A Spoonful of Magic

by Irene Radford

  “Won’t G be returning to your apartment once he can climb the stairs again?”

  G came up behind me, leaning heavily on the crutches and not touching his right foot to the floor. Sweat dotted his brow, and he breathed heavily. I didn’t think he could fake the paleness of his skin, so I presumed it wasn’t all an act to gain my sympathy.

  “Mooney’s still in the hospital. His lawyer came by and kicked us out. Said if we weren’t gone by sunset, he’d burn our things and make sure the police found evidence of drugs on the premises. I decided not to fight.” He wandered back to the car and returned with two large suitcases, three garment bags, and a laptop shoulder bag. He handed me the computer. G couldn’t manage it and the crutches. But he breathed a sigh of relief the moment I took possession.

  “Thumb drive with the latest register from the Guild is in the side pocket,” Raphe said. “I updated it last night and made a list of deputies available for travel on a second spreadsheet.”

  “Where are you going? Do you have a place to stay?” I asked, concerned that maybe he was truly homeless now. The garage had a loft. Not clean or furnished, but a roof over his head.

  “Mom’s place is empty.” Raphe shrugged. “If Daffy kicks you out again, there’s plenty of room for you, G. You can use the guest room on the main floor. Only five steps up to the porch to enter.”

  “When is Aunt Teresa due back from Spain?” G asked.

  “When she decides if she’s worn out husband number four, found number five, or just tired of the endless sun and blue seas.” He sounded very casual about that.

  “And your dad?” G rummaged through the side pocket of the computer bag and came up with a thumb drive, which he secured in the breast pocket of his golf shirt, along with his pen.

  “This is the second full week of October? Dad should be in transit from Tierra del Fuego to Helsinki. He doesn’t like sunshine much more than I do.” He shrugged again and retreated to his car.

  “Will you come to our Halloween party?” I called after him.

  “Pentagram is still in place. I’ll stay in the yard and play ghost to spook trick-or-treaters.” And then he was gone.

  Leaving me with G neatly entrenched again.

  “Do you trust him?” I asked G the second the door closed completely. I left his luggage on the porch. Jason could get it if we decided to let my ex stay.

  “Of course.” He juggled his crutches, trying to turn around. “Jason,” he called. “Come help with my luggage.”

  I wanted more information, not his usual evasions. “Why do you trust Raphe? You used to trust John Mooney, and now you don’t.”

  “Raphe is family. He knows that if he steps over the line from eccentric to criminal, I will call his mother.”

  I chuckled in spite of myself. “Never underestimate the wrath of a mother. Jason, Belle, Shara!”

  Three sets of feet came running.

  “I didn’t yell loud enough,” G mumbled.

  “They heard you. They don’t dare tune me out. Just like Raphe with your Aunt Theresa.”

  “Shara, we need to bring up the desktop computer from the basement,” G said.

  Shara’s ears perked up. “Why do you need an internal modem attached to its own landline? That’s where the firewall is. That’s what blocks an outside hacker.” She whispered loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear. Her key shone brightly where it dangled on its silver chain, outside her shirt.

  “I’m winging it, Shara. Time we figured out how to find hidden bank accounts and upload them to active IRS files.”

  “I’ll set the table in the kitchen,” Belle said on a yawn. She’d affixed the bishop charm to the same ivory stick as the queen. She’d rebounded, mostly, from the shock of losing one half of her wand.

  “I need a new wand,” I whined, headed for the kitchen with G’s laptop case still dangling from my shoulder. As I went to check on the stew and shove the cornbread batter into the oven, I left the bag at the head of the table where G could sit.

  “Grab your backup spoon and start using it,” G said casually as he stumped over to the big captain’s chair at the dining room table. He managed to pull the chair back, stand in front of it, and ease his body down. He still had his crutches on either side to deal with, and no leverage to scoot the chair close to the table.

