by Julia French
Robert’s Ramblings ran the length of the newspaper page but was only about six words wide. That left her roughly 800 words at the most. How in the world was she going to condense five pages of notes into 800 words? 800 words, and it was already Thursday evening. She re-read the notes carefully, pausing here and there to recall the details of the afternoon.
It was apparent from True’s earnest manner that he sincerely believed every word he said, and it was plain to her how this must have come about. True lived in an economically depressed rural area. To augment the cash he earned by selling his herbal mixtures, he had hit upon the idea of pretending to do magic rituals with whatever materials he found in the woods. Whenever his superstitious neighbors had a piece of good luck they attributed it to the “magick” they had paid him to do. At some point True had started to believe he genuinely possessed occult powers, and this belief had grown into the conviction that he was a witch.
Rachel couldn’t decide whether it was sad or merely silly. Of course she would try to minimize the magical aspect and concentrate on the herbal medicine angle, for anything else would make him look like a fool. The problem was that she knew nothing about herbal medicine beyond what he had told her, and therefore couldn’t judge the value of what he had said.
The chopped willow twigs soaked in hot water had made her headache better. It could have gone away on its own, except that she remembered reading about willow somewhere. Had she seen it in a magazine or on the internet? No, it had been in a book and she remembered it now, the ancient and decrepit housekeeping manual that Mark’s mother had given to her as a family heirloom before her death four years ago. Bride’s Hearth and Home was a frightfully old, thick volume dating from the time when every thrifty housewife kept a full can of bacon fat next to the stove for cooking, and recipes began with such phrases as “first, pluck the chicken.” When she received the book from her mother-in-law, Rachel had glanced through it, read a few of the stranger recipes, and stashed it away. Where was it now?
She went to the far corner of the kitchen and pulled out each drawer in succession until she reached the stove on the opposite side of the room. In the second-last drawer before the stove she found the book, pushed to the back and hidden under rolls of plastic wrap and aluminum foil. The index pages had fallen out of the binding and were lost, so she had to thumb through the cookbook until she found the section titled “Your Kitchen Pharmacy.” Red clover, dandelion, chamomile, peppermint…pine needles for tea? Ick. Raspberry leaf tea didn’t sound too bad, though. That one was for female complaints, the cookbook told her.
Finally, Rachel found the entry she remembered:
White Willow, Latin name salix alba: Actions: tonic, astringent, antiemetic, antiseptic, diuretic, diaphoretic, febrifuge. Use for headache, fevers, chills, and stomach ailments. Preparations: decoction of bark, external poultice of leaves. Contains salicylic acid, a chemical compound similar to that found in common aspirin.
No wonder her headache had gone away. True had given her the folk equivalent of aspirin. What did those strange words mean: “febrifuge”, “antiemetic”, “decoction”? If she had taken True up on his offer to teach her, she would have found out. Suddenly Rachel felt ashamed. It wouldn’t have hurt her to try something new. It would have broadened her mind, and she would have gained more insight into the man and his way of life. At any rate, the cookbook had helped her gain a little more respect about what True Gannett did for a living.
It was after midnight, and she still had an article to write. Rachel put the cookbook back in the drawer and took another swallow of coffee, listening for any noise from the bedroom. When there was none, she booted up her laptop and began to type.
* * * *
At 8:59 a.m. she arrived at the office of the Yarwich Regular Chronicle, article in hand, and at 9:35 she emerged onto the street, gainfully employed. Dazed from lack of sleep and from her good fortune, Rachel stood on the sidewalk and let the busy midmorning crowd part and flow around her like a river. Natural, her new boss had said. You’re a natural writer. She felt like bursting into song.
She had worked until 5:00 a.m. to finish the article and what she craved most right now was sleep, but first she had to find the company van in the Pay N Park lot across the street. Don had been surprised at her request to borrow that very seldom-used vehicle, but he appreciated the fact that it would save him the daily downtown parking fee. Her conscience had bothered her when she’d told him her own car was out for repairs, just as it had bothered her to tell him she had gotten the bruise on her forehead from falling down the stairs, but soon she wouldn’t have to lie and sneak around. She could live her life in the open and not care what anybody said or thought about her.
Rachel walked past the van twice before she noticed the YRC logo sketched out on one side in greenish gray indoor-outdoor paint. The van itself was a white, rusted hulk that hadn’t seen better days because it had never had any. The tires were as bald as her boss’s head and the blue vinyl upholstery was a maze of silvery duct tape. When she opened the door it creaked as though it was breaking off the frame, and when she accidentally pressed the horn with her elbow, instead of a full-bodied blast it emitted a sickly, quavering bleat. The interior smelled like stale hamburgers and sour ketchup. Gingerly she lowered herself onto the duct-taped seat and buckled the fraying seat belt. The novelty orange glow stick attached to the key chain swayed back and forth like a warning beacon, but she stuck the key into the ignition and turned it anyway. Nothing happened, except for the soft click of the solenoid. The battery was dead! Then she remembered what Don had told her. She pulled the key partway out of the ignition, jiggled the housing, and turned the key once more. The engine caught and roared to life.
