The Magical Book of Wands

by Raven M. Williams

  Freed of their wrappings, the objects included inch-tall cat and angel crystal figurines and a crystal heart about the size of a quarter. A magnifying glass and a letter opener had crystal handles. A cut-crystal goblet perched on a golden stem spiraling around like a grapevine and a small golden tripod stand supported a crystal globe. Not Christmas ornaments as I first thought, they lacked hangers or even loops through which to insert a hanger. They looked more like collectibles one would arrange on a shelf.

  Sparkling in the sunlight from the living room window, they made quite an attractive display. I was tempted to keep them, to consider them a gift from Harvey, compensation for everything he broke. I was certain, though, that they were of some value, and someone had gone to the trouble to amass the collection.

  The magnifying glass made a convenient tool for scrutinizing each one for a clue to the owner. None of the objects revealed a marking of any kind, not a date or a manufacturer's logo, much less any personalization. I reexamined the box hoping for an address label or a postmark but found nothing. I guessed it was cadged from a liquor or grocery store to be used for storage. All it told me was that the wine it once contained was Sauvignon Blanc from Napa Valley.

  Returning the items was going to be harder than I thought.

  Chapter Two

  Needles pricked my collar bones. Someone tugged at the sheet tucked under my chin. I cracked open one eye. Gunsmoke sat on my chest, mewling and doing his level best to pull the bedclothes off.

  Why was he lobbying for breakfast this early? But it wasn’t early. The room was too light for predawn. I glanced at the bedside clock. The time read six forty-five. Though retired from school teaching I was still used to waking at five, five-thirty at the latest. Gunsmoke expected to get fed as soon as I shuffled into the kitchen.

  In the media, hurricane victims complained about not being able to sleep. I was having the opposite problem; I couldn't stay awake. I napped once or sometimes twice during the day, went to bed before sundown, and still overslept.

  I trudged into the kitchen and flipped on the light but nothing happened. I got out my step ladder and found only a burned-out bulb. Grateful that I didn’t have a damaged junction box, I installed a fresh one. While my coffee brewed, I dished up some food for Gunsmoke. I stepped out onto the balcony to find the weather almost pleasant, a cruel joke played on us by a capricious Mother Nature who weeks ago flailed us with wind and rain followed by crushing heat and humidity. Although August felt like it had been a year ago and September a month with more than 30 days, Fall was mere weeks away.

  My nephews had replaced the balcony furniture that I stowed inside before boarding up and fleeing. I settled in a director's chair and set my cup on the patio table. Gunsmoke padded onto the balcony, stuck his head through the railings, and surveyed the street below. Detecting no imminent threats, he leaped onto a chair next to me.

  If I angled my head, I could gaze down the block and glimpse the dunes and the Gulf waters beyond. I had only to lower my gaze to see front yards buried under a jumble of snapped branches, broken glass, shattered cement fiberboard planks, and cracked resin lawn chairs.

  The first items to be hauled to my curb, the vinyl lattice panels now poked out from under weightier items. I sipped my coffee and wondered if I had the ability to replace them. An enclosed crawl space would keep hurricane-displaced critters from burrowing under the house.

  “I'll do it,” I told Gunsmoke. And I better start before it got too hot to work. I changed into chore-worthy attire, set a bottle of chilled water on a front step, and approached the trash pile. I worked up a sweat moving the garbage around to reach the panels and felt like a rag picker.

  No one called the law to report me as a looter so I tugged out the panels and lugged them over to the house's footing. Against my knee's protest, I squatted to study the remains of the construction. The lattice panels had been sandwiched between two wooden frames fastened to the house but I couldn’t wedge the vinyl sheet back into the channel between the two frames. Although lightweight, the panels were warped and I couldn't flatten them. I would insert one side only to have it pop out when I tried to position the opposite side.

