Page 10

Chapter 10

“If this is about that stupid bookmobile again,” Rose said, “forget it.”

They sat in Rose’s attic room, trying to get their breath back after crawling all the way up its narrow, airless stairs. Fern had insisted they congregate here after dinner—it was the only place no one else could hear what she had to say.

“I need a bippy,” Zinnia moaned, lying on the floor.

Rose tossed her a cigarette. She sat on her camp bed, leaning against two pillows she’d twisted into a nest, smoking out her window. There wasn’t a fan up here, but the sun had set and there was a breeze. It felt almost tolerable.

The attic was packed to the rafters with junk: baby buggies filled with walking sticks and Civil War swords, rotten leather traveling cases, rusty bed frames. Rose’s room consisted of one walled-off corner and Fern stood in the middle of its rag rug, too excited to sit.

No one else felt the drama—Holly scratched Precious Pup behind his ears, Rose stared at her smoke drifting out the window, Zinnia lay on the floor, eyes closed, one hand bringing her bippy to her lips.

“Listen, you guys,” Fern said, pulling the June 1964 issue of Redbook out from behind her back. On its cover, a bride came down the aisle and a headline promised to reveal “How Husbands Cope with Pregnancy.” “This is the answer to Zinnia’s problem.”

Holly looked at her, face blank as a cat’s. Rose gave a quick glance.

“What is it?” Zinnia asked, eyes still closed.

“Some Establishment rag,” Rose said.

“Zinnia, Dr. Vincent says your problem’s all in your head,” Fern said, working her sales pitch. “But we know it’s not. What if I told you there’s a way to stop throwing up all the time?”

“Only nine ninety-five plus shipping and handling,” Rose said.

“Okay, Doubting Thomas,” Fern said. “But when’s the last time any of y’all saw me pee?”

“Sorry to bust your ego trip,” Rose said. “But I don’t keep count.”

“You didn’t get up at dinner,” Zinnia said.

“That’s right,” Fern said. “I always get up to pee at dinner. Sometimes twice. Tonight, not once.”

“All these secrets can be yours for one low, low price,” Rose said.

Fern felt them slipping away.

“That librarian did something to my stomach,” she said. “She made my baby shift and I don’t have to pee anymore. Then she gave me this and told me it has all the answers we need.”

With a flourish, Rose pulled the paperback out of Redbook the way a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat. She held it up for them to see. On the cover, some long-haired fox held a black candle in both hands. She wore a black turtleneck, a black miniskirt, and black knee-high boots. A silver pentagram hung around her neck and she stared out at them with eyeliner eyes, lips slightly parted. A bunch of psychedelic lights hit her from the sides and at her feet sat a black plastic cauldron with dry ice coming out of the top. The entire setup looked like it came from Woolworth’s and cost $3.99.

“Another book,” Rose said. “Stupendous.”

Zinnia slit her eyes and Fern tilted the book so she could see.

“ How to Be a Groovy Witch ,” Zinnia read out loud. “By Eth Natas. Oh, brother.”

She closed her eyes again.

“Obviously a real witch couldn’t use her actual name,” Fern explained.

“Obviously real witches don’t exist,” Zinnia said. “Some fly-by-night New York publisher pasted together a bunch of wart cures and paid some girl from Barnard to look witchy on the cover.”

Fern’s grin faltered.

“There are some pretty heavy spells in here,” she said. “There’s one that might help you.”

“Magic isn’t real,” Zinnia said.

“The Salem witches were real,” Fern said. “I’ve done the play.”

“The Salem witches were a bunch of teenaged girls who started accusing people of witchcraft because they were bored,” Zinnia said. “Probably because they were stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do.”

Fern tried her pitch.

“The first spell I saw in here is called Turnabout,” she said. “It says we can take something like being sick and give it to someone else. We could do that with your morning sickness.”

“It’s mumbo jumbo for knuckle-draggers,” Zinnia said.

