by Trinity Crow
“Well. I believe I could trade you a breakfast and a story if you would come by of a morning and help me in the garden.” She smiled at me. It was rather a wicked smile and I could picture her as a little girl teasing an older brother or sister she had by the short hairs. Well, it looked like I was caught myself, and spending the morning in the garden would be no hardship.
“I’m off on Wednesday,” I said.
"I'll see you then," she chirped at me.
And I’ll be a cathead biscuit if that old lady didn’t rub her hands in glee before she disappeared into the shadowy house.
Chapter 13
I waited a sec and then decided not to go ask what hell slipped the vine meant. Maybe it was stupid, but I hated looking like I didn’t know what I was doing. The heat hit me in full force as I stepped out the shade of the porch into the garden. Off to one side, the melons spread large, flat leaves in a huge mound. As I pushed through the vines, the rich, sweet smell of them filled the air. The fruit lay on a pine straw, some were small and obviously not ripe, while others were a golden color with deep green grooves. Was that green ripe or not? I cautiously picked one up, it was heavier than it looked. As I lifted it, the vine came loose from the end.
“Slips the vine!” I said out loud, weirdly pleased with myself. I went through the patch carefully checking the melons, some had slipped on their own and lay waiting for me, seven melons in all. I couldn’t carry but three at once and took my time making trips back and forth to the table. The air under the oaks was at least ten degrees cooler. The trailers of moss hung still in the afternoon air and the ferns and lichen stuff waved from the branch tops. I thought how the DiMaggio’s might like a melon and chose one for them. At first, it seemed quiet out in the garden. But as I worked, I heard birds begin to call to each other and somewhere a dog barked. I watched a butterfly take advantage of a giant squash leaf and sun its wings delicately. It was pretty cool how Mrs. Evers never sprayed stuff in her garden. As careful as I was to not trust people, I lost some common sense when it came to animals. I liked caterpillars as much as butterflies. People who think one is pretty and the other ugly have never seen a butterfly’s face up close. Not attractive, I could tell you that. But then you could say that about a lot of people when you got to see their real selves up close. Working outside was pretty rare for me, but the day was so nice that when I finished in the garden, I figured I'd go get Corky and a book and find a place outside to read.
Back at the carriage house, I grabbed the autobiography and called Corky out to the yard. We pushed our way around the side of the house. I was hoping to find a little privacy from the drive and big house. Even way out on the south edge of town and Mrs. Evers down for her afternoon nap, I wanted something more than the hedge between me and prying eyes. Corky plunged ahead happily, his thick body twisting through the gaps that had formed closer to the ground. The brush was jungle thick. Years of plants and vines growing and dying, and new ones clambering over the dead brush had made some of it a solid barrier. This place hadn't seen a pair of clippers in forever. Not being a dog, I hugged the side of the house to avoid as many scratches as possible. The backside of the place was fairly clear, the weeds a manageable knee height and the huge oak I had seen from the window offered shade and privacy beneath its low limbs. I stared at the huge branches, some almost laying along the ground. I was feeling amazed that this was mine, at least rented mine.
Corky ran for the tree excitedly. I watched in amazement as he walked up the ramp of the broad limb and settled happily on a branch ten feet up in the air. I really shouldn't have been amazed by anything at that point. I smiled, because I knew something Mrs. Evers didn't, Corky and Julia had climbed trees together. He had known exactly where the big oak was and how to climb up it. It was obviously a favorite spot of theirs. Well, if a dog could climb a tree… I tucked the book into my waistband and kicked off my flip-flops. The rough bark of the branch familiar beneath my feet as they moved forward almost automatically with a freaky confidence my head didn't share. I stretched my arms out to keep my balance, but it was unnecessary. The broad limb and gentle slope were easier than stairs. I reached Corky's perch and grabbed a higher limb to steady myself as I stepped over him and sat in a crotch made by three forking branches. Two of the branches cradled my shoulders, leaving my back free from the rough bark. I tucked my feet up on the third limb that rose up in front of me and propped my book open on my knees. The air was cool and crisp, thanks to my portable dead dog AC.
