by Curtis Hox
“Please help him,” Aunt Emma says. “Please.”
* * *
Josie spends the rest of the day procuring ingredients. She does have a nose for these things, as her aunt says, and since she’s planning to help Uncle Darryl act right, Josie gets paid to spend the day shopping. Her grandmother’s grimoire full of hand-written notes details how she brewed her spells. Josie is lucky enough to have inherited the same skill, but she prefers to store her spells in the cloud. Yeah, online, where they’re safe if her computer blows up or the house burns down. So she reviews notes on her smartphone and checks off the items one-by-one.
By the time she returns, several shopping bags crowd the backseat of Aunt Emma’s SUV: a roll of hemp twine, four brass pins, a pound of sea salt, two green rubber hoses, a can of sardines, a six pack of Juicy Fruit (she needs an aluminum wrapper), and a genuine silver dollar she had to purchase at the post office. She also had to buy a metal file to shave the silver.
“Got it all,” she says as she walks into the store, barely managing all the bags.
Aunt Emma shuffles her bulk around the counter. “Lock it up. Hurry, before someone else comes in.”
“Where’s Roxy? She said she wanted to watch.”
Aunt Emma pauses from peeking inside the shopping bags. “That husband of hers hung up on her. She about lost it. I think she wanted him to do something, and he resisted. He’s in for it now. I bet she’ll wave that magic wand of hers and have him standing with his nose against the wall in their bedroom. Gosh, can you imagine?”
Aunt Emma grabs Josie by the arm and leads her into a back office. It’s a cramped space dominated by a wide desk packed with personal effects. There’s a hot plate on the only metal filing cabinet. A low window looks out on a grassy backyard that runs up to a moss-covered retaining wall. It’s a perfect place for some private brewing.
“Well?” Aunt Emma says. “You gonna get started?”
“What time does Uncle Darryl come home?”
“We have a few hours.”
With a calming breath, Josie begins the mysterious process she’s done since childhood. Like her grandmother taught her, she sets the ingredients on the table. In an organized circle, her eyes roam over them: a handful of salt in a pile, a sliver of aluminum taken from the gum wrapper, and a few pieces of string from the twine. She works by touch, while Aunt Emma watches. She spends several minutes with the file until silver shavings fall in a pyramid the size of a cupcake. It looks like something a toddler might assemble in arts and crafts. She scoops the contents into her hand and presents them to her aunt.
“Where’s that pan?” Josie asks.
“Over here.”
Across from the office, in a small kitchenette, her aunt has heated up a cast-iron cooking pan.
“You’re just going to dump it in there?” Aunt Emma asks.
Josie scowls, as if that isn’t all there is to it, although she can’t explain, if pressed, what’s about to happen. She drops everything in the hot pan as if she might fry up some hash browns.
“Now, we wait,” Josie says, smiling.
“Until?”
Josie peers into the pan as the material cooks. The noxious smell of burnt twine and rubber fills the kitchen. A small bead, like a red pebble forms. You’d think it’s simply the chemical weathering of one of the objects, but Josie knows better. The proper ingredients brewed by the correct hands invoke a special kind of magic. In some way that she couldn’t explain, it works.
“Now,” she leans over the forming material, “we wait until it’s just right …”
* * *
An hour later, Josie stands in Aunt Emma and Uncle Darryl’s kitchen. It’s one of those new ones with wide counters (granite, of course) and two stainless-steel Kohler sinks, a Bosch washing machine, even a serving cart. Uncle Darryl runs a successful automotive franchise, with five shops in the Piedmont. Their house is big enough to fit two families, although they only have the three kids, two dogs, six parakeets, and an armadillo that keeps visiting the back yard.
Uncle Darryl has fallen asleep in his Lazy Boy in front of his huge flat screen TV. He’s just gotten home from work and hasn’t changed out of his blue chambray shirt and tattered khaki pants. He apparently takes a nap before dinner … and his first beer.
Josie pulls the bead from her pocket. It’s soft, like a bit of gum, but not sticky.
Aunt Emma hands her a bottle of cold Budweiser with condensation dripping from it.