  Jason dashed to his rescue. With his father firmly in place—trapped—Jason yawned and left to retrieve the luggage on the front porch.

  Life was on the path to normal. Whatever that was.

  Twenty-Nine

  “YOU KNOW, most people don’t spend half an hour selecting a wooden spoon to mix batter with,” Ted said. He leaned back against the counter that ran the length of the interior wall of the shop’s kitchen, broken only by the swinging door into the front.

  I needed to set dough to rising for the Monday morning rush. With all that had happened over the weekend, I didn’t want to be alone in the shop after dark. I might have questions about Ted’s agenda, but of all the other escorts I could call, he was the least objectionable, and the most willing to spend an hour just talking to me.

  “I know, but I broke my favorite one,” I replied, not looking at him. My hand wanted very much to reach out and grab the utensil that was shaped differently from the others, the bowl was flat and sort of squared off with a half-inch hole in the middle. An odd shape that wasn’t suitable for every task, like a traditional spoon. But it worked wonders with sauces, or melting chocolate and butter together. The squared-off corner reached into crevices and scraped off pot sides. And it was stained with the essential oil of chocolate.

  And the thing almost sang when my hand hovered near by.

  “What about that fanny whacker?” Ted asked, reaching for the tool I considered most likely.

  “That’s a spoodle. A holy tribute to Saint Custard.”

  He arched his eyebrows in question as he laughed out loud. “Holy because it has a hole in it.” He spluttered, grabbing it out of the jar.

  “Because it makes my liquid custard so smooth it’s heavenly.” In that moment I knew it was a good candidate, but not the best. Now that it was out of the jar, I knew there was something else in the milk glass stein that called to me more, but there were so many tools jammed in there I couldn’t tell which would become my wand.

  Ted playfully tapped my bottom with the spoodle. “See? A fanny whacker. Wish I’d had one of these handy when Tiffany was two. She’s always had to do things her own way, even if it interfered with everything I was doing.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Ted wasn’t into kinky sex, like I feared.

  Okay. I’d never chosen a wand before. The previous one had chosen me.

  “From what I hear, BJ Chambers and his new friends broke it at the chess match in the park,” Ted said casually.

  I whirled to face him, the thistle-topped spurtle my Scottish grandmother had given me for my twelfth birthday—the last one before Dad sent her to the asylum—in my hand of its own volition. I guess my new wand had found me. I stared at it a moment. Not the most useful tool in my kitchen, designed primarily to stir thick highland oatmeal that would stick to your ribs all day. But it was a gift of love from a woman I adored. That made it more important than just useful.

  “What did you hear?” I asked, satisfied now that I had my spurtle. I wondered briefly if it could be taught to collapse in on itself like G’s pen.

  “I’ve heard and extrapolated bits and pieces. But it seems the Chambers boy has new friends of questionable morality. That’s not going to help his father’s state legislature campaign much. And you and your girls were in some danger, even if the police and the press downplayed it. I wish I could have been there with you, protecting you.” He straightened up and approached me cautiously.

  I still held my wand upright, defensively. I lowered it and let him put his arms around my waist.


  We kissed. Soft. Comforting. I rested my head on his shoulder, drinking in the clean smell of him, ordinary soap and shampoo. Nothing exotic or frightening.

  Or exciting.

  He offered what I needed at that moment, comfort and security. Nice.

  I turned within the circle of his arms and began dumping flour, salt, milk, and eggs and other stuff into the big industrial mixer. “Do you think Bret Sr. has a chance at winning the election?”

  “It’s early days. The primary isn’t until May. But he has the support of his church. That’s a large number of people willing to campaign for him and get out the vote. Lazy citizens who don’t bother to vote might as well vote for him, since they don’t add votes to his opponents. So far, no one has filed to run against him.”

  “His church. That’s what scares me. My parents belonged to a congregation much like theirs. My father was the pastor, no education to be one, just his own fiery speechifying.”