"You could have shown me this sooner," I told Corky, ruffling his ear with my free hand. Corky chuffed, knowing I wasn't actually annoyed. Then something rustled in the bushes and he shot up, knocking my hand away as he charged down the limb. There was a quick tussle and I heard the chatter of a squirrel from some unseen spot across from me.
"You'll get him next time!" I called encouragingly to Corky, opening my book.
Olivia Lagodzki, the woman who wrote the book, was pretty bare bones. She said right up front that most people who read this would think she was crazy or attention seeking, but for the few who knew the truth, she would take the ridicule and tell her story. It was pretty freaky. Her seeing dead people from the time she was little, voices, noises and then actual ghosts, though she called them apparitions. It made me look over my shoulder a few times. I was relieved when Corky left off the hunt and came back to flop beside me. My fingers twined in his fur made Olivia's scary and lonely childhood easier to bear.
I read a bit out loud to Corky…
“In no way is it my wish to frighten or sensationalize by this account. It is only through sharing these experiences that shame or fear has cautioned us to hide, will we gain the understanding that we are not alone in our sensitivity."
That I could get. The weight that had slid from me when I talked to Aren was huge. I really hadn’t thought of myself as close-minded, but I had been. I had even done it subconsciously on purpose because I liked routine and predictability and freaky unexplained things made the world that much harder to live in.
Olivia had been on her own for a long time, which is why she was so serious about helping others, She had taught herself mind control to block evil spirits and harmful energies. Later she learned to use good energy for healings. I felt my eyes wanting to roll around my sockets from disbelief at this bit tomfoolery and then looked down at Corky who had gone a bit misty as he slept. Some of my fingertips were resting on nothing but air. What was it that made me resist believing in stuff until I saw it for myself? Was healing more farfetched than freaky Fido here? I sighed. Openmindedness was a lot harder than it sounded.
I liked the part where she described the ability as a valve that you could learn to open and close, and also control how far you opened it. Think in trickles was how she put it, and before anything else, practice shutting off and locking down. I closed the book and thought of a valve and I opened it just a trickle directed at Corky. He was fizzy, a champagne dog. I smiled at the feel of it, his was bright and happy energy. I tensed slightly as something else entered my awareness, something fizzy, though not bright like Corky, more muted. I turned my head slowly and stared at the dead squirrel sharing my branch.
We stared at each other for what seemed an eternity. It leaned in, nose twitching. I held my breath realizing it could sense my energy. Slowly, I twisted the valve in my head, cutting off the flow. And then the squirrel disappeared. Not run up into the tree disappeared, but blink-of-an-eye vanished. I looked all around at the branches surrounding me. Nothing. Just the wind and Corky's snores. And though the wind was just "wind" wind, and not that spirit wind from earlier, I still fought the urge to shiver. My life had become a freak show and I wasn't thrilled. So I practiced shutting off and locking down. Which not surprisingly came really easy to me.
I shifted on the rough seat, time to move around. The book fell open as I did to the author bio. There was a picture of Olivia, a bright-eyed woman in t-shirt and jeans. The blurb said she died in 1983, stabbed by an inmate in t
he mental hospital she volunteered at, the same hospital her parents had committed her to when she was sixteen. It made the afternoon seem dimmer even with the sun beaming across the fields and into my eyes. Then I realized that she was still helping people through her absolute guts in writing this book.
Corky and I went back to the house, I left the downstairs door open for him. The blue paint on the doorjamb made me uneasy as I wondered again who was so interested in my life. I decided to eat lunch and then go back to see Aren. A peanut butter and pickle sandwich was fast and easy. I flipped through the last book as I ate, careful to keep the sticky sandwich away from the book. Readings of the Moon was like a textbook of the supernatural. I tried to start with the chapter on castings but it was like beginning in the middle of a chemistry text. Clueless was pretty much described my comprehension level. There were four lines at the beginning of the chapter that stuck with me.
