by Curtis Hox
Josie sits up straight. Better get it out in the open, she tells herself, let everyone in the coven know what I plan.
“They both had it coming, Christine,” Josie says. “Shawn’s a great guy, but he’s got a blind spot when it comes to smelly socks. You should so go over there and watch him. He comes home and drops them in the middle of the living room. Sometimes, yeah, no lie, he’ll leave his underwear on the bathroom floor after taking a shower. I whip up a little magic dust, and, yippee, he’s better. He’ll be good for—”
“—I know. It’ll be a few months before it wears off. You think the habit will stick.” Christine glares disbelief. “Don’t you?”
Josie expects a tongue lashing because the coven has been through this before. Apparently, every generation, some new upstart thinks the world is ready for help. It always ends in disaster, so she’s been told. However, Josie thinks the twenty-first century can stand some proactive intervention, especially for misguided husbands.
“I do.”
Christine sits back. The expected tirade doesn’t happen. Josie breathes easier.
Christine has been like an older sister to her, ever since her grandmother died. A few months later, Josie’s mother ran off to Texas with a biker named Harry, and her real older sister, Geri, kept herself occupied with school and a career. Christine promised Josie’s grandmother to watch out for her after her mother died in Texas. She and the former high priestess, old Lady Birchall, had been good friends. And Josie’s grandmother knew that Josie is talented. Josie, though, isn’t thirteen anymore. She doesn’t need a chaperone. She thinks of herself as independent. Even better, she thinks of herself as … entrepreneurial.
“You know, Josie, you just may be right,” Christine says.
“What?”
“I prescribe all kinds of medication for clinically ill women. Those are hard cases, most of them. The talking cure works for others. But some women, and men, are in need of a simple push. I see it all the time. Nothing too big, maybe a small adjustment is needed, nothing so drastic as medication. I had a woman in here a few days ago whose husband won’t stop elbowing her at night while they sleep. He keeps waking her up, which puts her in a constant state of exhaustion. Her nerves never settle. I’d have to prescribe something heavy for her to sleep, which I don’t want to do. Solution?”
Aunt Emma stares wide eyed at Josie, begging Josie to answer so that she doesn’t have to.
“Two beds,” Josie says.
Christine smiles graciously. “Excellent suggestion, except they live in a one-bedroom apartment. The dogs sleep in the living room. I took her on through my counseling foundation. You know I help the needy. She couldn’t afford my regular rate, much less a house with two bedrooms. Another idea?”
“He sleeps on the couch?”
“The dogs, remember? Even without them, he’s got a bad back.” With a quick shake of her head, Christine stops Josie from suggesting the woman sleep on the couch. “So does she.”
“I’ve got a solution,” Josie says. “Has something to do with sleeping like a rock without the use of modern pharmaceuticals.”
“I bet you do.” Christine nods. “What have you got in mind?”
* * *
“Husband Rehab?”
Former grand dame and high priestess, Lady Birchall sits in her drawing room, clearly perplexed. Josie hasn’t been to the Birchall Mansion in some time. She came often as a child, but she stopped visiting after her grandmother’s passing.
The high-ceilinged room is ringed in sofas. Lady Birchall, though, sits upright in an old bergère chair. It’s upholstered in tacky aqua bombazine with ornate, gold stitching of diamonds inside circles. It keeps her upright, but looks like a torture device. She’s attired today in a fine satin bonnet, as well as her customary buttoned up blouse and conservative skirt that nearly touches her pointy-toed boots. She’s as wrinkled as a raisin and about the sweetest old woman Josie knows.
Christine and Aunt Emma sit next to Josie on a couch.
Christine has already suggested that Josie go home and change out of her tight jeans and skimpy shirt, but Josie isn’t having any of it. She likes how she dresses. It’s considered cool by people in the know, none of whom are in this room.
“Did you say Husband Rehab?” Lady Birchall asks in her Charlestonian accent that she kept after coming to Georgia. She nervously plays with a bracelet at her wrist.
“I did, ma’am,” Josie says.
