Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  “Great. I’m dying here and she gets all amorous. Must be Dick on the other end of that kiss.”

  Chicory squished himself flatter to get more sound through the gap.

  Gap?

  He slapped his forehead, jostling his thoughts back into some kind of order. A tiny bit of light filled the gap now that Thistle and Dick were in the kitchen. Life returned to his wings.

  Slowly, careful to fold his wings tight against his back, he wiggled and skootched and crawled beneath the door. He had to stop twice to catch his breath. He was above ground now, but it was night. Any respectable Pixie would be sleeping, tangled up with as many of his tribe as could fit into the old birdhouse hanging from the corkscrew willow tree.

  A birdhouse for gosh sakes. Exile from his own tribe, along with anyone else who displeased Rosie.

  Rosie had robbed him of respectability. Her laziness and her enthrallment with Snapdragon—who used to be Hay—made her one of the worst queens in the entire history of Pixie. If Pixies bothered to remember their past while ignoring the future.

  “Guess I’ll have to start my own tribe by gathering together all of the exiles and displaced Pixies,” he said as he popped through the gap and slid onto the linoleum floor.

  Dick and Thistle continued their absorption in each other, ignoring the running water and half-filled coffee carafe, and everything else in the world except each other.

  Chicory shook his head in disbelief as he crawled toward the nesting box Mabel kept in the dining room, an old wooden cigar box lined with moss and cottonwood fluff. She provided lots of little luxuries for her Pixies; never knew when they’d need shelter from a freak hailstorm or marauding cats.

  With his wings wrapped around him, and his body curled into a tight ball, he slept quickly and deeply, grateful to be free and alive, but ever so lonely. Pixies weren’t meant to sleep or live alone.

  Once he woke up to a strange sound, a door closing quietly, like someone didn’t want to disturb the household.

  Probably Dick leaving and he didn’t want to wake Thistle. Wait. How far had the moon progressed in its journey across the night sky? Hadn’t Dick left some time ago?

  Chicory was so tired he couldn’t remember what he’d heard and what he’d dreamed. He turned over and pulled more fluff around him for warmth. He slept deeply and dreamlessly.

  Eleven

  “MOM, ARE YOU HOME?” Dick called from the kitchen door. He kicked off his shoes, and slid into house slippers, all the while keeping a firm grip on Thistle’s hand. The grin on his face wouldn’t fade, no matter how much his face hurt.

  Thistle’s smile matched his own.

  “In here,” Mom called from the office off the kitchen. A couple of generations ago it had been the housekeeper’s room. Now the family had installed computers and filing cabinets for everything from volunteer lists to period recipes to scraps of fabric and wallpaper for costume design.

  “Is Dusty home?” he asked, scanning the room for traces of his sister.

  “She’s out with Chase,” Mom said with a distracted air, keeping her eyes focused on her eighteen-inch computer screen in the center of her antique oak rolltop desk. Dusty’s netbook was missing from the smaller writing desk in the far corner.

  In other words, Dusty had not come home from work before meeting Chase. Where could they be? When Dick had last seen Chase, he’d been near to falling over with exhaustion after the accident and related paperwork.

  “What do you need?” Mom still didn’t look up from her database. It looked like a list of volunteers with dates of enrollment, last duties, and skill sets.

  “We wanted to tell you something important, and thought it would be nice if Dusty were here, too,” Thistle said. She stepped across the threshold and the computer images tilted sideways before flashing solid blue and then into pure static.

  “Damn. It crashed before I could save it.” Mom finally looked up, blinking rapidly as she changed her focus.

  “That’s one way to get her attention,” Dick muttered. Then he took a deep steadying breath. “Thistle and I are getting married.”

  “Oh?” Mom’s eyes opened wide. “Do I need to shift directions and plan a double wedding?”

  Dick could almost see the wheels of calculation spinning behind her eyes.

  “Can we do that?” Thistle asked.