Across the water to summon
Upon the wind to find
Unto the fire to veil
Of the earth to bind
I read the lines aloud, with an eerie sense that I had heard them before. There was more to this ability then repelling unwanted visions. The word summon made gave me the creeps and seek, only slightly less. I was more on board with sending stuff, as long as it meant sending away. Binding was a puzzle, plain and simple. Truthfully all of this was a bit of a stretch and I felt like my first day in Chemistry when even the words were unfamiliar. I was going to have to get a professional's opinion…or as close to a professional as I had.
Chapter 14
The temperature was pushing mid 90s as I pedaled to Crooked Crossroads. Summer in Louisiana was always hot, but every year, the brutal heat was a harsh readjustment. It was a relief to reach the shop and the chance to get out of the sun, even if I wasn't thrilled about the reason I was here. I locked my bike to the rack and noticed there was a new window display. This time, it was three mobiles, like those things you put over a baby crib or in a tree, each one of a different theme. The first was of bent forks, which spun energetically on their strings. The second was natural objects…sticks, feathers, dried lotus pods, and they moved lazily, almost hypnotically. The third made me smile. The subject was cats, from figurines and hair clips to glass ornaments, and in the center, a small wooden kitten bobbed erratically. All of them had a grace that reflected Aren's talent, and I wondered if she got how good she was.
The temple bells chimed above my head as I entered. This time, the dimness of the shop was familiar and welcoming. I looked for Aren, but her rocking chair was empty. I figured she was in the back, maybe the restroom, so I wandered around, looking at all the things I had not seen the first time I was there. The hodge-podge pile on the talisman table was astonishing. My eye was caught by a carved wooden tree. I liked stuff that was made by hand, stuff that took time and effort on somebody’s part. Shiny mass produced crud was not my thing. It didn’t even have to be well-done and I still preferred it to the plastic production line stuff. I had a painting of a house on a hill that I had scored at the thrift shop. It's possible it was supposed to be impressionistic, but more likely just bad technique, only I really liked it. There was something in the brush strokes and colors, and the carefully lettered way the artist had signed it. But this wooden tree was very well done. I had a thought of giving it to Mrs. Evers, and how the figure of Corky would look under it. I wasn’t much of a gift giver, but you can’t be raised in the South without some notion of hospitality and your obligation to return it.
I was holding the carving, studying the details of the bark on its trunk, when something made me turn around. A middle-aged woman was standing just behind me. She looked absolutely furious. I didn’t know what her problem was, but it was clear she had one. Maybe Aren wasn’t the owner, maybe she was? And maybe this woman was what? Mad I was shopping? I couldn't think what her issue was with a customer walking into a shop. We stood there staring at each other, her gaze getting blacker and blacker.
“Hey, um, is Aren working today?” I finally spoke, since it was obvious she wasn't going to.
The woman raised her hands above her head, and I swear to God it looked like she was about to hit me. I stepped back hurriedly, tripping over a wooden box laying half under the table. I twisted, trying not to fall, while also trying not to turn my back on the crazy woman. I managed to shove the wooden tree on to the table, which meant I lost the fight to stay upright and hit the floor with a thud.
“Wow! Are you okay?”
I looked up to see Aren coming out of the curtains that led to the back area.
“Yeah,” I answered, looking back towards the angry lady, but she had left. I frowned. Had I heard the bells? Was there another door?
Aren was pulling me up off the floor. Her hands on mine were warm and I was distracted by her casual touch. I couldn't remember the last time I let someone touch me. Warning alarms went off in my head, I slammed the door shut on how alone her help had made me feel.
“I was looking at the stuff and tripped,” I said, which sounded as lame as I felt.
Aren frowned at the carved box. “My fault," she said, shaking her head. “This is a dumb spot to leave something.” Hefting the box up, she put it on the top of a chest of drawers.
“Did you see something you liked?" Aren asked, her face open and friendly.
“Um,” I shrugged, “that tree is cool.” I brushed myself off, more for something to do than any real dust or rumpling.
