Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles

by Irene Radford

  “I’ve just come from the courthouse where I found out that Thistle and I can’t get a marriage license anywhere in the country without ID.”

  “And Thistle has none. Technically, she doesn’t exist,” Chase finished the thought for him.

  “Another of Peter Pan’s lost children,” Dick muttered. He and Chase had played Peter Pan in The Ten Acre Wood when they were six, taking turns with the Captain Hook role. Thistle made an admirable Tinker Bell substitute, keeping her own name because Tink was really a Faery—the enemy of Pixies.

  “I gave Mom the spiel about Thistle being raised in a cult,” Dusty said. “Can you use that to get around it?”

  “No. They’d still want some kind of documentation that she was born in this country. It’s worse than an illegal immigrant. At least they have birth records in their home country.”

  “As a duly sworn officer of the court, I can’t help you,” Chase said. At the same time he pulled his little notebook out of his shirt pocket, tore out a blank page, and began writing something in his slanted but neat all caps printing. He’d always had neat handwriting, even in third grade, because it was easier to keep track of details.

  “Now there’s a guy in Portland supplying fake IDs to migrant workers; he’s so good the INS has been trying to shut him down for ten years.” Chase finished writing and just tapped his pencil on the paper a moment. “If I knew how to find him, I’d have him behind bars.”

  “What makes this guy so good?”

  “Don’t know. The last border official I talked to suspected he also supplies papers to the Russian Mafia. Me, I just think he’s a talented computer hacker with a huge database of infant deaths. See, he orders copies of the birth certificate when an infant dies. Then when someone needs official papers, he’s got matches from all over the country of age, gender, and ethnicity.”

  “What about social security numbers?” Dick asked, suddenly very interested in the piece of paper Chase was folding into neat quarters.

  Dusty kept her eyes on the paper, like she didn’t know what her fiancé had written. Dick was willing to bet she did.

  “Most cases, anyone under twenty has a number issued at birth. But if the baby dies, sometimes the paperwork doesn’t get completed. Those are the ones our ID guru wants.”

  “How do you explain to Social Security an adult who doesn’t have a number?”

  “The usual. Parents were missionaries or diplomats, and the kid was raised overseas. Now the parents have died in the latest insurrection or Ebola outbreak. Paperwork is a mess; kid can’t find any records but the birth certificate. Your cult story also works. No modern conveniences, brainwashing, and no records for the evil IRS or ATF officials to audit.”

  “Living overseas would explain any accent,” Dick mused. Ideas stumbled around his mind refusing to coalesce.

  “Right on.” Chase made a mock pistol of his fingers and pretended to shoot. With his other hand he slid the paper beneath Dick’s fingers. Then he gulped his last swallow of coffee and pushed his chair away from the table. “Gotta get back to work. See you tonight, Dusty?”

  “Yes. I’ll meet you about six. We can have dinner and then go visit Mabel.”

  “Is Mabel better?” Dick asked. He itched to look at the paper. A warning headshake from Chase made him put it into his inner suit jacket pocket.

  “She’s out of intensive care,” Dusty said.

  “Give her my best. I’ve got to run, too. You, baby sister, can get back to your potsherds and restoring antique underwear, or whatever it is you do when you don’t have any tours.”

  “Paperwork and bookkeeping. Endless piles of paperwork and bookkeeping,” she grunted. “I may clean and classify two Russian pots just to relax before my appointment with the dressmaker at five.”

  “Do that.” Dick exited in Chase’s wake. His hand reached for the folded paper before he’d cleared the parlor.

  “Wait to read that until I am no longer in sight or hearing. I need deniability, so you might burn it as well.” Chase hastened out the door and around the corner toward the broad cement steps that led down the cliff to downtown.

  Dick waited until he was inside his car, the doors closed and locked, the engine idling, and the radio blasting before succumbing to the temptation of the paper.

  He expected a name and number in Portland.

  He never dreamed he’d read the few words Chase had written.

  Phelma Jo helps teenagers hide from abusive parents and foster care.

