Wither

by J. G. Passarella

  “Just roll a keg of Coors up to the table, my man,” Jack said. Jen ordered a strawberry daiquiri.

  “Okay. Make like you’re showing me some ID…” Jack reached into his wallet and whipped out his student ID. Rich nodded, then looked to Jen, who fished a credit card out of her clutch purse. Rich nodded, hurried off, and returned a few minutes later with a draft beer and a daiquiri.

  Jack looked to Jen, who nodded. Jack ordered the rib eye, rare; Jen—who frowned slightly at Jack’s choice of entree—asked for the vegetarian platter. After Rich took their menus away, Jen leaned forward and asked Jack about the football team.

  “Can’t complain,” he said. “I made starting QB by the first game of the season. We’re two and one. Would be undefeated if our special teams didn’t suck ass.”

  “Do you ever dream about making it to the pros?”

  “Let’s be honest, okay? I’m not exactly playing in the Big Ten,” Jack said, swigging his beer. “Blew out my ACL my junior year in high school—in a scrimmage, for Christ’s sake! Can you imagine that? Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got the arm strength, but I’m about as mobile in the pocket as a three-wheeled wagon. Turns out Danfield’s football program has been a joke five years running. They offered me a full scholarship knowing I was damaged goods. Who knows? Maybe it will even be worth their while.”

  “Well, you’re certainly off to a good start,” she said. Jack smiled, nodded. That’s what he thought. Always look on the bright side.

  “What about you? How long you been doodling on sketchpads?”

  “Probably since I could pick up a crayon,” she said. “Not that that’s my choice of artistic medium anymore.”

  Jen seemed to think shed made some sort of joke that Jack wasn’t getting, but he smiled anyway to humor her. She was thinking that Jack was the kind of guy who got ahead in the world. A natural leader. You had to be a leader to be a quarterback, right? To lead your team to victory? That’s the kind of thing businesses looked for…. Jen surely didn’t want to get stuck with some introspective, navel-gazing loser. Guys who weren’t “take charge” material were always on the sidelines, watching the other guys grab the glory. So what if he was a little self-absorbed, she preferred to think of it as natural-born confidence, a healthy ego. She could be the introspective, artistic one in a relationship-Christ, a relationship? This was a first date, no more.

  Throughout their meal, Jen made sure to keep the small talk going, trying to keep Jack comfortable, and trying most of all not to ask Jack why he had to eat his meat so bloody?

  The Gremlin sputtered in complaint as Wendy slowed through gravel and litter on the shoulder of Gable Road. When she saw a battered hubcap, she slowed to a stop. She had found the spot.

  Under the driver’s seat, she found the old T-shirt she used whenever she checked her oil. She tied the shirt to her door handle so any passersby would assume she had abandoned the car and had walked to the nearby gas station for assistance. That should delay any embarrassing investigations, at least for the few hours she would need to perform her ritual.

  She gathered her belongings from the passenger seat, locked the car, and took her keys with her. After a minute or two she located the winding trail, probably used by deer as a runway before launching themselves between automobiles. She ducked and dodged often to avoid the tangle of branches above, stepping carefully to avoid the deadwood below. She was surprised to find herself remembering her childhood fear of the dark, a primal tremor. Her brief journey was made more difficult by the burden in her arms, but soon she saw the bright disk of the full moon high overhead, its light shining through the silvery leaves of the ash tree on the far side of her chosen glade. The clearing was roughly fifteen feet long and eight feet across.

  This was the clearing she had discovered over a year ago on her field trip with the wire hanger, the place where she had found the ash tree and the fly agaric toadstools, Frankie’s “magic mushrooms.” If she continued through the woods, on a line away from Gable Road, she’d eventually come out into Bonsall Park, where that long-ago field trip had begun.

