Dad's eyes opened all the way.
"Do you know that they are good friends even now?"
"That's ridiculous. Mother fired her when I was a child."
"Well, that may be true. Anyway, I saw them together, sitting in his truck, out by the river."
"Gertrude! You are mistaken! He hasn't seen her in years!"
Dad sat up, but didn't say anything.
"I think I recognize the pick-up. I know every dent and ding on it. He has a bumper sticker from Ronald Reagan's 1984 campaign. How could I not identify my own grandfather, or his old truck?"
She didn't have an answer for that. "I don't know, Gertrude. Maybe they have some business together."
Really? Even Mom couldn't possibly believe that. What business could they conduct in a truck by the river?
Now my dad pushed hard on the handle and the chair's footrest slammed down loudly. The mechanism squeaked deep inside the chair.
"Young lady," he said. "Don't argue with your mother. There is no reason in the world for Hyrum to be friends with Clementine."
Why should this make them so angry, I wondered?
16
I love my parents, and I assume they love me. However, I'm not too sure if they have any affection at all for each other. Once, I actually asked Mom why they stayed together. "Oh, I owe so much to your father," she said, but did not explain what she meant.
That night, I did something that I have never done. I snuck out of the house after they went to bed. They had both drunk more than usual during and after dinner. I had a pretty good idea that they would be sleeping soundly.
It was only around 10:00 p.m., still early in any city, except Columbus. The traffic lights were already flashing red or yellow, depending on which side of the intersection you were on. The streets were quiet.
I walked under a full moon to Aunt Fleur's house. The sidewalk was still warm from the afternoon's heat. I felt it seep through the thin plastic soles of my sandals and radiate onto the bottom of my feet.
I wasn't afraid of the night. In spite of the unsolved murder of Coach Russell, Columbus remained a very safe place.
On Fleur's porch I was greeted by Jimmy-James twisting on his back, asking for a tummy rub. I rang the bell, but she did not answer. There was a sort of low singing coming from her back yard. I walked down the row of Oleander bushes to the gate. Through a crack in the fence I saw Fleur and two other women circling a small fire pit.
"The sun is in Cancer," she said. I think she was speaking to the fire.
"The sun is in Cancer," repeated the other women in deep voices.
"The moon is in Scorpio," Fleur chanted.
"The moon is in Scorpio," they answered.
They circled the fire, holding hands.
"We ask the Goddess to protect our realm. We ask the Mother to keep us safe." Whatever Fleur said, the women repeated.
I can't remember everything, but it ended with something that sounded like 'blessed be.' It wasn't exactly like anything I'd ever heard in the Baptist church, except, of course, the "blessed" part. Everyone around here says "Well bless your hea-art," all the time, or "Have a blessed day." They also say someone "blessed them out," which is Columbus-speak for "cursed them out."
I didn't know if I should make some noise. Should I let them know I was there?
They threw some papers into the fire, and it flared.
"To the Huddle House!" Fleur threw up her hand with a flourish.
"To the Huddle House!" they all answered.
I stepped aside, so that when the gate opened I would be behind it. The women scurried onto the street and piled into Aunt Fleur's old van. I was sure that they did not notice me at all. Fleur winked back at the open gate and a gust of wind slammed it shut.
17
I walked home wishing I understood more about what was going on. The house was quiet as I slipped between my cool sheets. I could hear dad's snoring through the walls.
That night, my room spun and made me dizzy. I heard distant sirens moving through the city. The shrill sound seeped in through the windows and rolled around as if caught in the tornado twirling the room. I don't know why the wail frightened me. I was protected behind locked doors. Nothing could hurt me. I clutched the sides of my mattress, afraid that I might be thrown onto the floor.
The ringing of the phone awakened me around dawn. A slit of light peeked from between the eyelet curtains. Slowly emerging from my fitful sleep, I rolled over and fell back into a dream about a snake with a hundred heads that screamed like a siren whenever one head was lopped off.