Rachel tested the enormous steering wheel, turning it right and then left with difficulty, for there was no power steering. There were no power brakes either, which she found out seconds after she wrestled the manual transmission into first gear.
As she pulled out of the parking space, without any warning the van lunged forward to attack the black European sports car parked across the aisle, out of envy at its shining good health. Reacting instinctively, Rachel stood up in her seat and stamped on the brake with all her weight but forgot to keep her other foot on the clutch, and the van bucked to a stop and stalled inches away from the bumper of the sports car. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. Driving this vehicle was going to be a learning experience.
The constant rattle of the side doors bothered her until she realized that both handles were tied together with clothesline, which reassured her somewhat. At least the doors wouldn’t fall off and injure passersby. Even though the driver’s side mirror was losing its silvering she could still make out the vague shapes of other cars in it. The drooping rear view mirror was annoying, but after a little practice she found she could bat it back up with her right hand while keeping her eyes on the road. By the time Rachel arrived home, she and the vehicle had reached a silent accord—she wouldn’t stare compulsively at the moving pavement visible through the gap in the floorboards, and in turn the van would allow her to change gears without objecting too strenuously. The Automotive Safety Club sticker on the rear window mocked her as she swung the van into the alley behind the house. The emergency brake engaged, but only because she had figured out how to push it a bit to the left while pulling up. Driving a motorcycle with two flat tires would have been safer than operating the rusted-out van, and as she walked through the alley to her house she had the same feeling of relieved gratitude she would have had if she had escaped from a fatal train wreck. At least she now had wheels, provided they stayed attached to the axles.
* * * *
The man standing in front of the dumpster examined the buzzing contents of the mayonnaise jar with a critical eye, and was pleased. Together with the piece of skull he’d harvested and the other things, he possessed everything he required. A distant roar alerted
him to the fact that he wasn’t going to be unobserved for long, and as the sound came closer to his position he thrust the jar into the trunk of the black sedan. It wasn’t illegal to collect jars of flies, but he had no desire to fend off awkward questions from curious onlookers.
Up ahead, a rusted white van charged through the entrance of the alley and barreled toward his car at point blank range. The man started the sedan and prepared to reverse down the alley, but at the last second the van swung into a small asphalted area with inches to spare. The space was little more than a dent off the alley but there was just enough room for the van so it wouldn’t block his right of way.
A young woman got out of the van, lifted her hand in a silent apology and an acknowledgement of his presence, then made her way up the sidewalk between the houses which lined the alley. The man couldn’t take his eyes off her. Something about the woman fascinated him—her figure, her face, her manner, he wasn’t sure what, but he knew that he wanted to see her again. One of these houses had to be hers.
One day, when he had the time, he would come back to the alley and wait for her. If he met her and talked to her perhaps he could figure out why she interested him. If he couldn’t figure out the source of his fascination right away, that was okay. He could always take her home and save her for later. His mind still on the woman in the rusty van, the man left the alley and headed for home.
Chapter Ten
Mark had been true to his word. Since last Thursday, every single lunch hour he had come home to check on her. She was becoming obsessive about time, as any errand she wanted to keep secret from Mark had to be accomplished between 7:30 a.m. and 11:45 a.m., or between 12:45 p.m. and 4:45 p.m. The company van was proving to be a real blessing in disguise-very heavy disguise-but it gave her freedom of movement during those precious hours of the day.
Today she decided to make good on her promise to True Gannett, and as soon as Mark left the house she’d taken a copy of the Yarwich Regular Chronicle and gone out to the alley behind the house. Now the newspaper lay on the passenger seat of the van, and every once in a while as she drove she glanced at it, wondering if True would approve of the way she’d handled his story. True Gannett would probably rather not lay eyes on her again, but she had promised to give him a copy of the article, and dropping off a copy would be quicker than mailing it. She also owed him an apology.
Outside of Yarwich the road curved around a familiar hill, and Rachel gripped the enormous steering wheel with white knuckles. The rental car had been towed away and the water level in the ditch had sunk to a mere trickle. The little rill of water glinted cheerfully in the spring sunshine, and she felt an irrational stab of anger. The spot looked so normal, like nothing of importance had happened there, but in that place she had almost drowned. That’s why the families of accident victims put up crosses along the highway, she thought. So it doesn’t look like nothing happened.
She made the turn onto the rutted track with one foot resting on the crooked brake pedal and the other on the clutch. As she eased up on the brake the van lurched forward, slipping and sliding on the cement-hard edges of the ruts. On a whim the van suddenly veered toward a large oak at the edge of the trail and she wrestled the wheel straight again, muttering an unprintable word. She’d learned that whenever the Behemoth, as she had christened it, chose to take the bit between its spotted chrome teeth, the only way to regain control was to show it who was boss.