“Just listen,” Fern begged. “For five seconds.”

She opened the book to the table of contents. Even it thrilled her.

The Whats and Whys of Witchcraft

Charms for Beginners

A Note on Hexes

Starting a Coven

Everything You Need to Know about Spells

Your First Great Working

Making Friends with the Moon

Facts about Familiars

She turned to the first chapter and imagined she was giving the audition of her life.

“?‘This is a brutal book,’?” Fern read. “?‘Because this is a book about power: where to find it and how to use it. Power is a brutal topic and in today’s world, having power over yourself and power over others is the only topic worth knowing.’?”

Hearing the words out loud rang a bell deep inside her. She put its rhythm into her voice.

“?‘Knowledge is a kind of power, and the knowledge you find in this book will help you find power inside yourself. Power is not a material possession that can be given. Power is the ability to act and that must always be taken, for no one will ever give that power to you. Those who have power wish to keep it, and those who want power must learn to take it.’?”

No one said a word in the darkening room. Outside, the summer sky turned from lavender to gray. Shadows congealed in the corners like dirty cobwebs. The only light came from the glowing tips of their cigarettes.

“Nothing useful ever came out of a book,” Rose said.

Fern felt the pages go dead in her hands. She turned to Rose.

“You’re always talking about power,” she said. “This book is about power. It’s about the Struggle, it’s about fighting the Establishment. Are you all talk, or do you actually want to do something?”

Rose opened her mouth, but Fern turned to Zinnia.

“You throw up as much as I pee,” she said. “But I haven’t had to pee all afternoon. What’ve you got to lose?”

Even Holly was watching her now.

“This book is the first interesting thing that’s happened here in weeks, and y’all are acting like it’s chores,” Fern said. “Everyone complains that there’s nothing to read, nothing to do, nothing to watch but reruns, and now I’ve got something that might help Zinnia, and y’all want to ignore it. Has Wellwood gotten that inside your heads? Has she turned you into a bunch of squares?”

This was Fern’s strongest move. She didn’t know where to go next. Finally, Rose spoke.

“What do we have to do?” she asked.

Inside her head, Fern leapt into the air, cheering.

“Well,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “The first thing we have to do is get on kitchen duty.”

“Not me,” Rose said. “I’m on strike.”

***

Three days later, they laid out the ingredients for Turnabout on Rose’s bed.

Holly could sew, and she’d made a little sachet out of some cotton scrap from the rag bag. Beside it lay nine peppercorns (stolen from the kitchen), one egg (also stolen from the kitchen) submerged in a jar of lemon juice (stealing from the kitchen was really wrecking Fern’s nerves), a dried-up lemon peel (the kitchen again), and ten green pine needles (taken from the trees outside and not, thank God, from the kitchen).

“This lemon’s already making me queasy,” Zinnia moaned, fanning her hand in front of her face.

“Good,” Fern told her. “Now lie on the floor.”

“Why can’t I lie on the bed?” Zinnia asked.

“Because we have to be kneeling on both sides of you for this to work,” Fern said. “And take off your clothes.”

Grumbling, Zinnia unzipped her dress and stripped to her white bra and panties. The stretch marks on her belly looked like lightning bolts shooting through her skin.

She lay on her back in the middle of the rug. The hot, closed attic room did its best to suck the excitement away, but getting ready for this spell had taken on a life of its own. Even Zinnia wasn’t saying this was stupid anymore.

Fern pricked Zinnia’s finger with a needle and rubbed it on the egg. Zinnia sucked on her pricked finger and closed her eyes.

“All right,” she said. “Do some witchcraft.”

Fern knelt on one side of her, and Rose and Holly knelt on the other. Fern plucked the egg out of the lemon juice with two fingers and shook it dry.

“Everyone focus on the egg,” she said. “Zinnia, the book says you’re going to feel like you’re about to ralph, but you think of those feelings like dirt and sweep them into the egg, okay?”