  Mosquitos whined at my ears and fire ants climbed up my legs. I wrestled with the assemblies until my knee would take no more. The whole construction would have to be taken apart then reassembled. The job called for tools I didn't own and more skill than I possessed. Changing light bulbs and air conditioner filters and touching up scuffed paint summed up my capabilities. Louis had taken care of anything involving electricity, plumbing, or carpentry. Once again I was at the mercy of Hurricane Harvey and useless on my own.

  Dizzy, overheated, and close to tears with exasperation and despair, I trudged back inside. I collapsed on the couch with a gel pack on my knee. I rifled through my disaster-recovery accordion file for my list of contractors recommended on the neighborhood-networking Facebook page. I dialed one that I had yet to contact and described the needed repairs.

  “About how much siding is missing?” he asked.

  “Six panels.

  “And what about the roof?”

  “One of the vent caps got blown off.”

  “What about drywall?”

  “Dry as far as I can tell.”

  After a moment of silence, he said, “Doesn't sound like much. You're lucky.”

  “I am.” I didn't feel that way. The big jobs got the contractors' attention. Tempted to make the project sound more worth his while, I asked, “Would you have a place on your schedule for me?”

  “We'll check and let you know.”

  I sighed and marked the contractor as another to cajole when I could drum up the energy. Defeated, I sank back into the couch.

  Through eyes blurred with tears, I gazed at the crystal figurines arrayed on the table. I was worthless; I couldn't even return those to their rightful owner. I grabbed the old newspapers to rewrap the crystals.

  Something caught my eye.

  An address label.

  Of course! If I wasn't so addle-brained I might have thought to look for it sooner. The local paper was available on newsstands but like me, many people subscribed to home delivery and got it via US mail.

  Would it be too much to hope that whoever held the subscription to these papers had been the one to wrap the crystal pieces for storage?

  The label named a Francisco Xerxes. Wasn't Xerxes Greek or something? On Starboard Lane. I knew where that was. Starboard Lane was in Old Town, a few miles north of my neighborhood and on the city's Gulf side.

  Could the carton have traveled so far? I tried to picture receding waters carrying the box into the Gulf and the current ferrying it south then surging back onto land and depositing it on my yard.

  I could drive over there in minutes. The errand was more inviting than the chore of wrangling sheets of lattice into place in the heat or pleading with contractors.

  I should call first, introduce myself, describe my errand. My first thought was to use a search engine to find a phone number matching the home address. A weak Internet connection frustrated that attempt but all was not lost. Somewhere I had an old-fashioned print phone book.

  I dug it out of a bookcase and flipped through the flimsy recycled-paper pages. Sure enough, there was a Francisco Xerxes on Starboard Lane, and a phone number with a local prefix. I dialed. The phone rang but no one answered nor did any recorded voice invite me to leave a message.

  Was there a problem with the phone or the service? Had a bill gone unpaid? The resident might be out for the day. The occupants may have evacuated and not returned. The house itself might not be there at all.

  The newspaper subscriber and the owner of the crystals might not even be the same person. It being my only lead, I was unwilling to write him off.

  I bundled the figurines in their original newspaper wrappings, put them back into the box, and loaded it into my car.

  Chapter Three

  I turned wide around the trash heap so as not to sc
ratch my car, drove down the lane, and took a right out of my neighborhood. For the first time since the storm struck weeks ago, I headed north on Highway 361 toward downtown Port Aransas. Splintered boards, shingles, crumpled metal roof panels, and broken signs tangled in dead seagrass overflowed the highway's shoulders. Traffic cops and orange cones refereed north- and southbound travelers vying for access to the cleared portion of the roadway.

  Billboards stood as empty frames outlining rectangles of sky or lay on the ground. Utility poles that hadn’t fallen down or split threatened to topple at any minute. No wonder we had no Internet, I thought. The flattened privacy fence along the length of a popular RV park granted a view of concrete slabs with travel trailers lying on their sides like beached whales. Rotten brown vegetation smothered the golf course's greens.

  To my left, yachts once moored in the private slips of a high end development had sailed storm-surge waters to the yards behind the homes. They now sat tipped to mournful angles, hulls cracked, torn sails still clinging to their masts.