  Now she stood in the center of the clearing, her grove. She placed her bag on the ground, laid her robe on top of it, then opened the wooden chest and removed her meditation mat. Next she brought out a jar of flour and a pointed peg, which she used to dig a groove in the dirt. When she was finished, she filled the rut with flour poured through a paper funnel to form a white circle on the ground. She put away the jar and peg, then used a compass to mark east, south, west, and north. She placed four white candles, each in an antique brass holder, at each point of the compass. She then set a bowl of rice beside the north candle to represent earth, to the west a silver cup filled with wine to represent water, to the south a brass burner filled with kindling to represent fire, and lastly, to the east, her latest antique store find, a brass incense holder with holes for three sticks, representing air.

  She unfolded her meditation mat in the center of the circle, lit the candles and the incense, then laid out her pouches with the mandrake root on top of the wooden chest. Careful not to break the white line, she stepped outside the circle with her folded linen robe and duffel bag. The robe had sleeves, but she wrapped it around her body like a cape, keeping her arms free within it. She tied the robe at her neck but left the waist unbelted.

  She looked around nervously then, the light cast by the five fires dancing with the shadows. For a moment, she thought she saw an animal moving back in the brush, a deer or something smaller. But she was confident the fire would keep it away, whatever it was.

  She took a deep breath and thought, Now or never. Whenever she felt self-doubt, she would issue a challenge, a dare to herself. Her arms moved within the loose confines of the robe, her fingers unbuttoning her blouse from top to bottom. She slid if off her shoulders, then tugged each sleeve down separately. After she folded the blouse and placed it in her duffel bag, she kicked off her shoes, unfastened her slacks and stepped out of them. Finally, she removed her bra and panties and carefully placed them in the bag as well. Then, wearing just the robe, she stepped back into the circle.

  She stood on her mat for a moment, her senses prickling: she could taste the blended, acrid tang of candle smoke and incense, and behind these scents the rich, earthy musk of the forest. Beneath the soft robe, her entire body felt electrified; it was a feeling of exhilaration that made her wonder if she might be a closet exhibitionist. Somehow, she had never dared take her magic this far. She listened for the sounds of the night.

  But the forest was silent, and she felt a powerful isolation in the dark, the moon shining down on her alone. Even within the circle of fire, the night was chilly. Why am I hesitating? I’m all alone. I have no reason to be afraid. Right? What’s the worst that could happen? Okay, the worst would be an arrest for indecent exposure. No, that wouldn’t be the worst. The worst would be if everyone at Danfield knew I’d been arrested for indecent exposure. And her father’s position as college president…? Oh, God! She spent several seconds trying to control her breathing, the nervous trembling of her body, trying to ignore the heightened sense of the soft cloth of the robe rubbing her bare flesh. Stop that! I’m just being silly. I’m all alone. You can’t make a fool of yourself by yourself. Okay? Okay, then go ahead. …I dare you.

  She reached for the collar string knot, tugged it loose.

  Alex Dunkirk felt like a grade A creep, a real bottom feeder. At least he was above classifying his activities as surveillance. That was way too noble a word for what he was doing. Spying? No, still too self-important. Stalking? Bingo! Give the man a Kewpie doll. Stalking and…peeping? Now you’re hitting a little too close to home.

  Sure, he’d been curious about Wendy’s hobby, if you could call it that. He’d heard a whispered rumor here and there about witchcraft or white magic in reference to Wendy. Frankie Lenard called it wicca, and she seemed close enough to Wendy to know something of the truth of it. Until then Alex had assumed all the whispers were sheer rumor.
It was expected in a town that celebrated a history steeped in witchcraft. And Wendy was a local, who invariably dressed in black, wore handmade silver jewelry and crystal pendants. At first he’d merely thought she was a bit more interesting than your average coed. She defied categorization in any of the standard cliques that served to categorize most of the three thousand students attending Danfield. She was attractive without seeming preoccupied with her appearance. She almost dared you to find the beautiful girl beneath all the witchcraft trappings, an impressionist painting that could only be appreciated from a discreet distance.

  So why the compulsion to follow her, on this night of all nights? Did he really expect to witness some black mass, a human sacrifice, a bubbling cauldron? He supposed he could blame Frankie. After all, she’d been the one who planted the seed in their calc class, told him about this ritual Wendy was going to perform. Frankie had not only confirmed the “wicca” rumors he had been hearing about Wendy, but had also actually mentioned what night she would perform this mysterious ceremony. Alex had been hooked. He had to see for himself.

