by Mindy Klasky
CHAPTER 27
I WAS GOING to sit here in my basement, surrounded by books, and I was never going to deal with the outside world again.
Okay. I knew that wasn’t really feasible. After I’d recovered from the immediate shock of Stupid Fish’s demise, I’d grabbed a bowl of apples, a bag of pretzels, and a two liter bottle of water. That was all that I had for food here in the basement. I wouldn’t stay here forever, of course. I wasn’t going to starve myself to death just to prove that my familiar was a lying, cheating pescivore. Or to avoid my warder. Not even to prove that my so-called Boyfriend was a conniving, manipulative adulterer.
I was just going to spend some time alone. Take some time to figure out why I always made such an idiot out of myself. Figure out what I’d wanted from Jason, and why I’d settled.
First things first.
My collection of books on witchcraft hadn’t changed much since the night I’d discovered it. Now, under the full glare of overhead lights, I could see how dusty the spines were. When I shifted a few volumes to make room on one shelf, I left a dark dust-free footprint behind.
Even worse than the dust, though, was the disorganization. I’d peered at the titles for nearly an hour, and I could figure out absolutely no overall system. They’d just been shoved onto the basement shelves without regard to origin, size, subject matter, or anything else.
If this were a typical library, I’d organize the books by subject matter. After all, people who came looking for one book on colonial agriculture were likely to be interested in others. The same principle should hold for crystals or runes or whatever.
I quickly found, though, that I didn’t know enough about witchcraft to organize my collection that way. A peek inside the ancient leather-bound portfolio, On Scrying and Ways of Seeing, showed me that crystals could be used in conjunction with mirrors or pools of water. Certain crystals made visions sharper. But was scrying more related to Reflections on Life as a Witch, or Using Mirrors to Increase Magical Flow? Should it be with books about stones or books about mirrors?
As I worked through the collection, becoming more and more confused by the obscure terminology of witchcraft, bigger doubts nibbled at the back of my mind. Why had I let myself be deceived by Jason? I remembered the feeling of his hands on my back, the tickle of his chest-hair against my cheek as I listened to him breathe. Had he always been lying, cheating scum? Or had he only become that way as time moved on, as he realized that I was hopelessly, helplessly in love with him? And what about my spell? Had I forced him to violate his marriage vows? No one else that I had bewitched had acted so … completely, not Harold or Mr. Potter or my newly-coffee-loving Mr. Zimmer.
Was Jason different because I had been in love with him?
Well, not exactly. I’d been in love with the idea of him. With the Imaginary Boyfriend. The perfect man who just hadn’t had the chance to discover that I was the perfect woman.
I’d barely known Jason at all. That’s what I’d learned up at the Farm, even before the disastrous night in the Blue Cottage. I didn’t know his favorite foods, I didn’t know his family (little had I realized how much I didn’t know his family!) I didn’t know what he wanted to achieve in life.
Inside my mind, I’d taken him and made him into something that he wasn’t. Made me into something that I wasn’t.
I felt as if I’d lost something at the Farm—a dream, a hope, a future. But all I’d really lost was my own pathetic image of those things. I’d let myself be deluded.
And what was that all about? Why had I been so willing to tell myself stories?
As I got to my new barrage of questions, I realized that I needed to stretch my legs and my back; I’d spent too much time crouching in front of bookshelves, peering at dusty spines, trying to translate strange words into comprehensible subjects.
I peered at my watch as I stood. 9:30.
How had it gotten so late? I’d made it back from the Farm in good time, but it had been early afternoon when I discovered that Neko had murdered Stupid Fish. I’d spent nearly seven hours down here—practically an entire work day.
Work. I had to go to work tomorrow.
It would be Monday. Jason would be in all morning. Sitting at “his” table in the reading room. Facing toward my desk.
I was going to be sick tomorrow. A terrible flu. I wouldn’t want to infect the entire staff. I’d sleep it off and be in on Tuesday. If I could.
I practiced my phone call to Evelyn in my head, repeating myself until I sounded natural. Feeling like a sneaking thief in my own home, I crept upstairs to the kitchen. I had a brick of cheddar cheese in the fridge, and there was bread in the freezer. I made myself two slices of cheese toast, savoring the bubbled orange surface like a little kid. I washed down my comfort food with a glass of milk, phoned Evelyn, used the restroom, and retreated downstairs, bringing a blanket to shield against the night’s growing chill.
As I curled up on the cracked leather couch, I thought about the Farm’s wedding ring quilt. I remembered how soft the fabric had been as I pulled it up to my chin, as I spooned with Jason and fell asleep, certain that I would find him next to me in the morning. I drifted off on the couch with slow tears leaking from beneath my eyelids.
When I awoke, I lay quietly and listened for noise upstairs. Nothing. No footsteps. No water running. No chattering.
I gathered the blanket around my shoulders and crept up to the living room. Sunlight streamed in the cottage’s front windows. I squeezed my eyes shut and raised a hand to protect my face. So what if I looked like a vampire? There was no one there to see me.
In the kitchen, I glanced at the clock. 11:30. I’d slept away nearly the entire morning.
On the table, there was a note, in Neko’s slanted handwriting. He’d obviously found his way back from Connecticut, by magic or by Lincoln town car.
Talked to David. I’m sorry about the fish.
He’ll see you later. I’m sorry about the fish.
9:00. Gran called. I’m sorry about the fish.
9:05. Melissa called. I’m sorry about the fish.
9:10. Gran called again. I’m sorry about the fish.
