it. Johnny wouldn’t want or need to hear all the details. Girl stuff would probably bore him. “Our friendship is over. It could end on terms that aren’t exactly bad, but she won’t stop till things get ugly.”

  “Why aren’t you still friends?”

  “We’ve just grown so far apart and become so different since high school that it’s a chore. Any relationship that feels like work isn’t working. Every relationship has to be worked at, I know, but—”

  “Can I put in here that I think you might be watching too much Dr. Phil?”

  “Shut up. I don’t even watch TV that much. What I’m saying is that a friendship shouldn’t be so hard.”

  His voice sank low and turned yummy. “Some things are at their best when they’re hard.”

  “Johnny,” I said exasperatedly. After signaling my annoyance by shaking my head for an appropriate amount of time, I continued: “I don’t remember her birthday anymore, but every New Year when I put up the new calendar, I feel obligated to reference the old calendar and write it—and other things—on the right date and send a card and some flowers to her work.”

  “Lots of people need reminding, Red.”

  “Okay, fine.” He clearly wouldn’t stop until he had the whole messy story. “She found Jesus recently—”

  “Was he lost?”

  “Oh stop it. She’s very connected to religion, which isn’t a bad thing, but it means that we don’t do any of the old stuff we used to do or talk about any of the old stuff we used to talk about because she’s ‘not allowed.’ It all just seems pointless. She doesn’t know I’m a witch. I never told her or the others because I knew they’d think I was a freak. Now I really can’t tell her. She doesn’t even know what column, exactly, I write, or she’d be on my case about that because she’s very anti-wære.” I sighed. “I have to be so careful around her. It’s tedious keeping secrets like that. And I know she wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore if she knew the truth.”

  He was quiet, then pointed out the big red-and-yellow Meijer sign in the distance, indicating that the next exit was the one I wanted. “Sounds to me like the truth will set you free.”

  * * *

  I dropped Johnny off outside the store and said I’d be watching for him in an hour. I drove off to the little plaza then and realized that the coffee shop Nancy expected to meet in was a Starbucks.

  I didn’t see her Cavalier anywhere, but I went on inside. I ordered a hot apple cider from a very congenial employee and chose a seat away from the window and the nearly retired sun. I thought about picking up the complimentary local paper to flip through, but my eyes needed to rest.

  Backing my chair against the wall, I let my head fall back, shut my eyes, and reflected upon my last visit to a coffee shop. Despite their different franchised names and color schemes, the environments inside the two shops were pretty much the same, and the aroma was definitely the same. It took me back.

  Vivian had suckered me and started this whole mess. I wondered if Vivian was dead. Wondered if her flesh was cold and gray, her eyes wide and sightless. It surprised me how strongly I hoped that was the case. For what she had done to Lorrie, for the manipulation of so many, and to bury the info she held and keep it from getting to Menessos.

  Leaning on the table, I stirred the hot cider, watching the amber liquid swirl. The strong sense of justice that had embraced me all my life seemed to be gripping me tighter lately, strengthened by the accompanying urge to personally dole justice out in hefty doses to those who required it—but only to those who either admitted their guilt or had it otherwise proven. Sounded like top-of-the-list requirements for a Lustrata.

  “You hate me, don’t you?”

  Nancy stood there with a little box in her arms. Her red-rimmed and puffy eyes were wide and uncertain. Her mousy brown hair was coiled up into a bun, with wisps of shorter, loose hair sticking out. It created a slight wildness about her. I noticed the little doily pinned atop her head. She’d worn it to our brunch too. I realized Nancy had chosen a strict denomination of Christianity, Apostolic. I felt like a bug some kid had just dropped into a jar as she studied me. “No. I don’t hate you,” I said.

  “You look so…serious and angry,” she said.

  “Sorry. Just deep in thought.” Nancy didn’t look convinced. The kid was going to start shaking the jar and might even poke around with a stick. “I told you it was a bad time.”

