A Call to Charms

by Denise Swanson

  Oh, oh. The tide had turned, and now I was the only one left in the water with the circling shark and a big bull’s-eye painted on my butt in blood.

  Crystal took Ms. Underhill’s arm and steered her to the register. “Here, let me credit your account for the dress, and you must pick out one of our lovely silk camisoles to make up for your trouble. We just got a new shipment from Sophie Simmons.”

  I was letting out a sigh of relief, thinking Crystal had distracted Ms. Underhill from continuing to demand my dismissal, when the harridan pointed at me, and said, “That will be fine, but I still want her fired.”

  “Very well.” Crystal flicked me a dismissive glance. “Miss Green, your services are no longer required. Please gather your belongings and leave immediately.”

  Even that didn’t appear to satisfy Ms. Underhill. She yelled after me as I headed to the back room, “And don’t try to get a job at any other shop. I’m personally spreading the word to every boutique from here to New York.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It’s a Bad, Bad, Bad, Bad World

  It’s strange, but I have no recollection of exiting the store. I’m equally mystified as to how I got home. The next thing I remember is sitting in my tiny apartment on the dilapidated sofa I’d been hoping to replace with my next commission check and gazing at the two neatly framed diplomas decorating the otherwise dull beige walls.

  I had hung them with such pride. First my bachelor’s degree, then my Master of Arts degree in English Literature. Years and years of hard work, I never put to any use.

  Had I completed my Ph.D., I might have been able to join the faculty of a university, but without it, there was no way I could be a professor. I might be able to teach a few courses at a community college, but that would never be enough to make a living.

  Why hadn’t I studied something practical, like nursing or engineering? Could it be because I fainted at the sight of blood, and I was allergic to math?

  Now it looked as if I couldn’t even keep a position as a sales clerk. A job I would have sneered at back when I dumped my high school boyfriend because he would never be more than a stock boy at the local Meijer.

  Karma was such a bitch. It had taken her a few years to prove it, but now I realized that she’d only been waiting for the right time to show me just how badly I’d underestimated her fondness for irony.

  What had happened to me? When had I decided to settle for less than I was capable of achieving?

  Most likely, it was about the time my mother got sick. Our relationship had never been a warm and fuzzy one, but I couldn’t turn my back on her when she called and asked for help. I used the money from my student loans for her medical bills. Then instead of finishing my doctorate, I went to work to pay off those debts.

  While I sat there, contemplating the ruins of my life, the sudden feeling of ants swarming up and down my legs made me leap off the couch. My foot connected with the wastebasket sitting next to the shredder—both positioned for easy access when I sorted the bills from the junk mail—and I swore as rubbish spilled across the worn tan carpet.

  As quickly as it had materialized, the scurrying sensation disappeared, and I knelt to gather the crumpled papers, flattened Starbuck’s cup, and used tissues. Scooping them up, I attempted to stuff the trash back into the container, but something was in the way.

  I reached inside and drew out a large manila envelope that was wedged crossways a few inches below the basket’s rim. As I touched it, a chill ran up my spine, and I quickly flung it away.

  The postal carrier had delivered it before Christmas, and it was almost Easter. I’d emptied my trash several at least once a week since that time. How could I have missed it? It should have been long gone, already processed through some recycling plant and starting a new life as a copy of the Chicago Tribune or a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin.

  The reappearance of the packet reminded me that today’s disaster was not the first shock I’d recently received. How could I have forgotten the little bolt from the blue staring at me from the floor?

  Of course, I hadn’t really forgotten it. I had deliberately repressed it, putting it in the section of my subconscious where I locked away all the other things I didn’t want to think about. Repression and compartmentalization were talents I had honed to perfection during my unhappy childhood.

  Now, as I sat cross-legged on the carpet, picked up the envelope, and slid my fingernail under the metal clasp, I hesitated. I was more than half-convinced I should get up, step over to the shredder, and get rid of it once and for all. Instinctively, I knew that opening this packet would set events in motion that were probably best kept from starting.

