by Jack Massa
“After the initiation, well, there was lots of study and meditation, spiritual exercises. We would meet as a group and practice together…breathing in unison, visualizing, all of it designed to open you up spiritually and build your mental powers. And there were more rituals as you progressed through the stages, one for each of the Five Springs, you know? That’s probably mentioned in what Violet gave you to read.”
I nod. “So, was it worthwhile? Did you feel like it made you a better person? Gave you self-control?”
Granma’s eyes are far away. “Yes, I would say so. I was always more of a follower. Your grandfather was really good at it—the talent of the Renshaws, you know? But I’d say it had a lot of meaning for me too.”
“So why did you stop?”
While I’m waiting for her answer, the buzzer on the oven goes off. Granma goes to take out the biscuits.
When she comes back, she’s moving slowly, and her face is sad. “I was telling you about…after your grandfather died. I felt so lost and hurt. I thought we would have our whole lives together, and it turned out to be only a few years. Your daddy was just a toddler, so I had to keep it together for his sake. I just wasn’t as interested in the Circle anymore. It hurt too much to work on that stuff without George beside me.”
“I’m so sorry, Granma. I didn’t mean to—”
“There’s more. You should hear it all, Abby. I did stay in touch with Violet and the others, and I did sometimes go to their rituals. I never let your father know about it when he was a child. But as he got older and started having problems…in high school, you know, he started drinking and got into drugs for a time. He grew up without a father, you see. I did my best. I did everything I could think of to help him grow up right. That included working with Violet, doing magic to help him. She said there was a limit to what she could do without his consent, and he didn’t want anything to do with it, thought it was all crazy. Still, Violet and I did some concentrated work to protect him. And it seemed to help. For a few years he straightened out. He got through college, used some of the money we’d inherited from his father to open the real estate business. But he was always so sensitive and high-strung. Every little setback threw him off-kilter. The drinking got worse again. Somewhere he’d heard this idea about the curse of the Renshaws, and it became like an obsession. I tried everything to help him, including magic. But this time it did no good. He was too far gone, closed off from any help…you pretty much know the rest.”
“I guess so.”
“Well, after he died, I put away all my magical stuff. I couldn’t bear to take it up again. I felt that if it couldn’t save my husband or my son, what good was it? So that’s why I stopped working with Violet and her Circle.”
Wow. Granma’s never talked to me about any of this. I guess no adult has ever talked to me about their deep wounds this way. I don’t know what to say to her. I just stare off at the woods, not thinking about magic or my problems at all, just feeling the reflection of all Granma’s pain. And imagining what it must have been like to carry it all those years.
“Well, now you know the story.” Granma leans forward and pushes herself to her feet. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
After breakfast we get dressed and drive into town to open the shop. I bring my tablet, planning to spend part of the day on my summer reading assignments. But after swapping texts with Mom and checking a few things online, I pick up the pages Violet gave me.
I reread the Circle of Harmony manifesto and then read “Admonitions to the Candidate” a couple of times. It’s not as complicated as I remember from last night. It mainly talks about purity of intention and examining your own thoughts and ideas, questioning where they come from. Except for the Victorian writing style, it’s actually similar to the things Dr. Mark taught me.
But that doesn’t bring me any closer to deciding about Initiation.
Here in the bright daylight, with people coming and going in the shop and cars driving by outside, it all seems so unreal. I start wondering again if it is unreal, if I’ve simply fallen off the sanity table. Maybe I need psychiatric intervention.
That makes me think of Franklin. The shop is quiet, so I send him a text, asking if he has time to talk. He sends me back a smiley face and then calls.
“Abigail Adams!”
“Benjamin Franklin! Thanks for calling me.” This riff started when we saw 1776 together. Franklin is fond of musicals.
“Have you started An American Tragedy yet? It really sucks.” He has the same honors reading list as me.
“Sorry to hear that. I was just about to read it.”
“Sure you were. How ’bout this: you read the second half, and I’ll read the first. Then we can fill each other in.”
“Sounds very efficient. It’s a deal.”
I ask him how his summer is going so far. He’s working in his uncle’s clothing store and finds it really boring. But he is going into New York on Tuesday to see a play.
“And how are things in rural Florida?” he asks me.
“Well, I can’t say boring.” I hesitate. I wouldn’t risk bringing this up with anyone else, but I’ve done Tarot readings for Franklin, and he has some idea of my secret side. “There are some people down here who are really into metaphysics and stuff.”
“Yessss?”
“It’s pretty interesting. I mean, they believe that spirits are real. And that magic is sort of real too.”
“Abby. Do we need to up your meds?”
“I’m not on meds anymore.”
“Do we need to put you back on meds?”
“Don’t be snotty. What about ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed about in your philosophy, Horatio’?”
“Don’t call me Horatio. And seriously, you need to be careful with that stuff. There’s enough trouble with things that are dreamed about in our philosophy. Don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Maybe I just needed to hear him say that.