  “Well, here.” She set the box on the table. “I’ll go get a coffee.”

  Peering into the box, I saw a bright yellow V-neck sweater neatly folded, and under it was a hardcover copy of The Mists of Avalon. An introduction, for me, to Arthur. Fallen to the side of the book were three cassette tapes, rock ’n’ roll from my rebellious youth. I couldn’t help but smile to myself.

  “That’s much better,” Nancy said, slipping into the chair across from me.

  “What?”

  “You, smiling.”

  I sipped my cider. “I just remembered that concert in Cleveland when Olivia won the front row tickets from WMMS and you and Betsy flashed the singer your—”

  “I remember,” she said quickly, smothering any further such reminiscences. Her faith was such a controlling belief that to show my consideration of it in her presence meant I had to alter myself. It wasn’t right. The core of our drifting friendship had became a surge in the opposite direction when she found religion.

  We sat, stirring our drinks in silence. My leg bounced with impatience.

  The bruising silence lasted a minute, then two.

  I looked up from my drink. Nancy was sitting perfectly still. The cross on her necklace glittered delicately in the cozy ambient light. I caught myself wondering if the symbol was anathema to vampires like in the stories.

  I had to stop thinking about vampires.

  Nancy’s fingers were curled tight around the cardboard sleeve meant to make holding the hot drink more comfortable. She seemed crushed, as if someone just told her a car had hit her dog. “It’s gone,” she said. “That feeling of being free. Free of parents—or grandparents, in your case. Just hanging out with friends who won’t tell on you or hate you for being young and naive because they are too.”

  I agreed. For me, that feeling had gone away in college when the bills started coming. Maybe religion was, for Nancy, the ultimate bill with payment due.

  “Why is it gone?” she asked.

  “I think it has something to do with maturity, responsibility.”

  “That would explain Olivia and Betsy.” She could have made a joke of it, but instead she made it sound depressing.

  “Probably.”

  “Why us?”

  “We accept what we have to do and do it.” I thought again of being the Lustrata.

  “You’d think that maturity and responsibility would leave a mark.”

  Involuntarily, I touched my chest where Menessos had left his mark, his stain. It was mine because I was responsible for Theo. “It does,” I said. “It’s an interior stain, spilled over you by failure and pain.”

  Nancy had picked up on the inadvertent rhyme of my spoken words. “Maybe you should start putting poetry in that column of yours. Or branch out.”

  I finished my apple cider and put the cup on the table. This suffocating encounter had gone on long enough. “Nancy.”

  “Don’t, Seph. I know what you’re going to say and I beg you, don’t say it.”

  “But—”

  Nancy leaned forward and put her fingers on my forearm and implored me, “Even if we never talk again, we’re friends in our hearts if we don’t say that kind of good-bye. If we say that kind of good-bye, if we shut the door on this friendship, we can’t open that door again.” Her fingers were hot from holding the coffee cup.

  “Shutting it might be best.”

  She sat back, her hot hand drifting from my arm. “Have I been a bad friend?”

  I stared at her, choking on the truth. “No. I have.�
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  “No you haven’t—”

  “I’ve kept secrets from you. Secrets that would change everything.”

  She gauged me, and I could feel her pulling away from me. It was as if her aura retreated and took its stifling oppression with it. I could breathe more easily. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Just trust me when I say that if you knew me, really knew me, you wouldn’t want to be my friend. You’d run screaming in the other direction and…” I’d gotten loud and emphatic enough to widen her eyes, so I toned it down to continue. “I’m so tired of trying to keep up the pretenses to make you happy.”

  “Pretenses? Whatever do you mean?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Oh my Lord…you’re not a wære, are you?”

  I stood and picked up the box. “Thanks for returning these.” I didn’t have to straighten out her thoughts.

  “Seph, no. No! You’re the only friend I have!”

