by Kater Cheek
Fenwick and I turned our heads to look at Rob. Since Julie came on the scene, the three musketeers had become the two musketeers, except when we were together at the dojo. Would Rob get into a bar fight when he was out with his girlfriend?
“No, Mister Rob, not you this time,” Kishimoto-sensei informed him, and we all chuckled quietly despite the burning ache in our arms and backs. “Karate is only for self-defense.”
“Yes, sensei,” we intoned. You could hear the collective agony as we struggled to maintain the Chinese Thinker position.
“No more bar fights. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sensei,” the class replied.
He waited a long time for the message to sink in. My arms were shaking, and my back on fire. I wasn’t the only one, judging by the muffled groans from the other students. This was worse than pushups. Ow. How much longer?
“Stand.”
We all stood, cowed and aching, then bowed to our teacher.
Kishimoto-sensei bowed back. “Dismissed.”
There was a rustle as the class flowed towards the small changing rooms. Rob and Fenwick were waiting for me when I came out.
“So, dude, you still going out with that blonde chick?” Rob was asking Fenwick.
“No, I broke it off months ago. Thought I told you.”
“How come? She was hot.”
“Long story.” Fenwick opened the door for me. “Hey Kit! Come have beer with us. It’s been a while since you've hung with us.”
“I got a day job.” My budget this week could cover one beer today, if I didn’t drink much this weekend. Ah, crap, the electricity bill was due. But maybe James could give me some overtime. It was thirsty weather.
“Poor girl, all work and no play.” Rob pretended to sniffle.
“Ha ha. I play too. Fenwick, do you want to go shoot some pool on Friday?” Which meant one fewer beer, but quarter tables were cheap entertainment.
“Sure, Kit, love to.” At least Fenwick didn’t jerk me around.
“See Rob? I got plans on Friday, so there.”
“My heart is broken.” Rob pouted like a debutante. “How come you never ask me out on a date?”
“Ditch the loser girlfriend and I will.” I tried to make it a joke, and failed, though Rob didn’t notice.
“Julie isn’t a loser, she’s a hottie.”
“Uh huh, and I bet she sucks up all your free time making you watch sappy chick flicks and re-arrange her furniture.” Was that why he didn’t like me? Not girly enough?
“Free time? Dude, you should see the huge course load I got this semester.”
“Why, did you change majors again?” Fenwick asked.
Rob punched him playfully. “No, I’m still studying history. I only changed my major three times. Besides, I’ll be done in a year. Lots of people take seven years to graduate.”
“Sure, they’re called doctors.” Fenwick reached up to adjust his ponytail. A moment later, I saw the image of a bear superimposed over his body, and then just as suddenly it vanished. What was he?
Fenwick turned towards me. “You working for your brother again?”
“Yeah.”
“Given up on that flower stuff?” Rob asked.
“No, I just needed something to help me out the next couple months. I’ll be flush when Silvara sells all the Christmas stuff.”
“Christmas already? It’s only September.”
“You have no idea, Rob. The Christmas season starts in August.”
We walked up the hill towards Sharpe’s, enjoying infrequent blasts of air conditioning from the shops with open doors. Sharpe’s, Rob’s favorite hangout, was a noisy, dark sports bar filled, as usual, with college students from the University of Seabingen. Fenwick and I never came here when Rob wasn’t with us, him because it was too noisy and me because it was overpriced. We sat down at the bar, and Rob’s attention was immediately diverted by the television.
I stared at the back of his head. It was hard not to sigh.
“You have to tell him.” Fenwick spoke quietly, though he didn’t need to. Rob was cheering at a goal. Damn him. Even when he was paying attention to something else, he still had the power to make my stomach flip.
I took a long pull of bland domestic beer. “I can’t.”
“I can tell him then.” Fenwick stared at me.
“No.” I put my hand on Fenwick’s arm. “Please don’t. I’ll tell him, really.”
“He’s got a girlfriend, Kit.” His features turned into the image of a bear again, and then back to human. I tried to not show any expression.
