Right Hand Magic

by Nancy A. Collins

  “Nothing.” Which was true enough. My mother’s gross self-involvement was many things, but amusing wasn’t one of them.

  She gave me a lengthy glare, as if dimly aware that something, somewhere, was occurring at her expense, and then resumed filling her glass.

  “I don’t like your tone of voice,” she said petulantly. “I am your mother, after all. I believe I would never see or hear from you at all if it weren’t for your quarterly trust fund payments.”

  “I’m here now, aren’t I? And it’s at least another month before my next check.”

  “That’s true,” she admitted. “So why are you here?”

  “I stopped by to change my clothes, and”—I paused and took a deep breath—“I came to invite you and Dad to the opening.”

  It was then the matador’s sword came out from hiding and plunged itself deep into my heart.

  “You father and I couldn’t possibly attend on such short notice,” she said dismissively. “Besides, all it would do is encourage you even further with this foolishness.”

  I felt the old resentments swelling up inside me, but I tried to tamp them down. Getting visibly angry would only prove that she still had the power to hurt me.

  She opened the enameled box next to the decanter and took out a cigarette. Despite the trend toward nonsmoking in fashionable society, she had yet to drop the habit for fear of gaining weight. As she saw it, the risk of cancer was a reasonable trade-off for remaining a size two. She eyed my outfit as she lit up yet another Benson & Hedges.

  “Is that what you’re wearing tonight? Well, at least you’re not going dressed in overalls and a welder’s helmet.” I knew from past experience that was the closest I was going to get to her approving of how I was dressed. “So where have you been keeping yourself, lately?” she asked, knocking her ash into a silver Cartier tray. “I’ve been told you moved out of SoHo. Felicity Arbogast’s nephew lives in the same building, and he told her he saw movers carrying furniture out of your apartment.”

  “I needed a bigger place, where I could live and work in the same space. ...”

  “You didn’t move to Jersey, did you?” she asked, a touch of alarm in her voice.

  “Nooo ...”

  “Thank goodness!”

  “I’m living in Golgotham now.”

  “You’re doing what?!?” She came out of her seat as if someone had stuck a joy buzzer under her ass.

  “You heard me,” I said, taking far more pleasure in my mother’s distress than someone my age probably should. “I’m living in a boardinghouse in the heart of Golgotham, between Beekman and Perdition streets. It’s a great old house, the rent is crazy cheap, and my landlord is a really cool guy. ...”

  “Is he a warlock?” she asked suspiciously.

  “He’s a Kymeran, if that’s what you mean,” I replied.

  She grabbed my arm, squeezing it so hard I yelped. “Whatever you do, Timmy, never eat or drink anything he offers to you, you understand? Everybody knows they slip you aphrodisiacs when you’re not looking!”

  There was a frightened, almost frantic look in her eye, which unnerved me. This was the first time in ages I could remember my mother showing concern for someone besides herself. Because of that, I tried to calm her fears by explaining the situation to her.

  “It’s not like that, Mother. Hexe isn’t some creepy date rapist. Kymerans might make come-hithers and love potions, but they don’t use them. Numps—I mean, humans—do. Besides, you don’t have anything to worry about, because Hexe doesn’t practice Left Hand magic, the kind that harms people.”

  “Don’t let him fool you, Timmy,” she sniffed. “They all know how to curse people, every last one of them. Never forget that. And never trust a kymie.”

  “Don’t call him that!” I shouted.

  My mother looked genuinely startled, at least as much as the Botox would allow. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open and, for once, she was at a loss for words. People didn’t raise their voices in our family. And they certainly didn’t raise their voices to her.

  I got to my feet, thrusting a trembling finger in her face as anger spread through my veins like poison. “You’re never to talk about him like that to me again, you hear me?”

  The door opened slightly and Clarence stuck his head inside the Grand Salon. “Madam? Is there something wrong?”

  “There’s a hell of a lot wrong, Clarence!” I snapped. “But I’m leaving now, so it doesn’t concern you!”

  “Very well, Miss Timmy,” Clarence replied evenly as he withdrew from the room.