When I finally got up, Mom and Dad were sitting at the table drinking coffee. They weren't dressed for work.
"Gertrude, sit down." Mom rubbed her open hand on the pocket of her chenille robe. "We have something to tell you."
Dad stepped in as if he didn't think Mom was getting to the point fast enough. I knew something bad was coming, and held my breath.
"Your aunt was hurt last night. She is in the hospital," he said.
"What happened?"
"Well, it seems that she was in an altercation." He stirred his coffee for what seemed like forever. "She was with some friends, and apparently they were mugged in the parking lot of the Huddle House."
"Is she okay? Can we go to the hospital?"
"Yes, dear," said Mom. "Go get dressed."
We entered Baptist Memorial Golden Triangle Hospital (the only hospital in town), and were directed to her room. At first, I didn't recognize the old person sitting on the edge of the bed. Her face was puffy and pale. All her makeup had been washed off. I ran to her and tried to hug her, but she held one hand out to stop me.
"The doctors say I can go home. Kay, will you and Truly help me dress?"
Dad stepped into the hallway. Mom and I carefully draped her clothes loosely around her. There were wide strips of white tape wrapped around her ribs; her breasts were almost completely flattened by the bandage. Her left arm was in a cloth sling. We gently put her in a wheelchair.
"I'll be alright," she told us when we reached the front of her house. "You don't need to come in." She handed something to my mom. "Kay, I think you should keep the key to my house. You might need it."
"I want to come in," I whined. "I can make tea. I don't even know what happened."
"That's alright, Truly. I have pain pills, and I will go right to sleep."
"But you are hurt! Who did this? Can you identify them?"
"All in good time. All in good time."
I looked at my parents, hoping they would back me up. But Mom just placed her hand on my arm. "We'll go home now. Call us if you need anything, Fleur. I'll check on you tomorrow," she said.
At home, we ate toast and canned soup. Mom lay down on the sofa. Neither of them went to work that day.
18
Mom and I checked on Aunt Fleur everyday. She was so quiet, so different. We made her tea, and fed "the boys." She is a vegetarian. You would think that would make it easy to prepare her meals. But somehow this just complicated things. Her jaw was sore, so she couldn't chew crunchy food like carrots or celery. We gave her way too much canned Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup. She never complained.
Fleur had stopped working on her "Accessorines," and no new "witch balls" appeared in her kitchen window. The only thing she did was phone the friends, Trillian and Algonquin, who were with her that night, to check on how they were feeling.
She said very little about the attack to me or to anyone else. I asked her if she recognized the men who did this. Her answers were fuzzy.
"They wore bandanas tied across over their faces," she told me.
"Aunt Fleur, this is a small town. You might have seen them around. What about their voices? Or their height? There has to be some sort of clue."
"Don't worry, Truly, there is justice in the universe."
"Not if they aren't caught."
"Conscience and karma can be stronger than the laws of man."
The police interviewed her
several times. Considering their track record with Coach Russell's murder, no one expected them to solve this crime easily.
As far as I could see, the local papers were about as sharp as the police force. The Commercial Dispatch, Columbus' daily paper, placed the story on a back page of Monday's paper, the day that is least read. The Columbus Packet, a weekly, managed to snap a few photos taken at the Huddle House. Their reporters listen to a police scanner at all times. That gives them one up on the other paper, arriving at crime scenes about the same time as police.
The Packet's story confused me. They reported that three men, dressed as women, had been attacked by a gang of anti-gay vigilantes.
"Mom," I said, holding The Packet out to her, "how could they get the story so very wrong? Aren't there laws against this sort of reporting? Women dressed as men? That doesn't make sense."
She gave me a look that was hard to read. Her shoulders drooped slightly, and she lowered her eyes. This was the same expression she wore when she tried to explain the birds and bees to me. That conversation was awkward, truly uncomfortable for us both. It was unnecessary, as well. The Phys. Ed. teachers made us watch videos that supposedly explained it all to us. I understood the process of sex. I just didn't completely get it. The whole ritual seemed embarrassing, not in any way as desirable as just making out.