  “We could, but… Dusty deserves her own special day with a church and big reception and the entire town in attendance. We don’t want to steal any attention from her. And we don’t want to wait,” Dick asserted. He knew his mother and her manipulations. She’d try to get Thistle into one of those godawful Elizabethan gowns if she could. His Thistle deserved to pick out her own dress, something soft and light and floating around her as she walked.

  “We don’t want to wait,” Thistle echoed. She took his hand and stepped closer.

  He bent his head to brush her lips with his own. His blood sang in anticipation.

  “I suppose then you’ll be moving into Mabel’s house with her,” Mom sighed deeply, as if such an act would break her heart.

  “No,” Thistle answered. “We’ve decided to wait for that, too. I’ll be staying at Mabel’s house on my own until the wedding.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Mom rolled her oak chair back and stood up. “I’ll call your father and see when he can get away from his classes. He should attend his own son’s wedding.” She stood a moment in hesitation.

  Her gaze lingered on Thistle, weighing, assessing, as if measuring her for her dress, or a coffin. “I have something for you,” she said as if making a life or death decision.

  “Benedict, your great-grandmother left a ring to be passed down to the brides in the family. I don’t remember why exactly I didn’t get it from your grandmother. Probably because she was still wearing it when your father and I got married. Then Desdemona went ahead and accepted that pitiful little diamond from Chase before your father and I came home from England.” Mom crouched down and unlocked the bottom left-hand drawer of the desk. She withdrew a maroon velvet box, about the size of a hardback book, cradling it in her arms as if she held her first grandchild.

  “I’ve never seen that box before, Mom,” Dick said. His heart pounded hard in his chest. Suddenly he felt too small for the emotions pouring through him. A bit of awe topped them all.

  “No reason you should see it. These are literally the family jewels. Not many left. Your father and I sold a couple of pieces to pay for your sister’s cancer treatments. Insurance didn’t cover everything. I think the ruby choker from 1898 paid for new drains and a sump pump after the floods of 1996. Insurance didn’t even try to cover it.”

  With the box carefully centered on the desktop, Mom opened the lid slowly, peeking in to make sure nothing else had disappeared since the last time she’d looked. Satisfied, she let the top fold back to reveal some scattered pieces of glittering jewels. Centermost, in the place of honor, sat a purple ring.

  “Five top-grade round cut amethysts, totaling one half carat around a blue-white diamond of another half carat in weight, set in white gold,” Mom said on a sigh. She fingered the stones gently before plucking the ring out of the crease in the lining that held it snugly upright. “You’ll probably have to have it resized. Thistle has long, slender fingers. Your grandmother had short, fat ones.” That sounded almost like a curse, or an accusation of totally uncivilized behavior.

  Thistle’s eyes went wide in wonder. She bit her bottom lip. “It’s too wonderful. I shouldn’t… I can’t…”

  “Of course you can, dear. Benedict loves you. That makes you more than worthy of wearing this ring until you pass it on to your children.” Closing her eyes, she handed the ring to Dick. “Do it right, son. Down on one knee and ask properly. But if you should break up, the ring comes back. It’s part of the family.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Grinning, his heart beating loudly in his ears, he dropped into the required pose and held the ring up to the love of his life. His one, true love. Thi
stle Down.

  “Desdemona, when you get to work, could you email me the most recent volunteer roster from the Masque Ball? My computer crashed last night and I’ve lost some data.”

  Dusty looked up from the complex schedule of school tours and teacher in-service classes at the museum starting next week, and pushed her glasses firmly up to the bridge of her nose. “Um, sure, Mom. What do you need it for? I suppose it is never too late to start work on next year’s fund-raiser.”

  “Actually, I was thinking that when Mabel Gardiner comes home from the hospital, she’s going to need help. I’ve downloaded a stack of low-salt, reduced-fat recipes. I thought, if each of the volunteers makes one dish and puts it in Mabel’s freezer, she won’t have to expend vital energy cooking.”