  Sixteen

  “WELL IT’S ABOUT TIME ONE OF YOU showed up in my garden,” Juliet said on a huff. She planted her hands on her hips and stared unblinking at Chicory.

  “Um… you know about us?” He backed off, finding her big blue eyes beneath her reddish-blonde curls a bit too much to take in all at once. He’d heard people in town comparing her to a Queen Elizabeth I, in coloring and temperament. She certainly carried authority in that gaze.

  “Of course I know about Pixies. I’ve been friends with Mabel Gardiner and Pamela Shiregrove for too long not to suspect something strange kept their gardens more spectacular than everyone else’s. More spectacular than mine. It just took a little investigation to find you.” Juliet held her palm flat beneath Chicory in invitation.

  Cautiously he dropped his feet onto her hand, keeping his wings ready to flit off again at the first sign of danger.

  “What is your name, young man?” Juliet asked. She didn’t move, didn’t threaten in any way.

  Chicory relaxed a little. He reached up to doff his blue blossom hat to her as he bowed and realized he had none. He completed the bow anyway. “Chicory, ma’am. At your service.”

  “Chicory, heah. That’s a mighty pretty flower I haven’t been able to grow. It prefers ditches to my garden.”

  “That’s because you haven’t dug deep enough for the roots. I can help you get most anything to bloom bigger and better. Me and my tribe that is. If you let us stay.”

  “That’s a nice offer, but I already grow award-winning flowers.”

  “Not as many awards as Mabel or Pamela Shiregrove. And not for your roses. Only for your gillyflowers.” Oh, Chicory knew all about the rivalry among these women. His years of spying for Mabel had taught him a lot.

  Juliet stiffened and started to close her fingers into a fist. Her eyes focused elsewhere and a frown deepened the lines on either side of her mouth. Chicory rose up to the level of her nose.

  Instantly, she opened her fingers. “I can see some advantages. What else can you give me in return for access to my garden?”

  “We actually need a bit more than that.” Chicory put on his most winsome smile, the one that always convinced Mabel to give him an extra drop or two of honey.

  “What is that, young man?”

  “Shelter. Winter is coming fast and we won’t survive long exposed to the weather.”

  “What kind of shelter?”

  “Someplace warm and dry that marauding cats can’t get into.”

  “There’s a big basement…”

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but basements are underground. That will kill us all within a day.”

  “How about the attic? There are vents up there so you can come and go as you need without bothering me to open a door or window for you.”

  “That would be perfect, ma’am.”

  “My name is Juliet. You may use it.”

  Chicory bowed again, remembering only at the last minute that he didn’t have a cap to doff.

  “However, you are asking a lot from me. I store a lot of valuable antiques up there. I can’t have you and your people wiping your muddy boots on them. And shelter inside a home makes you renters of a kind.”

  “Um… you know that Mabel always knew everything about everyone and how to find them in an instant.”

  “Ye—es.”

  “How do you think she did that?”

  Juliet raised her eyebrows while her eyes flitted right and left. “You. You and your people?”

 
; Chicory bowed again, willing to take full credit for the work of an entire tribe, plus the half-wild ones who lived beyond the iron fence.

  “Well, then. Come in and bring your… er… friends.”

  “Tribe, Juliet. They are my tribe. More than a family. The best friends a Pixie can have, other than special humans.” He gave her a wink, secretly inviting her into his tribe.

  “I’ll make tea and we’ll discuss this.”

  “With honey?” Chicory asked hopefully.

  “Only a drop. I’ve heard that Pixies get drunk on honey.”

  “Does Thistle Down get drunk on honey now that she’s human?” Chicory clamped his hand over his mouth, afraid more secrets would spill forth.

  “Thistle, hmmm. That would explain a lot.” Juliet tapped her foot. “Thistle was a Pixie and is now human.”

  Chicory nodded his head reluctantly, unable to lie but not quite up to speaking more truth.

  “I wonder what the Bard would do with that scenario.” She smiled hugely. “Well, come in. Come in all of you. We have things to discuss over tea. But no honey. I need you sober so you can scout out some people for me.”