“Well …” Lady Birchall says. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“We could use your estate. Bring them here. The money will go a long way to helping you with your debts.”
All three women look at the former high priestess and must have thought the same thing: the Birchall Mansion, in particular, needs a helping hand because property taxes just went up. Worse still, Lady Birchall has been planning for her property that runs up against State Road 76 to go commercial. Unfortunately, the board denied the rezoning request, so she can’t sell it for what she was hoping. That means Birchall Estate is in danger.
“You want to bring husbands here … to educate them?” she asks.
Christine harrumphs. “We do. Josie has reminded me that … some witches with practical skills are being underutilized.”
“Well, well, I would definitely say that …”
“And we should try to give back to our community.”
“Of course, of course,” Lady Birchall says, looking around as if something doesn’t sit well with her, but she can’t put her finger on it. “If you think it’ll help …”
Christine grins. “We do. We really do.”
Josie stops paying attention after Lady Birchall agrees. She should feel excited at the news. Christine backed her from the beginning, and now that Lady Birchall has offered her home, Josie can prove to the world that her brewing is a good thing. Yet, she can’t help but feel a numbing responsibility. Yes, she wants to help husbands, but that was almost a knee-jerk reaction to seeing a messing living room. Sure, she thought about it: how many wives need to jumpstart their husbands every now and then? That was a great idea. But, now that she sits in Birchall, remembering her time here as a child, thinking of how much her grandmother loved the place, a chill works its way into her. She must succeed. Birchall needs the money it would bring. The legacy her grandmother left lies in the old rooms Josie used as a child. It lies in the cabin falling into disrepair out it in the woods. It lies in the overgrown garden Josie would love to see tended.
Yes, I have to succeed. And I will.
* * *
The next morning Josie waits in Aunt Emma’s store. After arriving early, she tidied up and prepared the register. Christine said someone will be coming by who can use Josie’s help. Today Husband Rehab will get its first customer.
She busies herself by arranging all the greeting cards, making sure each one is lined up next to its neighbor. She inspects the animal figurines that line one wall. She places each one in its proper place. Josie thinks of Aunt Emma, who’s afraid of all this. She doesn’t want to be around when the new client admits to needing their help. It is all too … public was the word she used.
Josie still can’t believe how easily Christine jumped at the suggestion they rehabilitate unruly husbands. Maybe it’s boredom with her own practice or the knowledge she can only do so much. But, facts are facts: Lady Cruz of the Night helped convince Lady Birchall to use her estate for the rehab program. All Josie has to do now is run a real not-for-profit foundation. Aunt Emma’s shop will be a place women can contact them. Word of mouth will be how they get customers (and those sent by Christine, of course).
Josie hears the bell ring as the door opens.
A young woman enters, no older than Josie. From the look of her, she can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. She’s wearing summer shorts, flats, and a halter-top Josie would have picked for herself. She’s pretty enough, although it looks like she walked out of the house without thinking about her hair. That explains
the Atlanta Braves baseball hat she’s wearing.
She walks straight to Josie and hands her a white business card.
Josie glances at it and sees Christine’s information.
“Thanks,” Josie says and pockets it. “You married?”
“Yes, three years.”
“I’m Josie.” She extends her hand, and the other woman takes it. “What can I do for you?”
“I was told you rehab husbands …”
“I do. Yes I do.”
“How’s this work?”
Josie watches the young woman screw her face up, as if she’s ready to hear the bad news. Maybe it’s going to cost ten thousand dollars, or only certain types of husbands get in. Maybe her husband (who Josie glimpses sitting outside in the driver seat of a Ford pickup truck) won’t stay. He looks like a tough cookie. Big, muscular, wearing what appears to be a Waylon Jennings’s Outlaw Country tee-shirt.
All American boy, right there. Piece of cake.
“Simple,” Josie says and gently leads the woman by the arm, edging her over to the counter, which is half hidden by a row of goods. “Will he come on his own?” She nods. “He owes you for being a jerk?” More nodding. “Good. Take him over to the Birchall Estate. Know where it is? Good. You’re responsible for bringing him his meals. We haven’t prepped the kitchen yet.”
