Cruel Winter

by Anthony Izzo

  “Feeling better?”

  “A little.”

  Emma made her way to the counter, dipped her finger in the bowl, and licked the batter.

  “Don’t eat that. It’s got raw eggs in it.”

  “You worry too much, Mom.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “If strep throat didn’t kill me, raw eggs won’t.”

  “You shouldn’t be eating them.”

  Her mom spooned out the batter, snapping the spoon so the balls of dough landed on the sheet with a plop. Then she stirred it again, picking up the bowl and tucking it against her side while stirring with her other hand.

  “I can’t get this to mix, damn it.”

  “You okay, Mom?”

  “Fine, dear. Yes.”

  She didn’t look fine. She worked the batter hard, almost frantically, like a crazy person. Emma didn’t like the way she was acting.

  A black-and-white television sat on the counter, and Eyewitness News came on. The anchorman, dressed in a gold blazer and wide blue tie, reported the economy was bad, Reagan had angered the Russians, and there was a murder in Brampton. That got Emma’s attention.

  “Did you hear that, Mom? Someone got killed right outside the Steadman Estate.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t watch the news.”

  “You want me to stay informed, don’t you?”

  “You just wanted to hear the gory details.”

  She finished stirring and went to set the bowl down, but only half on the counter, and it slipped and clattered on the floor, dumping a glob of cookie dough on the tile.

  “Nothing is going right today.”

  Mom slammed the spoon down, bent down, and picked up the bowl. Then she took a paper towel from the rack over the sink, wet it, and wiped up the floor.

  “Nothing is ever easy. Remember that, Emma.”

  “Sure, Mom.”

  She looked into her mother’s eyes and saw weariness. Purple and puffy, the eyes of someone who had too much on her plate and not enough time or resources to deal with it. Mom had called in sick at M. Wile today, the first time in years that Emma could remember. Her mother had been employee of the month twice for her hard work, cranking out more garments than anyone else in the plant.

  “No, nothing’s ever easy,” she said, with a sigh.

  “We need more paper towels.”

  Emma stood up and unraveled three paper towels from the roll, then tore them off and resumed wiping cookie dough off the floor.

  “Thank you, honey.”

  “No problemo. Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Fine, why?”

  “Was Mr. Miller mad when you called in sick?”

  “Not really.”

  “You sure?”

  “Well, maybe a little.”

  “I hope I didn’t get you in trouble.”

  “Nonsense. You’re more important than any job.”

  She knew from the stacks of bills that Mom left on the kitchen table, and from the ones marked FINAL NOTICE, that the job was at least as important as Emma. Her mother wouldn’t say it, but Emma figured they were just getting by.

  “Mr. Miller was a jerk, wasn’t he?”

  Mom paused for a moment and looked at Emma, as if pondering the response. “He wasn’t exactly friendly on the phone.”

  “What did he say?”

  “First he wanted to know if I thought I could make it in and I said no, my daughter is very sick. Then he asked if I could get a sitter. I told him no. Then he said he couldn’t afford to have people out sick and he hoped it wouldn’t be a habit. Then he said he hoped I felt better and he supposed there was nothing he could do if you were sick.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Emma said. She finished wiping up the cookie dough, took the lid off the beige garbage can, and tossed in the towels.

  Mom stood up, took some Dawn from under the sink, and squirted it on her hands. She scrubbed them together, worked the soap into a lather.

  “I’ve worked a lot of places, Emma. Most bosses won’t come right out with their disapproval when you call in sick, but you can always tell. They wish you well, but the underlying tone is you should come to work. And Mr. Miller will make me pay for this in subtle ways. Maybe putting me on the ironer for a few shifts. More info into my personnel file. Lord, I hate that ironer.”

  “You always come home sore when you have to use the ironer. I hate seeing you like that.”

  “You’re sweet, dear. Stay that way. And don’t let men like Mr. Miller ever put you down.”

  Here it goes. Speech number 862 on the evils of men. Frederick Greer had left when Emma was four, flying away to Las Vegas intent on building the next Dunes or Tropicana.

  “I won’t.”

  “That’s why I don’t want you hanging around with those boys. Boys become men and instead of throwing rocks at you and lifting up your skirt, they dump you, or give you black eyes. Be your own woman, Emma.”

  “But I’m only twelve.”

  “That doesn’t matter, dear. Build a strong foundation now and you’ll never have to rely on a man. Look at that murder on the news. Probably done by a man.”

  “I get the point, Mom.”

  “I’m just trying to help you.”

  “I know.”

  “Come here.”

  Her mother held out her arms and Emma went to her. She pressed the side of her face against Mom’s chest, and the wool sweater scratched. Mom hugged her and let go. “Feeling better?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Good. I think you could go back to school tomorrow.”

  “If I have to.”

  Good time to talk to her about Jacob.

  “Mom? Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure, hon. Did I tell you Aunt Sam and Jacob are coming for dinner?”

  Emma felt her heart sink down into her guts. “No, actually, that’s what I wanted—”

  “Why don’t you run upstairs now, okay? And you be careful when you’re outside. There’s no telling who’s running around after that boy got killed the other night.”