As on her previous trip, one minute she was deep in the woods among the unfriendly trees and the next minute she was in the clearing where True’s house stood. His truck was parked in front, which meant he was home. She put her hand on the door handle, and stopped. True had been friendly and forthcoming with her last week. What if he’d thought better of his kindness since then? What if he despised what she’d written? What if he despised her? Rachel didn’t know what he looked like when he was angry, but her imagination painted the vision of his face like Mark’s with cold alien eyes and low-pitched voice thick with contempt for her.
Six and a half years ago she would have knocked boldly on the door, thrust the paper at him, and dared him to say anything nasty about her or her article. Today she was cowering in the van, dreading a second meeting with a man who had shown her nothing but good intentions. There was still a part of her that trusted people but that part had been forced into hiding. A lot had changed since her marriage, and Rachel wasn’t the same woman she had been at twenty-five.
A surge of self-contempt finally propelled her out of the van, and she trotted to the door and propped the newspaper up against it. When True went out for more firewood or fresh possum or whatever it was he went out for, he would find it. Her obligation to him was finished.
“Is it yours or did you find it alongside the road?”
Rachel nearly jumped out of her skin.
True, fresh from the woods, regarded the Behemoth with keen amusement, running a hand over the Rorschach blotches of rust sprawled across the hood. He glanced down at the balding tires, back at her, and shook his head. “You’re in luck. The garage in Maddington’s running a special this week. The second tow’s half price and the third one’s free.”
Immediately her anxiety turned into defensiveness. “Was that supposed to be a joke?”
“Only if you’re laughing too, ma’am.”
“It may not look pretty but at least it runs.”
“To get away from the road inspector, would be my guess.” He gave the hood a casual slap, and the cooling engine responded with a loud ping. “Is that your story sitting on my doorstep?”
“I’ve brought you a copy, as I promised.”
“Did you get the job?”
“I did, thanks to you,” she told him, her ruffled feathers settling.
Despite the teasing, he wasn’t acting as though he hated her guts. He hasn’t read the article yet, she reminded herself.
He walked past her from the van to the door and picked up the newspaper, turning it over in his hands. “Where is it?”
“On the back page. They use a pen name.” The key to the van dug into her palm. “I’d better be going. Thank you again for the interview.”
“Wait a minute, now.” He was already reading, frowning at the page as his eyes travelled down the column.
She hadn’t intended for him to read it in front of her. She was glad that he wasn’t angry with her for last week, but living with Mark had shown her that a person’s mood could change like lightning. She gripped the key tighter, wondering if she should just get in the van and go.
True pursed his lips, and just as she felt she couldn’t stand it any longer, he spoke.
“It’s all right.”
She felt a surge of pride. “Do you really—I mean, that’s good.”
“There’s only one thing wrong. You didn’t tell people about my magick.”
My editor said it would upset the readers. Rachel tasted the lie, opened her mouth, and shut it again. Lying to Mark was a matter of survival, but she didn’t want to lie to True Gannett. She had the feeling that a lie was something this man wouldn’t easily forgive.
True saw her hesitation. “Say it straight out, if you can.”
“I thought it would make you look ignorant. That’s why I only wrote about the healing.” There, she’d insulted him just as she had done last week. Now he would turn into Mark. She almost hoped for it, because she was sick of waiting for it to happen.
“You thought you were doing me a good turn.” A puzzling shyness crept into his voice.
“I thought…I meant…”
“A good turn,” True repeated, staring at the paper in his hand. “You didn’t mean any harm. Thank you kindly, Rachel.”
“I’m glad I met you,” she heard herself say, and could have banged her head against the hood of the van in disgust. What an asinine thing to say! But maybe True hadn’t noticed
it. Often Mark didn’t appear to hear or remember the things she said. “I’ve seen that you’re very knowledgeable, and if I ever wanted to learn about herbal medicine I would come to you.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” he repeated without looking at her.
“I have to go.” She ran her thumb up and down on the pointed ridge of the ignition key. “I should be going.”
“Not over twenty-five miles an hour, now.” The joke hung in the air between them and fell flat.
“I’ll be all right.”
“I could look at your transmission if you want.”
“Do you know anything about cars?”
“Nope,” he went on, seeing a reluctant smile creep around the corners of her mouth. “I said I’d look. I didn’t say I could fix it.”
“If you said you could heal it I’d let you try.” As she jiggled the handle to open the van door she had the odd sensation that she was forgetting something, or perhaps leaving something important behind. To delay leaving, she cast around for something else to say. “Last week I was reading about herbs in an old cookbook and I didn’t understand some of the words they used. What’s a carminative?”
“Something that helps you break wind,” he answered, his eyes still on the newspaper in his hands. “So you don’t blow up.”
“Nobody’s ever blown up from not farting.”
“But if you needed to break wind and couldn’t, you’d feel like you were fixing to blow up, wouldn’t you?”
She acknowledged that he was right.
“You’re the one who’s ignorant, not me.” He raised his peculiar eyes from the newspaper to meet hers. “Some plants are best for breaking wind, like ginger and peppermint. Others are best for other things. You’ll get to know them in time. Come back tomorrow.”