“He won’t drink it in a glass,” she says, trying to smile, but acting as if she’s about to poison the man she loves.
Josie takes the bottle. “It’s for his own good.”
Aunt Emma nods furiously. Uncle Darryl’s not a bad man, not at all, Josie knows. He does like to have around six beers a night—sometimes less, sometimes more. Josie has seen him happily drunk and yelling at the liberal news casters on MSNBC, or whatever shows he watches. He makes jokes too. He’s talkative—and argumentative. Lately, it’s been about stem-cell research. Josie guesses he learned that latest bit of information from AM radio, and now he thinks he’s an expert on stem cells and how those liberals out there just want to kill babies to harvest their DNA. Josie’s no science expert, but she foolishly suggested that Uncle Darryl may have it wrong, that some people want stem cells for legitimate medical purposes. For suggesting that bit of heresy, she took an earful.
“Yeah,” she says, “for everyone’s good.”
She drops the concoction in the bottle, which she lifts up into the light. It settles on the bottom and dissolves.
Aunt Emma accepts the bottle. As if she’s carrying a holy relic, she walks to her husband. She gently wakes him and hands over the beer. The ritual appears to be mechanized, as if each one of them has done this a thousand times.
Uncle Darryl takes a big chug, almost finishing a quarter of the bottle. A few minutes later, he sits up as a Fox news show plays about the evils of multiculturalism. He’s talking to the TV in no time.
Aunt Emma waits with Josie in the kitchen. “It’ll work?”
Josie nods.
I hope so.
Both women pretend to busy themselves over dinner. The first trip to the bathroom for Uncle Darryl seems innocent enough. He comes back without saying a word. Within an hour, though, he has “puked and crapped” (at the same time), moaning that he must have “eaten something rotten for lunch.” When he feels better, he asks for another beer. He puts it to his nose and jumps out of his chair. He runs for the bathroom, spilling his beer all over the carpet.
“The best form of aversion therapy,” Josie says. “He’ll hate the smell and taste of alcohol for a year. I suggest making him some lemon aid in the evenings.”
Both women giggle as Uncle Darryl stumbles out of the bathroom and into his chair. He burps once, then picks up the clicker and switches to the History Channel.
Josie feels a wrenching in her gut as she watches him settle into a peaceful relaxation. She can imagine the ghost of her grandmother at her neck, whispering, “Is he a man or machine?” Josie knows the admonition against what her grandmother called strong brewing is still important. Josie just wants to help both of these men and their wives; she wants to provide a helpful kick in the butt. That’s it. She doesn’t want to make men into robots. She wants to take men who love their wives and show them what they do that hurts their wives. That’s it, she thinks. That’s why I never enthrall a boyfriend, never forced one to act right, she thinks. When my last boyfriend cheated, I walk away instead of making him love me. But, we weren’t married …
Aunt Emma pats Josie on the back. “I can’t believe it. He never switches until he’s done drinking.” She spins Josie around like a top. “Success!”
* * *
Josie waits on the front porch of her sister’s home. It’s late enough that the street is quiet and dark. All the houses on both sides are shut up, cars in the drives or garages, sprinklers off. The sidewalks are empty. The street lights cast yellow cones of illumination, enough th
at she could walk around the block and feel safe.
Roxy left a message that she needs to speak with Josie.
It’s urgent.
Roxy didn’t say anything else.
Inside, Geri and Shawn are enjoying glasses of wine after dinner. Josie leaves them alone to enjoy each other. Their new-found harmony is a site to behold: something about their recovery makes her feel confident Husband Rehab will be a success. The shared smiles, sure, but also the genuine sense they are working well together.
The fancy Mercedes slows as it nears, a status symbol if there ever was one. She doesn’t know the model, but she recognizes enough details (like the fancy trim along the bottom) to know the car is expensive in a way Josie has never been able to afford. None of that matters to her, not one bit. What does matter is Roxy’s sudden desire to see her.
Josie stands as Roxy exits the vehicle. The stare coming from Roxy means trouble. With a few bangs flopping the wrong way, and one side of her collar askew, she looks as disheveled as she ever gets. However, in the gold sheen of the street lights, she still appears as if she’s ready for a night out in Atlanta. There’s nowhere to go around here, though.
