∞
Buoyed by his conversation with Ame, Eli was ready to face Gretchel. When he opened the door to the room they shared, he saw her curled up on the bed reading one of Graham Duncan’s earlier novels
Graham Duncan again. He was inescapable.
Eli cocked his head to the side and observed his lover. She was gorgeous. Even in threadbare yoga pants and an oversized T-shirt, she was gorgeous. He sighed.
Eli perched on the edge of the bed. He could tell that she was still pissed. He decided to proceed gently.
“I took care of the fire.”
“Thank you.” Gretchel spoke without looking up from her book.
“I’m sorry if I embarrassed you in front of Ame earlier. What you said just struck me as incredibly cynical, and I know that you’re not a cynical person.”
She rolled over—away from him—and turned a page. “I’ve been through hell and back several times, Eli. Hades thinks I’m Persephone. He’s signed me up for frequent flier miles, so that gives me every right to be as cynical as I want to be.”
“You are such a drama queen!”
“Excuse me?” she said, slamming down her book and turning to face him.
“Just trying to get your attention.” He leaned in to steal a kiss, and was gratified to discover that she didn’t want it to end when he withdrew.
Eli looked at the book that Gretchel had dropped. “Don’t live your life vicariously through Graham Duncan, Gretchel. He’s crazy. Wise, but crazy.”
“What is your problem with Graham Duncan? If anyone is going to usher in this cosmic awakening you’re so excited about, my bet’s on him. He inspires people to fight ego and raise hell against the status quo. Please remind me, what is it that you do, exactly? Has it occurred to you that you’re the one being left behind?”
Eli gasped, clutched at an imaginary dagger wound to the chest, and fell backwards onto the bed.
“Gretchel, you misunderstand me. I think that Graham Duncan is brilliant, too. His writing does things to me that I can’t even begin to explain. His genius throws me into a state of unparalleled admiration. Every sentence, every metaphor, every page is like a strawberry sundae on a hundred-degree day. My reverence for him comes dangerously close to worship.
“And, yes: You’ve seen through my facade. I envy him. I do. I envy him because his talent and insight is driven by a need to create and a respect for individualism and self-reliance. I envy him because he creates effortlessly, and the only way I can do it is when I have a beautiful redheaded muse sitting close to me. I envy him because he doesn’t feel compelled to explain his motives to anyone. And I envy Duncan because you’re obviously totally in love with him.”
She smiled sweetly. “Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you I was just daydreaming of him and me canoodling in a lovely meadow.”
“I shudder to think what that man would do to you,” he mumbled.
“Then it’s a good thing it’s just a daydream.”
They stared each other down, stubborn smirks on both their faces.
“Let’s get out of the house,” he said, changing the subject. “Is there anyone you want to go see? You can take the rental if you’d like to go alone.”
“No, thanks. After too many years of all that suburban, country-club crap, I’m home, and this is where I want to be. The only people I care about are here—well, except for Teddy, and he knows where to find me.”
Eli could tell by the momentary sadness in her eyes that Gretchel was thinking about Zach, too, and that his absence was too distressing to mention. Eli didn’t push her.
“Ame has a volleyball game. I’d like to see her play. And she wants you to see her play.”
Gretchel rolled her eyes. “Oh, gods. You have no idea how many volleyball games I’ve watched, so don’t bother trying to guilt me into going to this one. I don’t feel like leaving the house yet. I’m still a widow in mourning,” she insisted, her face drawn into a tragic grimace.
Eli raised his eyebrows, and Gretchel dissolved into giggles.
“What did you do all day before I got here?”
“I micromanaged the household. I would think about all the things I couldn’t control, and then obsess over the petty little things that I can. I’m a recovering alcoholic. It’s what I do. I write down all my wild, weird ideas, and then try to see if they’ll manifest. I practice protection spells. I sew, and I think about when I’ll start painting again. I worry about how I’m going to pay bills, after which I beat myself up for not finding a job while Ame’s out—”
“Baby Girl you will never have to worry about money ever ag—”
“I’m not finished!” she snapped. “I also try like hell to reconnect with a part of me that’s been AWOL for years. I sulk. I ponder life and death. I try and answer the big philosophical questions without using the word ‘pain,’—and, just so you know, it can’t be done—”
“It’s not supposed to be done–” he started, and she glared at him for interrupting.