  Then again, the fact that I was sitting on the floor unconcerned that my expensive skirt was in danger of being ruined probably meant that the apocalypse had already begun.

  As I wavered, an electric-like tingling zipped up my arm, making me wonder if I was having a heart attack. Considering my day, I was entitled to at least a minor coronary. Before I could find my cell phone to call 911, the prickling stopped, and now it felt as if my hand was being nudged until I bent open the metal prongs and tipped the packet’s contents out onto my lap.

  The three envelopes—one long business-sized, one small, and one six-by-nine manila—seem to mock me, Thought you could get rid of us, eh? Nice try, but no cigar.

  Previously, I had only read the business-sized letter. After scanning it the first time, I’d jammed everything back into the packet, told myself it was all a scam and threw it away.

  Even then, in my gut, I somehow knew the letter was legit, but I just couldn’t deal with what it said. This time when I slid out the single sheet of heavy white bond, I examined it more closely. The letterhead was that of a law firm in Echo Springs, Kansas

  DEAR MS. GREEN:

  I REGRET TO INFORM YOU YOUR GREAT-AUNT, PANDORA RAVENSCRAFT, DIED DECEMBER 14. AS HER ATTORNEY, SHE HAD PREVIOUSLY INSTRUCTED ME THAT UPON HER DEATH, I WAS TO SEND YOU THE ENCLOSED ITEMS AND TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE HER SOLE HEIR. CONTACT ME AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE TO SETTLE HER ESTATE. I’M ENCLOSING MY CARD WITH BOTH MY OFFICE AND CELL PHONE. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO CALL DAY OR NIGHT.

  SINCERELY,

  WILLIAM MAYER

  The same instant disbelief flashed through my mind now as when I first read the letter. I had never heard of Pandora Ravenscraft, and my mother had always insisted we had no living relatives.

  As recently as a month or so ago, during a rare telephone conversation with my mom, I had mentioned the possibility of trying to look up my roots. I had explained about a coupon I had for one of those DNA ancestry companies, and she’d laughed, and then told me not to waste my money. She’d insisted that we didn’t have any surviving family for me to find.

  The slight waver in her voice told me she was not only lying, she was afraid of something. But as I’ve already mentioned, denial is one of my best talents, so I didn’t press her for the truth.

  Reluctantly, I picked up the smaller envelope, which had a strangely soothing scent I couldn’t quite identify. I slit the flap, and the notepaper inside glowed whitely. When I tried to look away, it was as if my head was being held in a vise and I cringed, as the dark purple ink appeared to hover above the page.

  Bold handwriting commanded my attention:

  DEAR NIECE,

  IF THIS LETTER IS IN YOUR POSSESSION, TWO EVENTS HAVE COME TO PASS. I HAVE DIED, AND YOU ARE AT THE POINT IN YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU NEED TO KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT YOURSELF.

  Before I could read further, I heard an odd scraping kind of noise. Because my entire apartment consists of a galley-style kitchen, a tiny living room, and an even smaller bedroom, I could survey most of it from where I sat.

  While I was scanning the area, trying to locate the source of the sound, I heard it again, but this time I saw the front doorknob turn. There were more grating noises, then a thump as something solid hit the wood.

  Shit! Someone was trying to break in, and I had forgotten to put on the deadbol
t and chain. All that was standing between a burglar and me was a thumb lock any kid could open with his school ID card.

  If Darwin was right about natural selection, I certainly wouldn’t be surviving, because I clearly wasn’t the sharpest cheddar in the deli case.

  The door swung inward, and I rose to my feet, gripping the letter opener I had used to open my aunt’s note. I was ready to defend myself to the death with a six-inch piece of metal whose plastic handle was stamped: SOUVENIR OF THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING.

  A man stepped inside, and I opened my mouth to scream, but before I could summon enough breath, I realized that the person standing in my tiny foyer with a startled look on his weaselly face was my ex-boyfriend, Gil.

  We stared at each other for a long moment, then at the same time, we both said: “What are you doing here?”