  “I was thinking—”

  “Go on and get changed. Our company will be here soon.”

  “Okay.”

  Emma went upstairs, knowing she only had a little over an hour before Jacob arrived.

  CHAPTER 11

  Jack awoke on a bed in a cool, dark room. He touched his side and felt bare skin. His ribs ached and he flinched.

  What happened to me? he wondered.

  He had a vague notion of what had happened, but his head felt fuzzy, the same way it did after the surgery to remove his tonsils.

  The last thing he remembered was John scooping him up and setting him on the seat of the limousine. The limo had climbed the hill going up Main Street and then he had fallen asleep. Right about now his mother was probably on her third stroke and wondering what happened to her little boy.

  He sat up and a voice said, “Rest, Jack.”

  Ronnie’s mother appeared at the bedside, smiling at him. She stroked his hair and he felt nice and warm.

  “What happened to me?”

  “Some boys hurt you.”

  “My mom’s really going to be ticked,” Jack said.

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Where’s Paul?”

  “Out in the kitchen having cookies. You boys are very brave.”

  If getting the snot beat out of you meant you were brave, then he deserved the Medal of Honor. The pain in his ribs flared again, and he winced. She put her hand, palm down, on his ribs and pressed, Jack drawing a sharp breath as she did this.

  “Relax,” she said.

  The hot spot in his side turned cold, and Cassie closed her eyes and muttered words he did not understand, words that sounded like an old language.

  She removed her hand and exhaled slowly.

  “You should be feeling better,” she said.

  He propped himself up on his elbows, going
slow to avoid another sharp pain. There was a small twinge, but nowhere near the pain he felt before she had touched him. The ache in his head was gone, too.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “I helped you because you helped Ronnie. Here.” She held out his black T-shirt and he took it. After pulling on his shirt, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

  Shadows filled the room, and a crème-colored candle on a wrought-iron stand provided the only light. A log tumbled off of the iron holder in the fireplace, and the fire glowed orange blue. Purple velvet drapes hung on the far wall, the window beyond them dark. Cassie sat on a mauve love seat and took her teacup from a carved table that looked somehow French to Jack.

  She sipped the tea and set the gold-rimmed cup down. “Come here,” she said.

  He stepped forward, head spinning, and held his arms out to keep his balance.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  “The dizziness will go away soon,” she said. “Ronnie needs someone, Jack. A protector. We talked a little about that before.”

  “Or to keep his mouth shut. No offense.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Be his friend. He’s all I have, Jack.”

  “I said before I’d hang out with him.”

  “You have to do more than that.” She sipped her tea. “Promise me something.”

  What was he getting into? Ronnie was a loose cannon, and Jack didn’t want to be around when Ronnie fired cannonballs at Vinnie Palermo.

  “Give me your hand.”

  He hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  Cassie extended her hand and leaned forward. Jack didn’t want to take it, because he somehow knew it would bind him to her. But she looked him in the eyes, the soft blue swirling. His limbs felt as if they were coated in concrete, but his arm extended in front of him, as if pulled by an invisible puppeteer. The fire glowed behind Cassie, and suddenly the room was as warm and comfortable as a sleeping bag on a cool fall night.

  “Promise me,” she said.

  “I promise,” he said.

  His voice seemed muffled, as if he were speaking with his ears plugged.

  “Good.”

  She released his hand and the fire snapped, bringing him back into focus. He jumped backward, knocking one of the teacups off the table. It hit the floor and cracked into three pieces.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She knelt down and plucked the pieces from the rug. Then she set them on the table and brushed her hands together.

  “Your promise means the world to me,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  What had he promised her? His head hurt again, and the last few minutes had been replaced by black space in his mind.

  “You and your friends are welcome here any time. I only have two rules, though. Stay out of the woods and don’t break your promise to me. You don’t want to break the rules.”

  “I really need to get home.”

  His stomach felt hot, and his skin burned. Again, there was mention of the woods, and her warning to stay out gave him the creeps. And Mom would feed him to the wolves for being late. He wanted to go home, climb into bed, and forget the whole day.

  “You’re worried about your mother. What’s your phone number?”

  He told it to her.

  “What’s Paul’s phone number?”

  Jack recited Paul’s number.

  “Go down to the kitchen and I’ll call both your parents. Can you find the kitchen?”

  “I think so,” he said.

  “This is a secret, all right?” she said.

  “If you say so,” he said, and turned to leave the room before she talked him into anything else.

  Cassie picked up the receiver and dialed the Hardings’ phone number. As it rang, she turned and observed the room, noting the brown spot on the carpet where Jack had spilled the tea. A woman picked up on the other end.

  “Hello.”

  “Mrs. Harding?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m a friend of Jack’s.”

  “Do you know where he is? Because I’m about to call the police.”

  “He’s fine, trust me.”

  “Who is this?”