“...and I cry. I cry for my kids, and for the little girl in me that just wants a second chance,” she finished.
“So give her a chance!”
“She’s not ready. She needs to stay inside a little longer, where it’s safer. But she’s getting stronger every day. She’s starting to speak her mind, and she’s learning how to think for herself.”
“I look forward to meeting this little girl,” Eli said gently. “When she’s ready. And what does the woman cry about?”
“Well,” Gretchel sighed. “The woman is still recovering from a pretty severe case of soccer-mom-itis, and her-worst-enemy-fucked-her-worthless-husband-under-her-nose fever, and a truly terrible attack of the we-stole-your-son-in-the-middle-of-the-night-and-there’s-nothing-you-can-do-about-it virus. These maladies—combined with other chronic ailments—seem to have her swinging golf clubs at totaled trucks and shooting shotguns at ghosts. But a lost lover has returned to aid in mending her wounded spirit, so…”
“You know,” Eli ventured. “I’ve heard that sex heals, so maybe this woman should consider some shameless shagging with a man who desperately hungers for her?”
Gretchel smiled mischievously. She rolled over and straddled Eli’s body. She gently pulled off her shirt, and shook out her wild red tresses. Her movement made her breasts sway, too, and Eli thought he might just die from happiness. And she hadn’t even taken off her bra yet.
She leaned in close to his chest, raking her fingers through his hair and whispering in his ear. “As if I could keep my hands off of you for another second,” she whispered in a throaty voice. “Mr. Duncan will have to just wait for me in that meadow. I have a Mr. Green… er, uh… I mean a Mr. Stewart to attend to first.”
CHAPTER THREE
Irvine, 2010s
Eli wasn’t sure what Gretchel did to crack open the juicy, artistic center of his psyche, but she did it, and she did it well. After years of experiencing creative blockage, he was taking photos and writing again with fervor.
It was early in the evening. Some soul-shaking sex had utterly dispelled the tension from earlier in the day, and Eli was in a truly happy state as he lay on a futon in Gretchel’s studio, studying the shots he’d taken that day at Snyder Farms. Gretchel sat on a stool across the room, painting. The fact that Eli had a great view of Gretchel’s ass did nothing to diminish his blissful mood. He looked up from his laptop at the sound of Gretchel’s voice.
“If you have so much money, why didn’t you ever self-publish a book of your poems or photographs?” Gretchel asked.
“Because I had no inspiration.”
“But you’re writing poetry and shooting now. What’s different?”
“Like I said: inspiration. You’re my muse, my beautiful, redheaded goddess, my Aphrodite,” he said.
Eli and Gretchel both were startled by the sound of Ame’s voice, “You two are going to make me hurl.” She stood at the door of the studio, arms crossed over her chest, a look of mock-disgust on her face.
“Why are you home already?” Gretchel asked. “I thought you had to work until seven.”
“We were slow,” she replied, watching her mother closely.
“Did you get the fabric for your prom dress?” Gretchel asked, creating a shadow with the stroke of her brush.
Ame didn’t hear the question; she was too busy watching Gretchel work. “You’re painting,” she stated.
“Yes, Ame. I’ve been inspired, too,” she said winking across the room to her lover. Eli caught the sentiment, and then completed the awkward triangle by watching Ame stare at her mother. Her face was pleased at first, and then the facial expression turned sour.
“This is the way it should have been,” Ame mumbled. She pursed her lips, making her look just like Gretchel, and walked out of the room. Eli heard her march up the steps and then down again a few minutes later. The kitchen door slammed.
Eli shut down his laptop, and wrapped his arms around Gretchel. “I’ll be back.”