  And so now he watched with utter fascination, hidden behind the trunk of an old maple, as she unfastened the neck ties of the robe and let it drop down, around her ankles.

  A lambent moment hung in the balance as he stared at her nakedness—golden and pure in the candlelight—with a mixture of pride and chagrin. She truly was unique and wonderful and a lovely girl besides. A splendor of nature before him, communing with the earth. In that moment she was a vision of all he could ever want, secretly revealed to him, a grandeur so simple and extraordinary that it brought a hard lump to his throat. He was completely unworthy of her. The magical moment burst like a child’s soap bubble, and he felt as if a slimy coating had descended over him, tainting him in his own eyes, if not yet in hers, his physical arousal only making it worse. The moment passed as she sat down within the circle of her fallen robe. Strangely, it felt like a dismissal. He was an outsider here, uninvited and unwelcome. Just as she had turned her back to him, nature chose to exclude him at this moment. This was not how he wanted to see her and it certainly wasn’t how he wanted to see himself.

  Slowly, he backed away from her…her clearing, her moment alone in the night. Backed away so that he would know if she turned and saw him. Frankie should have kept her damn mouth shut. Despite her own warped agenda about male-female relationships and occasional feminist diatribes, he’d assumed she was playing the role of matchmaker, not saboteur. Enough of that, he told himself as he jogged back to Jesse Oswald’s station wagon. It took several tries to turn over the engine, but once he was back on Gable Road, he made it a point not to look back.

  Jensen Hoyt’s plan had misfired. She had boosted Jack’s ego so much that he’d lost all restraint, thinking there was no way he could lose with her. He might as well have had a keg sitting beside him, for all the beer he’d gone through. Talked so much, he’d left most of his bloody, soggy meat sitting on his plate all night for her to stare at and be repulsed by.

  Out in the parking lot, he was walking with a swagger that had become more stagger than anything else, his arm looped heavily over her shoulders as he sneaked glances down her sweater. She wasn’t wearing a bra, but her white camisole was probably giving him fits. Not that she minded the visual attention, but he smelled like a brewery, and she doubted he’d be able to drive his Jeep in his present condition.

  “Maybe we should call a cab,” she suggested.

  “Fuck we need a cab for?” he said. “Got my Jeep, soon as I can remember where I parked it. Ah! There she blows.”

  “It’s a little chilly, Jack,” she said.

  “So I noticed,” he said with a big smirk and wink and a tug at her sweater.

  “I meant it might be more cozy in the back of a cab.”

  “Don’t worry. I expect things to get heated up soon enough.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” she asked, finally taking the risk of coming across as judgmental.

  “I’m fine,” he said, standing up straight. “What? You want to give me a field sobriety test?”

  “I guess not,” she said and let him help her into the Jeep. She watched closely as he pulled out of the lot. They drove for what seemed like miles. “Look at that shit?” Jack said, suddenly jabbing his finger at the windshield.

  At first Jen thought he was literally complaining about a blob of bird shit on his windshield, or maybe a splattered bug, then she saw he was pointing to the old factory ahead. “It’s a mill, I think,” she said. “An abandoned textile mill.”

  He turned the Jeep into the back road that paralleled the mill. Through a stand of trees, she could see the old brick building with holes for windows. She shuddered, thinking it looked like a swell home for ghosts. And Jack was having trouble staying on this narrow lane that circled up toward a covered trestle bridge. She saw a sign indicating they were about to drive over Miller Creek. Jen wondered if they’d be driving through Miller Creek.

  “Jack, I’ve never driven a Jeep,” Jen said, groping for enough tact to get her out of this situation in one piece. “It must be really exciting. Can I drive for a little while, back here where it’s safe.” She was hoping once she was behind the wheel he’d nod off. For a moment, she thought her ploy had worked. He swung the Jeep roughly to the side of the road.

  “Nobody drives the Jeep but me,” he said. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do.”