  “You rebelled.” He kept his arms around me.

  “As soon as I could. They couldn’t afford a church-related school for me, and Mom worked as an accountant to support us, so she couldn’t home school me. And Dad refused, seeing that as women’s work. I got a taste of reality in public school—which I had to keep carefully hidden. I was never comfortable with my folks’ extreme emotional response to religion, reaching for the sky with closed eyes and shouting ‘Hallelujah’ to every nonsensical pronouncement Dad made. When I was in high school, my parents insisted I go into the most unholy neighborhood, one very much like this one, and ‘witness’ my faith before the ungodly. I knew kids from school would be there. I couldn’t face their ridicule. So I lied, threw my flyers in the trash and kept an innocent face.” Like G had done to me so often.

  I quashed that thought.

  “We have a number of pagans in town. In my experience most of them aren’t turning their backs on God, they are running away from the politics of religion, and repressive fanaticism,” he said.

  “Yeah. My folks wanted me to go to a local Bible College. But when I did a little, and I mean a very little, research, I found that their teaching certificates weren’t respected much outside of private Christian schools. I asked my folks what good was it to preach to those who already believed. If they wanted me to be a missionary for them, I needed to go out into the public.”

  He chuckled at that and tightened his arms.

  I needed to move about the kitchen to complete my tasks, so I slipped away from him. Not rejecting him, just keeping busy.

  “I was also very uncomfortable with how quickly my parents and their friends condemned anything that was different or exciting. They were more eager to shun outsiders, not eat certain foods, and refrain from anything resembling joy that wasn’t based on a hymn. I prefer faiths that embrace outsiders, respect differences, and listen to everyone. That’s what I found, mostly, in Eugene. My friends don’t care what church I attend, or if I attend, as long as I don’t interfere with their beliefs. I’m sure there is a lot of that in Seattle. I just wasn’t allowed to find it.”

  “And that’s why Bret and Flora Chambers scare you.”

  “Yes.”

  “They scare me, too.”

  “That’s why I’m hosting the Halloween party after the last performance of the ballet. I need to celebrate my difference from their narrow view of life.”

  “Am I invited?” He stayed on his side of the kitchen this time, letting me clatter about, mixing and prepping.

  “Of course, you are. So is Tiffany and the rest of the ballet company, and friends and neighbors, and anyone who enjoys spooky décor and games and laughter.”

  “Let me know if you need help moving stuff around. That attic would make a perfect party space. But you need to protect that fine hardwood floor from spills and stuff.”

  There was that request to see the pentagram in the attic again. What was his agenda?

  “So are you done here?” he asked, looking around at my controlled chaos.

  “I think so. Thanks for staying with me.”

  “Glad to be of service, ma’am.” This time he gathered me into a firm embrace and kissed me long and hard. A faint glimmer of sizzle started in my belly and spread. Not far. Not long. Just the beginnings of a chemical reaction between us.

  We came up for air, reluctantly.

  “If you have your magic wand, I’ll escort you to your car,” he said.

  “My . . . my . . . what?”

  “That wooden thingy. You can’t tell me that what you do in the kitchen isn’t magic.”

  That was vague enough to pass as casual conversation. But there was an intensity in his gaze that sent warning chills down to my feet.

  “Daffy, this is Eugene. There are a lot of unexplainable things that happen around here we just have to shrug off and accept.” He jingled his keys in his pocket.

  “Yeah. I guess so.” I’d shrugged off a lot of unexplainable things as well, until I became an active participant in them. And then there had been Gayla’s response, almost jealous that I manifested a talent and she didn’t.

  “Now, holster your magic wand in your back pocket where it belongs and let me follow you home.”

  “I can’t ask you in.” Did I want to? I was still uncertain.

  “I know. You have a houseful of kids and an injured ex parked in your living room. We’ll find privacy another time.” He dropped a kiss on top of my head and held the back door open for me. “I’ll see you in the morning, right after you open, so that my cinnamon bun is still hot from the oven and my coffee is strong enough to get up and walk off by itself. That’s your magic.”