  Feeling silly, I slipped the letter opener into my skirt pocket and stated the obvious, “I live here.” I couldn’t believe he was in my apartment. I distinctly remembered getting the key back when we broke up. Had he forced the lock? “How about you?”

  “Uh...” He ran a hand through his uncombed blond hair. “I was going to surprise you, take you to dinner when you got home.” His chin was stubbled, and his face lined with fatigue. He’d always been a bit pudgy, but now his stomach overflowed his belt. It looked as if he’d been living on fast food and alcohol. “I miss you.”

  “Get over it.” I’d had a bad day and wasn’t in the mood to baby his ego.

  “I can’t. You’ve got to come back to me.” Tears welled up in his bloodshot blue eyes. “I’ve tried, and I can’t forget you.”

  “I’m sorry, Gil.” I took a deep breath and tried to be gentle, but my patience was wearing thin. “We’ve been over this and over this, I just don’t feel that way about you anymore.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.” In a heartbeat, his expression went from lovesick to loathing. “The only way I’ll ever get you out of my head is if you’re dead.” He pushed aside his suit jacket and drew a pistol from the waistband of his pants. “Since you won’t come back to me, I’ll have to kill you.”

  At first, I thought he was bluffing, but then I remembered the day I had found the gun he was now pointing at me. I had been snooping through his dresser, and there, underneath his tighty whities, was a Smith & Wesson. He caught me examining it, and when I asked why he had it, he told me shooting helped him relax.

  At the time, I assumed he was referring to target practice, not gunning down ex-girlfriends.

  While I had been strolling down memory lane, Gil had maneuvered himself, so he was behind me. Now he whispered in my ear, “If you’re a good little pet, maybe I won’t kill you. Maybe I’ll just lock you up until you fall back in love with me.”

  “What?” I turned just in time to see him raise his arm. You really do see stars when someone hits you over the head, but they aren’t the pretty sparkly ones or the dancing type, just pinpricks of bright light.

  As I processed the pain, a piece of advice from a self-defense course that my mother had insisted I take the year I grew breasts popped into my mind. So instead of struggling to remain upright, I sprawled on the floor, pretending to be unconscious.

  Gil nudged me with his toe, but I didn’t move. Watching him from beneath my lashes, I saw him return the gun to his waistband and bend to lift me. When he couldn’t, he settled for dragging me to the sofa and rolling me on to it. Then he left me there and walked back toward the door. I could hardly believe my luck.

  I knew I only had a few seconds to make my move. There was no way I would be anyone’s love slave...well, maybe Jason Momoa’s, but only for a long weekend—ten days at the most.

  Gil swore, and I saw he was trying to get a roll of duct tape started. While he was distracted, I snaked my arm out and reached for the wrought iron lamp on the end table. Once I had a grip on the base, I eased to my feet. The movement must have gotten Gil’s attention because he looked up. When he saw I was standing, he came roaring towards me.

  Realizing my only chance at survival was to hit a home run, I tried to channel Babe Ruth. As soon as Gil was in reach, I swung the heavy lamp, putting all my not-inconsiderable weight into the motion. I connected with his head and shoulders, and he lurched once, convulsed, and collapsed on the carpet.

  Immediately, I ran for my purse, snatched my cell phone from the outside pocket, and dialed 911. But before they answered my call, I found myself flat on my chest, the breath knocked out of me, and Gil’s muscular body pinning my legs to the dingy carpet.

  Acting purely on instinct, I arched my back. Bucking like a rodeo bull coming out of the chute, I screamed for help. His torso lifted for a second, then he grabbed my hair and yanked. The pain was incredible, and for a second I thought I was done for, but while he was punishing me by using my curls to smash my face into the floor, again and again, I managed to get my hand free. I reached into my skirt pocket and grasped the letter opener.

  Timing would be everything. My heart was booming in my ears like a jet breaking the sound barrier. This was my last chance to escape. I waited until he pulled my head aloft, and then instead of resisting, I shoved myself upward with all my strength, slamming my head into his nose. He toppled off of me, blood streaming down his chin, and I plunged the letter opener into his chest. He shrieked, clawed at it, and when he couldn’t get it out started to crawl towards me.