But I don’t know…
“You need to keep things on track, Abigail. I mean, with your husband, John Adams, spending so much time goofing off at the Continental Congress…”
“I’ll hold down the farm, Mr. Franklin. Don’t worry.”
A little later a customer comes in, and I help Granma wait on her. Then I spend some time dusting in the front of the shop. After that, things are quiet, so I pick up my tablet again and try to dive into An American Tragedy. Starting at the halfway point leaves me utterly lost, so I guess I’ll have to rethink my deal with Franklin.
I put it down and wander next door to Palmer’s Books. Kevin is waiting on a customer, so I browse the metaphysics section. Astrology, Numerology, Kabbalah…can all of it just be made-up junk? I wonder…
Kevin comes over to say hello. “How’s our distance runner this morning?”
That makes me smile. “Fine. How’s my favorite anthropology professor?”
He grins. “For a washed-up academic, I’m doing all right.” He touches the side of his mouth, indicating the spot where my face is bruised. “No more ill effects from last night?”
“No. Whatever you guys did for me seems to have…driven the bad spirits away. Actually, I was hoping I could talk with you about that.”
“Sure. Step into my office.”
We go over behind the glass counter. Kevin sits on a tall metal stool next to the cash register and points me to an old office chair.
“So, I read the pages Violet gave me, and…well, some of it makes sense, but some of it just sounds so weird.”
“Interesting choice of words,” Kevin says. “Do you know the origin of the word weird? It comes from an Old English word meaning ‘fate’ or ‘destiny.’ Literally, ‘that which comes.’ So you could say the weird is that which comes to us that’s beyond our ken. Beyond our understanding or control, but real nonetheless.”
“Okay…”
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“Sorry. I guess I’m not helping.” Kevin sets his fingertips together, almost like he’s praying. “You can look at it this way: the Universe is vast and incomprehensible. To try to understand it, the human mind creates maps. Science is one big set of maps. Magic is just another set. Both kinds of maps are valid in different ways. But the Universe will always be bigger and stranger than any map. Does that help?”
“I think so. Except that science is real, but magic—”
“Is equally real, just in a different way. Our culture, and I mean the mainstream culture, focuses exclusively on science. Science has brought us tremendous benefits and power. But I’ve studied other cultures—so-called primitive cultures—and I can tell you that their magic is also valid. And magic brings those people powers and benefits too, ones that we’ve lost.”
“Like, for example?”
“Well, take you, for example. Around age twelve you started to manifest the talent of a shaman. In our culture, this is seen as a sickness, and it was treated with drugs and therapy to suppress your talent. In another culture, your gift would have been recognized. You would have been trained to cultivate your talent and use it for the good of the community. That would likely have proved a benefit to you and to others.”
I think about that and have to admit it makes sense. I think about the Tarot cards and how I use them as a kind of map for seeing things in a different way. I was drawn to the Tarot, almost by instinct. Maybe I do have a special talent for these things.
A customer has come in, and Kevin chats with her for a while. After she wanders off, I ask him, “So, professor, do you know anything about curses?”
“Ah. The curse of the Renshaws. Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Well, from studying magical cultures, I do believe curses are real. And they can be passed down through generations. But I also know that curses are mainly effective on those who believe in them. Your grandfather, for example. He knew all about the curse, but he refused to believe in it.”
“But he still died young.”
Kevin’s mouth turns down. “Yeah. Leukemia. But even after he got sick and was diagnosed, he never felt sorry for himself and never once talked about it as a curse. He said it was just a bad trip he had to go on.”
“Sounds like you knew him pretty well.”
“Oh, I did. We were friends all the way back to high school. And in those days, for a Black guy and a white guy to be friends was pretty rare. But George was a hell of a good guy, Abby. I think if he had lived, your father would have turned out differently. Your dad was not a bad person, but he was weak. I think he came to believe in the curse, and maybe that’s part of what destroyed him.”
Yeah. That hurts to think about. And where does it leave me? “I guess I need to be careful what I decide to believe in.”
“Exactly,” Kevin says. “You might say that’s the whole theory of magic. What you believe—believe in your inner being—and think about all the time, that’s what you tend to manifest in your life. So the path of the magician is to gain control of that so you can manifest positive things for yourself and for others.”
Well…Kevin’s take on all this certainly sounds reasonable. It’s making me feel that maybe the whole magic thing is real. And that maybe I should go ahead with the Initiation. I tell Kevin this.
“It’s not as scary or mysterious as it seems,” he says. “Just think of it as a set of tools for working with your mind. Just a different set of maps.”
6. Your mother and I were best friends
Around noon, as I’m mulling over whether believing in magic is actually realistic (Kevin’s view) or a symptom of insanity (Franklin’s), my phone does its incoming text chirp.
The message is from Mom: “Got an email from an old friend who heard you are in town. Going to look you up. Her name is Fiona.”
As I’m staring stupidly at the phone, I hear “Whoa! What happened to you?”
Molly Quick is standing in front of the counter with a startled expression. I’m puzzled, then realize she’s referring to my bruise.