  “Who would that be?” Chicory waved to Daisy who peered between the loose slats, eavesdropping shamelessly.

  His tribe emerged in a flock to swoop happily toward the shelter Juliet offered.

  “I need to know what my daughter is up to and why she’s running away from her wedding.”

  Dusty walked softly down the cardiac care corridor of Mercy Hospital alone. Dick had begged off, something about another car accident. If they went to dinner, it would be after visiting hours at the hospital were over.

  She buried her nose in the simple bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath. She didn’t like the scent of fear that overlaid the pervasive odor of disinfectant.

  Sharp reminders of the weeks and months she’d spent in the hospital as a child. Endless nights spent alone with humming equipment and nurses just out of reach, her family gone home.

  She remembered pain, fatigue to the point of nausea, and fear that kept her immobile. She remembered loneliness. In a way, that had hurt more than all the other stuff, the knowledge that no matter how much she loved her family, and they loved her, they could not endure her cancer for her. She had to do it alone.

  If she could get out of this visit to the hospital, she would. But she owed Mabel the courtesy of a visit.

  She counted off the room numbers until she found 436 in the corner. The wide door—wide enough to accommodate portable beds, wheelchairs, and several staff—was propped open a couple of inches. Inside, a monitor beeped an uneven rhythm.

  Not good.

  “Mabel?” she asked cautiously as she knocked on the door.

  A rough mumble came from the fragile lump beneath the covers in the semi-darkened room.

  “Mabel, can I come in?”

  More mumbles that sounded almost affirmative came a little louder. Dusty decided to accept that as an invitation.

  “Hi, Mabel, I brought you some flowers.”

  “Didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know, Mabel, but I thought they might cheer you a bit.” Dusty placed the milk glass vase on the nightstand beside the bed.

  “Not from my yard.”

  “No, I bought them from Main Street Flowers. Mike Gianelli says ‘Hi’ by the way. It’s October and all the gardens are too soggy and past their prime to cut a decent bouquet.”

  “Gardens and Pixies go to sleep in winter. Is everyone okay at my house? Are the All Hallows decorations up? Will the parade go down Tenth Street this year?” A little animation lit Mabel’s wan and drawn face.

  She looked so wasted when just days ago she’d been plump and vibrant. Or was that months ago? Dusty thought hard, trying to remember when Mabel had last strode strongly around Skene Falls, confident and indestructible. Early last spring. By the Masque Ball in August she’d already shown signs of weight loss and a reduction in energy. The change had happened so gradually no one noticed.

  Except the Pixies. She remembered Chicory and his brothers arguing about whether Mabel was sick or not the night of the ball.

  “As far as I know, everyone at your house is well. Thistle is staying there, and Dick visits often. They set out the decorations yesterday afternoon. Dick did the talking tree. He and Thistle are engaged.”

  “Good. What about the Festival?”

  “Everything is on track. Though I wish Mom would shove some of her decorations over to your yard. She overdid it a bit.”

  “Only a bit?” They laughed together for a moment.

  “Your nephew wants to visit you,” Dusty said when she thought Mabel’s smile was firmly in place.

  “No.” The smile collapsed along with her posture. “Only you and Chase. You two are my heirs. Not him.”

  “As much as Chase and I appreciate your generosity, Mabel, it’s not fair to Ian. He’s your nephew. He only wants what’s best for you. You aren’t well. You’ll need help when you leave the hospital. You may not be able to live on your own anymore.”

  “I’m not alone. I’ve got my Pixies.”

  “Can Rosie or Chicory call nine-one-one if you fall or have another attack? Can they cook and clean for you? Or run to the pharmacy to refill your meds?”

  Mabel looked away rather than answer.

  “This is something you need to think about, Mabel.”

  “I have thought about it. I’ll die before I’ll go to one of those places. I want you and Chase to have the house. For a time anyway. I know it’s not big enough for a growing family.”