  “My nana says that to have a friend, you need to be a friend. So I suggest you try being a friend to those like-minded souls traveling the same road you’re on, because my path isn’t anywhere near yours. They can support you. No matter what I do, I can’t. I wish you the best, Nancy. I really do. Enjoy the life you’ve chosen for yourself, but enjoy it without me in it.”

  * * *

  My hour wasn’t up yet, so I parked at Meijer and went in. I spotted Johnny just starting down the cookie aisle. In response to the stares, he said a polite hello to the older ladies he passed and gave a friendly guy-nod to the men. He rolled his cart up beside a mother with two little ones strapped into an extra-long cart with a special seat built for containing them. The mother didn’t notice Johnny, as she was intently studying the labels on Keebler cookies. Her older son watched Johnny put four bags of Oreos into the cart and said, “Is your momma gonna be mad that you drew all over yourself?”

  The mother turned around, stunned silent when she saw Johnny. “Naw,” Johnny said to the little boy. “I didn’t do it. One night when I was little, I didn’t put my markers away like my momma told me to. The bogeyman drew on me, and it’s never washed off. So you better listen to your momma.”

  Cradling two packages of cookies in the crook of one arm, the mother shoved hard against the cart handles and hurried her little brood safely away around the corner of the aisle. I heard the younger boy say, “Wow! Look, Joshua! We get two kinds of cookies this time!”

  I’d been easing up on Johnny’s position, and I was ready to stop and tap my foot and ask if he always scared young mothers, but he sniffed the air and turned suddenly to see me. “Red!”

  “I wish I had a camera.”

  “Why?”

  “Seeing you pushing a cart full of Oreos”—I peered into the cart—“steaks, and…”—I raised a dubious brow at him—“every spice known to man.”

  “No point in eating if you don’t make it taste good. Just wait till we hit the produce aisle. Some herbs are fine dried and bottled like this, but for some, fresh is the only way.”

  “Well, if anyone knows all about fresh, it’s got to be you.”

  After I followed him through the produce section and we went through the checkout, Johnny pushed the bag-laden cart across the bumpy parking lot and started putting the bags into the trunk of the Avalon. I watched him sort the bags to keep the cold stuff together and put the fresh vegetables, bread, and doughnuts in a squash-proof area with boxes of cereal acting like a fence to secure them. It scared me. Not because it was terribly obsessive/compulsive, but because it was an act of terrible domestication. And it was what I’d have done.

  Goddess, how my life had changed. My home’s magical defenses were gone and my personal fences were eroding under the relentless influence of Johnny. Nothing was ever going to be the same again.

  I was still standing there staring at him when he shut the trunk. I hadn’t helped him at all. “Red?”

  “What?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. You can get in the car. I’ll put the cart away.”

  “Right.”

  Johnny turned to the cart. I grabbed him and I kissed him there in the parking lot, under the glow of the lot lights. My fingers ran through his hair. He recovered from his surprise and slipped his hands to my waist, grip tightening. Parts of me tightened too. He held me close and his fingers strayed around to brush the skin over my spine and push just under the waistband of my jeans. I slipped him some tongue.

  “Wow,” he breathed as our lips parted. “Apple cider.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  We headed home.

  Forcing my shoulders to loosen, a task made more difficult because I was driving, I was just finding a measure of success when Johnny said, “How’d it go with your friend?”

  Those resistant muscles clenched back into their taut position. “It’s over.”

  “Sounds like a couple thing. You two didn’t ever—”

  “Stop it.”

  “Well, some girlfriends do—”

  “I said stop.” Damn it. How was I ever going to relax?

  “Okay, okay. Just trying to lighten the mood.” Johnny turned on the radio and maneuvered the dial to the left for the classical station. He adjusted his seat to recline and went to sleep.

  * * *

  “Johnny, wake up. We’re…here.” I was not about to say, “We’re home.”

  He stretched and said, “Okay.”