They had a trash can beside them just in case Zinnia couldn’t sweep those feelings fast enough.

“Okay,” Zinnia said through tight lips.

Fern laid the egg on top of Zinnia’s swollen belly and held it in place with one finger.

“Focus on the egg,” she said.

“I am the Egg Man,” Rose said.

Zinnia smiled.

“Be serious,” Fern said.

They put on their serious faces.

“Rise and fill,” Fern said self-consciously. “Rise and fill. Rise and fill and leave behind. Rise and fill. Stop smiling, Holly.”

Holly stopped.

“Everyone now,” Fern said.

They each rested two fingers on the egg, then started sliding it over Zinnia’s pregnant belly like guiding a planchette on a Ouija board.

“Rise and fill,” they all chanted, except Holly. “Rise and fill and leave behind. Rise and fill.”

They repeated it over and over until they were one voice, one hand, sliding the egg across Zinnia’s belly.

“Rise and fill. Rise and fill and leave behind.”

Fern’s knees hurt. She wondered if she could get a pillow off Rose’s bed, but she didn’t want to ruin the mood, so she embraced the pain and kept chanting.

Rise and fill. Rise and fill and leave behind. Rise and fill.

Time became slippery. Fern couldn’t remember how long they’d been doing this. She felt her sense of self drift up to the ceiling like a balloon. She understood why cults really went for chanting.

“Urp,” Zinnia belched, and the smell of her stomach acid was sharp in the hot room.

“Sweep it into the egg,” Fern reminded her.

Zinnia’s eyelids fluttered and her forehead wrinkled with effort. They kept sliding that smooth, cool egg over her warm, smooth stomach, chanting, “Rise and fill. Rise and fill and leave behind. Rise and fill.”

They lost their rhythm. The chant died on their lips. They stopped sliding the egg and stared. It had turned black. Not crayon black, or midnight black, but dark gray like a little storm cloud was trapped inside.

They were doing it. Something real was actually happening. They were doing witchcraft.

“Keep going,” Fern said, and they scrambled to restart.

“Rise and fill.” They picked back up. “Rise and fill and leave behind. Rise and fill…”

They slid the egg for a few more minutes then stopped.

“Hold up,” Fern said.

She got her arms under Zinnia and helped her sit. Zinnia opened her eyes to see three faces grinning at her and Fern holding up an egg that was the angry purple of a fresh bruise.

While Zinnia got her clothes back on, Fern slipped the egg into Holly’s sachet, along with the other ingredients. Then came the final part. They had to transfer Zinnia’s morning sickness to someone, and Rose had pointed out the obvious candidate. They slipped three of Dr. Vincent’s hairs, stolen from the back of his office chair, into the sachet and Rose tied it shut with a pine needle, moving slowly so it didn’t break.

Zinnia picked it up.

“It’s warm,” she said. “Maybe the egg had a chemical reaction with the lemon juice.”

“Or maybe it’s magic,” Fern said.

“But it’s probably a chemical reaction,” Zinnia said.

The next day was Friday, and Fern and Holly volunteered to clean the Barn. When they swept Dr. Vincent’s office, Holly watched for Nurse Kent while Fern slipped the witch bag into an empty space behind one of his desk drawers.

That night, as they lay in bed, Zinnia said, “You know this won’t work. It’s been a fun way to pass the time, but don’t be upset when nothing happens.”

Fern knew Zinnia was right. She knew they were playing at witches. She knew this was what Granny Craven called babarambooboo.

She knew all of that. She really did.

***

Fern held out her wrist. The second hand on Zinnia’s Timex clicked precisely around its gold face. Holly laid her wrist beside Fern’s. In the middle of her watch, Snoopy’s arms pointed to three fifty-five.

“And…time,” Rose said. “They’re synchronized.”

They stood in Fern’s bedroom. Zinnia had insisted they do this closer to the bathroom in case anything went wrong.

