A Witch's Guide to a Good Brew

by Jose Rodriguez-Copeland

“You too…”

  The pair stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. The silence was crushing me.

  “So…” I said. “How was your flight from New York?”

  “It was good,” said Moka. “Raul, would you excuse us? I’d like to talk with my sister alone.”

  “He stays,” said Elise.

  “Fine by me,” said Moka. “It’s been a while.”

  “Only two years,” said Elise. “But who’s counting? Mom certainly isn’t.”

  “Ellie… You know how things between mom and I are—”

  “Complicated, I know. But you could’ve stopped by or called more often,” said Elise.

  “I came to make peace with you,” said Moka. Her gaze swept the hardwood floor.

  “This is purely business,” said Elise. “You bring the fans and we give you a place to perform. Strictly business.”

  “Did you tell Mom I would be here?”

  “And break her heart? I didn’t,” said Elise. “Now if you excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Elise did an about-face and went for the storage closet. Tessa polished a table a safe distance away. That left only me to deal with the fallout.

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “Elise can be a little of a straight-edge sometimes.”

  “Thanks,” said Moka. “It runs a little deeper than that, though.”

  Her pink locks sprouted from the top of her head and came to a stop midway down her stomach. We both took a seat.

  “Can I get you anything?” I said. “Coffee? Pastries? Sandwiches?”

  “Water is fine,” said Moka. Tessa heard and brought a glass of chilled water, taking a seat next to us.

  “Your hair is really pretty,” said Tessa. “Back in… where I come from, nobody has hair that colorful.”

  “Thank you, uh… Sorry, what’s your name?”

  “It’s Tessa,” she said.

  “Tessa… Such a beautiful name.”

  “And yours too,” said Tessa. “Raul had to spell it out for me a few times before I got it.”

  “Moka, you mean? It’s my artist name. My real name is Amanda Carter.”

  “Elise must be very proud to have a sister as accomplished as you,” said Tessa.

  “Tessa, don’t…”

  “It’s OK,” said Moka, putting her hands up. “She probably isn’t too thrilled for me to be here. Truth is that I owe her a lot and when she asked me… Well, I couldn’t say no.”

  “I hope you’re not feeling forced to do this or anything,” I said. Last thing I would want is for someone to be at the Twisted Cauldron against their will.

  “Not at all. I love meeting fans, especially those in my hometown. It’s just…” Moka took a deep breath and exhaled. “Ellie’s probably already told you all about it.”

  “She hasn’t,” said Tessa.

  “Elise doesn’t really share much with us. Mostly keeps to herself,” I said. I could count on one hand the number of times Elise had talked about her personal life. I’m not even sure I remember how old she is…

  “I guess that’s not too surprising. I’ve loved writing all my life. Our mom, however, thought it was a dead-end job, so she forced me to go to college. I can understand it—she never got to go herself and now her daughter gets the chance. But that wasn’t me. So halfway through my law degree, I quit. Mom hated me for it, saying I squandered my potential. I left for New York and struggled a lot the first few months, but I made it work. I’m in a good place now, but I didn’t take my sister’s feelings into account. I know that makes me a lousy sibling, but I did what I had to do.”

  Caught between family and passion. There’s never an easy answer. Tessa locked eyes with me and nodded. “I got this,” she meant. The message came across clearer than if she had used words.

  “These feelings you have for your sister… could you try sharing them through your work?” said Tessa.

  “That was the plan originally,” said Moka, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. “But I decided against it. Ellie might not like that.”

  “Your fans are coming to see your raw emotions run loose,” said Tessa. “They want to follow your passion and ride along as you discover your own truths. Delivering anything less would be doing those coming here tonight a disservice.”

  That was impressive. It made me wonder how much of that was Tessa’s own, and how much she borrowed from the television shows she devoured every night.

  “You might be right,” said Moka. She flattened the paper on the table. “Maybe I’ll share my story.”

  Behind us, a group of three people came in.

  “Is this the place?” said one of them, looking at their phones.

  “Are you blind? She’s right there,” said the second.

  “It’s Moka!” said the third. Moka stood up to greet them.

  “We better get started,” I said. “Elise and I will man the counter. Tessa, you make sure that everything is set up for Moka, alright?”

  “Right on, boss,” said Tessa.

  Atop our counter we had a mix of light bites like sandwiches and fruit, as well as copies of Moka’s poetry collections. If we sell through two-thirds of our stock, I would consider this event a success.

  More people poured in through our door. Ten minutes before Tessa was set to start and we had sold a few hundred dollars’ worth of food and beverages. Half the books were sold. Maybe I was a genius, and I just never noticed?

  Tessa directed people to the autograph line. She mingled with customers and made sure that all Moka’s needs were met. The witch remained composed even as the line swelled in size, always wearing a smile.

  Elise, on the other hand, couldn’t have been less approachable. She tried to hide her frown, but it was all too obvious that she didn’t want to be there. During one lull in customer arrivals, I confronted her about it.

  “Elise, I know you don’t get along with your sister, but try to…”

  “I’m trying, OK?” said Elise. It was the most anxious I had ever seen her.