“Don’t jump off the cliff without me,” she said, but continued focusing on the field of poppies she was painting.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
∞
Eli watched Ame from the sun porch. She stood by the pile of stones on the edge of the Wicked Garden. She picked one up, and launched, nailing the door of a burnt-out pickup truck that had been there for decades. “I hate you!” she screamed at the truck. Then she stomped to the barn and disappeared inside.
Eli followed her. He crept inside, past a ping pong table and a set of weights, and found her sitting on a leaky bean bag chair pulled up next to an old wooden chest. She was using the lid of the chest as a tabletop while she rolled what appeared to be a big, fat joint. Epona, Ame’s horse, leaned her head out of her stall and nickered gently.
“She pisses me off so bad,” Ame mumbled. Eli stood still. Ame clearly wasn’t talking to him, and he wasn’t entirely sure he should disturb her. “I don’t care what she’s been through?” She directed her words to Epona, and then she licked at the rolling paper. “You’re wrong Epona. She’s a big baby. She’s a big, weak, whiny baby. And I cannot stand weakness.”
Eli tapped on the wall. Ame snapped her head up, quickly set the joint in an ashtray, and pushed it back out of his line of sight. “Whatcha doing?” he asked as he ventured further inside.
“Nothing,” she said nervously. “Just venting to my horse.” He reached around to the ashtray, and picked up the joint. Ame hung her head, admitting defeat. “If you rat on me, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”
Eli settled into the second beanbag chair—this one even more dilapidated than Ame’s. He took the lighter from her hand and proceeded to fire up the joint. He inhaled deeply, held in the smoke, and then blew it up toward the hayloft.
“You’d forgive me eventually. Nothing’s unforgivable,” he said, passing the joint back to Ame.
She took it, but didn’t raise it to her mouth. “You’re not going to tell my mom are you?”
“I’m not your parent, so it’s none of my business, but if I were your parent, I would highly recommend you find another way to calm yourself down,” he said, putting his hands behind his head, and stretching out his legs.
“Point taken, Eli-with-an-I. So what’s your excuse for smoking?” She took a big hit, and then began coughing uncontrollably.
Eli had no answer. She had him.
Ame decided to give him a break. “It’s river-bottom weed. You’re going be stoned before you know it,” she said, and passed it back to him.
He took another hit. “I can handle myself,” he said with a smile. He hadn’t smoked since he arrived in Irvine, and he was mildly ashamed of the comfort he took in resuming this old habit.
“Hey you know why the moron took two hits of acid?”
Another jokester. Eli smiled and shook his head
“So he could go round trip.”
Eli blew out a laugh. He’d have to save that one for his father.
“Ame, do you know what’s going on here at Snyder Farms?”
Ame gave Eli an ironic look. “Do you mean, why are red-haired ghosts stalking my mother and raising the dead?”
Eli looked at Ame for a long moment. Since coming to Snyder Farms, he had focused all his attention on Gretchel. The rest of her family had, too. Nobody—himself included—had given much thought to Ame’s wellbeing. He knew that she was strong, but he also knew that she shouldn’t have to be as strong as she was. There was nothing he could do right now, though, besides listen to her and be honest with her.
“Um, yeah. Red-haired ghosts are a good place to start.”
“Well, I don’t know much of anything, Eli-with-an-I. I’ve asked the grandwitches, but the answers I’ve gotten are horseshit.” Ame looked to Epona. “No offense.”
Eli let it drop. He turned his attention to the horse, too. She watched him intently. “Epona is an unusual name. Did you know your horse shares it with a goddess?”
“Uh, yeah... A horse goddess. And both of them share a name with Miss Poni. Didn’t you know that Great Grand Mama’s real name is Epona?”
Interesting, Eli thought, but then the thought he was about to complete faded as the pot took effect.
“It’s Scottish, right? I mean, my mom’s family is Scottish. I just always figured that’s how Miss Poni’s mother came up with such a crazy-ass name.”
Eli knew that this morsel of information was interesting, too, but he could not, at that moment figure out why. Ame wasn’t kidding when she said that this was some potent weed. He let his half-formed thought go, hoped he would remember it later, and addressed Ame’s question instead.
