Tales of the Witch

by Angela Zeman

  B.J.’s wife, Joyce, reminded him of it over the dinner she’d thrown together after a long fruitless day of staring at the typewriter. Joyce, a short pallid blonde with protuberant bones, was a novelist-to-be.

  “You can be in charge of tomorrow night’s dinner, if you think you can do better on our budget,” she snarled as she watched her husband poke at the green coated pasta with a fork.

  In all fairness to Joyce, B.J. had begun the evening with the news that things at his office had progressed…or rather, declined…to the disastrous point where B.J. and Joyce must soon file for personal bankruptcy. His income had been failing to cover more than a fraction of his base pay for too long. That morning, his manager had declared that by the end of the month, B.J. must repay the now astronomical total of sums the firm had been steadily advancing him against future earnings. Unless B.J. could come up with some amazingly profitable new accounts in record time… B.J.’s silence when he reached that point in his speech revealed how hopeless he felt his prospects were.

  Joyce, eyes hot with bitter tears, had said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, you stupid jerk, but doesn’t filing for bankruptcy mean you can never work as a stockbroker again?”

  B.J. felt tears creep into his own eyes as he had to nod, yes.

  “And of course,” Joyce’s tone was now leaden with sarcasm, “you have absolutely no clue how to work at any other profession. Right? RIGHT?!”

  Again, B.J. could only nod.

  Joyce’s thoughts appeared to choke her for some moments. Then she managed to ask, “And that stupid stock market research newsletter you waste your working hours writing every day? The one you promised was going to make you famous and us rich. How many subscriptions have you gotten for that?”

  B.J. hurriedly shoveled a largish amount of pasta into his mouth and struggled to smile as he chewed. And chewed. After he swallowed, he said, “Honey, you know yourself how tough it is to launch yourself as a writer. It’s the same in getting recognition as a stock market expert.”

  “Expert, my butt! You can’t even scrape together enough money to buy us decent food. Renee, down the hall, eats better than we do, and she makes minimum wage.”

  “Renee works in a restaurant. She brings leftovers home in her handbag. Maybe if you got a part time job—”

  She interrupted venomously. “Maybe that stupid cat picture upstairs is worth some money. SHE isn’t coming back for it. Even if we could find a buyer, the proceeds would probably cover only a fast food meal, but anything’s better than starving.”

  She screwed up her mouth at him, making a kissing noise, and whined, “One last meal before being thrown out on the street, huh, please, B.J.?” She threw her fork at him.

  B.J. recoiled. “I forgot all about that.” He stared at his wife, suddenly anxious. “You haven’t touched it, have you?”

  “Who has the time? I work longer hours than you do, and I don’t have a secretary to help me. Even with her help you’ve failed because you wasted time catering to old bags like Naomi Bachrach. It should be a relief to you that she finally kicked off. Honestly, B.J., my dream means nothing to you. How are we going to live until I make it big?!” She let out a sob.

  “I take it this means you still refuse to get a paying job,” he began stiffly, but Joyce had already moved on to her next thought, which was, “Wonder what that picture is, exactly?”

  Joyce rushed upstairs. B.J. sprinted anxiously behind. On her knees, scrabbling under the unkempt bedclothes, panting as she tugged out the heavy parcel, Joyce ripped away the wrapping. B.J. hovered, arms outstretched as if to protect the painting from his wife…until he saw what it was.

  Joyce sucked in her breath.

  B.J. whimpered, “My God.”

  She lurched to her feet and dropped it onto the bed.

  He gasped. “I’m glad we didn’t look before. I would never have slept, knowing what it was!”

  “What is it, though?” breathed Joyce.

  “It looks like a collage of oil sketches. Not a proper painting, but studies. Elaborate sketches of different poses for…it looks like…the Mona Lisa! He probably picked the one he liked, then painted her that way, full size, on a separate canvas. Artists do that a lot.”

  “Is it real?”

  “Why would Mrs. Bachrach bother with something like this if it weren’t real? In fact, she probably never bought this. She only cared about cats, she wouldn’t have bought anything unless it had a cat in it. I bet it belonged to her husband. He was an antiques dealer.”

  “Oh, what do you know. Good ol’ B.J., expert bullshit artist and time waster,” Joyce sneered.

  B.J.’s excitement cooled. “Doesn’t matter what I think, anyway. It isn’t ours. It goes into her estate.”

  Joyce studied her husband. After a minute, she stalked out of the bedroom, returning to her cold dinner. They said nothing to each other for the rest of the night.

  Two bleak weeks passed, and then B.J. received a visit from a neatly groomed young man, a lawyer, the executor of Mrs. Bachrach’s estate. He was the youngest son of her deceased husband’s best friend, as it turned out, and, like B.J., remembered the old lady fondly.

  “Do you know who inherits it all?” he said, after introductions and some tender sentiments had produced a companionable atmosphere. “Some ‘Sams’ character who runs a cat hospital out in Queens.”

  “The vet?” B.J. was at first startled, although on reflection, it didn’t seem so odd. “She did admire his work. I remember her saying she wished she’d been a vet like him.”

  “He’s a vet, all right,” growled the freckled young man, whose name was Brian McKee. “A veteran of the correspondence school for con artists and conscienceless rats.”