  “Elise…”

  “I’m going to take a break,” she said, balling up her apron and tossing it on the counter.

  This was not good. I could let Elise handle things on her own, but I should at least try to be helpful. I called Tessa over.

  “You’ll be managing the counter by yourself for a little bit,” I said.

  “OK, but where are you going?” she said.

  “To see if I can make a difference,” I said. I pushed through the line of people waiting to get an autograph of the poet.

  “Moka,” I said, “can you start now? We can push the rest of the autographs to the end. How does that sound?”

  “We can do that,” she said, confused.

  “Great,” I said, then turned to address the crowd. “Hello everyone. We’ll be stopping autographs for now so Moka can get started. If there’s time, we’ll try to accommodate the rest of you waiting in line at the end.”

  I left in a hurry, not even giving myself enough time to judge their reactions. A boss’s job was to make sure that everything ran smoothly. I, as the lone member of the human resources department, had to help keep the peace.

  Elise sat on an overturned bucket. The only light in the room came from the glare of her phone screen. She looked mesmerized by the screen. A faint smile formed on her face.

  “How are you?” I said.

  “Doing good,” she said. “Just looking through old photos. When we were kids.”

  I found a sturdy box and dragged it next to her. Elise showed me a picture of two girls, one nearly twice as tall as the other, smiling. The smaller one had vivid curly hair, while the other wore her black hair straight down.

  “You two looked so cute back then,” I said. “What happened?” I delivered that joke in the most deadpan tone I could muster.

  “You’re an idiot,” said Elise, letting out a chuckle. “I was 8 and she was 12. We used to be so close, even through college. Even in her undergrad, she u
sed to come home on weekends and take me to the movies. I tried to play it off, saying she was lame, but I really enjoyed the time we spent together.”

  “Did that change after she moved to New York?” I said.

  “Before that,” she said, scrolling through photos on her phone. “Our dad passed away when I was 10 years old. It hit us hard, but I think it hit my sister the hardest. Dad was a writer. A novelist. He would recite his stories to us all the time. I used to think they were cool, but my sister… Amanda thought they were something more. He inspired her to write and gave her extra lessons after school. Took her to writing competitions for kids. When he died, Amanda tried to latch onto writing.”

  “Mom wanted nothing to do with it. She saw it as a distraction. Amanda pushed back and wrote more than ever, letting her grades slip. Eventually, our mom agreed to let her keep writing if she kept her grades up and got into college. Amanda did it and graduated top of her class. Got a nice office job, then went to law school just like my mom. You should’ve seen how happy that made Mom… but Amanda hated it. She hated every second of every day. She never told her, until one day Amanda just snapped. Went off on mom, about how she wanted to erase dad’s legacy. She said a ton of mean things and just… left. Haven’t seen her until tonight.”

  I let the weight of her words hang in the air. I only found out that Elise had a famous sister a week ago. Then I went ahead and asked her to invite Moka over, without thinking of the consequences. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it would be to decide between your sister and your mother.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “If there’s anything I could do.”

  I said that, knowing full well there was nothing I could do. There was no way I could mend Moka’s relationship with her mother. But Elise still loved her sister and respected her choices.

  “Amanda made the choice to follow her goals. And she’s already so successful. But me…” said Elise. “I don’t have those.”

  “You’re too hard on yourself.”

  “It’s true, though. I don’t have anything to strive for… anything I need,” she said, standing up. “We should probably go back out there.”

  “Elise, you can’t compare yourself to your sister. You’re not her,” I said.

  “You’re damn right I’m not her. She’s smarter, more successful…”

  “And what if she is?” I said. “You’re not her. So what if it feels like you’re not going where you want to go. There’s still time. It’s better that you stay put and figure out what you want—no, need to do. If you go out there chasing after some dream you don’t even know you have, you’ll end up worse than where you started.”

  “You’re smarter than you look Raul,” said Elise, rubbing her hand on her hair. “Thanks.”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “For always being here for me and putting in an ungodly number of hours.”

  “I’m not sure I can go out there and face my sister.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have a problem with that,” I said.

  We left the comfort of the closet just in time to hear the applauses. Moka, standing on the center of the café, looked over to us. The surrounding lights were turned off, leaving her alone to shine in the light.

  “This one is for my sister,” said Moka. Elise and I sat in a table at the back with Tessa.

  “This is so much fun,” said Tessa in a low voice.

  Moka took a deep breath and read off the paper on her hands. She spoke of their missing father, and all the promises he left unmet. Of their missing mother, and all the kindness she left unused. But most of all, she spoke of their missing sisterhood, and all the love she left unshared. Each verse bit the air, breaking down the barriers that separated her heart from mine. By the end I could see myself in Moka’s shoes. I was there in New York, with my suitcase in hand facing down a decrepit brick-laden building.

  I saw myself attending countless poetry nights and open mic nights. After every night I had a new story to tell, and I would send my sister messages hoping to receive something back. I lied on my bed for hours on end, dreaming of a world where I hadn’t left the house. Of a world with my sister.