  I turned right on J Street and threaded my way between trash heaps. Storefronts were so damaged as to be unrecognizable and I found I couldn't recall what shops and businesses once occupied the shattered buildings. They weren't the only landmarks missing. The hurricane winds had ripped street signs from poles and even stripped off house numbers. Anyone who did not know a destination's precise location was well advised either to map it before setting out or use GPS.

  The lime green of safety vests, the orange of traffic cones, and the goldenrod of construction vehicles provided an ironic “pop of color” against debris in various shades of brown, tan, and beige. Excised insulation lay in fluffy pink piles like massive heaps of cotton candy.

  The garbage crowding my street was trifling compared to what I found in this part of the city, ground zero of the storm’s landfall. A bomb blast or meteor strike would not have done more damage. Walls caved in and roofs collapsed on top of them. Fallen trees axed garages in half. Flights of stairs led to empty spaces.

  I crept along. I dodged a pile of nails only to drive over a splintered plank that flew up and smacked my car.

  A flashing light in my rear view mirror made my heart race. Was I being pulled over? I glanced at the registration sticker on the windshield and reassured myself that I was in compliance. I wasn't speeding. Was there such a thing as being ticketed for going too slowly? It wasn't as if I impeded traffic; there was no traffic to impede. I hadn't failed to stop at a stop sign; there were no signs. There also wasn't any place to pull over, so I simply braked to a halt.

  I didn't recognize the vehicle behind me as a Port Aransas police car. A uniformed officer stepped up, his torso spanning the driver's side window. I lowered the window. Hot, steamy, smelly air wafted in. “Yes, Officer—” I read the name tag pinned to a shirt identifying him as a member of the Jourdanton Police Department. Law enforcement from other cities had come to Port Aransas to help keep order. “—Cooper?”

  “License and registration, please,” he said.

  I fumbled in my purse and produced the requested documents.

  “Oh, you're local,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don't live on this block.”

  “No, about four miles away.”

  “I'm sorry. I'm going to have to ask you to turn around.”

  “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

  “We're having a little problem with looters, so we're patrolling the neighborhoods, keeping out people without legitimate reason to be there. Do you have a friend on this block?”

  Not wanting to be taken for some scalawag, I said, “I do. He lives at 1316.” I was about to tell the officer the reason for my mission but worried that it might sound a little wacky or invented. Instead, I said, “I'm bringing him something I thought would brighten his day.” That wasn't wholly a lie. I waved at the carton in the back seat.

  His expression stern, Officer Cooper said, “OK, well, just checking. Things have been a little crazy. Some people think that because we're operating under emergency conditions, the usual laws don't apply.”

  I understood feeling that way. It did seem surreal. Across the street, a motorboat on a trailer had docked in front of a picture window. A car stood on its roof. Refrigerators and washers weren't in kitchens and laundry rooms but out on the curb, damaged beyond repair. Palm trees leaned at impossible angles as if suspended by an invisible tether.

  Officer Cooper said, “I suggest you turn back.” His tone made it sound more like a command than a suggestion. “There is still a lot of junk on the road.”

  I mustered up some courage and said, “I'll be careful. I'll go slowly. And thank you. Thank you for coming all this way to help out.”

  Officer Cooper spared a smile, touched the brim of his cap, and returned to his patrol car.

  My blouse damp from nervous perspiration despite my car's air conditioner, I continued down the block. Mailboxes had been decapitated but a street number clung above the door of one wrecked house. I found a place to park where I would be off what there was of thoroughfare. Officer Cooper's cautions echoed and I locked the car.

  Built in the coastal bungalow style, 1316 Starboard Lane probably occupied this spot for decades. What time failed to destroy, the storm did. Shingles torn from the roof left black bald spots. A piece of wind-driven tile protruded from the siding as if shot from a bow. Paint scuffed in several places revealed a previous-applied color.

