Wish Club

by Kim Strickland

  Perhaps if I take a long enough maternity leave, I could finish my book.

  Claudia looked up at the faces seated around the table. Most everyone’s eyes held the same zombie-like expression. This meeting was ridiculous. It had gone on long enough, and Claudia was ready for it to be over. These idiots talking didn’t know what they were talking about, what they thought the implications of having such a disreputable teacher at their school would be—what the parents’ reaction would be, what it would do to enrollment and perhaps, more importantly, donations.

  Marion Chutterman kept looking at her with disgust, as if she’d just witnessed Claudia downing a whole box of Munchkins. She kept shaking her frazzled curls and thinning her lips.

  Claudia was hungry. She wished she could pull a box of Munchkins out of her purse. She felt around in it again, hoping for another packet of crackers. Instead she felt something familiar in her fingers. Claudia looked down into the depths of her purse and caught a glimmer of something sparkling partially buried at the bottom. She probed again, moving her keys out of the way, and pulled out the crystal she’d thought she had lost. It was in here the whole time? It looked like a small sword, and Claudia thought this was a good sign, too.

  Holding her miniature crystal sword in her hand, Claudia let her mind wander to Greta and the things she’d said about wishes and witchcraft and how Greta had told them that the Wiccan tools they’d used were powerful because they were powerful, and not just because they believed they had power. It was Greta’s belief that things like myrrh and crystals and bloodstone actually contained magic.

  Claudia had a realization right then, that maybe these things were magical because they’d been empowered with the energy and belief of thousands of women over thousands of years. Maybe that’s the way their power had become “real.” Maybe it was just like the ruby slippers: the power is with you all along; you just have to believe.

  “Ms. Dubois? Is there anything you’d like to say on the matter?” It was Peterson, snapping Claudia back into the room, the expression on his face his version of a “wink-wink,” as if to say, Here’s your chance to say your piece—aren’t I a clever and generous boss?

  “Yes,” Claudia said, “I do have something to say.”

  Peterson’s face darkened rapidly. Clearly he wasn’t expecting Claudia to be so eager.

  “I think you need to watch where you park your Ferragamos.”

  Peterson’s face twitched, quite inadvertently. Marion’s hand flew up to her chest.

  Anyone who, like Claudia, had not been giving the meeting their full attention previously was giving it all of their attention now.

  “I’ve sat and listened to you all long enough to realize that, although you’ve been able to talk extensively about it for the past forty-five minutes, you clearly know nothing about the Craft. It’s the practice of Wicca and it’s a religion based on the worship and preservation of Earth and nature. Wiccans celebrate the seasons and the cycles of life and don’t believe in Satan or bite the heads off chickens. It sort of sounds like that’s what you think, and if that’s true, then you’ve been watching too many movies and are even more misinformed that I thought.”

  Claudia paused and took a breath. I should deny everything…or maybe explain that I’m not…No. Wait. Remember what Lindsay says, about explaining being the same as losing? Let ’em wonder, she thought, forcing back a grin, before she continued. “You may choose to have me suspended or even have me fired,” she paused again for effect. “I do think a public hanging would be a bit over-the-top. But if you choose to do anything to me, it will be considered discrimination based on religion, and Wicca is a religion and if I’m not mistaken, religious persecution is against the law. I think even a mediocre attorney could prove that in court.”

  Marion looked positively horrified. In fact, most of them looked positively horrified…but no one more so than Peterson. His thought process had been evident on his face. She knows? Claudia knows about me and Marion? Now his face was full of fear. More than fear. Terror.

  “Religious discrimination? Why, that’s a very serious accusation.” A less hairy Henry O’Connor spoke from his place at the table. “That would certainly bring discredit to Strawn. We pride ourselves here on our openness to everyone, our ability to embrace differences. Wicca is a religion. It’s recognized by the government. People in the military get holidays and such for it.”

  Bravo, Henry! Mara must have told him.

