Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385)

by Jerome, Celia

  He froze up again. I guess I shouldn’t have mentioned the apartment, either.

  “I’m not asking you to buy a house or give up your apartment. With the partnership money and rent from here, I can swing a mortgage without going too far into debt.”

  So then we got into a discussion of chauvinism and male dominance and unequal partners. I did, at least. Matt paced the bedroom and mussed his hair again.

  “So we’ll put it in my name and you can pay goddamn rent. Your mother should be paying the city rent anyway, if she’s going to be using the apartment. And we can sign a prenup, if that makes you happy.”

  “We’re not even engaged! And if you think I’m going to start cooking and cleaning out of guilt that you’re paying for the house, or thinking I owe it to you for my share, you’re barking up the wrong weeping willow tree, buddy. And I am definitely not going to be your sex slave in return for a scenic view and a writing studio.” I wasn’t sure about that last, but I put a lot of conviction in my speech.

  “Damn, I was counting on starting a harem.” Now he smiled, which almost made me rethink the no-sex option. “All I expect is to make you happy. Happy and mine.”

  “Yours? Like Moses is yours?”

  “Wrong word. Mine as in sharing my life. Becoming my wife. Now that I found you, and found how good we are together, I don’t see any reason to wait.”

  Too much, too soon. I loved Matt, I thought. I wanted to be with him, I believed. But a house and babies and forever? Before eight in the morning?

  I smiled back, ripped up the real estate brochure and told him, “Okay. I want a lighthouse.”

  * * *

  After Matt left, I looked outside, saw the rain, and went back to sleep. Just like a kept woman.

  A hot dream got interrupted by my cell ringing. I couldn’t find it at first, then remembered tossing it across the room after my father’s call. The caller ID came up as my editor, Don Carr.

  I started to ask about the weather where he was, but he didn’t want to chat.

  “There’s three dead mice in a takeout container on my desk. They came in a manuscript box, inside a padded manila envelope, left outside the office door with a note that said you told this wacko to send it here.”

  “I didn’t tell him that! But it’s good.”

  “Not for me and my ulcers, the intern who opened the box, or the mice. They have no heads.”

  “Yeah, that’s Deni’s style, all right. But it’s good he’s still in the city. That means he’s not here, so I’m okay for another day. You call the police. I’ll notify the agents in the Harbor and the man monitoring my apartment.”

  “Agents? You’ve got the FBI working on a prank caller?”

  “Um, it’s a different agency. I can’t keep all those initials straight, you know how it is, and they don’t think it’s a prank. More like malicious intent, maybe connected to some kind of terrorism. Or a serial pervert.”

  “Hell, you mean the bag might contain poison? It could have blown up or be radioactive? I guess that’s why everyone only accepts electronic submissions. The days of finding a great story over the transom are long gone. Some houses won’t look at a book unless an agent vets it first. They say it’s quality control. I guess it’s so if the agent doesn’t drop dead, it must be safe to read.”

  “Unless the agent is the perp. It could be, from some of the stories I hear. Not this time, though. It’s a kid, a wannabe writer. Call the police. They’re looking for him. And don’t tell anyone where I am.”

  I gave Don Van’s number at the police station, even if the publisher’s office was in a different precinct. “He’ll know who to call. I’m sure someone will be there to examine the package soon.”

  I called Lou the Lout, who might or might not be bonking Cousin Lily, from her happy laughter in the background, and ruined his day. Good. Then I called Harris at my mother’s house, who might or might not be bonking my cousin, from Susan’s happy laughter in the background. I bet she was cooking for him, besides. So I ruined his day, too. Headless mice could do that. I did not call Grandma Eve and Doc Lassiter at the farmhouse.

  My agent was out of town, thank goodness. I’d dedicated one of my books to her, and she’d be easy to find through her website or literary agency listings. I left a message telling her not to accept any packages from unknown authors.Stick to electronic submissions but call the cops if anything looked suspicious.