  “Mabel,” Dusty gulped back a lump that seemed permanently lodged in her throat. “Mabel, I can’t have children. The chemo stole that from me. Adoption is expensive. We’re going to have to wait to save up before we can afford children.” She fussed with getting her glasses back to the perfect place on the bridge of her nose to avoid showing her emotions.

  “Oh, I know all about that. Don’t worry, there are ways.” Mabel winked broadly, like she was letting Dusty into a big secret. A secret Dusty couldn’t figure out.

  “I figure if you live in my house rent free for a couple of years, you’ll be able to afford a nice place for yourselves and the children that come your way. Then the garden becomes a park and the house becomes a historical dwelling, part of the museum complex.” She paused to breathe and clear her throat. “You can add it back into the haunted house tour Sunday afternoon and evening if you want.”

  Alarmed at the turn of the conversation, Dusty offered Mabel the glass of water with the bent straw. Mabel drank greedily, as if those few sentences had parched her throat desert dry.

  “I’ve thought it out. You and Chase move into the house as soon as you get back from your honeymoon. Dick can afford to buy a house for him and Thistle.”

  This time her breath did not come back as easily. She persisted. Needing to say her piece.

  “But I don’t want the place empty for even a day before that. Mr. Ian McEwen will see that as an excuse to claim the place and sell it off to developers. Won’t have that. Don’t want anyone displacing my Pixies. He doesn’t believe, and he runs with a rough crowd.”

  “I checked the registry of Historic Homes. Ian can’t tear down the house. And unless he buys one of the adjacent houses, there is no access to the back lots. The land is worthless to a developer.”

  “Won’t stop him.”

  “Mabel, I’ve talked to Ian. He really does care about you. He just wants what is best for you.”

  “No, he doesn’t. He’s a greedy, money-grubbing bastard. Started when he was ten, taking up with a drug runner in The Ten Acre Wood. I put a stop to that in a hurry. Not in our Ten Acre Wood. His father was just as bad. Worse, maybe. Boy’s already tried to condemn the house twice because of cracks in the foundation. Rosie says there aren’t any cracks. She’d know.”

  Dusty wondered if she would. Foundations were underground and Pixies couldn’t go there. Even in human form, Thistle coul
dn’t—or wouldn’t—go into a basement.

  “Mabel, I wished you’d let Ian visit you here in the hospital. Ease his mind about your well-being.”

  “Nope. Only you and Chase. Don’t want to see anyone else, and I’ve told the nurses and hospital security no other visitors.” She clamped her mouth shut and rolled over to face the window, her skinny back to Dusty.

  Seventeen

  DUSTY SQUIRMED AS ABIGAIL, THE modiste, pinned a seam in the corset cover for her wedding garments.

  “Please, Miss Desdemona, you must stand still,” the woman said around a mouthful of pins. Her fake French accent took on overtones of Brooklyn with the impediment.

  The next pin pricked Dusty’s skin through many layers of handkerchief weight linen.

  “Ouch!” She batted Abigail’s hands away from the garment. A tiny dot of blood oozed through the surface of the corset cover.

  “Now, look what you’ve done, Desdemona,” her mother admonished. “If you’d just stand still, we could get this fitting finished and you could go back to your little hobby at the museum.”

  “Mom, my job is not a little hobby. I earned a Masters degree to get that job.”

  “But think of how much more you could do with that degree. You could teach! Imagine the joy of exposing fertile little minds to the wonders of history and literature. The years I taught school were among the best of my life.”

  “Mom, I am perfectly healthy now. I’ve been free of cancer for fifteen years. You could have gone back to teaching long ago if you really wanted to.” Dusty pushed back the little worm of guilt that she had been the reason her mother had to sacrifice her career.

  She’s manipulating me again. I won’t give in. I won’t. I can’t. If I give in now I’ll never be free of my past. I’ll always be Mom’s little lost child.

  “But Dr. Martin said you need checkups for the rest of your life…”

  “Checkups, not an invalid lifestyle. Not enough reason to keep you home.” Smothering me with your fears. Maybe Mom was truly the one who was running away and had become lost. Lost in a fantasy world.