  He continued, “The last thing Strawn needs right now is any more bad publicity.” Henry paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. “And Ms. Dubois has indicated a lawsuit would be concomitant with any action on the school’s part—and I think she’s within her rights. If I had to guess, I’d say she would be successful in her pursuit of this in a court.

  “Personally, I say we drop this whole thing. Adopt that new don’t ask, don’t tell policy. We are actively engaging in a real-life witch hunt here and I think it sets a terrible,” he made eye contact with everyone around the table for emphasis as he spoke, “terrible precedent. This is a career we’re talking about. A livelihood. We all know Claudia. We know she’s not satanic. She helped that poor baby she found. Maybe saved his life. She’s so kind that she even tried to be his foster mother. She fell in love with him right away. That’s not the mark of an evil person.

  “Come on, everybody. Claudia’s not a bad influence on our students; you know that. I don’t know if I could exercise such self-restraint if I had the ability to turn some of them into frogs.” Henry laughed quietly. Some of the other teachers looked at Claudia a little more fearfully. They’d seen what Henry’s wife had done to him.

  The room was silent. Some ice settled in a glass. Peterson cleared his throat.

  “Well, I think that we could take this under”—he cleared his throat again—“under advisement,” he said. He looked very pale. He and Marion kept exchanging nervous glances. “I think, maybe…”

  Peterson rubbed his chin, then a lightness washed over his face, as though he were trying to make his face all happy and friendly again. “Actually, in light of this new information, about this, er, this Wicker religion, perhaps we should drop all the charges against Ms. Dubois immediately.” Marion was bobbing her head slightly, encouragingly. “I see no reason why we need to go forward with any further hearings or termination proceedings—”

  “Great,” Claudia said, pushing her chair away from the table. She stood up, even though she knew Peterson was only warming up, that his little speech was just getting under way. “But if it’ll make your decision process any easier, I’d like you all to know that I’m pregnant and will be starting my maternity leave immediately. I’ll be taking next year off as well. So, you see,” she smiled, “there’s no hurry for you to decide my fate.”

  They stared at her, some with their mouths agape.

  Claudia smiled back, a smile of pure glee. She picked up her purse and started for the door.

  When she passed Marion, Claudia stopped. She cast her right index finger at her, snapping it down as if it were a wand.

  Marion leaned back in her chair, where she remained momentarily frozen, pinned to her seat, only her eyes moving from side to side, as if pleading, Please don’t turn me into a frog.

  “I think congratulations are in order,” Claudia said to Marion, bringing her hand slowly and dramatically back to pat her belly, where her baby’s beating heart was nestled inside.

  Epilogue

  Greta stepped out onto the fire escape and inhaled a breath of fresh air. A thunderstorm had just rumbled through, and the sun to the west was now breaking through the clouds as it descended toward the horizon, lighting up the sky with an explosion of gold and pink.

  To the south, the storm still raged in the distance; she could see occasional flashes of lightning and dark shafts of virga. If she could look to the east, most likely there would be a rainbow, but Greta didn’t lean around the corner to look; she just held her gaze steady at the horizon, wa
tching the streetlights start to flick on.

  The storm had sprung up quite suddenly. It hadn’t lasted very long, but the wind had been fierce, rattling her windowpanes, pelting them with rain, making the same sound marbles make when they’re dropped to the floor. Hail had created even more of a commotion on the fire escape when it had hammered down, its melting remains still on the railing.

  Now the air was thick with moisture, but instead of the wormy odor of a spring shower, the air smelled clean and fresh. Like summer was here. Greta inhaled the warm air and a sense of calm filled her. The air felt peaceful.

  Greta put both hands on her hips and took in another breath before she turned to head inside. Maybe everything wasn’t exactly right in the world, maybe it wasn’t perfect; but at least the storm was over.