  Since Deni had delivered the latest package before Don Carr Publishing opened in the morning, I knew Lou would have someone show my sketch of him to the super there, the cleaning staff, people in the other offices. But no one would have paid any attention to a grim-faced, long-haired young man delivering a manuscript to a science fiction/fantasy publisher. So I doubted that anyone could identify him or say which direction he’d come from or left to, if he’d taken a cab or walked, what he was wearing.

  I knew it was him. I’d try to find him the Paumanok Harbor way.

  * * *

  I left Harris on the phone and the computer and took the Subaru, with its GPS Lou insisted on, so someone always knew where I was. I was in town, going door to door.

  Joe the plumber couldn’t help locate Deni. He stared at the sketch, but all he saw in the toilet bowl—where the shithead belonged—was a lot of traffic, no street signs, no address.

  Margaret the weaver could not make a finding bracelet for me, because I really didn’t want to find the bastard. I wanted him found, but by someone else. Someone with handcuffs and a stun gun.

  The Merriwethers had no numbers that might have helped, a Manhattan cross street maybe. They did come up with a three, as in triplets, which I did not want to hear.

  Kelvin at the garage listened to me say the stalker was still in the city. He didn’t scratch his big toe, which meant I spoke the truth. Which pinned Deni down to one of umpteen millions. A few less if he lived on Third Avenue or in apartment 3 somewhere. No help at all.

  Big Eddie at the police station with his K-9 dog and his nose couldn’t help me, although he did wink. I guess the scent of Matt and sex lingered.

  I didn’t bother with the weather mavens, the aura-detectors, the marksmen, or the fish-finders. Telekineticists couldn’t help, neither could the smoke disperser. I waved at Micky the gay senser, bypassed the miracle-grow gardeners, the jeweler whose stones talked to him, two best-style experts, a human compass, Mrs. Terwilliger at the library, the eidetic at the bank, and Aunt Jasmine, expert child wrangler at the school.

  Mrs. Grissom’s dead husband had nothing to report.

  That left the House on Shearwater Street. I brought it a music CD I’d burned in the city and a pot of mums for the front porch.

  I felt like Mrs. Grissom, talking to empty air. Luckily, no one came to look at the houses at either side. I guess the House’s reputation still scared them off.

  No one answered my knock; no one sang to me; no one gave hints about finding the stalker. On the other hand, no one heaved the flowerpot off the porch or tossed the CD back at me when I shoved it through the mail slot.

  Discouraged, and having taken enough time from my first priority, getting rid of the sand thieves, I went to fetch Jimmie. I still hoped he could go off in one of his trances and see what the little monsters were up to. And I wanted Carinne to come with us. If we went straight to the beach, we wouldn’t encounter any children. School was in session and the day was too overcast and drizzly for anyone to bring younger kids to the beach. Maybe she could communicate with the Andanstans through the voices in her head.

  * * *

  Carinne and Monteith and Lily and Lou were at the kitchen table playing board games.

  Here I was, worrying and working my ass off trying to find Deni, trying to reclaim the beach, and trying to solve Carinne’s issues, while they might as well be watching Monte do yo-yo tricks. T
hen I saw they had a Ouija board.

  “Hey, does that really work?”

  Lou looked disgusted. “No. All we get is the number three.”

  There was a lot of that going around, damn it. “Where’s Jimmie?”

  “He’s upstairs, fighting that chest congestion again.”

  Rats. Or mice. “I was counting on him going to the beach with me.”

  Lou put the Ouija game away. “I think he’s hiding. Sounds like he’s afraid he won’t be any help. That or he’s afraid the blasted parrot won’t come home with him.”

  “Oey’ll come back when Oey’s ready, I hope. Will you come with me, Carinne?”

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. I can’t. You saw what happened at the council meeting.”

  I tried to explain how no one would be on the beach, but she wasn’t budging.

  I thought about her fears and the professor’s fears, and how they were choking on them. I might be afraid of a million things—snakes and subways and one-eyed cab drivers and failure and commitment—but at least I lived my life, more or less.

  Which reminded me of a big new fear.