"Gertrude, I thought you understood about Fleur. She is different in many ways." She looked at me as if waiting for the light to go on. It didn't.
"Fleur has a crazy way of dressing. Although she appears to be a woman, she is actually a man." Mom must have thought I already knew this. I didn't.
"Why would anyone want to do that?"
"I don't know, honey. She is just unusual." Mom's shoulders lifted a bit. Although I was still confused, she probably felt that the worst part of the conversation was over.
"But, but...gangs?" I suddenly became a stutterer.
"They say every city has them. I guess the authorities know a lot more than we do."
"Gangs who hate men dressed as women? How can they even tell?" I may be terribly sheltered, but I was beginning to see that Mom might be just as clueless as I am.
"These are hard questions to answer."
"So, Mom, is that why Dad doesn't like her? Because she's a man?"
"I suppose that's true."
"But, why don't you have a problem with it?"
"Well, dear," she appeared to choose her words carefully, "when I was young, she sent me postcards from the places she visited. She never forgot my birthday. I loved her like you do." I thought she was finished, and then she spoke again. "Aunt Fleur taught me a bit about the power of wishes."
I was amazed at this answer. My mom was, well, plain, never exotic like her aunt. It was impossible to imagine her working magic.
All children understand the difference between boys and girls. Oh, I don't mean the physical differences. I just know that even a very young child can put people in a category. Moms are girls. Dads are boys. But boys dressed as girls, or girls dressed as boys, this was something no one ever told us about.
Now, I learn that for some reason there are "gangs" that attack them. Anyone who gets to know Aunt Fleur would have to love her, like Mom and I do. They would just have to.
During all the excitement I had almost forgotten about Eric. I hadn't been to "work" at the library for about a week. That's one advantage of being a volunteer. It's hard to get fired for slacking up.
When I finally went back to the library, Eric was quite cool to me. I had already figured out that he was moody. I wanted to talk to someone closer to my age. He is a college boy, so I assume he understands sex and sexuality better than I do.
Whenever I thought we would have a moment to talk, he was suddenly very busy with re-shelving books, or helping people who didn't know how to use computers. I couldn't talk him into going to the coffee house, or anywhere. He looked self-conscious when I got near him, lowering his eyes and stuttering slightly.
One day the head librarian recruited him to explain the Dewey Decimal System to me. He had no choice. We went into the second-floor stacks to have our lesson.
He tried not to make eye-contact with me, focusing on the space just over my shoulder. I turned on the charm. At first I asked him about a bandage that he had wrapped around one hand. "Just a fall from my bike," he told me. "It's almost healed."
"Yeah, my aunt had an accident recently, too. She's doing much better."
This news did not impress him much. But something clicked inside his head. "You know, Truly, I do like you...a lot. I even think we could be better friends. But, that crazy aunt would have to go. I just can't accept you with that freak always around you."
This totally shocked me. "That doesn't make sense. You have so much empathy for slaves who lived more than a hundred years ago, but for some reason you can't stand my sweet old aunt."
He switched his weight from one foot to the other. "I can't explain it. It's just that ever since that night that we went to the movie, I can't get you out of my mind."
That night seemed so long ago. It was only a couple of weeks, but it felt like years. Now, I realized that Aunt Fleur's "attraction charm" had actually worked. Then, I had wanted him to like me, maybe more than I admitted. Now, I wasn't so sure. My feelings had changed lately.
"Well, Eric, I guess you read in The Packet that she is a bit unusual. That doesn't make her any different from the person that I love. She is as sweet as ever. I guess you still believe that she is some sort of witch. How silly is that?"
"I didn't need to read The Packet to know what she is. I knew it the first time I met her. She is an old queen. I hate gays!"