  Acknowledgments

  Wish Club never would have found its way into print without the help of many, many people to whom I’m forever indebted. There’s a special place in heaven for my very first readers, Martin Madden and Lauren Peck, who took my baby, my lame beginning of a story and, with honesty, love, and encouragement, helped me keep going. Thanks to all the following readers for their insight, keen eyes, and support: Inga Hoffman, Kristen Guggeis, Jomarie Fredericks, Patty and John Henek, Alan Maass, Rick and Bridget Kaempfer, David Stern, Michelle Halle-Stern, Mike and Mary Bogu-mill, Homa Shojaie, Chris Rice, Janet Joseph, Adrienne Walker, Annie Barclay, Gretchen Hirsch, Charlotte Shreck Burns, Livia Gaffield, Amir Rakha, Neil Turner, John Swift, Lon Wehrle, and everyone else at the Chicago Writer’s Bloc Writing Workshop, and a big shout-out to Theresa Rizzo for the final spit and polish, the one that made it happen.

  I would like to thank my agent extraordinaire, Sha-Shana Crichton, for her words of encouragement, for somehow seeing in my manuscript a diamond in the rough, and for sticking with me every step of the way as we tried to polish it into something that might sparkle. Thank you to Shana Drehs for being the one to pick Wish Club from the pile, and for the ensuing brilliant editorial guidance. Great big thanks to Lindsey Moore for so enthusiastically jumping on board, and for additional sage advice, brilliant guidance, and insight, and to Janet McDonald for making me look smarter than I am.

  For help with research and technical advice, I’m indebted to: Silver RavenWolf for all of her many books on witchcraft (and for one amazing tarot reading at BEA 2004); Dorothy Morrison for her book on spells, Everyday Magic; Evidence Technician Brigid Cronin, Sergeant Christopher Ferraro and Officer Matthew Jackson—all Chicago’s Finest; Sandra Tapia-Colon, Maria Prassas, Dr. Stefanie R. Spanier Mingolelli, Dr. Audrey Chang, Vicki Poplin, Stephen Grant, Kris LaCerda, and Dr. Joan Burkhart. Any errors, exaggeration, or omissions are purely my own.

  So many others have helped along the way, with support and encouragement, or a shoulder to cry on. Thanks goes to: Linda Howe, Christina Cross, Deanne Lozano, April Miller, Starbuck O’Dwyer, Liz McGarry, Kelly James-Enger, Sheryl Curcio, Charlie Meyerson, Cara Lockwood, Ellen Karas, Karen Coons and Jim Karas; Mason Green—for the place of inspiration; Deb Claflin, Lois Keller, Pam McGaan, Georgy Ann Peluchiwski, Kirsten Rider, Anne Rossley, Stacey Saunders, Cynthia Scazzero, Nancy Shields, Meghan Strubel, and Vicky Tesmer—all the fabulous ladies in my book club, which never, not ever, practiced witchcraft. Thank you also to Hanna Dabrowska, because of you I never worried.

  I would like to thank my mom and dad, Anne and Rick Strickland, for, among other things, teaching me to never quit.

  Ethan and Kyle, I am eternally grateful for all of your loving support. Kyle gets a special thank you for the ending, which made me think. Ethan gets a special thank you for his itchy tongue and other excuses, all of which made me laugh. Both of you so unbegrudgingly gave me the time for Wish Club, time that so rightfully belonged to you. You are the heroes of my story.

  And finally, I’d like to thank my best friend, Jeff. For pushing me. For always being brutally honest, even when I didn’t want you to be. For slogging through countless drafts, and being the best natural-born editor I’ve ever met. For believing in me when I stopped believing in myself. For you, the words thank you are not enough. I love you, my darling. When you came along, everything started to hum.

  Still, it’s a real good bet, the best is yet to come.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2007 by Kim Strickland-Sargent

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Strickland, Kim.

  Wish club: a novel / Kim Strickland.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Book clubs (Discussion groups)—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.T749W57 2007

  813'.6–dc22 2006037079

  eISBN: 978-0-307-39433-0

  v3.0