“I can do that.”
“He stays until he’s fixed. I’m guessing a day or so. When he’s done, if you like the results, you make a donation to a foundation we’re setting up through Aunt Emma’s shop here. It’s for the preservation of Birchall.”
“That’s it?”
“Simple as pie.”
“How you gonna do it?” she asks, finally smiling.
“Well, what’s his problem?”
The concerned wife puts her hands on her hips, as if she’s ready to give a speech. “This one. He’s a handful. He don’t say a thing. Sometimes he comes home and sits in front of that TV and watches sports until he goes to bed. On the weekends, sports, sports, sports. Baseball, football, basketball, the fights. He likes ‘em all. People come over and he don’t talk much. When his friends visit they talk, sure, but he don’t talk much to me. When we go out, he might make a joke or two, but he’s about as talkative as a stone.”
“He always been this way?”
“Not really. We got married young, sure, but he used to be … lighter, you know? Have fun. He just won’t make the effort anymore.”
“So the idea is for him to converse more?”
“That’s it.”
“I got just the thing for him.”
“You do?”
“He’s ready to go now?” Josie asks.
“This minute.”
She’s probably made some ultimatum to him. Either way, her husband must be onboard.
Josie leans in close. “Take him to the Birchall. We can get started after lunch. You’ll bring him his dinner, unless you make arrangements for Alice to cook for you, but you won’t see him until he’s done.”
“I won’t?”
“It’s best that way.”
Josie let that sink in. She’s making this up as she goes, she has to admit, and that suggestion seems appropriate. She’s never been to rehab. She has two friends who went, and the drummer of Prawn Broker got out before the tour. He did ninety days in a clinic in Florida. ‘No visitors’ was the rule—at least that’s what he said. She thinks that’ll also be best for her new venture. Yes, keep the husbands sequestered until they’re good and ready to be let back out into the world where wives need them to be reliable, clean, helpful, and cheery.
The young woman backs away, keeping her eyes on Josie for longer than normal. “He’ll be okay, right? I mean, you won’t … hurt him?”
Josie walks her to the door. “He’ll be just fine.”
She watches the young man drive away. Her husband seems relieved to be going, as if this might already be over with. No sir, Josie thinks. It’s just beginning.
PART TWO
A FEW WEEKS LATER, JOSIE FINDS HERSELF at Lady Birchall’s château-like mansion. She’s standing just beyond a landing overlooking the vestibule. Downstairs five new patients await her.
She pauses as she considers what has happened these past few weeks. Their first customer’s husband was an easy case. Josie just doused him with a simple mood enhancer—probably not much different from what Christine gives her clients, except this one makes a person chatty. He went home the very next night. The happy wife visited Aunt Emma’s a few days later, smiling from ear-to-ear, saying her husband is suddenly Mr. Talkative. At that very moment, she explained, he was down the street at the pharmacist’s having a friendly discussion about the weather, of all things.
Word quickly spread, and Josie also found herself with a full-time job. So far, though, they haven’t made much money to help Birchall. That first charity case of Christine’s was to see if Josie could succeed with a stranger. The satisfied wife only gave a donation of one hundred dollars. But Josie isn’t worried. Not one bit. She’s happy to be practicing her craft and helping people so that she can improve Birchall. The money will come. She’s sure.
Josie steps onto the landing, takes one step toward the curving grand staircase, and she sees Lennox Cruz standing in the Birchall Mansion’s circular vestibule.
Lennox!
No one told her he was coming. She pulls her eyes off him as she walks down. The vestibule is a tall cylinder that stretches three stories to an arched and ribbed ceiling frescoed in gold and silver lines. A chandelier with foot-long, crystal shards hangs half way down. Other than the drawing room on one side and the den on the other, the vestibule is closed off because the wide double doors to the main hall are locked at night. Josie pretends it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Lennox stands right in the center.