  “Can you look again at my future? I need to know how many kids I was reading to.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Nothing will change until my next birthday. Maybe you go to the elementary school to read to the kindergarten. Or the child could be your friend Louisa’s baby. Jimmie said your friend was very nice.”

  She looked away, into the distance, but I heard the sadness in her voice.

  “She wants to meet you, too, but it could be too hard on all of you. She has three wonderful kids and I don’t know how she’d survive if she knew something terrible would happen to them.”

  Lord, what if Carinne saw my triplets turned into drug dealers and ax murderers when they were her age? “We have to figure how to control your talent, so it can be used for good stuff again, like getting kids into the right fields. Mrs. Terwilliger thinks it’ll happen.”

  “I sent a note thanking her for the book, but I don’t see how. Monte’s research hasn’t turned anything up.”

  He’d gone off somewhere, likely to set plates spinning like a circus act. “He’s not messing with your mind, is he?”

  “That would be an improvement. He’s been much nicer, and a big help yesterday. I like being here. I hadn’t seen another person in weeks, except Uncle— That is, your father. Again, I owe you so much for helping me.”

  “Then come with me.” A favor for a favor. “See if you can hear the Andanstans.”

  She sneezed.

  “Don’t tell me you have Jimmie’s cold.”

  She pulled a tissue out of her pocket. “I’m afraid so.”

  I was on my own, again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I had tiny metal trucks, cut-up old stockings, shredded ribbons and thread, pebbles from Matt’s driveway. I had absolutely no confidence in any of my ideas. I also had Moses and Little Red, Harris as bodyguard, Susan as curious cousin. Which meant I had blankets and water bowls and Susan’s brownies and thermoses full of hot cider.

  I walked the dogs before we hit the sand, thinking of Ms. Garcia and not wanting to piss off the Andanstans worse, literally.

  All the rain’s runoff might have accounted for extra beach erosion, but it looked more like the little cruds were working overtime. We hardly had room to spread the blankets between the bay and the beach grass. I sat and studied the area.

  Harris and Susan kept talking and laughing—flirting—until I told them to shut up so they could listen. None of us heard anything. None of us saw anything. My best hope was Moses, who went for a swim, shook out over all of us, then went to sleep on the blanket beside me, which was now wet on a day already damp and chill. Little Red, who had been guarding the brownies, growled and got up to chase seagulls.

  Harris decided he’d better secure the territory, which meant walking back toward the parking area and keeping watch from there lest Deni drive up or come by boat. That’s why he needed Susan with him, to cover both directions. Sure. That’s why she grinned at me before skipping off.

  “He’s too old for you. And he’ll chase leprechauns and selkies.”

  She gave me the finger. So I unwrapped the brownies.

  I sat and ate and stared for awhile, just trying to be still, leaving my mind open to all possibilities and forms of communication. No one called to me except the brownies.

  Then I lay down on my stomach and stared out, my nose almost touching the sand. I tried to project welcome, gratitude, respect, and aiming to please. If a grain of sand moved, I didn’t see it.

  I lined up the toy trucks. I carried the fabric scraps to the tide line. I placed the pebbles in a neat row and spread out the pieces of pantyhose. And I told the Andanstans I was not littering the beach, but bringing gifts. I explained how the trucks rolled, turning the wheels for them, and how to catch sand in the nylon mesh. I did a mental picture of the scraps and threads used as breech clouts and bikinis. Then I shared some brownie crumbs and related how sharing food, breaking bread together, was a sign of friendship in my world. I told them, out loud and in my head as best I could by double thinking. That is, thinking about what I was saying, what it meant, how it felt, at the same time I said it.

  I told them how we all were grateful for what they’d done, how we wanted to do something for them. Without knowing their wants or needs or expectations, these offerings were the best we could come up with so far.

  If I felt stupid talking to a vacant house, this was ridiculous. I was happy Susan and Harris were out of sight, although I did wonder how he expected to protect me if he couldn’t see me. No matter. The most danger here was losing my mind.