Aren looked down at the table. “It’s an olive tree,” she said and then laughed, “ appropriately made of olive wood.”
Not too sure how appropriate it is to whack down a living tree to make a dead copy, but maybe it had been dead already. Can you carve dead wood? I told myself to shut up and started scanning the room, but it was still and silent except for the spinning mobiles behind the gauzy curtain.
Just how were those things moving? I squinted, blinking a bit, looking for a fan or open window. Weird.
I turned back to Aren, telling myself to quit looking for spooks everywhere. Aren’s fingers trailed across the table, sifting past a scarf, a one-eyed bunny and a teacup with a rose on the side. A ribbon of sparkly color trailed along her fingers. I shook my head.
Whoa, how hard had I fallen?
She picked up the tree and held it out to me.
“A gift,” she said cheerfully. “So you don’t sue me!”
I stood there, gaping at the angry woman who had appeared behind Aren. She was radiating anger and hate. I snatched the tree from Aren’s hands. The woman raised her eyes to mine and her lips twisted into a snarl. I slowly put the tree back on the table and felt my knees wobble as the woman disappeared.
Aren was standing still, her eyes wide. She probably thought I was a nut.
“Bad?” she asked, as cool as you please.
I glared at her. I mean all this baloney was nerve-wracking enough. For her to know the problem was supernatural and not just me being a complete antisocial jerk was irritating, to say the least. And then for her to be so calm! I would have felt better if we both had the screaming meemies and let a little stream off.
“Thanks, but no thanks to that tree,” I said, not bothering to make my tone polite. “And I think you might want to remove it from your inventory.”
Aren nodded, still annoyingly serene. She took off the shawl from around her shoulders and draped it over the tree. Carefully, she lifted it, raising an eyebrow at me.
“All good?” she asked.
I scanned the room, no raving psycho in sight, well, except me.
“Usually you need actual contact with an imprinted object,” Aren said matter-of-factly.
“Uh-huh,” I said. Except I had seen the woman when Aren was touching the tree. Just one more exception to the rule. I was so spooky special, it was ridiculous.
Aren unlocked a glass case with one hand and pushed the tree inside with other. She pulled her shawl free and locked the case, then turned to me with that sunny smile, makin
g it impossible to stay mad.
“C’mon,” she said. “I made lunch. We can eat while you tell me what you saw.”
Aren waved me over to the table, while she flitted to the back area past the curtains. She returned with a large paper sack.
“I use the term “made” loosely,” she explained, unpacking roast beef po’boys, two orders of thick-cut fries and a couple of bottles of root beer.
“Extra gravy and extra mayo,” she said, “hope that’s okay."
“Were you expecting me?” I said, opening my butcher paper with anticipation. The smell was amazing and roast beef was my favorite. "I mean, like in a dream sense or something?"
Aren paused, looking thoughtful and then laughed. “I was going to tease you and tell you, yeah, but you still look freaked out from whatever just happened. So no, I wasn’t. Lunch was for me and my sister, but she called and canceled on me.” Aren wrinkled her face. “Man troubles.”
I nodded as if I understood, but what did I know about man troubles? Drunken foster fathers, lecherous PE coaches, angry assistant principals who went on and on about living up to my potential, or just the creeper at the gas station who stared at my ass? Those I knew all about. Boyfriends, not so much. They were just one more way to get hurt and avoiding involvement is my cardinal rule.
For awhile we were both quiet and just ate. She ate slower than me and definitely more ladylike. In my life, I had learned to eat it before someone took it away from you, or got angry and sent you to bed. In one foster home, whoever cleared their plate first got seconds and the rest went without. But those po’boys were so good, I ate fast because I couldn’t slow down. I had to ask where she got them.
“C&J’s, around the corner.” she said, “It’s really a bar, but they make the best po’boys. Just go to the window outside, so you can avoid the regulars.” She took a long drink of soda and then opened a bound notebook, held a pen above the page and turned all her attention to me.