  After hitting the trunk-opening button, I got out. The living room lights were off, which I thought was odd because I figured Nana and Beverley would be watching TV, but the upstairs and kitchen lights were on. Nana was probably still translating the copy of the book. I started to gather up the bags. The next thing I knew, Johnny was beside me taking the bags from my hands.

  “I can get it,” I said, and closed my fingers around the plastic handles.

  “I can help.” Ever so gently, he again tried to take the bags. His expression was playful as he watched my face while he touched my hands.

  “Get your own bags,” I said, teasing, but soft and unsure. I’d snapped at him over the girlfriend remark, and he shouldn’t be acting like nothing had happened. Men let snippy words roll off of them more easily than women did.

  “But I want those.”

  “Why?”

  “To lighten your load.”

  “You’re not a servant.”

  He stilled, searching my face slowly, making one big counterclockwise circuit, taking in everything. His hands, big and warm, touched either side of my neck. His thumbs rubbed along my jaw. It was nice, sensual, and if he had applied any pressure, it would have been dangerously close to strangling. But he just touched me and let me feel how warm and gentle he was. Cedar and sage filled the air.

  Johnny put his lips against mine. Warm and soft and quivering deep down with adrenaline.

  While the kiss was still chaste, he pulled away. “I will serve the Lustrata in all things.” He flashed a one-sided smile before walking away with the grocery bags that had been in my hands. I stood there beside the trunk for a minute, dumbfounded. I hadn’t registered when he had removed his hands from my neck or when he had taken the bags from me.

  In all things echoed in my mind. Happy and thrilled and irritated all at once, I grabbed more bags from the trunk. In the garage, Ares was in his cage barking like mad. “Just a minute, boy,” I said. “I’ll let you out in a second.” I headed for the light falling from the open door. Johnny slipped past me to get the remaining bags, and I set the ones I’d brought in on the table beside the others. I put my coat on the back of a chair and began sorting through the bags. “Nana! Beverley! We’re back.”

  Over my head, the floor creaked.

  I found the milk and carried it to the refrigerator. But what I saw when I opened the door made the gallon jug slip from my grasp. Fear stilled me rigid, unable to move. A scream clawed at my throat like that of a caged animal desperate for freedom, but my throat had close
d. My mind grappled for understanding.

  As soon as I fully recognized what I was looking at, my throat opened. Air was sucked into my waiting lungs, and I screamed.

  In an instant, Johnny was there, staring at the silver platter in my refrigerator where the head of Samson D. Kline sat, eyes open wide—as was his mouth, tongue thick and pushed to one side.

  Johnny kicked the door shut, and I collapsed into his arms.

  The squeak of a step brought me out of the shock. “Nana!” I pushed past Johnny, but he caught me again and restrained me. “No. I’ve got to go.” I pushed against him.

  “No.” He sniffed. “It’s not Demeter.”

  The footsteps came louder, nearing the bottom and no longer trying to hide anything. A shadow cast by light upstairs shone across my door, and I knew who it was before I saw him. I could feel it like heat inside my spine. “No,” I said.

  Menessos came into view. “Yes.”

  “Where are Nana and Beverley?”

  He walked toward us, grinning wickedly.

  “Bastard!” I tried to get around Johnny, and though I had nothing compared to wære strength, I had desperate strength and I was almost loose. “If you’ve done anything to them, anything at all, I’ll—”

  Menessos laughed, cutting me off.

  I wasn’t finished. “You made a blood oath on my porch! Does that kind of thing expire in twenty-four hours?”

  “It expires when the one the oath was made to fails to keep her part of the deal!”

  “I gave Samson the stake!”

  Menessos stopped about six feet away. Far enough that a single lunge would avail me nothing. Even if I had a weapon, it’d take two steps to reach him and he only needed the advance notice of one—if that—to move out of the way. “Where is it?” His words were soft, but the intensity underneath added a tremulous note to them. If he wanted me to think he was about to lose control, he’d succeeded.

  “Where’s what?”

  Johnny jerked me back. “She doesn’t know.”