  “That’s a really nice thought, Mom. I’ll email you the list. But you know not everyone on the list can cook.” She was thinking of Marguerite Vollans, a new bride who had never boiled an egg before marrying the sous chef at the country club. He did all the cooking for them.

  “There is that. Well, maybe Marguerite and some of her friends can take turns dusting and vacuuming. These old houses generate a lot of dust.”

  Mom leaned into the freezer section of the refrigerator. “I’d better take something over to Thistle while she’s house-sitting for Mabel. Sometimes I swear that girl was raised by wolves in the forest. She has no concept of how to take care of herself.”

  Too close to the truth for comfort. “I know, Mom.” Dusty and Dick had concocted a story that should explain everything.

  “Actually Thistle’s family moved away from Skene Falls to join a cult when she was in grade school. She escaped an abusive situation with only the clothes on her back. She had no ID, no money, nothing. She doesn’t even know if she has a birth certificate or where to look for one.” Her glasses slid down again as she closed her netbook and prepared to leave.

  “Oh, dear. No birth certificate will complicate things when she and Benedict apply for a marriage license. I hate to think what kind of brainwashing she endured. Doubtless they thought women should be barefoot and pregnant and that learning to read was a waste of time. You and Dick did a good thing giving her shelter and helping her get back on her feet. And now she’s going to really be part of the family.”

  Mom didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect. “You are all growing up and getting ready to flee the nest. I don’t know what I’ll do when I’m alone…”

  “It’s not like either of us is moving across country when we get married. We’ll stay in town,” Dusty reassured her mother.

  Dick had told Dusty about the marriage when she crept up the back stairs late last night. They’d hugged and laughed together, and talked for quite a while about the joys of being in love.

  “Yes, of course.” Mom brightened a little. “I’m glad Dick and Thistle are getting married. I look forward to grandchildren.” She looked away from Dusty rapidly, suddenly aware of her faux pas.

  Chemotherapy had saved Dusty’s life, but robbed her of the ability to bear children. Thistle was Mom’s only hope of grandchildren of her own bloodline.

  “Thanks, Mom, for thinking of Mabel,” Dusty said, desperately searching for a change of subject. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the help, even if she does insist she can take care of herself. I’ve got to run. I’ll send you the email as soon as I get to work.” Glasses settled back where they belonged, she gathered her belongings.

  “Thank you. Oh, and don’t forget your fitting with the modiste at five. If we want your wedding gown done on time, we have to keep our regular appointments with Abigail. Benedict won’t hear of having a custom-made dress for their quickie wedding. So you are my only chance to plan the most beautiful and proper wedding this town has ever seen.”

  Dusty rolled her eyes and wondered just how she was going to deal with her mother’s plans for the most garish and inappropriate wedding the state had ever seen.

  Twelve

  “WHAT IS SO IMPORTANT that you pulled me out of a board meeting?” Phelma Jo demanded of her office manager.

  The middle-aged woman who had kept the real estate brokerage running smoothly for five years nodded discreetly to a gaunt man in his mid-forties who looked like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He sat in an exhausted slump in one of the more comfortable client chairs behind the glass partition of Phelma Jo’s office.

  “Oh.” She marched across the suddenly subdued office that took up the entire fifth floor of a prestigious new building strategically placed at the northern edge of town. She’d built her offices here to attract both local and incoming business from the larger cities in Portland’s urban sprawl.

  The elegant glass-and-steel structure occupied the same block as the tumbledown four-room shack her mother had rented while Phelma Jo was young. She’d run the bulldozer herself when it came time to demolish the shack.

  “Get back to work,” she snarled at the real estate agents, accountants, and paralegals scattered about the busy room. She shut the glass door behind her carefully, making no noise other than the obvious click of the lock engaging. Then she reached for the sound system and turned up the light jazz filtering from speakers throughout the floor. If anyone dared listen in, they’d get more static than conversation.

  “I told you never to come here, Marcus,” she said quietly, taking her high-backed throne of a chair behind the pristine glass desktop.