“Okay, Fern,” Rose said. “Nurse’s going to call any minute.”

“Fern!” Nurse Kent hollered from the bottom of the stairs. “Time for clinic. Don’t make me come up.”

They met each other’s eyes, all except Zinnia, who was already lying down. Holly looked keyed up, her hot face flushed almost the same color as her birthmark. Rose’s chest rose and fell fast.

“Good luck,” Zinnia said, eyes closed.

“You, too,” Fern told her.

“Solidarity,” Rose said.

Then Fern went downstairs and walked to the Barn with Nurse Kent. It was time to put witchcraft to the test.

Nurse Kent weighed Fern and checked her blood pressure. As she made notes in her chart, Fern checked Zinnia’s watch. It was only five after. Upstairs, they weren’t ready for her to go into Dr. Vincent’s office until twenty after. Why was Nurse Kent moving so fast today? Fern went to the bathroom to do her urine sample and sat on the toilet, just watching the second hand tick around Zinnia’s watch. Eventually, Nurse Kent knocked on the door.

“Everything all right in there?” she asked.

Fern didn’t want to get in trouble, but it was still only eight after so she didn’t answer. Nurse Kent knocked again.

“Fern?” she said. “Try turning on the sink.”

Fern turned it on and let it run but eventually she had to come out. It was only twelve after. She put her sample on Nurse Kent’s desk just as Jasmine came out Dr. Vincent’s door.

“Another week of restriction,” she complained.

“Complaining gives you wrinkles,” Nurse Kent said. She picked up Fern’s file and led her into Dr. Vincent’s office. It was only twelve after and thirty seconds. Fern didn’t budge. “Come on, Fern. What’s with all the lollygagging today?”

Fern checked Zinnia’s watch—thirteen minutes after—but she couldn’t stall Nurse Kent anymore. She’d have to drag it out once she was inside.

Dr. Vincent sat hunched over his desk. The blinds were drawn against the sun and his lamp was on. He didn’t look good. Fern wondered if he’d already started feeling the spell or if it was just one of his down days. He’d had a lot of those recently.

Nurse Kent laid Fern’s file in front of him and left. Dr. Vincent turned a few pages, then cleared his throat with a big, phlegmy rattle.

“Mm- mm ,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t like to see that.”

He sometimes said things like this, and Fern never asked what it meant because his answer was always “Nothing you’d understand.” But today it was only fifteen minutes after four and she still had five minutes to go.

“What is it, Dr. Vincent?” Fern asked.

He looked up, surprised to find a living human being across from him.

“Blood pressure of one twenty-three over eighty-five,” he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. They magnified his eyes until they looked like they were bugging out of his head. “That’s higher than we want to see. You’ll be taking water pills for the rest of the week.”

He went back to her chart. Fern snuck a look at Zinnia’s watch: sixteen minutes after four.

“Dr. Vincent?” she asked. “Why is it bad for my blood pressure to be high?”

His head came up again.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“Why is it bad if my blood pressure’s a little high?” Fern repeated. “Maybe it’s only high because I’m nervous to see you.”

“Young lady,” he said. “I don’t expect you to understand, but let me say that while to you these numbers might be ‘a little high,’ to me those numbers mean the life of the baby is at risk.”

He went back to her file. Four seventeen.

“At risk of what?” Fern asked, and, seeing his sour expression, she added, “Sir?”

“At risk of preeclampsia,” he snipped, and now his face had a little color. “Toxemia. Birthing difficulties. Maternal obesity. This isn’t the freshman fifteen, young lady. This is a serious matter of life and death. You’d be wise not to be so flip. But that’s the trouble with your press-button, instant-gratification generation, isn’t it? You’ve gotten everything handed to you, so you find it impossible to understand that serious people take the world seriously.”

A rant about the generation gap! Fern was thrilled. Old people could do that all day. She snuck a look at Zinnia’s watch: two minutes to go.