“There might well have been an analogous goddess that the people living in ancient Scotland worshipped, but Epona is a Gaulish name—Celtic, but from the continent, not the British Isles. And she’s not just a horse goddess. She’s also a fertility goddess, and I’m pretty sure she is sometimes described as a psychopomp.” Eli reached for the joint.
“A what?” Ame asked.
“A psychopomp is someone—or, I suppose, something—capable of traveling safely between this world and the underworld. The psychopomp’s primary task is to provide the dead with safe passage to the next world. Hermes is maybe the most widely known psychopomp in Western culture.”
“That guy? My mom has some kind of weird fascination with him. Weren’t you talking about him just this morning?”
Eli smiled. “Apparently, your mother thinks that I bear a strong resemblance to Hermes. How she knows what a Greek god looks like, I can’t tell you. Anyhow, Epona seems to have fulfilled a similar function—or, at least, that’s part of what she did. She was a hugely popular and highly complex goddess. Some ancient artworks that may depict her show her holding the key to the underworld…” Eli’s fuzzy consciousness snagged on the word “key,” but he wasn’t sure why. He added this to his mental list of things to remember when he wasn’t baked. “So, yeah… The key to the underworld. That’s what a lot of people are looking for, right? Through religion, or psychotherapy, or, of course drugs.” Eli raised the joint before passing it back to Ame. “The underworld is where we meet our shadows, and it’s where we fight them.”
He leaned back into the saggy beanbag, lost in silent contemplation. “Epona was a horse goddess, but she was also sometimes accompanied by a dog.” Eli was surprised that he was capable of drudging up that particular piece of trivia in his current state. He looked at Ame and realized that she was no longer listening to him. Having been in her position during innumerable stoned soliloquies delivered by his father, he understood exactly how she felt.
He assumed a hearty, mock-paternal tone and asked, “So, what were you bitching to Epona about? What’s really on your mind, Ame-with-an-E?”
Ame sighed. “I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Again. I’ll get over it. I always do.”
She looked to Eli and saw that he was not satisfied with this non-answer.
“My mom drives me fucking crazy.”
The words exploded out of her, and then she sagged. “Look, I’m glad she’s getting better. She’s cooking and she’s actually eating. She’s reading. She’s sewing. She’s even painting again! I’ve never seen her paint before. And the nightmares seem to be gone. I’m glad for her, I really am.”
“I know you are, Ame. I know you did a great job of taking care of her, and I know how hard that must have been for you. You’re supposed to be the kid, right? And she’s supposed to be the mom. But, like you said, she’s getting better, and you’re not on your own anymore. I’m here to help. I’m here to help her, but I’m also here to help you.”
Eli could tell that Ame was working very hard to hold back tears, so he stopped talking and took a drag on the joint to give her time to pull herself together.
She finally looked back to Eli. “Why did she choose my dad instead of you?” she asked.
Eli’s heart sank. This was a question that had tormented him for almost twenty years. “You’re going to have to ask your mother, because, for the life of me I do not know,” he said quietly.
“She wouldn’t tell me, and you know it.”
“That’s probably true. She’s the queen of evasion. Nothing’s changed there,” he said. “All I know is that she had an alcohol problem, and she always said she deserved what Troy did to her. It never made sense to me. It still doesn’t.”
Ame and Eli sat in silence for a moment. Eli saw that she still looked troubled.
“That’s not the only thing stressing you out, is it?”
Ame sat back in the beanbag chair, and kicked at the old wooden chest.
“I’m just so sick of volleyball I could scream. I’m sick of working my ass off. And I’m sick and tired of being the only normal person in this family.”
Eli laughed. “You’re hardly normal, Ame. I’d say that you’re exceptionally abnormal. I don’t know many teenagers who could do what you do—to have been through the turmoil you’ve been through and still have a sense of humor about it all.”
The Witches of Snyder Farms (The Wicked Garden Series) Page 3