  No one talked to me, not even when I called Oey and tried to make the cawing sound she made, then the glub he made when in predominant fish form, or when I pictured them both, flickering between sexes and species. Nothing. I flashed an old picture of the tree with Oey in its branches. Come, friend. Nothing.

  I was down to singing, and thanking heaven Susan and Harris couldn’t hear.

  “Oh, Mr. Sandmen, bring back our sand,

  Please bring it back

  as quick as you can.

  Please turn on your magic runes

  To help us keep our pretty dunes.

  “Oh, Mr. Sandmen, we’ll all come give thanks,

  if you just help us shore up our banks.

  Come out peaceful, like I’ve never seen.

  We need to talk, so don’t be so mean.

  Please use all your magic skill,

  to tell us how to repay our bill.”

  Nothing. Okay, I better not quit my day job.

  Screw this. I might be the Visualizer, but I sure as hell wasn’t a telepath or an evoker, if such a talent existed, or any kind of snake or sand charmer. Unless my father’s hint meant I should bring a fife. Maybe the music teacher at the school could lend me one tomorrow.

  Today, before I gave up, I went back to my trusty old sketch pad and marker pens and added curving branches to my willow tree. Now the tree stood with open arms. Friend, I thought.

  On the next blank page I did the dot-dot-dot thing, forming Andanstans and then the sinking ship they held up. Brave, kind, smart. I drew people: me, Matt, Lou, the mayor, and Grandma Eve, all applauding, Jimmie bowing. Grateful, loving, appreciative. In case they didn’t get the idea, and could read, I put signs in the people’s hands. Thank you. I drew Moses with his tongue out, giving kisses. I nudged the big dog awake and gave him a dog biscuit so he’d look grateful. Little Red got one, too. Pets.

  I filled the next page with trucks and nets, bringing the sand back. Please. I drew the pebbles and put tiny pickaxes and shell shovels in sandmen hands, making new sand. You do not need ours. I drew smiling people on the beach
, bringing food, more toys, more pebbles. Tell us what you want.

  The problem, I decided, lying down again, was that I was too tired to keep the thoughts and the pictures in my mind at the same time. I got hung up on Matt’s face, looking serious but kind, and thinking how he’d like Moses’ portrait, and how busy he was today and how wonderful he’d been last night. And lighthouses and loving and triplets and partners and . . .

  And there they were, while I was in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, or maybe I was dreaming. I saw them kicking sand over my picture of the willow tree. So much for friendship.

  Or peace. They waved the fabric scraps like battle flags, attacked each other with whips made of the threads, and used the nylon stocking I’d so carefully cut into little squares as blockades, then as blankets to smother their brothers. The brownie crumbs became deadly missiles, until Moses leaned over and lapped them up with half a squadron, for all I knew.

  They avoided the trucks altogether. Maybe that legend about cold metal being deadly to fey folk had some basis in reality, if I considered this encounter as reality. The troll had no problem, though, kicking over parking meters and fire hydrants with glee.

  A crew of Andanstans turned their attention to the pebbles, trying to roll them into a wall formation, but different ones shoved back, so they canceled each other out. Thank goodness the pebbles weighed too much to hurl or they’d be mowing each other down like medieval warriors with their catapults.

  Great, I’d brought them more weapons, more instruments of destruction. I gathered the toy trucks before they figured how to run each other over, metal or not.

  “Can’t you stop fighting long enough to talk to me?”

  Seemed not. So I scooped a handful of them up in my hand, most likely breaking a hundred more of their rules of honor. I didn’t care. I was tired, angry, frustrated, and chilled. “We need to talk.”

  I brought them right up to my face so I could see them better and cupped both hands around the captives so, God forbid, none of them fell to the ground and shattered.

  They tumbled over each other, pushing, shoving, slapping at whoever was next to them, then trying to climb over each other, all shouting at once, in sounds like glass breaking into a million pieces. I couldn’t make out words, so I tried being the Visualizer again. I pictured the willow tree in my head. Peace, buddies.