  Jason shifted his feet beneath the dining room table uncomfortably. Then he shook his head, trying to free his mind of the constant buzz left over from the fight yesterday.

  “What?” Dad asked, raising his head from studying his computer monitor and making a note on his tablet.

  “I . . . I need . . .” What did he need in truth? The dining room floor was wood beneath the old carpet. He could feel it vibrating slightly beneath his bare feet. Soothing in its own way. Not right. No, not enough.

  “Jason, that’s the third time in as many minutes you have shifted your body, transferring your weight, and rubbing your eyes.”

  “I think I need to take my homework up to the attic.” He began gathering books and papers and his own tablet.

  “You know the rules, Jason,” Belle reprimanded him. “Homework at the table until it’s done and Mom or Dad can make sure it gets done.”

  “Not a problem for you. You love homework,” Jason snapped back. His feet shuffled again. The Oriental rug was too thick.

  “Jason, your own discomfort is not a reason to snap at your sister.” Dad sounded really irritated.

  But so was Jason.

  “Well, if you all would just think a little quieter, maybe I could focus on my own work.” He slammed his chair back, snagging it on the rug.

  “Jason!”

  Uh-oh, now Dad was mad. He had to get out of here, to some place quiet. Maybe then the buzz in his head would stop reacting to all this noise.

  “Are you becoming telepathic?” Dad asked.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? I’m the stupid one. The oddball one with no specific wand. I need to get away from here. Away from all you!” He grabbed his stuff and bolted up the stairs, knowing his father couldn’t follow him on crutches.

  Half an hour later he lay flat on his back in the center of the pentagram with an arm flung across his eyes. He listened to the old house, the creaks and groans of settling, the flutter of wind in the tree canopy, the whisper of ghosts that had been so much a part of his life that he didn’t notice them until now.

  He heard a footstep on the stairs. A real footstep, not his great-grandmother patrolling the house against intruders.

  “Go away, Be
lle.” He knew it was her, without knowing how he knew.

  “Do you need anything? Food? A soda?”

  “No. I just need to be alone. It’s the only way to get the buzz out of my head.”

  “Sounds like maybe you are developing telepathy. Like you can hear people’s thoughts, but you can’t understand what you are hearing yet, so it’s all a confused buzz and it gives you a headache, like when you inhale dust or get too close to the rose gardens on Spencer Butte.”

  “Or maybe I’m going insane. Like my mother.”

  Belle shut up and retreated.

  If Jason pressed his ear against the floor, he could almost hear his sister—his half-sister—repeating their conversation word for word, sigh for sigh, to their father.

  He rolled over and reached for his history text. Maybe he could drown out his own internal looping thoughts by memorizing the insanity of past wars. The Crusades should do it.

  Thirty

  FLORA CHAMBERS DIDN’T waste any time gathering her army of protestors. When Gayla unlocked the front door at six on Monday morning, Flora and a dozen others—mostly women and a few older men—piled out of two minivans with placards on wooden stakes. They lined up on the sidewalk and marched back and forth chanting off-key, “A Mighty Fortress is our God.”

  The signs read “Boycott Witchcraft” or “Black Coffee = Black Magic” and my favorite “Delicious = Sin.”

  Could she have found phrases that enticed customers more? This was Eugene for heaven’s sake. A magnet for the paranormal. I suppose she thought she’d deter a few customers, but only those who attended her church.

  When the caffeine addicts pushed their way through the crowd, snarling at the attempted blockade, the two older men—probably retirees who didn’t need to be off to work any time soon—threw down their signs and deserted the field of battle.

  The women, however, persevered, locking arms and standing in front of the door. Two burly customers, needing their morning fix before running off to complete a road construction project, picked up Flora and her linked companion and moved them out of the way.