9:15. Clara called. I’m sorry about the fish.
Fine. I’m sorry wasn’t going to bring back Stupid Fish. Let Gran and Melissa and Clara call as often as they wanted. I wasn’t ready to talk to them yet. I hacked a chunk of cheddar off the brick in the refrigerator and went back downstairs.
And that was my pattern for the next three days. I ate when I was hungry, drank when I was thirsty. I waited to hear footsteps cross the living room and the front door close before I stole upstairs to use the toilet and gather fresh food supplies. Each time I emerged from my darkened lair, there was a fresh note from Neko, cataloging phone messages and apologizing.
My grandmother favored clustering her calls, while Melissa and Clara spread theirs out through the day. When I remembered, I updated my message to Evelyn at the office, telling her that my stomach bug was more tenacious than I’d thought at first.
Each time I returned to the basement, I slept. Hours and hours, for more time than I’d ever imagined possible. My body felt wrung out, as if someone had squeezed all of the energy from my flesh. I kept thinking of Hamlet’s soliloquy - “to sleep, perchance to dream.” I wasn’t contemplating suicide like the Prince of Denmark, but I wasn’t dreaming, either. I slept like the dead.
Every time I came upstairs, I knew that I should take a shower. I should brew a cup of tea. I should comb my hair and brush my teeth and pretend that I was a normal, everyday girl.
That required too much energy, though, and the couch in the basement always lured me back with its comfortable, overstuffed arms. I brought an extra set of sheets downstairs and tucked them into the cushions. I dragged my pillow with me.
But in the few hours that I wasn’t sleeping, or eating, or reading Neko’s increasingly agitated notes, I organized the books in my basement. After the first night’s shuffling, I did what I should have done in the fi
rst place; I pulled all of them off the shelves, stacking them in the middle of the room.
Then, I sorted them by title, taking care to set each in its proper place, lining them up methodically at the front of the shelves so that they looked like some Hollywood designer’s idea of a library. I looked through each volume, finding a surprising number of hand-written notes, scraps of parchment, papers filled with dozens of different handwritings.
There were objects on the shelves, as well. I uncovered a set of jade runes, and another of gold, and a partial set of wooden tiles. I found three different wands, each as long as my forearm, each carved out of a different type of wood. I discovered a set of three nested iron pots, all shaped like classic witch’s cauldrons.
In one corner, sheltered beneath a dusty crocheted afghan, there was a wooden chest. I opened it to discover dozens of glass vials, each carefully labeled. Robin feathers. Columbine. Tortoise shell. I glanced back at the books, wondering what sort of potions I could make with the ingredients.
After finding the first few objects scattered among the books, I realized that I needed to take care of all of the treasures. I couldn’t just consign them to further forgotten life on their dusty shelves. I waited until I heard Neko close the front door one afternoon, and then I darted upstairs to find my laptop computer. It was a hand-me-down from Scott that I’d had for almost five years but never used. I plugged it into one of the basement wall sockets, fired it up, and pulled up the ancient database program that Scott had loaded on it years ago.
I took great pleasure in deleting the files that Scott had stored away. In fact, I enjoyed wiping out his databases so much that I opened up his Office program. I started to delete everything there, but I paused when I found an email folder labeled “Amelia.” Amelia had been in Scott’s law school section; they’d studied together for first year and remained friends after they’d both graduated. I double-clicked on the folder icon.
It was locked; I needed to type in a password. I barely hesitated before entering Scott’s birthday, two digits each for month, day, and year of birth. If I’d learned nothing else in library school, I’d learned that most people are completely unimaginative when it came to protecting their computer files.
Sure enough, the folder sprang open as if it were loaded on a spring.
If I’d expected an exegesis of criminal law, I was disappointed, but I managed to uncover a great deal of criminal intent. Okay, maybe not criminal. But I found myself utterly fascinated by the notes that Scott had written to Amelia. They’d had email sex. They’d apparently had phone sex, too, on several nights when I’d left the apartment, hoping to make it easier for Scott to study for exams. And they’d had real sex, on numerous occasions, in the bed that Scott and I had shared.
With fingers trembling so hard that I could scarcely type, I closed Amelia’s folder, and I opened the next: Birgit. Then Cathy. Donna.
The folders read like a list of hurricanes, and each one ripped through my gut. Woman after woman after woman. Scott had flirted with all of them, lured most of them into online antics, and many of them into his bed. Our bed.
How could I have been so blind? How could I have missed the fact that my fiancé, the love of my life, the man I was going to marry and love happily ever after, had been screwing anything in a skirt?
And what did it mean that even when I was free from my philandering significant other, I had immediately sought out Jason, a man who was carved from the exact same stone?
Nauseated, I deleted all of it. The email, word processing files, spreadsheets. I would have reformatted the entire computer hard disk, but I wanted to use the programs that Scott had installed so long ago. I wanted to use his computer, to use him, to make something good come out of the years I’d wasted on him.
Tears trickling down my cheeks, I reopened the database program and started to build my library catalog. I made neat entries for my witchcraft books—their titles, authors, subject matters, physical descriptions. I created records for the slips of paper that had been tucked between their pages; I made special notes about the objects I’d found.
The work took a long time, but it was mostly mindless.
And that gave me time to think. Time to cry. Time to look at the mess I’d made of my life.
Why was I so good at choosing bad men? Why did I seek out the same type, time after time? Why did I write stories in my mind, justifying them, explaining them? Why did I hang on to them so desperately?
And what was I possibly going to do with myself, now that I knew I had to let them go?