Dr. Vincent stood and came toward her. It was too soon. This was his final look at her eyes and tongue before showing her the door.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Vincent,” Fern said. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

He stood in front of her.

“Nevertheless, you were disrespectful,” he said. “Now, hold out your hand. Or are you going to sass me about that, too?”

Once he was squeezing her fingers Fern would be out of time. She took a chance and stood up, right in front of him, her pregnant belly brushing his lab coat. He took a small step backward in surprise.

“Be seated,” he said. “I need you—”

He broke off as a gassy belch interrupted him. Just in time.

“Pardon me,” he said, covering his mouth with his handkerchief. He was about to say something else when Fern saw his face fade to greasy gray right before her eyes.

He pressed his handkerchief over his mouth and Fern got out of the way. She looked at Zinnia’s watch: the second hand ticked past twelve and it was four twenty exactly.

First came lemon.

Something convulsed inside Dr. Vincent’s stomach and surged up his throat. He pressed the handkerchief tighter, but there was too much liquid thundering around inside him. He tried to swallow but he couldn’t force anything past the pressure in his throat, and then Fern saw his cheeks bulge as he hit the point of no return. Brown water spurted out around his handkerchief. Dr. Vincent couldn’t move. He was helpless in the face of his body’s rebellion.

Another surge and this time it filled his handkerchief. He dropped it to the floor with a wet smack. Liquid dripped from his chin as he tried to figure out what was happening to his body. Fern pulled the collar of her dress over her nose and breathed through her mouth. She looked down at Zinnia’s watch: four twenty-three.

They’d be holding Pine-Sol under Zinnia’s nose now.

Dr. Vincent barely made it to the wastepaper basket, a spew of half-digested gunk erupting from his mouth, splattering into the can.

Clearly , Fern thought, remembering his diagnosis of Zinnia, he’s psychosexually immature, so his body reacts by making him sick. He’ll get better when he wants to get better.

“Get Nurse,” he gasped right before he surfed the next liquid wave.

Fern had thrown up more while pregnant than she ever had in her life, and Zinnia threw up almost five times more than that, and finally— finally —Dr. Vincent knew what it felt like for your body to be out of your control.

Dr. Vincent heaved again and Fern pushed open the office door.

“Nurse Kent,” she said, and it took all her acting skills to make her voice sound worried instead of triumphant. “I think Dr. Vincent isn’t feeling himself.”

Behind her, Dr. Vincent let out a cry that ended in a wet, choking gargle, followed by another blast of vomit. Nurse Kent brushed past Fern.

“Dr. Vincent?” she asked. “Are you ill?”

Fern checked Zinnia’s watch. Upstairs in their bedroom they’d already held the jar of lemon juice under Zinnia’s nose, followed by a capful of Pine-Sol. Zinnia wanted to time it to see if she smelled each thing at the exact same moment Dr. Vincent got sick. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be scientific.

Nurse Kent helped Dr. Vincent to his chair. He moved like he’d aged twenty years in five minutes.

“Maybe it was something you ate?” Nurse Kent suggested. “Do you remember what you had for lunch?”

Lysol coming in three…two…

“Fern,” Nurse Kent called. “Get me a glass of water. Dr. Vincent isn’t—”

…one.

He fire-hosed his desk, blasting his papers off the side. The force was so strong it sent his pencil jar spinning to the floor. He turned to Nurse Kent, his face a picture of absolute misery. Just like Zinnia’s face every time she smelled something that sent her running to the bathroom, praying she could get there in time.

“Fern,” Nurse Kent called. “Don’t just stand there. Get Dr. Vincent a glass of water!”

But Fern just stood there. She watched Dr. Vincent helplessly open his mouth, and this time he sprayed the front of Nurse Kent’s uniform, from her stomach down to her knees. She tried to pick up the wastepaper basket and his second blast got her right in the shoulder, and then he filled her shoes.