“I’m not stupid.”
“You should give him up, find someone single.”
“Chastity is less annoying.”
Rob started cheering, along with the other bar patrons, at a goal. “Dude, didja see that? Oh wait, here’s the replay.”
Fenwick and I dutifully watched the replay, though neither of us cared about any sport except hockey. After the commercial, Rob got involved in the game again, completely ignoring us.
“I like your little dot there.” Fenwick pointed to my bindi. “It looks nice on you.”
“Really? Thanks. I inherited it from my Uncle Fred. He died this summer.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I hardly knew him.” I shrugged, watching people in the dim bar. No one I knew.
And then I saw something that made the beer crawl back up my throat. A large, bipedal raccoon-like animal sidled up to the bar and ordered a beer.
This was more than the bear-flashes superimposed over Fenwick. This was more than the dark smudging around Jolene. This was not ignorable. The bartender handed it the bottle, and the raccoon took a sip. They shared a laugh over something, and the raccoon tipped the bartender.
An animal. In a bar. It was one of those jokes, “Raccoon walks into a bar…,” except that instead of being funny, it felt twisted and unnatural.
I rubbed my eyes, though it didn’t do any good. The raccoon was still there, watching the television and stuffing pretzels into its mouth with a paw. Maybe there was something in the water? Maybe I was going crazy? Hallucinations? Forget it, Kit. Mushrooms didn’t do this to you. LSD didn’t do this to you.
It’s real, the bindi whispered, under my mountain of denial. It’s real, and has always been real, and the world is not as simple as you thought it was.
“Kit?” Fenwick touched my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
The raccoon turned to look at me, beady black eyes curious.
I turned my head away quickly. “I should go. I’ve got a commission for a palm tree. I’d like to finish it before work.”
The raccoon killed its beer and walked out, striped tail swishing behind as it pushed the door open. A wedge of daylight poured in, then grew dark again, leaving me with the option of pretending I hadn’t seen anything unexplainable.
“Kit?” His tone of voice asked if I was okay.
“What?” What had he asked? Something about the palm tree? “No, not really. It’s more fun, but more expensive too. When I took the gig I didn’t realize I’d earn a net profit of ten dollars for ten hours of work.”
“One of these days you’re going to have to—”
“Don’t start, Fenwick. You sound like James.”
“He’s worried about you too.”
“Every entrepreneur has a few lean years before they start making money.”
“You’ve been doing this for as long as I’ve known you.”
“And I’m in the black.” I stood up.
“In the black?” He pointed at the bar, where I had paid for my beer with change from the floor of my van. Fenwick swept the quarters and pennies into my hand and replaced it with bills from his pocket.
I scowled at him. Fenwick was always trying to pay for my drinks. I know he did it to be generous, but it just reminded me of how broke I was.
“I like making fake trees. I like making silk floral arrangements. I’m just a little short ‘cause I h
ad to fix my transmission.”
“You could sell that van and get a bus pass instead.”
“You try carrying fake trees and boxes of supplies on a bus.”
“You have a point there.” He smiled surrender. “You working till close tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“I got the late shift again. I’ll come and see you after work,” he said.
“Cool.”
“See you tonight.”
I nodded and waved to both of them. “Bye. Bye, Rob.”
Rob waved briefly, but didn’t look at me.
Chapter Four
Since the only parking space I could find was on the far north side of the pedestrian-only area in the Old Town, I pretended there was a pressing need to visit Heidi’s Bazaar. The store itself was worth seeing, with dark red walls and blue Moorish arches, but best of all, the proprietor never gave me dirty looks for not buying anything.
I walked in the store and half nodded a greeting. The saleslady smiled gently and went back to polishing rings on the glass-topped counter.
I perused the hats, daubed patchouli samples on my wrist, and tried on an orange cotton dress that would be too thin to wear in another week, before deciding to save my money for something practical.