He shouldn’t here. Not him by a mile. His wife, bitch-of-a-bitch Stella Spivey, failed to mention he’d be coming. Josie never heard such a preposterous idea. She agreed to Lennox? Lennox can’t be at fault. She has known him since they were kids. He’s about the coolest, most successful guy she has ever met. The problem? He’s not only married, but it’s to a glamour witch with a penchant for weekend trips to Europe and spending way too much money. She’s hot and connected.
Josie pulls her eyes away from Lennox.
The conversation lulls as the men sip iced sweet tea. Lady Birchall’s hired help—not servants, thank you—are accepting extra shifts now that Husband Rehab is happening. Tonight, Alice is working in sixth gear. She’s in the kitchen preparing some snacks for later.
She approaches Arney Jenkins, a banker with a big belly and a friendly smile who has a memory problem when it comes to his wife. His tie is loose, as if he just got off work and is ready for a drink. As Mrs. Jenkins explained to Aunt Emma, he’s meticulous about everything other than her, especially money. Not a single penny is unaccounted for, but if his wife asks him to empty the dishwasher, he’ll suddenly forget. He also has no capacity to remember to put the toilet paper back on the rail. Most infuriatingly, he can’t get the grocery list right. Aunt Emma listed a number of other offenses, all of them displaying in a magical business card Roxy ensorcelled. Josie greets him with a cordial smile, imagining what sort of therapy might galvanize his memory.
The others she greets, one by one. She’s viewed them in action, as well, thanks to Roxy’s magical cards. There’s ornery Ottis Ray Creeley in a sharp plaid blazer, buttoned-up shirt, and pleated pants. He looks like he’s chewing on a lemon, and liking it. Next to him is Jerry Brookings and his lying tongue. He’s a dorky middle-aged man in shorts, a collared shirt, and a visor he probably thinks is cool. Boris Reiner is a royal cheater who may be a hard case. He has a huge head of ginger hair that some women must find attractive but Josie finds ridiculous.
Then there’s Lennox Cruz: over six feet, rangy; but gorgeous with his short, sandy-blond hair; wide shoulders, like a swimmer’s; and the kind of lean, toned muscle that only comes from ge
netics, plus exercise, plus eating well, plus plenty of sleep, plus … being him. He’s successful as an actor and singer in Hollywood and spends his off time here in Georgia. Most of the time, Stella spends his money traipsing around the world. Now would be a perfect time for a trip. No one said a thing. Lennox must have volunteered.
“Hey, Lennox,” Josie says, trying to keep cool.
“Josie Bran,” he says with a kind grin. “I bet you didn’t know I was coming.”
“Nope. Big surprise. What did Aunt Emma tell you?”
“You’ve got something good going here. Marriage counselor?”
“Sort of.”
“What’s this all about?” Mr. Jenkins asks. “I was told you had a mint ’66 Ferrari for sale.”
“Were you?” Josie asks.
The other men look just as confused. Josie glances at the front door, a large, red-lacquered wooden piece with fine multicolored Tiffany glass paneling. Roxy spent the entire day securing the place. That front door won’t open to these men—to any man—for the time being. Roxy wasn’t clear on how long her binding magic would work. Josie, though, was told that she should feel secure these men can’t crawl out windows, or sneak out any of the doors, or even knock through a wall. They’re stuck inside Birchall, until the women are ready to let them out.
“Welcome to Husband Rehab,” she says, hands out in a friendly gesture of camaraderie. “The Birchall Mansion will be your home for the weekend.”
They all stare at her.
Josie spends the next ten minutes explaining that they’re here because their wives each have a specific complaint. When that complaint is addressed they get to leave. Lennox keeps quiet through the speech. The other men protest, some louder than others. She keeps an eye on Mr. Creeley, whose inability to lighten up is the reason he’s here. He’s quiet enough at the moment. The banker, Mr. Jenkins, is making the biggest fuss. He even tries the front door, which doesn’t open, of course. He’ll probably be the easiest to fix, and the fastest to get back home to his loving wife.