  “This is an emergency,” he replied, studying his hands as if the care lines were a map to hidden treasure. Or relief from his onerous caseload.

  “What kind of emergency?”

  He pulled a fat file folder from beneath his winter coat draped over the companion chair. He must have intended it to remain hidden because Phelma Jo hadn’t noticed it and she always looked for a telltale folder of some kind when Marcus Wallachek contacted her.

  She flipped open the manila cover and gazed at the once plump, now pinched face of a young girl. The despair in her dull eyes tugged at her heart. Fifteen years ago, this could have been Phelma Jo. Back then, social worker Marcus Wallachek hadn’t the resources Phelma Jo could now give him.

  Phelma Jo Nelson had to rescue herself, with Mabel’s guidance, from the state and county Child Services Division when the system broke down and she fell through the cracks.

  Since meeting Ian, she’d begun thinking about children of her own. Not part of her business plan until now. She made a mental note to draw up a prenuptial agreement and a will declaring a legal guardian for any children they might have together, someone they both trusted to care for the little ones so they were never subjected to the vagaries of the “protective” services of the state that sometimes set up abuse rather than eliminate it.

  Her manicured fingertip tracked down the page for vital statistics. “She’s sixteen and still in the seventh grade?”

  “No support at home, malnutrition, borderline fetal alcohol syndrome….” Marcus trailed off a familiar list of excuses.

  “An IQ of eighty-seven. Can she read?”

  “Some, way below age and grade level. Again, she didn’t get tutoring early on. Her mother insisted upon homeschooling her until she was ten. She thinks the public school system is evil incarnate more likely to teach her precious baby how to rob a bank than earn a living. When the girl failed every one of her state mandated tests, the Court ordered her into public school. She’s been playing catch-up ever since.”

  “I see a history of short-term foster care,” Phelma Jo said hopefully. She’d had a few good foster families while her mother’s boyfriend was in jail awaiting trial for sexual abuse of a minor. Her mother had checked into rehab for the duration so that she wouldn’t have to think about the scandal. The majority of those who took in foster children were truly nurturing and cared about their charges.

  Most of them, not all. Phelma Jo wasn’t going to take any chances with her own children, if she bore any, or adopted several.

  “You’ll also note that the mother has sued the state five
times for racial discrimination whenever the girl went into foster care—even overnight while the mother was arrested for drunk and disorderly.”

  Phelma Jo skimmed several pages until she found the report. The mother claimed one eighth Native American heritage. It could just as easily be Latina, African, or Mediterranean since she mentioned no tribal affiliation. The little girl—Phelma Jo preferred to keep these cases anonymous—had been found wandering the traffic lanes of a busy highway outside a bar in the middle of the day. The arresting officers hadn’t thought to look for a child left outside the bar when they hauled the mother off to jail. A schoolteacher on lunch break found the child and called Children’s Services. A formal complaint against the teacher had been filed for “disrupting the cultural imperative of deep poverty.”

  “This is nonsense!” Phelma Jo almost screamed.

  “Of course it is. All of it is. But the mother has made such a nuisance of these lawsuits that overworked and understaffed Social Services decided not to push her.”

  Phelma Jo wiped sweat off her brow in growing agitation.

  “Okay, where is the child now?”

  “In my office, where I left her after a trip to the emergency room. With Mabel Gardiner in the hospital, I had nowhere else to hide her. You did hear about Mabel?”

  Phelma Jo nodded briefly. She’d been with Ian when he got the call.

  Growing dread left a lump in Phelma Jo’s gut. Her last cup of coffee wanted a rapid exit upward. She swallowed it back and asked the next question. “What brought the girl into foster care this time?”

  “The girl stayed home from school for eight days, because her mother was too drunk to be left alone. She choked on her own vomit three times. The last two of those eight days had essential testing scheduled. I got called by her teacher and went looking. I couldn’t place her in foster care myself, because I got called home on a family emergency. My youngest boy had a burst appendix.”