“Oh…I tripped in the woods and hit a root.” Naturally, I’ve prepared an edited version of the story, suitable for the public.
“Gawd! How did you manage that?”
“Running. In the dark.”
Her mouth drops open. “What were you running from?”
“No, no. Running—like for fitness.” Like I said, the edited version.
“Oh!” Molly shakes her head. “I always say too much exercise is more dangerous than not enough.”
I laugh at that. “So what’s with you? Any more possibly paranormal events?” I mean, of course, not counting the ones that happened to me, which I’m not going to tell her about.
“Nah. That story’s dead. No clues, and nobody wants to talk about it. I’m putting Quick Investigations on hold and going back to the Quick Report. I’m writing about the development controversy. Everybody wants to talk about that. Anyway, I stopped by to see if you might like to grab some lunch.”
That actually sounds like a lot more fun than trying to read An American Tragedy. I check with Granma, and she tells me to go on, and to bring her back a sandwich.
So Molly and I walk the three blocks to Springs of Coffee and order lunch. I get a big salad with cold cuts and a croissant. I’ve missed some meals lately and need to keep my calories up—even though with the bruised knee it will be a couple of days before I can run again. Molly gets a chicken salad sandwich and a blended iced coffee. I think the girl is a caffeine fiend.
Molly asks me what I know about the development issue, and I repeat the little bit Granma told me. Molly, of course, knows a lot more. The Texas-Brighton Land Company started approaching property owners near the springs a couple of months ago, first by letter, then with phone calls. They were winding down a large development in south Texas and looking for a new project. They became interested in acquiring the land around the springs—preferably all of it—and let it be known that they were prepared to pay well above market value, as an incentive to sell. Some of the owners were interested and started talking it up with their neighbors. Others were dead against it, saying it would mean more roads, more crowding, and worst of all, ruining the character of the springs by tearing down a lot of the woods.
“That’s how Granma and I feel about it. But aren’t the springs a National Historic Site?” I’ve seen the markers on Main Street.
“Only the downtown district,” Molly says. “Not the properties up at the springs. Besides, just being on the National Register doesn’t protect a place from being torn down. No, this is shaping up as a fight that could end up in court. The people who are against it are organizing. They’re worried the developers will pour a lot of money in, buy some properties, and start bulldozing. Once that begins, it’s hard to stop. Happens all the time in Florida. You and your grandmother might want to come to the meeting next week.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen the signs.”
“The committee’s being led by a woman who owns a local real estate company along with her husband. She’s actually a descendant of one of the town founders. Fiona Alden-Gathers.”
The name sounds faintly familiar. Then I remember the text from Mom about her friend. I mention it to Molly.
“Is she the same Fiona?”
“I don’t know her last name, but it could be. My mom worked in real estate.”
“Great. I bet it is. If you meet her, could you put in a word? I’m trying to interview her for my blog, and her office hasn’t returned my calls.”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Thanks! You can tell her I’m sympathetic to the cause.”
Molly seems to really appreciate this, and I sense it makes her more relaxed. For a while we talk about girl stuff—school, guys, plans for the future. Even though Molly is a year younger than me and just out of tenth grade, she already knows that she wants to apply to the School of Communication at FSU.
I, of course, am much vagu
er about my plans.
But Molly says she can tell I’m really smart, and she’s sure I’ll figure it out. I’m beginning to see that under Molly’s rapid-fire reporter facade, she’s actually lonely and a little insecure. She goes to a county high school which is a twelve-mile bus ride away, so in the summer she doesn’t get to see much of her school friends. The few kids who live around here are okay, she says, just not intellectual or interesting. “Unlike you, Abby.”
Well. It’s nice to be told you’re both intellectual and interesting.
When we’re done with lunch, Molly invites me to go kayaking with her later in the week. Granma’s told me over and over that she doesn’t need me to stay at the shop all the time, so I accept.
At four thirty that afternoon, my phone rings.
“Hello. This is Fiona Alden-Gathers. Is this Abigail?”
“Yes.”
“Hi. Your mother sent me your number. I heard you were in town visiting, and I wanted to give you a call. Your mother and I were best friends back in the day.”
“Yes, hi. Mom texted me that you might call. It’s nice of you.”
“It’s my pleasure. I remember you as a baby. How are you enjoying our quiet little town?”
“Oh, fine. I’m having a great time.” And it’s been anything but quiet so far.
“Not too boring after New York?”
“Well, I live in New Jersey. I don’t go into the city that much.”
“I see. Listen, Abigail, I’ve got some free time tomorrow afternoon. I thought I might take you out to lunch. I’d love to hear all about how your mother’s doing. And you too, of course.”
“Uh, that’s really nice of you. Hold on a second. I’ll check with my Granma.”
Granma tells me it’s fine to go ahead. She remembers her from the old days, when my dad and mom and Fiona all worked together. “Great,” Fiona says. “I can pick you up at twelve thirty. Where will I find you?”
“At Granma’s shop, Glenda’s Antiques, on Main Street.”
“See you then.”
After she beeps off, I ask Granma what she knows about Fiona.