  The final verse ended, and no one moved a muscle. It took me a few seconds to realize it was finally over. I joined the applause.

  Elise was next to me, tears streaming down her cheeks and over her smile. I couldn’t imagine how powerful hearing such a targeted message would be. It also left something of a hole in my heart. I never knew my father, so I could only imagine what pain such an absence could lead to.

  Tessa applauded as well, her cheeks a rosy red. She never mentioned her parents. I should ask her sometime.

  The night continued, as Moka and other volunteers delivered heartfelt poems. As someone else took the stage, she came to see us.

  “Ellie, I’m sorry,” said Moka. Elise threw her arms around her sister and gave her a hug.

  “Come visit me sometime, alright?”

  “I will,” said Elise.

  I returned to tend to the counter by myself. As the event was winding down, an unexpected face volunteered to recite a piece.

  “Hello everyone,” said Tessa. “My name is Tessa and this is my poem.” She took out a series of napkins and read off.

  “Love is magic

  Running is magic

  Espresso is magic

  Vacuums are magic

  Sleeping is magic

  Phones are magic

  Eating 8 cookies in one sitting is magic

  Elevators are…”

  The poem continued like that for some time. Just what on earth was she thinking? Spouting off random verses doesn’t make it a poem. Not that I could do any better.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I told Moka as we finished cleaning up. All the guests had left half an hour before.

  “No, thank you for inviting me. It was a lot of fun,” she said. “And that girl, Tessa? Her poem was something else.”

  “It was her first time,” I said, laughing. “Don’t be so hard on her.”

  “No, no, no. I meant that it was really good! It packed a real feminist punch, you know?”

  I really don’t understand poetry at all.

  Chapter 5

  I focused my eyes on the green glow of the oven’s clock. It read 3:14 AM, just five minutes more than the last time I checked.

  Whenever I got a new idea, it took hold of me and didn’t let go. A few weeks ago it was the idea of inviting an up-and-coming poet to the café. After that, it was my idea of giving Tessa the day off after her episode. This time, it was no different.

  I was deciding whether I should introduce alcoholic espresso drinks.

  Uncle Joe made sure to keep the Twisted Cauldron’s liquor licenses up to date (a puritan he was not). I took the beverage server training course a year ago. It was legal for me to do so. The question was if I should.

  We wouldn’t be serving beer on tap or hoisting co-eds on kegs. We would serve espresso martinis, chocolate-vodka drinks, espresso with absinthe and gin, espresso noir, irish coffee, white russian, and so on.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to give it a try. Moving as quietly as possible, I made my way to the kitchen. Opening the fridge lit up the space, making me recoil. What are you doing Raul?

  “Hmm?” said Tessa. I stopped, hand gripping the Irish cream.

  “Did I… wake you?” I said.

  “Up for a late-night snack?” she said.

  “That’s right,” I said, moving my hand away.

  “Wait, no! That’s alcohol,” said Tessa.

  “It’s not what you think!” I said.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I wanted to make coffee with Irish cream…”

  “At three in the morning! How is that better?”

  The next morning, Tessa and I stood behind the café counter with bags under our eyes. The strands of hair that jutted beneath Tessa’s hat pointed in every direction. It had been a long time since I felt so tired. And a
ll because I wanted to try mixing coffee and alcohol.

  “Hey Tessa,” I said, as Tessa half-tripped trying to pour a customer’s coffee order.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “What if we tried serving coffee with alcohol?”

  “Don’t people have those things called bars here. They can get their fix there.”

  “We’re not going to have beer on tap,” I said. “What do you think, Elise?”

  “I think it’s just an excuse for you to get drunk during work,” she said.

  “That’s what I thought too,” said Tessa.

  “Why would you assume that? What have I said or done to indicate I would do that?”

  I just got called a working alcoholic. That’s a serious accusation!

  Don walked in by himself. His attitude was chipper than usual.

  “Get me the regular, boy!” He slammed a $5 bill on the counter. “With extra cream this time. Julie’s at the hair salon so I ain’t getting any judgement from her today.”

  “What’s gotten you so excited?” I said.

  “It’s my pension,” he said. “Came double this month. Haven’t been this happy since I was a boy.”

  “What’s a pension?” said Tessa.

  “It’s money you get every month from your job after you retire,” said Elise, preparing Don’s drink.

  “More money?” she said, looking up at me. “Do I get a pension?”

  “After you work here for forty years, sure,” I said.

  “What? Most witches don’t live past 85.”

  “Most humans don’t either,” I said.

  No matter what resistance I encountered, the idea of spicing up the café’s options with liquor remained in my mind. I slipped out of the café during my lunch break, giving Tessa some half-assed excuse. Then I walked a few blocks down to Mark’s, the local liquor store.

  I nodded to the clerk. What kind of weirdo would go to a liquor store at 1 PM on a Thursday? This kind right here. I went to the section with vodkas and picked out a transparent bottle with brown lettering. Espresso vodka. The second bottle I grabbed was a coffee-flavored liquor mix. Finally, I grabbed a shaker and paid the clerk.

  Tessa called out as soon as I stepped inside the Twisted Cauldron.