  “Here,” I said to my mother, as I hurled the pair of invitations I had set aside for my father and her into a nearby wastebasket. “Let me save you the trouble!”

  I stormed out of the room without looking back. I had suffered my mother’s thoughtless cruelty for years without once yelling at her. Instead, I would laugh and shrug and tell myself it didn’t matter, because the alternative was to cry like a heartbroken child. But to hear her talk about Hexe in such a way, as if he were some kind of subhuman beast, made my blood boil. I would never dare speak up for myself, but I had no problem shouting my mother down in his defense.

  Upon entering the Grand Foyer, I found Clarence waiting to see me out. “May I inquire as to where you are living nowadays?” he asked as he helped me into my coat. “Chelsea? The East Village? Tribeca, perhaps?”

  “Golgotham,” I replied flatly.

  A flicker of alarm crossed Clarence’s stone face, only to be quashed by decades of training. “Very good, Miss Timmy.”

  Chapter 19

  Family drama aside, I was able to get back in time to have my picture taken by the Village Voice’s photographer. Not long after she finished snapping the last shot, the first of the evening’s visitors started showing up at the gallery.

  A bar was set up in the corner, dispensing white wine to those looking to get their drink on, as well as mineral water for the Twelve Steppers in attendance, while a couple of waiters carried trays of hors d’oeuvres about the room. It wasn’t long before the main gallery was full of well-dressed young urban professionals, scruffy hipsters, and art world scenesters, sipping at their drinks and nibbling cubes of cheese as they milled about, talking among themselves as they stared at my sculptures.

  As I stood on display beside my handiwork, I scanned the slowly shuffling crowd for a sign of the arrival of Hexe and Lukas, but my efforts went unrewarded. I checked my watch. It was going on seven thirty. Where could they possibly be? I glanced up at the Thinker, as if he might have an answer. He sat there frozen, silent, yet somehow more alive than the scores of art fanciers who crowded the gallery. I searched the room yet again, and this time I was rewarded by the sight of familiar faces, although not the ones I had been looking for.

  “Templeton really made sure you got a nice turnout,” Vanessa said by way of greeting. “These sculptures are awesome! They’re your best work to date.” She was accompanied by her boyfriend, Adrian Klein, who taught art history at NYU. Where Vanessa was outspoken and something of a firecracker, Adrian was understated and laid back, but with a mordant sense of humor.

  “Thanks for coming, Nessie,” I said, giving her a hug. “It’s good to see you again, Adrian.”

  “Same here, Tate. Nessie told me all about your wild ride together,” he laughed. “I’m looking forward to meeting this ‘magic man’ of yours, Tate. It seems I owe him a favor.”

  “How so?” I frowned.

  “After Nessie came back from visiting you in Golgotham, she accepted my proposal. She claims the reason she agreed to marry me is because your warlock friend got her stoned and opened up her third eye, or something like that.”

  I gasped and turned to look at Vanessa in disbelief. “You said yes?”

  “Afraid so.” Vanessa grinned, displaying the diamond engagement ring that now decorated her left hand.

  “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed, throwing my arms about the two of them. “I’m so happy for you. You are perfect
for each other.”

  “Where’s Hexe?” Vanessa asked. “I can’t wait to introduce him to Adrian.”

  “I’m writing a paper on Goya, the Kymeran painter,” he explained. “And I thought it might be interesting to find out how accurate his portrayals of Kymeran life and culture at the time really were. I’d love to talk to your, um, landlord, and get his take on the whole thing.”

  “He’s not here yet,” I explained. “But he should be arriving any minute now. Why don’t you two get yourselves something to drink? I’ll be sure to introduce you once he arrives.”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” Vanessa said, pulling her new fiancé along behind her.

  There was a sudden tap on my shoulder, and I turned to find Derrick at my elbow.

  “I’d like you to meet another of my artistic ‘discoveries, ’ ” the gallery owner said, indicating the dark-haired young man standing next to him. “This is Greer Bartholomew. He goes by the name of Bartho.”

  “Oh, yeah, the photographer,” I said as I shook his hand. “You had the show before mine. I saw what was left of it in the foyer. You take some mean pictures.”