  Front-porch screening hung in tatters exposing a white wicker rocker. It swayed back and forth as if recently vacated. Was Mr. Francisco Xerxes at home, such as it was?

  I rang the doorbell and waited a moment but no one answered my summons. I rang again and this time leaned in close. I didn't hear anything. The doorbell might be broken; the little button was unlit.

  I knocked on a wood door splattered with mud and crushed dried vegetation but got no answer. I knocked again and the door inched open. Had Mr. Xerxes left the rocker on the porch and stepped inside without bothering to lock the door behind him?

  “Hello?” I called. “Mr. Xerxes?”

  No one answered. Maybe he was at the rear of the house, or in a back yard. I stepped over the threshold, pushing the door open a few more inches.

  Chapter Four

  “Hello, Mr. Xerxes,” I called. “My name is Juneiffer Cosco. I live just a few miles away and I found something that might belong to you.”

  The odors of dust, must, and spoiled food filled my nose. What did you expect, I asked myself: basil, cinnamon, and rose water? No doubt food had rotted in his refrigerator and he didn't clean it as well as I had mine. Mr. Xerxes could have black mold growing somewhere. The man might be elderly and hadn't noticed or was unaware of the threat it presented to his health. If I got an opening, I would mention it.

  The house's entrance opened into a large room. Straight ahead, a walnut dining ensemble sat in front of a china hutch. Dried muck wrapped the bottom half of the chairs' turned legs.

  Beyond that, a hallway probably led to a kitchen. I imagined a bathroom and a bedroom or two were further down the hall.

  To my left, plywood hurricane panels protecting the front window blocked out the light in a living room crowded with furniture. A recliner upholstered in a nubby brown fabric showed stains around the bottom. It hugged a two-shelf bookcase with a flat-screen TV perched on top. Stained like the recliner, two armchairs draped with throws faced the coffee table. The debris that flooding deposited on the wall-to-wall carpet had been swept off but I spotted the remains in the room's corners.

  Against the front window, end tables bracketed a couch piled with throw pillows. In the table lamps’ faint light, I made out a figure lying on the couch.

  “Mr. Xerxes?” I said. Had he come inside for a nap? I took a step closer. “Mr. Xerxes?”

  A sense that something was wrong stopped me. Under the other rank smells was another odor, sickly and sour. Mr. Xerxes might have left his porch because he became ill.r />
  “Mr. Xerxes, are you sick? Do you need help?”

  I inched closer.

  Francisco Xerxes, assuming it was he, was elderly if the white beard and thin white hair were any clue. Dressed in a faded checked button-down shirt and equally faded jeans, he sprawled face-up on the couch, one arm draped over the back, the other outstretched, fist clenched tight. His eyes were not quite closed and he wheezed through an open mouth.

  “Katy?” the man asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “No, sir, I'm Juneiffer Cosco, a ... friend.”

  He didn't reply and seemed to slip further away.

  “Hang on there, sir,” I said. “I'm going for some help.”

  I retreated to the porch. The man could have succumbed to mold poisoning but maybe he had something contagious. I fumbled for my cell phone. Grateful to find a decent connection, I dialed 911.

  The woman who answered said, “Corpus Christi Police Department. What is your emergency?”

  “Corpus Christi? I was trying to reach Port Aransas.”

  “Yes, Ma'am. Those calls are being been routed to us. How can we help you?”

  “A, uh, neighbor is really sick. He's breathing and he can talk but not much. Could someone from EMS come?”

  The dispatcher asked for my name, phone number, and address.

  I supplied that and said, “But I'm not calling from my home. I'm calling from my neighbor's house at 1316 Starboard Lane in Port Aransas.”

  “And the name of the man who's ill?”

  “I ... I'm not sure. I don't know him well.” I wasn't going to tell the dispatcher that I didn't know him at all. “I think it's Francisco Xerxes.”

  “We'll put out a call for an ambulance but since the hurricane, they're limited. Are you ambulatory, Ma'am?”