  Cassie closed her eyes and cleared her mind, blocking out sound, thought, and light. Solid, encompassing darkness filled her head. Slowly a picture formed, blurry at first and becoming clearer. A woman in a brown turtleneck and matching wool slacks appeared, heavy in the bosom and rear end. There was an apron tied around her waist, its front adorned with embroidered tomatoes and carrots. She tapped her fingers on a white rotary phone. The polish was clear, the tip on the middle finger chipped.

  “Are you still there?” Mrs. Harding asked.

  “He’ll be home soon.”

  “Why won’t you tell me who you are?”

  “Cassie Winter. Ronnie and Jack are best friends.”

  A pause on the other end.

  “Isn’t he the boy Jack met the other day?”

  “They’ve been friends since they were little. They went to kindergarten, remember? He came over for cocoa and cookies.”

  You won’t remember this. He’ll be home soon. Safe and warm.

  “I’m sure Jack is fine,” Mrs. Harding said. “I don’t know why I worry so much.”

  “I understand, believe me. He’ll be home in a bit,” Cassie said.

  “You’re right.”

  “Good-bye. We’ll talk again,” Cassie said.

  “Okay.”

  Cassie saw the woman hang up and put her hand on her chest, sighing in relief, as if she was just told a suspicious lump wasn’t cancer. A bookish man with thinning hair entered the kitchen, a paisley tie dangling from his neck.

  “Find out where Jack is?” the man asked.

  “Yes. It was Ronnie’s mother. He’ll be home any minute.”

  “That kid better have a good reason for being late,” he said.

  The image of the Harding kitchen began to dissolve, Jack’s parents smudging to colors, their faces losing features until they resembled blank mannequins. The colors faded, and the blackness returned to Cassie’s head, a clean slate. She opened her eyes, and after using the Reach, her head ached.

  The Harding woman cracked easily, swallowing the thoughts Cassie planted in her head. When Jack returned home, his mother would think he had been at his childhood friend’s house, sipping hot chocolate with his mother’s permission.

  That was the power of the Reach, the one given to her as a girl by the Gypsy woman Hartha. That was two hundred years ago, Hartha, the dark-skinned woman who smelled of spices and sweets, telling her she had something for Cassandra. A drink that would change her, give her powers created thousands of years ago.

  They had sat in the hovel with the thatched roof, and Hartha handed her a wooden cup with thick black fluid in it. It smelled of burned wood and berries, and it tasted bitter.

  She drank it, the liquid clenching her stomach into spasms as soon as it hit. She rolled on the ground, the image of the dark-skinned woman blurring until young Cassandra passed out. When she awoke, the woman was gone.

  She went home and took a whipping from her mother for returning late from market. But she felt different after drinking the fluid, and scarcely felt the leather strap on her back.

  She knew her mother’s words before they came out of her mouth (Brat of a child, I’ll whip you till there’s no skin on your back), and she knew how many pups their dog Molly would have (it was nine). And when one of the pups died, she took it out in a field and put her hands on it, and its chest pumped and it wobbled to its feet and growled at her. It had charged at her, snapping its teeth and biting down on her wrist. She ran away from it, and it followed, but she outran the pup, and still heard it growling low at her.

  That pup grew, and it killed twelve sheep and a calf before the men of the village hunted it down and stab
bed it with a pitchfork. It came back to life, but it came back mean and full of hate. Just like Ronnie’s father.

  Nearly two hundred years since her transformation, since the thing under her skin grew and took life, pulsing and beating like a second heart. Two hundred years of living as a woman and a beast created from a single drink from a cup.

  Two hundred years and twenty-two children, all of them dead and lost. Edward to cholera, Simon crushed by a horse cart, Lucinda and Laura dead from the plague that followed the Great War. John in the Second World War, shot as he stormed Omaha Beach and now buried in a cemetery adorned with white crosses. So many children, and now she had another to look after, and it nearly broke her when she thought of him in pain.

  I must not lose Ronnie.

  And though she guarded Ronnie as dragons guard gold, she couldn’t follow him to school or go around punishing bullies. That was Jack Harding’s role, helping Ronnie, and helping her avoid another heartbreak.

  The kitchen was bigger than Paul’s house, the silver appliances gleaming so sharp he saw his reflection in them. Paul jiggled his leg up and down in a nervous patter, the stool underneath him shaking. He anticipated another slap or punch from the old man for being late, and that meant another line to feed the teachers. I fell down, he would tell them. They never believed him. Mrs. Avino, the eighth grade science teacher, threatened to call Child Protective Services, but she never did, and it continued.

  Despite his nervous stomach, he had downed three Snowballs and a glass of milk. He wished he lived in a place as nice as this, some place nicer than his own house. How much money did they have? A hundred million? Five hundred million?

  Ronnie brought out another pack of Snowballs from the pantry.

  “I hope Jack’s all right,” he said, and stuffed a Snowball into his mouth.

  “Good thing your friend John showed up,” Paul said. “You know things at school are going to get worse for us.”

  “Relax. My mom will handle things. She always does.” Chomping and talking. “She could call your dad so you don’t get grounded for being late,” Ronnie said.

  “What good would that do?”

  “Mom’s good at talking people into things. I bet your dad wouldn’t even be mad.”