The Witch Box

by Laura Ellison

  *****

  Alice and Rebecca were seated next to each other in folding chairs. In their pullover sweaters, they looked like two harmless grandmothers.

  “Hello, Joshua,” Rebecca said. “I see you are well.”

  Her speech sounded slurred, the left side of her mouth sagging. She gripped a cane.

  “I should have introduced myself at the hospital,” she said. “But you hadn’t seen me in a long time...”

  “They grow up fast,” Alice said.

  Leo took slow steps to a chair in the corner, where the tables had been placed for the Christmas potluck.

  The smell of rotting meat was becoming overwhelming. Joshua also picked up the odors of cats and human urine on Alice and Rebecca.

  “I knew,” Alice said, “as soon as you found me, you’d find your witch box. I suppose you want it.” She grabbed the straps of her tote-bag, a Christmas tree and kitten design on the front. The bag in her lap, she pulled out a wooden container the size of a shoe box. “I’d have thought you’d want to use something from the plant. This is an antique.”

  “Yes, it is,” Rebecca said.

  “Some of your things are a bit untraditional, but I used to keep a jar of buttons in mine.” Alice rose and handed the box to Joshua. “Don’t be shy.”

  The smooth wood was cool in his hands. He opened the cover, which stayed on its hinges. The box was lined with green felt.

  Inside, he found things that made his memories line up like bowling pins; his ceramic plate, painted dark green, etched with a pentagram. A few black candles. An old knife with an ivory handle. Pieces of chalk. A series of necklaces, including the onyx. Amulets, semi-precious stones. Runes. Salt. Folded pieces of paper, spells he had written. A Latin-English dictionary, pocket-sized. A wax doll.

  A thick moss-colored stone, a five-sided star carved into the surface.

  “You were becoming quite the practitioner,” Alice said. “Learning how to use everyday things. Strong talent.”

  “And to believe it came from a Curtis,” Rebecca said. “Those shiftless bastards. The old man turned in his grave so much, they had to dig him up and cremate him.”

  “Poor old William.”

  Joshua found his voice. “The Curtis house?”

  Both women looked at each other and smiled. “You tell him, Aunt Becca. You found him.”

  “It was blessed.”

  “She found you at high summer.”

  “Like a stray kitten, but more work.”

  “Look how well he turned out.”

  “I guess we have to give credit where it’s due. Max wouldn’t want to be seen as nothing less than a perfect father, even for an adopted son.”