  There was no place to go. I had managed to get to my feet, but Gil had me backed up to the far wall. As I waited there trying to remember the words to the Act of Contrition so I could confess my sins and go to heaven, there was a loud pounding, and a querulous voice demanded we be quiet or he was calling the authorities.

  Gil froze.

  When the front door popped open, I figured that either the mechanism that kept it fastened to the jamb failed because Gil had forced the lock when he broke into my apartment or God had sent someone to save me.

  Once I saw that my rescuer was Mr. Boswell, I was pretty sure it was the former. My neighbor was no angel. Although he was getting closer with every frail breath. Older than a vintage Fortuny gown, he stood in the doorway peering through Mr. Magoo glasses and leaning on his walker.

  Thank goodness for cheap construction, paper-thin walls, and nosy neighbors.

  Gil lurched to his feet and ran for the door, pushed Mr. Boswell out of his way, and as he staggered down the stairs, yelled, “This isn’t over. I’ll be back.”

  Time seemed to stand still, and I wondered briefly if anyone would notice that the man passing them on the sidewalk had a letter opener sticking out of his chest. Probably not. After all, this was the city, and the inhabitants had doubtlessly seen much worse.

  Abruptly, Mr. Boswell muttered something about not wanting to get involved and shuffled away. The slamming of his door broke my trance. I hurried to my own door and closed it. This time I remembered to engage the deadbolt and secure the chain. Dashing back to where I’d dropped my cell phone, I grabbed it and sobbed out my story to the 911 operator.

  As I waited for the police, I wondered where my great intuition had been. I sure hadn’t seen that coming.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Betwixt and Between

  Despite Mr. Boswell lying through his false teeth and claiming he hadn’t seen or heard anything, the police believed my account of the incident. They assured me that once they had located Gil, they would arrest him for domestic violence.

  I kept myself together while the officers escorted me to the station and took my statement, but after that, I lost it. I have a vague memory of a marathon session of sobbing and swearing, and then the next thing I knew, someone was telling me Gil was in custody.

  He was claiming I attacked him, but the evidence was in my favor. I had been the one to call the police, not him. The responding officers had personally witnessed the damage to my door lock. And he hadn’t sought treatment for either his broken nose or the stab wound.

  The police informed me he had removed the letter opene
r, and they hadn’t been able to find it, which was fine with me. It wasn’t as if I wanted it back or anything.

  Still, as I left the station house, the officers warned me that Gil would probably be freed after his bail hearing the next day. They suggested I get an Order of Protection.

  Yeah, right. Like that would keep a delusional ex-boyfriend from killing me or keeping me in a cage like his pet hamster.

  It was late afternoon when the police finally dropped me off at my apartment. Intellectually, I knew I needed to come up with a plan for what to do when Gil was released, but every time I tried my thoughts drifted off, and I relived the moment he pulled his gun on me.

  At one point, I wandered into the bathroom and found myself staring in the mirror. A tiny scratch under my right eye and a single, thin line of dried blood on my cheek were the only outward signs I had been beaten. Even though my head hurt like the hounds of hell had used it as a Frisbee and my face was as tender as if I had just had dermabrasion, it didn’t appear that Gil had inflicted any permanent damage.

  Oh. My. God. Permanent damage. Until then it hadn’t completely sunk in that I could be dead. Gil could have killed me. Had wanted to kill me. Had tried to kill me. I owed my life to a cheap souvenir and a crabby old man.

  My legs went numb, and I sank to the cold tile floor shivering. My mind’s eye focused on Gil’s malevolent expression as he banged my head on the worn carpet, and I sat for what seemed like hours sickened by the raw hate I had seen on his face. Flashes from the assault exploded like a string of firecrackers in my brain until I could barely breathe, let alone figure out what to do before he got out on bond and came after me again.

  It took a long time before I could finally turn off the horror movie playing in my head. I sucked in a huge gasp of air and forced myself to think about my options.