  “Derrick tells me you’ve recently moved to Golgotham,” Bartho said, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “How do you like it there?”

  “It’s as though I’ve moved to a completely different world without having to leave the city,” I replied. “Every time I set foot out of my door I can honestly say I see something I’ve never seen before in my life. It’s proved an immense inspiration, both artistically and personally.”

  “I’ve been fascinated by that part of the city all my life,” Bartho confessed. “I think it’s wonderful that you found the courage to actually move there.” He leaned forward and whispered, “But aren’t you frightened? I mean, you are surrounded by witches and monsters.”

  “I assure you, Golgotham is a lot safer than the Bronx or Bed-Stuy,” I laughed, warming to the subject. This was the first time anyone had reacted to the news of where I lived with something besides open horror. “Knowing your neighbor is a witch or a warlock isn’t any different than knowing they’re a stockbroker or a civics teacher. It’s just what they do for a living, not who they are. I’ll admit I’ve had a couple of brushes with antihuman bias, but for the most part my neighbors treat me just like any other New Yorker would. The worst I can say about Golgotham is that it can be a little inconvenient at times, because they do things so differently, but that’s also part of its charm. There’s a real sense of community there, and I’ve made some very good friends since I’ve moved to the neighborhood. I can honestly say I’m happier there than I ever was living in SoHo.”

  “I really like your sculptures, Tate, especially the Cyber-Panther,” Bartho said, handing me one of his cards. “I’d love to use it and a couple of your other pieces in a photo shoot. Maybe we can work something out?”

  “Yeah, that sounds cool,” I agreed. “It kind of depends on Derrick, though. The pieces are supposed to be on display for six weeks. . . . ” I glanced over at the gallery owner, who nodded his head.

  “I think we can work something out.” He smiled.

  Just then the girl who handled the sales in the front of the gallery popped in, looking extremely nervous. “Excuse me, Mr. Templeton ...”

  “Yes, what is it, Gretchen?” Derrick replied.

  “There’s an ‘issue’ up front, sir.”

  “Very well.” Derrick sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

  Although I was somewhat perturbed that Hexe and Lukas had yet to make it to the gallery, it was still necessary for me to socialize with the prospective buyers and casual well-wishers floating through the gallery. But while I was talking to one of Derrick’s wealthier collectors, a familiar voice cut through the babble of the crowd.

  “Why won’t you answer my messages and e-mails, Tate? I thought we were still friends? Oh, and thanks for not inviting me to your opening.”

  I turned to find Roger standing behind me. From the way he had his arms folded across his chest and from how he was scowling at me, I knew he thought he looked like a brooding, romantic hero, like Heathcliff or Mr. Rochester. Instead, he came across like a spoiled, sulky child trying to guilt me into being nice to him, for fear of his causing a scene.

  “For crying out loud, Roger, can’t you take a chuffing hint?” I retorted. “Just because I restrained myself from kicking you in the balls the last time we spoke doesn’t mean I want you in my life.”

  “But I apologized,” he said, still pouting. “That means you’re supposed to forgive me.”

  “Really?” I snorted. “Is that how you think it works?”

  Just then I spotted a flash of purple-and-blue hair over Roger’s shoulder. I pushed him aside and hurried to the front of the gallery. There I saw Hexe and Lukas locked in an animated discussion with Derrick. Hexe was wearing a shiny gold vintage jacket and black pegged, Elvis-style trousers, while Lukas was dressed like a skate punk, complete with hoodie and NOFX T-shirt. The teenaged were-cat was holding out the invitation I’d given him earlier.

  “You don’t understand,” Lukas protested. “We have invitations, see? We’re her guests. We were invited.”

  “These things aren’t engraved invitations,” Derrick said, folding his arms across his chest. “You could have gotten them anywhere. My PR girl drops off stacks of these things at every hipster joint on the Lower East Side and Williamsburg. ...”

  Lukas broke into a relieved grin upon seeing me approach. “Hexe, look! There she is. Tate! Over here!”