  “I just wanted to see what it felt like,” Jen said, feigning innocence. Just how shit-faced was he, anyway? “It’s gotta be exciting,” she said, squeezing his thigh for emphasis. Maybe if he thought it would get him laid, he’d turn the keys over. Otherwise she was in for a long walk down to the main strip to hitch a ride back to the dorm. The bastard.

  “What? You tryin” to make it worth my while, huh?“ he said with a lewd wink.

  “Maybe,” she said, really struggling to prop up her smile. Her face felt glassy.

  He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a joint, which he lit with a disposable lighter. He pulled on it with a ludicrous intensity. “Want some?” he asked.

  She couldn’t help it, she rolled her eyes at him. Why not put out a fire with some lighter fluid, you dipshit? Got some PCP in the other pocket? She was starting to reach the conclusion that Jack was a self-destructive asshole. And that was definitely not in her plans.

  “You know, my father played for the Lions,” Jack said. “The Detroit Lions. Caught a pass in one of those fucking Thanksgiving Day games, if you can believe that shit. Tight end. Wasn’t even the starter.” Jack shook his head with a bitter laugh. “I think he was cut before the end of the year. Three fucking months of pro ball and you know what? He never forgot it, never lets me forget it.”

  “What happened?” Jen asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jack said, making short work of the joint. “He doesn’t talk about that part too much. I think he just wasn’t good enough. Anyway, what difference does it make? He was there and I never will be. That just about sums it the fuck up, doesn’t it.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Jack,” Jen said, taking his arm. “You can make your mark in other ways.”

  “Right,” he said with another bitter laugh. “Maybe I’ll win the Nobel fucking Prize.”

  “Give me that,” Jen said with her best leering smile.

  Jack held up the joint. “This? No shit?”

  He handed it to her, what little was left of it. She tossed it out of the Jeep.

  “Aw, what the fuck you do that for?”

  “Because,” she said, grabbing his square jaw in her hand, turning his face toward hers and kissing him wetly on the mouth.

  “Well, in that case…” He returned her kiss, adding a little tongue.

  She took his hand and slid it up under her sweater, letting him get a good feel. She pressed her lips to his ear and whispered, “Why don’t you let me drive us back to my dorm?”

  But she’d miscalculated. Jack jer
ked away from her with a curse. “Forget it! Just forget it, okay! You’re not driving the fucking Jeep. You can keep your cozy little tits to yourself.”

  “Fine,” Jen said, “I’ll walk back to campus.”

  “Be my guest,” Jack said. He took the keys out of the ignition and climbed out of the Jeep.

  “Now what are you doing?”

  “Making my little contribution to the historical society of Windale,” Jack said. He rummaged around in the back of the Jeep and found a can of black spray paint he’d obviously used before. He shook the can vigorously, the little mixing pebble rattling around as he walked to the covered bridge spanning Miller Creek. “My own little commemorative witch plaque.” Jen sat in the Jeep, arms crossed, biting down on her lips. At least he wasn’t trying to drive anymore. Maybe he’d pass out from his littleexcursion, though she’d have a devil of a time dragging him back to the Jeep.

  She watched impassively as Jack spray painted a lopsided pentagram on the side of the bridge, leaning precariously out over the creek with one hand. A chill wind had suddenly kicked up, swaying the tree branches. Clots of dark clouds scudded across the sky. Dry leaves, autumn’s early fallout, skittered across the blacktop.

  “You’re going to break your neck, Jack!” Such an asshole, she thought.

  “You know what,” he said, “this little thing lacks the…artistic statement I’m going for. How about a big old fucking pentagraph they can see from planes passing overhead. Now that’s a fucking canvas even Jensen Hoyt could be proud of. Am I right?”

  He somehow managed to grab hold of a tree branch and swing himself up on the peaked roof of the covered trestle bridge without dropping his can of spray paint or pitching headfirst into the creek. He made a wobbly ascent to the peak. Would marvels never cease? “Nice view,” Jack said. “You should bring up that sketch pad. Really.” He laughed.

  “Jack just get down, okay?”