The Witch

by Jean Thompson

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A very nice lady and her husband and little boy who lost him and they’ve been looking for him everywhere. They were so excited when I told them we had him.”

  “That’s a big fat lie,” Ellen said.

  “Excuse me?” Sheila was still in her work clothes and her work shoes with the heels. She was as big as a statue.

  “They didn’t want him. They were cruel to him. He ran away.”

  Sheila let out her breath and put on her patient, grown-up face. “And how do you know this, Ellen?”

  “Because he told me,” Ellen whispered. She couldn’t look at Sheila. Prince’s tongue was hanging out and he was panting. Ellen wanted to touch him but he’d shrunk into the corner.

  “The dog talks to you.” The space between Sheila’s eyebrows began to kindle.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, Ellen. That’s very interesting. When I get back, I’m going to call Dr. Gaily, because I know he will want to hear all about these conversations.”

  “No.” She knew what Dr. Gaily meant. He was the doctor from the hospital. “I won’t.”

  “Please don’t be uncooperative, Ellen. It only makes everything so much harder, and it doesn’t change the outcome.”

  “You’ve never loved anything in your whole life,” Ellen told her.

  Then a lot of things happened all at once. Sheila opened her mouth wide, either to say something or in outrage, and Prince in the back seat of the car barked and howled and shouted, “Ellen, watch out, watch out!” Ellen turned and saw the hedge behind them snapping and shaking and the red-haired boy stepped out of it, aiming a toy that looked like a rifle or a rifle that looked like a toy, and just at the last instant Ellen fell to the ground and the spray of shot hit Sheila right between the eyes.

  —

  Ellen was allowed to attend church for the funeral, packed between her two burliest brothers-in-law in case there were problems. But she sat quietly all through the service, and listened as Father Harvey talked about our earthly loss and the rejoicing in Heaven. He said that agents of God’s grace were everywhere among us, working His will, and Ellen guessed he was talking about Sheila, but maybe you could make a good case for the red-haired boy too. Father Harvey was old now, and his face had collapsed into flabby wrinkles, and Ellen asked herself what she’d ever seen in him, though she’d known all along it had been his loneliness.

  Later, back at the house, Ellen’s sisters helped her set out the supper of ham sandwiches and casseroles, and bottles of beer and of whiskey were lined up on a dish towel on the kitchen counter. Sheila’s husband came too, and he drank a good bit and cried, and even though everybody knew how things had been between them, they let him carry on. What was the harm?

  The youngest nieces and nephews and cousins ran in and out from the yard, filling the house with cold drafts, while the older ones grouped themselves on the couches in the basement, bored. Everyone complimented Ellen on how nice the house looked, how well she had kept it up. She smiled a lot, aware that she was under scrutiny. Her sisters brought out the old photo albums and they passed them around and remembered this or that story, funny or sad, and how Sheila had her good points, you had to give her that. In the kitchen the men stood with their drinks in their hands and talked work and talked sports. Everyone was glad that the red-haired boy was not from a Saint Brendan’s family, so they could say a lot of harsh things without feeling conflicted, like, they should have put him under the jail, the little bastard.

  Everybody loved Prince, who went up to people with his tail wagging and his new collar tags jingling. He did all the tricks that people asked him, sit, roll over, shake hands, speak! When they got to speak! he said, “Woof!” and he and Ellen winked at each other, because it was pretty funny.

  Finally the party was over, and the dishes washed and the trash bundled up, and Sheila’s husband sent home in a cab, sobbing to the driver. Agnes, her nicest sister, got Ellen to one side and said, “You know you can come to us. We have plenty of room and we’d love to have you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m all right here. Really. I’m fine.”

  “As long as you’re certain,” Agnes began, then her youngest child locked himself in the bathroom and she was needed there.

  The next night, Ellen and Prince had the leftover ham for their supper. “They sure were a houseful,” Ellen said. “I mean, I was glad to see them and all, but I need a little more elbow room.”

  “You guys do know how to throw a funeral,” Prince said. “By the way, you look really nice tonight.”

  “Thank you,” Ellen said. She was wearing two of the net petticoats, a lavender and a yellow, one on top of the other. She twirled to make them flare out. “Crazy lady fashion. Not everybody can pull it off.”

  At bedtime they climbed the stairs, and Prince lay with his warm back along Ellen’s front, and she rubbed his nose and his ears and the fur on his chest. Prince said, “This is going to sound strange, but I don’t think you’re crazy. I mean, look at everything you do for yourself, and do for me, look how you managed the whole funeral thing. I think crazy is something you outgrew.”

  “Huh,” Ellen said. She wanted to believe it, but she wasn’t so sure. She still felt the same as she always had. “Okay, but, not to be rude, you and me talking. That’s not crazy?”

  “No, that’s just magic.”

  They were almost asleep. Prince’s rib cage rose and fell, rose and fell as his breathing slowed. Ellen said, “Promise me you’ll stay with me forever.”

  Prince stirred. “Every day of my forever, I will stay with you.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s good, okay,” Ellen said, and then they both slept.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jean Thompson is the author of six previous novels, among them The Humanity Project, The Year We Left Home, and five previous story collections, including Who Do You Love (a National Book Award finalist). She lives in Urbana, Illinois.