  “I see you, Lukas. You don’t have to wave.” I turned to frown at Derrick. “What’s the problem here?”

  “Do you know these ... people?” Derrick asked, looking genuinely aghast.

  “These are the friends I was telling you about,” I explained. “This is my landlord, Hexe, and that is my model, Lukas.”

  “Your model?” The consternation drained from Derrick’s voice. He smiled as he shook Lukas’s hand. “Ah! So you’re the young man who posed for The Dying Gaul and the other male statues?”

  Lukas shook his head.“I posed for the Cyber-Panther.”

  Derrick dropped Lukas’s hand as if it were attached to a leper. He grabbed my elbow and steered me away from my friends.

  “Did I hear him right?” Derrick whispered, shooting a worried glance at Lukas, who smiled and waved hello at him.

  “Afraid so.” I sighed.

  “I can’t have a were-cat running around loose in my gallery,” he hissed. “Especially one that turns into a tiger!”

  “Cougar, actually. And he’s harmless, I assure you.”

  “I don’t care if he turns into Snagglepuss!” Derrick snapped. “My insurance doesn’t cover shit like this! Damn it, I wish you’d discussed this with me beforehand.”

  “I told you I was inviting some friends,” I reminded him.

  “Yes, but I thought you meant human ones!” He paused to take a deep breath to steady himself. “Look, I’m not prejudiced. In fact, one of my best clients is Kymeran. But, that said, openly consorting with a warlock at your show looks bad. People will talk. They’ll say your success isn’t natural. They’ll say you charmed your way into the art world . ...”

  I shot the gallery owner a withering look. “I don’t care what ‘they’ think! And you shouldn’t, either, if you truly believe in my art. Hexe and Lukas are my friends. I invited them here because I wanted them to share this evening with me, not to be insulted!”

  “I’m sorry, Tate,” Derrick said sincerely. “I wish things were different, but the truth of the matter is that you can’t afford being seen with a Kymeran at this stage of your career. If people think your artwork is charmed, they won’t buy it for fear the spell will break when you die and they’ll be stuck with a piece of worthless junk. Remember what happened to Bouguereau? He was the most popular painter in France during the late nineteenth century. His paintings sold for astronomical sums during his lifetime. Now you can’t give his canvasses away.” />
  Hexe stepped forward, gently touching my arm. “Mr. Templeton’s right. Lukas and I should go.”

  “You don’t have to leave!” I protested. “This is twenty-first-century America, damn it! You have as much right to be here as anybody else!”

  “I know that,” Hexe replied. “Believe me, I really want to be with you for this. But it’s more important that your work get the proper recognition it deserves, without people getting the wrong idea. You’ve worked long and hard for this night, Tate. I’m not going to be the one who ruins it for you.” He turned and motioned to Lukas. “Come along, kiddo. Time to leave.”

  “Awww . . .”

  “You heard me, Lukas,” Hexe said firmly. As they headed back down the stairs, he flashed me an encouraging smile. “Good luck with the opening, Tate. We’ll see you back at the house. Nice meeting you, Mr. Templeton.”

  “Same here,” Derrick replied.

  As I watched him leave, I felt a painful ache of longing that was as maddening as it was exhilarating. “This really blows,” I grumbled.

  “Your friend made the right decision,” Derrick assured me. “And he was quite the gentleman about it.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “He’s a real prince.”

  “I can’t believe they made Hexe leave,” Adrian exclaimed between sips of chardonnay. “Doesn’t Templeton know the Unholy Wars are over?”

  “Derrick didn’t make them leave—Hexe left of his own accord,” I explained. “He said he didn’t want to screw things up for me by being here.”

  “That’s more than your ex is willing to do,” Vanessa commented acidly. “Roger’s been tossing back glasses of wine like they’re shots of tequila. Why couldn’t Templeton tell him to leave?”

  As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, Roger suddenly barged into the conversation. “Hey, Nessie! Adrian! Long time no see!”

  “Hi, Roger,” Adrian replied stoically.

  If Roger noticed Vanessa’s and Adrian’s coolness, he didn’t show it. “It’s been months! What have you been up to? You still teaching at NYU?”