“Josie Bran,” Roxy says as she enters the porch. She leans in for a fashionable kiss, as if all her friends do this, “We have something to discuss.”
“Discuss?”
“My husband …”
Roxy’s steely facade melts from her face. Josie doesn’t know the woman well. She’s one of the more visible witches, who’s always showing her skills. But she does know that Roxy Rhodes thinks of herself as a formidable woman, the kind of woman who would never let a man strike her, never let a man speak a mean word without a proper response. She’s the kind of woman who can bring home the bacon and make her man fry it up in a pan. Something in Roxy, though, appears to be eating at her.
“Husband Rehab on your mind?” Josie asks.
Roxy edges Josie over to the far end of the porch in front of a darkened window. They are hedged in by hip-high azaleas, trimmed off into a plane, a perfect place for hushed voices and dangerous words.
“My husband …” Roxy says. “He’s … never been in love with …”
“With you?” Josie bites her bottom lip because that came out way too direct.
Everyone knows that Roxy’s husband is spellbound. She parades him around, almost as if he’s on a leash. He walks behind her, usually with his head down, sometimes his chin on his chest. Josie saw him a few weeks ago. She was in the grocery store. There Roxy was, walking up the aisle, her husband in tow. Mr. Rhodes, though, was pushing two grocery carts, carrying her purse, and even had a dozen or so helium balloons tied to his other arm. He appeared to be a human mule. The blank look, though, told the story. He has no agency, as her grandmother would have said. Everyone knows that Roxy plays loose with the rules of the coven.
“I mean,” Roxy says. “He does what I say.”
“I bet.”
Roxy allows a wry smile to form, as if she might pursue Josie’s brazen statement, but thinks better of it, maybe to return to it later. “He’s a good husband in that sense. But, I need more.”
I bet you do. A slave is no fun when you want some sincerity, or something to truly love you.
“And you’re here because …?”
“I want a little help.”
“When Husband Rehab starts, send him along. I just need to prove it’ll work first.”
“Oh, I know it’ll work. Your little spells and potions will do the trick for most women.” Josie can’t miss the blatant condescension. Roxy doesn’t appear aware at how offensive she can be. It’s as if Josie should admit the truth and be happy about it. “I need something … subtler. My husband and I have a unique relationship. Think of him as dutiful.” Josie tries not to stare, but the lambent glow of the street lamp makes Roxy’s eyes glimmer with a seductive luminescence. “In fact, you can think of him as the kind of husband most women can only dream of. He does what I say, when I say, and how I say it.”
“And the problem?” Josie asks sarcastically.
“The problem, Miss Bran, is that … I’d like him—”
“—to love you?”
Roxy whimpers, for just a second. “Yes, that’s it.”
“Sorry, I don’t do that.”
Roxy shuffles in close, almost nose-to-nose. “Yes you do. I know your grandmother, the Lady Treadwell herself, brewed a love potion. It was very powerful.”
Josie steps back, her butt now up against the bushes. Any closer and she’ll get pricked. “I don’t turn men into slaves.”
Roxy grimaces, maybe thinking she might like to hit Josie, maybe thinking Josie’s sarcasm and intransigence needs to be adjusted. “Ah, is that it? The moral high ground for you, just like your grandmother.”
“That’s about it. Did you have another impossible request? Maybe you want me to make you a broom you can fly on?”
Roxy recovers with a dramatic swing of her long hair. “I had to ask. I’d think about it, if I were you.”
“I need to get inside. They’re going to be locking up soon …” Josie moves past her.
Roxy grabs her arm. “That potion … do you have one brewed?”
Josie yanks her arm away and walks away, swallowing the urge to tell Roxy off. She ignores Geri and Shawn watching The Daily Show in the living room. She heads to the back of the house, to the guest bedroom, a running conversation between her and Roxy playing out in her mind. Most of it consists of Josie declaiming she will never make a love potion for Roxy, even though she has one brewed, has had one since she was a little girl.