Then I spied a basket on the counter, which held several packets of bindis for sale. How much did normal bindis go for? Some were thin plastic with paste jewels, and others were felt backed and dotted with gold or silver. The most elaborate came in their own containers and were as large as my thumbnail. They were all cheap. Even the ones sparkling with rhinestones didn’t cost much more than a sandwich and a Coke.
So, it wasn’t my bindi itself that was valuable, but its powers, measly though they were. It let me see the otherfolk, but what good was that? James could do that already, apparently, using ... what did he call it? The knack.
The basket slipped out of my fingers and thudded on the glass.
James had tried to teach me the knack once, but I had blown him off. I knew he was a witch, but I never once asked him to show me anything, figuring it was all hogwash. But it wasn’t. I had been the deluded one.
“Can I help you with anything?” the saleslady asked.
I fumbled in the basket until I found a packet of red felt teardrops. They were somewhat similar to the bindi I inherited, if you hadn’t seen the original, red and silver rather than red and gold, and with a little star instead of a circle with a lotus. “Yeah, I’d like to buy these bindis please.”
“Those are so much fun, aren’t they? Kind of retro,” she said.
As she counted out my change I put one on my brow and inspected myself in a small enamel mirror on the counter. Pretty. Unusual, but pretty enough to wear one all the time, even if I decided to sell the magical one. Since I couldn’t afford decent clothes, I’d have to make do with funky cheap accessories. The saleswoman and I said our goodbyes, and I shoved the rest of the pack in my pocket.
I hadn’t washed those jeans in a while, and the card from Mr. Thorn was still there. What would Madame R. offer? I wasn’t really going to sell it to her. Of course not. Even though I needed the money. I was just going to find out information, since I was in the neighborhood. Just talk to her, that’s all. Maybe she’d know something about the scandal Mr. Thorn hinted at.
***
Madame R.’s parlor was a second-floor walk-up above a clothing boutique. The posted hours said she had closed ten minutes earlier, but the door was slightly open, so I pushed my way through the curtain of pink plastic beads. Cheap sateen cloth draped over every vertical surface, presumably to make it look exotic by reminding people of a tent. Nasty smelling incense competed with stale cigarette smoke for the privilege of infecting my clothing. Heavy drapes divided the waiting room from the area beyond.
“Hello! Madame R.?”
I pushed open the curtain. This room had a small table with a crystal (I’d swear it was Plexiglas) ball, and a stack of cards. A beringed hand pulled open the door leading to the back and a surly woman’s face followed it, giving me the evil eye.
“We’re closed.”
“So? You don’t have any other clients.”
A calculating look crept over her face. “Wait in the parlor. I must consult with the spirits. If the omens are favorable, I will grant you knowledge.” The curtain twitched shut and then hung still.
So, what story would Madame R. tell me about this bindi? If Monica was telling the truth, Madame R. had no claim to it whatsoever. On the other hand, if Uncle Fred’s bindi was valuable, why wouldn’t she lie to me about its origins?
A few minutes later, Madame R. returned and sat at the table in front of the crystal ball. “We may begin. Tell me what you wish to know, and I will commune with the spirit world to seek your answers.” She lifted her hands and looked up at the corner of the room, as if reading from the teleprompter of the other side. By the smell of her breath, she had consulted with ‘spirits’ in the back room.
“First, I don’t need the mystical act. Mr. Thorn sent me.” Might as well lay the cards on the table to begin with. I leaned back. “He said you were interested in purchasing a bindi I inherited from Frederick Edgerson.”
Madame R. peered at me through the dim light. She had good carnie instincts, because I couldn’t figure out if she recognized the bindi on my forehead for a fake or not. “He gave it to you, huh?”
I nodded. “I want some information about him. What can you tell me about his work, his reputation?”
Madame R. shrugged and reached into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes. “You a Pagan?”
I could have lied and said yes, but my instinct said the correct answer was, “Hell, no. Load of crap if you ask me.”
That, apparently, was the correct answer.
