Page 4 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)
Four
A cat on a fencepost with its back to the road is a sure sign that an undesirable visitor will soon knock at your door.
Local Legends and Superstitions, Tempest Family Grimoire
The air is moist in a way that sticks to you as if it wants to coat all your cells, winds foul, sky a sickly chartreuse on the day of the auction. Everybody else is miserable to be outside in this weather and I can barely contain the pleasure it brings me, standing off to the side of a stage built from wooden pallets while Gilda garbles into a dying microphone that’s only catching every other word. As always, she’s brought along Razzle Dazzle in a picnic basket. The cat is so old that she’s got bald patches, face sunken in around the cheekbones.
This block of Vallis Boulevard has been sectioned off, a hundred or so folding chairs siphoned from local churches facing us, half of them filled with people and the other half with gift baskets. Streaks of pooled rainfall glimmer in the road like marbled raw meat. When I point this out to Luna, she tells me I’m disgusting and that she’s going to convert me to vegetarianism.
I’m wearing one of my favorite outfits for what will hopefully celebrate a romantic new beginning: a grayish-white hoop skirt dress I discovered in a curiosity shop in New Hope, Pennsylvania. The corset and cage crinoline’s boning are made with whalebone, and beneath them (rather than over top), gauzy white material is spread in a dreamy, ethereal way that makes me think of the webs ghost spiders might weave. I’ve accessorized with black widow earrings, a snow of glitter across my cheekbones, and silvery twigs tucked into my hair. With the color of my hair and dress, I’m going for “drop of blood in a haunted ice cave,” and judging by the despair on Gilda’s face when she spots me, it’s a success. I feel pretty—if a bit self-conscious. Not because I’m embarrassed about what I’m wearing, but because it draws attention, which I don’t enjoy. It is a burden to be this fashionable.
“Next up,” Gilda calls, “we’ve got the Moonville Historical Society, who will…” She pauses to read from her card. “Let you in on their highly exclusive quilting circle. Haven’t accepted a new member since 2002! Annalee and Ruth McMahon, this is your moment, gals. Go knit some baby booties and let the rest of us have a turn under the hair dryer for once.”
“You’re fidgeting,” I murmur to Luna, who’s wiping her pink palms on her boho maxi skirt. She’s wearing ten pounds of moonstone necklaces, and a cropped yellow tank that matches the sunflower tattooed on her shoulder. She keeps fiddling with her hair, nervously panning the audience. Romina, who is only volunteering her flora fortunist services today, is in a brown plaid number with puffed sleeves and a straw cloche hat. Ahead of us, her boyfriend, Alex, carries a toolbox that I assume is a symbolic representation of his donated skills.
“You are,” she mutters back.
“No, I’m not. I’m standing very, very still.” It often unnerves people. I like to sometimes pretend I was cursed into a statue and I cannot move unless somebody says the right word to reverse the spell. I focus on my breathing to make it as unnoticeable as possible and imagine vines and thorns growing out of the ground beneath my feet. If anyone speaks to me while I’m doing my thorn-and-vine-imagining and I haven’t gotten to the bit yet where the vines settle into a crown on top of my head, I ignore them until I’m finished. People really do not like it.
“Are you sure you won’t auction off a date?” Gilda complains to Alex before he mounts the stage steps.
Alex glances back at Romina, pretending to consider it.
“I’d wring your neck,” she warns.
His mouth slides into a grin as he steps up beside Gilda. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
“Up next,” Gilda announces, her sequined shawl blinding everyone when a dagger of sunlight sneaks out from behind a cloud and strikes her, “is Alex King. You might be surprised to see him with a toolbox, since he told us before he left for college that he wanted to be a doctor. Instead, he has decided to be a roofer. There are already hundreds of roofs in Moonville, but only three doctors. Who am I to judge? Surely, God will. Anyway, up for bid is Alex King and his box of tools. Here’s your chance, ladies, to get that porch rail fixed! Your useless husbands are all lying, they’re never gonna do it. Let’s start the bidding at twenty-five dollars. Do I hear twenty-five dollars?”
Ultimately, Alex’s mother pays close to two hundred bucks for him to build her a mailbox that will resemble a miniature version of the house she just bought. This is how he learns that his mom and new stepdad, Daniel (Trevor’s father), have decided to move back to Moonville after their recent wedding.
“Next up is…” Gilda’s gaze settles on mine, as I’m now at the front of the queue. Luna, that chicken, has retreated even farther back. “A date with Zelda Tempest.”
She offers a hand to assist me as I ascend the steps, and only now, at this exact moment, does it occur to me that it is quite possible nobody will bid at all. Such an experience would be devastating. How deeply tragic that I did not consider this prospect until facing all of my sisters’ friends and neighbors (I myself do not keep many friends), who may be witnesses to my ego’s blunt death.
“Zelda Tempest is thirty-two years old and yes, that is her natural hair color,” Gilda states. “She’s an author of books about dead people who don’t stay dead and she works at The Magick Happens, but you’d never know it because she’s always hiding in the basement. I suppose it’s a small step up from when she was a kid and used to hide in the woods. Remember? We could never find her!”
“Please do my obituary someday,” I tell her warmly. “You’re such a natural at this.”
“Thanks. I honed my talents on Rotten Tomatoes.” She clears her throat. “Zelda enjoys black-and-white photography of old sheds and trying out new sports!” (This is not true.) “Let’s start the bidding at a thousand dollars.”
Nobody raises their paddle.
“I’m joking! Let’s start the bidding at ten dollars.”
I clasp my hands into a sweating knot and close my eyes, sinking into my happy place: Curled up in a chair in my attic, reading Vlad the Impaler: A Captivating Guide to How Vlad III Dracula Became One of the Most Crucial Rulers of Wallachia and His Impact on the History of Romania . Flickering in the periphery, a candle scents the dark room with cinnamon, nutmeg, and roasted chocolate. Straight ahead lies a window—the curtains sweep themselves aside, revealing another window across the street, and beyond it—
I open my eyes again.
“One hundred,” Gilda is droning in the background, but I hardly hear her over the noise of my thoughts. I cast my gaze past all the faces and their varied expressions, the hands that lift and the ones that lower, deciding I am not worth quite that much money. The bespectacled man who purchased my book is nowhere to be seen. My attention rambles to the forest just beyond.
“Poor guy won’t know what hit him,” I hear Luna remark.
And a curious thing happens—
The top of the forest moves.
The air is solid and heavy, no wind to cut it, but the forest’s canopies sway. It reminds me of insect antennae. All of my other thoughts are emptied out, a rush of blood to my head, and it feels like
Zelda!
A familiar voice I can’t quite place, speaking my name.
Zelda. Zelda.
You’ve forgotten.
Gilda seizes my hand and raises it with a celebratory “Two hundred and fifty dollars going once, going twice, sold to Morgan Angelopoulos.”
The mystery voice halts at once. What on earth was that?
I descend the steps, and there he is. His right eye squints against a burst of sunlight through the treetops, painting his cheek with gold dust. His left eye is a brilliant, shining brown, regarding me with an eager, speculative appreciation.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “This could not have gone better than if I’d planned it all myself.”
“I’m here! Don’t start without me,” someone exclaims, breaking between shoulders. It’s Dylan, glasses askew, shirt half-tucked into his jeans. “I couldn’t find my shoes. Then my tire had a flat, and once I got on the road, rain started pouring down so thick I couldn’t see.”
Morgan beams at me. “Guess what?” he tells Dylan without bothering to glance at him. “You’re too late.”