It’s in a hollowed out crystal shard her grandmother gave her. Said, anything she put inside would last forever ... better than gold, better than diamond, better than magic. Her grandmother showed her how to make the potion just before she died, as if her greatest gift needed to be passed down. Josie keeps the precious cobalt liquid refrigerated in her old room in the Birchall Mansion. It’s been there for years. No one knows but her.
Roxy will never get it. Never.
* * *
Josie and Aunt Emma sit in the posh waiting room of Christine Cruz’s Professional Counseling Center. They’re alone on the single couch. The room is modern, but comfortable, everything done in sleek lines and minimalist patterns. The cool air conditioning means Aunt Emma can stop swatting air at her neck. Even still, she appears nervous, as if she’s going before a judge.
Might as well, Josie thinks. Christine is about as critical as they come. With a single look she can make you feel like a screw-up. Ever since Josie first demonstrated skill in witchcraft, she has been failing to live up to her expectations.
Christine is the town’s resident psychiatrist, but also their leading elementalist. She has the earth and the sky at her fingertips, although she doesn’t mess with them much these days. Her abilities so far outshine Josie’s that they’re in different classes. Like someone who drives an Audi versus someone who drives a … Toyota.
Double mahogany doors open, and Christine Cruz, M.D., appears, all smiles, as if the world is hers to command. She’s a lean, middle-aged woman in an Anne Taylor navy-blue skirt suit who takes regular trips to the plastic surgeon. A bright crimson scarf with the sheen of silk wraps around her neck. Josie notes that she looks much like she’s always looked—just smoother in the face from subtle Botox application. No one knows for sure what she’s done because of her natural appearance. She’s never had a boob job, for sure. All her work is subtle and gradual. She barely has a belly, and her neck appears flawless. Josie is impressed that a woman in her mid-fifties can look so good.
“Ladies,” Christine says, “what’s this I hear about Shawn and Darryl’s sudden conversions to perfect husbands?” She steps aside so that her guests can enter. “Josie, I figured this had something to do with your return.”
The doors shut behind them.
Christine’s office is dominated by a far wall with full-length windows, beyond which manicured shrubs run
in a line, blocking the parking lot. Plenty of light illuminates her desk, as well as a contemporary chaise lounge and matching chair where she listens to clients.
She moves behind her desk and points to two chairs.
Josie chooses one. Aunt Emma takes the other, her bottom lip trembling.
Great, Josie thinks, Aunt Emma’s going to lose it and start sobbing. All this old-world coven hierarchy needs to go. As a powerful priestess, Lady Cruz of the Night (as she’s rumored to be called) has been known to instill fear in the hearts of people who cross her. Aunt Emma’s a member of the coven, but not a priestess in the great mysteries of their craft. Josie, of course, doesn’t think of herself as religious, not at all. She’s not a priestess, not even a member. She’s way more rational and science-minded than most secular people she knows. She enjoys motorcycles and dubstep; she thinks geopolitics is important, although she’s no expert; and she thinks that hiding out in plain sight and not using one’s skills is so twentieth century. Christine, herself, has said more than once Josie is way too cavalier with her witchcraft.
Josie lifts her chin. “Those are both on me. How’s Lennox?”
Christine softens. “He misses you.”
Aunt Emma appears to relax with a rattling sigh. “Oh, he does, Josie. He talks about you all the time.”
“I’ll call him,” she says, trying to force a smile that refuses to form. “I just got back you know. His wife hates me. I hope she doesn’t pick up. I’d love to talk to him in peace.”
Both older women stare at her as if stating the obvious does no one any good. Josie left a few years ago for college after Christine’s son, Lennox, married Stella Spivey. It was Josie’s bad luck she’s had a secret crush on him since junior high. She had planned to finally do something about it the summer he met Stella and fell for her witchy charms. Josie left in a van with a bunch of wild musicians the next day on a southern circuit. By the time she returned, summer was over, and Lennox and Stella were an item. Josie ran off to UGA to study art history. Lennox was never far from her thoughts, even as she hopped through several boyfriends.
Christine steeples her hands beneath her chin. “You’ve been working your craft … because?”