“Me neither,” she replied. “I’ve had it up to here with fucking treehuggers telling me I can’t practice mage-craft unless I’m a witch.”
“I take it you’re not Pagan either?”
She snorted. “Fucking witches and their ‘blessed be the Goddess’, and ‘an it harm none’ crock of shit. Most of them don’t know real power. Freddie did. Give him that. He was a good mage, even if he did drive that coven into the ground.”
I leaned forward to encourage her.
Madame R. put a cigarette in her mouth, lit it, and took a drag. “High priest of ‘Sacred Grove.’ Used to be so mainstream Republicans were converting to Paganism. That changed when fluffy-bunny Edgerson left. You ask me, Seabingen’s better now that Freddie’s not trying to shove Paganism down everyone’s throat. Worse than the fucking Jehovah’s witnesses.”
“Is the coven still around?”
She shrugged as she puffed out a cloud of smoke. “Monica took most of them with her when she left.”
“Monica Delcourt?”
Madame R. nodded and tapped her ash off the edge of the table.
“She teaches at some sort of school, doesn’t she?”
“That ain’t a school. All they do is suck money out of idiots. Useless. Everyone knows you have to inherit the gift.” She waved some smoke in my direction. Menthol, which I hated, but the nicotine was tempting. “And you’re his kid, eh?”
I shook my head. “I hardly knew him. I was kind of surprised he gave me this jewel. I don’t believe that crap about it having magical powers.”
“Who said it had magical powers?”
“Mr. Thorn,” I lied. None of her business that I figured it out on my own.
“He don’t know jack shit.” She offered me a cigarette from her pack, and I slid one out, just to be polite.
I meant just to hold it, but she lit it, and my fingers brought it to my lips from almost-forgotten habit. Damn, it had been seven months, three weeks. Maybe just one.
“Enough chitchat. Let’s talk price.” Madame R. stubbed her cigarette in an abalone shell on the floor.
“Price? Who said I was willing to sell it?” The nicotine-laden smoke burned my lungs, bringing with it the memory of my first
cigarette, a week after I turned fifteen. There had been a lot of firsts that year, none of them good.
“Don’t play cute with me, missy. I see it right there. It doesn’t do jack shit for you, and I can pay you cash right now.”
“For this?” I pointed to the bindi on my brow. “This doesn’t have magic powers, and even if it did, what makes you think it would work for you?”
For an answer, Madame R. fished out a wad of grubby bills and started peeling them off. It wasn’t nearly as much as Monica had offered, but it was right here in front of me, in cold hard cash. Dinner in a real restaurant and that pretty orange dress. Most of a month’s rent. A month of Sundays spent sleeping in instead of working overtime at Ishmael’s. I practically drooled around the menthol cigarette.
“You want it?”
It was wrong to sell her a fake, really, but the money was right there, and it was so easy to keep silent. My hand crept forward.
Madame R. pulled the stack back. “Hand it over.”
I peeled the bindi off my brow and set it on the table. She picked it up and sniffed it. “Not much, is it?”
“If you don’t want it, I’ll find another buyer.” I reached forward to grab it.
“If Mr. Thorn asks, you never saw me.” She placed the money in my hand. “If anyone asks, you never saw me.”
I nodded and stuffed the tobacco-scented bills into my jean jacket pocket. “I was never here.”
Chapter Five
His suit hung on his frame with such ease it was clear he wore one every day. His silvery hair was neatly groomed, his manicured fingers tapped on the handle of a leather briefcase, and an air of purposefulness clung to him; obviously he hadn’t stopped by Ishmael’s for a cup of coffee.
I was sorting through a box of old photos, looking for one to match the frame James had just bought. I closed the box when the guy approached, and stood in front of it, hiding our family treasures from view.
“Can I help you?” James asked.
“My name is Mr. Hall. I’m looking for Mildred Melbourne.”
“That’s me.” Having people call me that was getting really old. One of these days I was going to have to cough up the fees to get it changed legally to “Kit.”