"Oh, pleeeze. This is Columbus. How many could you have known here?"
"More than you will ever understand." He slammed a book against the shelf. I walked away, angry, confused, but certainly no longer in love with him.
19
I thought that both mysteries were quieting down—the big one, Coach Russell's murder; and the small one, the attack on my aunt and her friends. But both remained unsolved. There was little about either in the papers, now. Her injuries were healed for the most part, and I felt relief.
One afternoon, I stood on her front porch about to ring the bell. I heard a weak meow from behind a potted fern. When I looked behind the pot I saw Michael-Ray lying in a puddle of red. A sound came out of me that I had never before heard. Something shrill and primitive started deep in my gut and rolled out of my throat in a wail that startled me.
Fleur threw open the door. I couldn't speak. My hand trembled as I pointed to the little black cat. He looked up at us, helpless. There was so much sadness and love in his eyes. He took one breath, and then his chest was still. We knew that he was gone.
Aunt Fleur knelt beside him. Blood seeped up, staining her caftan; the crimson blot blended with the light blue fabric, turning the growing stigmata deep purple. She went back into the house and emerged with a piece of white linen. She wrapped the cloth around Michael. We both cried quietly. There was nothing to say.
She went into the house, clutching the tiny body close to her. Once inside, she made two phone calls. I don't know how long it took for her friends to arrive. I just sat at the kitchen table staring at my tea cup.
When her friends came, there was hugging, but few words. We went into the back yard and buried the cat under a crape myrtle tree. Fleur placed a porcelain figurine of a cherub over the grave.
Aunt Fleur said, "Cross the Rainbow bridge, dear soul."
Her friends repeated, "Cross the Rainbow bridge, dear soul."
Aunt Fleur said, "We will meet in the sunny meadows. We will run by the sweet streams."
"We will meet in the sunny meadows. We will run by the sweet streams." I joined her friends in the chant.
Fragile blossoms fell from the branches, draping the raw ground with a soft white mantle. It looked like a layer of snow against the damp earth.
We all went inside. Her friend, Algonquin, helped Fl
eur with the cups and saucers for our tea. This time, she splashed some sherry into each cup.
The ladies stayed for a while. We talked about pets we had loved. One friend, Trillian Bacakus, told us how her Cockapoo, Cordelia, sometimes came to visit, even though she had been gone for almost three years.
Algonquin said that sometimes she can feel her cat, Larkspur, rubbing against her legs as she reads at night.
"How sad," I said.
"Not at all," she said as she smiled at me. "I find it comforting. Love doesn't die."
It wasn't hard to see why these ladies were friends. They had similar styles. Each wore flowing clothes and lots of jangly jewelry. The heavy makeup and thickly-lined eyes were not typical of Columbus women. Our local look is conservative, and slightly boring. Yet somehow, this weird fashion seemed right for them.
After they left, I stayed with my Aunt, hoping to give her some comfort.
"Fleur, why didn't anyone call the police? This was a murder. Aren't you frightened?"
She smiled at me with her mouth closed. "Yes, a murder, to be sure."
"Maybe the police could at least solve this one." She didn't respond. "Aunt Fleur, how could someone be so cruel?"
"Well, Truly, it may not be as much a mystery as you imagine."
"Oh!" The realization hit me. "You know who did this to Michael-Ray." Then I said, "And you know who beat you!"
She looked so weary. "I don't know for sure. It was dark, and they had bandanas around their faces. But I have an idea."
"Let's call the police now. We could lead them to the criminals."
"Truly, the police don't care who killed a little cat. This is my personal tragedy."
In my life, I have had almost no experience with police. I was taught that they were there to help us. The cruisers have "To Protect and to Serve" written on one side. The have "The Friendly City" written on the other side. Why would they not help us?
I remembered the story of how the policeman had done nothing when her father tried to beat her so many years ago. Maybe this was the same sort of thing, good-old-boys sticking together.
Witch Ball Page 6