  B.J. blinked.

  “I went to his place to inform him about being her beneficiary. Turned out, he’d been waiting for me. The cruise people had notified him of her death already. She’d left her cats with him and had given his name to the travel agency in case of emergency. Her bequest was intended to finance her cats’ permanent care, to refurbish his hospital, and to establish a fund for any stray cats he might run across. She evidently envisioned him as some sort of General of a Feline Salvation Army. Hmmph! Well, you’ll meet him. He wants all the stocks and whatever else is in her account to be liquidated.”

  “He’ll have forms to fill out.”

  “He expects that. He said he intends selling everything of hers—her house, furniture…” Brian looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Should’ve seen his ‘hospital.’ Every animal there’ll be lucky to see next Christmas, unless they can survive filth. Her will said she wants her money to be used to help as many ‘unfortunate dears’ as possible—her exact words. Well, if they weren’t unfortunate before, they will be after he takes them in. If he bothers.”

  “You seem pretty sure of this,” ventured B.J. uncomfortably. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “Like what? She had no family. Who’s to object?”

  After some silence, B.J. asked, remembering the painting, “Did she, uh, leave anything else besides her house, furniture, and uh, stock account?”

  “Well, she’d been reputed to possess a small collection of paintings.”

  “Wh-what do you mean, reputed?”

  “Well, they were listed in her will. But when I went to inspect her house, none could be found. After wasting a few days trying to track them down, I asked Sams if he knew anything about them. He got this peculiar look on his face, so I prodded. He admitted she’d been selling them off one by one and giving him the proceeds. I tell you, if I’d been an heir, I’d have taken him to court so fast—well, let’s just say he didn’t impress me as an upright citizen. Maybe it was the way he grinned while he told me about it. I asked him what he’d spent the money on, obviously it wasn’t on that ramshackle hospital. He told me—snickering, if you can believe it—‘Emergencies.’

  Right then, B.J. opened his mouth to tell Brian about the painting in his possession. Bu
t Brian chose that same moment to look him in the eye and, after swallowing hard from emotion, say, “She thought you were the best. At our yearly meetings to discuss her will, she always mentioned you, how kind you were, listening to her ramble on over the phone when she was lonely. She knew her business wasn’t profitable enough to get that kind of attention from you. She thought of you as her closest friend, not just her broker.”

  He reddened and went on in a lower voice. “I wish I could say the same for myself. I liked her, but I have to admit, when she’d go on and on about all that cat stuff—I cut her off, more often than not. I—I feel partly to blame that she got taken in by that weasel vet. Maybe if I’d listened better, I might’ve figured out Sams’ game. Warned her. It burns me to think of him living the good life with her money. Her house was full of antiques that’ll bring in a good amount. Those cats she loved will never benefit from one penny! Maybe it was a mercy she died not knowing. Well.” He subsided, blinking morosely.

  When Brian left, they clasped hands tightly, bonded in mutual hatred of Dr. Sams and affection for poor, kindly, deluded Mrs. Bachrach. It was only some moments later that B.J. realized he hadn’t mentioned the painting in his possession. He sat staring at Brian’s card for some minutes, but eventually only dropped it into his top desk drawer.

  That night, after B.J. shared Brian’s news with Joyce, they picked at their watery spaghetti in an atmosphere that had been growing more hostile each day since the uncovering of Mrs. Bachrach’s painting…and of their need to declare bankruptcy.

  A few days ago, Joyce had dusted the painting and propped it against the wall where a fireplace would’ve been, if they could’ve afforded an apartment with a fireplace. Its presence in the living room didn’t improve matters. It was with icily polite murmurs that he and Joyce went up to bed—together but separate.

  Minutes lengthened into hours. B.J. couldn’t sleep. He tossed and squirmed on his side of the bed, unable to push Brian’s conversation from his mind. He wished he’d asked Brian how many paintings Mrs. Bachrach had owned before selling them. He remembered her calling the one he now had her ‘last little picture.’ He wondered how many thousands of her dollars Dr. Sams had squandered, and what he’d spent them on. Women, probably. Luscious food. Women… Food…

  He’d just begun drifting off to sleep, with yowls of starving kitties creeping into his dreams, when a sharp noise from downstairs woke him.

  He bolted upright in the bed. After hearing another muted bump, he woke Joyce by clamping her mouth shut with his hand. Her eyes flashed open and she stared up at him in astonished fury. When another thud from downstairs brought knowledge and tension into her gaze, he lifted his hand away.

  After two or three deep breaths that were meant to be calming, B.J. tiptoed down the carpeted stairs. Light from a streetlamp filtered through the thin living room curtains to reveal a stodgy figure wearing a stocking mask. He was holding Mrs. Bachrach’s painting up to the faint light as if trying to make out details.

  In spite of his panic, B.J. noted that the man was grasping the painting with both hands—not surprisingly, as the ornately framed piece was heavy. Realizing that if the intruder had a gun, it at least wasn’t in his hands, B.J. flipped on the overhead light—and met Joe Alvione. A slightly huffy Joe Alvione, after he got over his fright.

  “You coulda’ give me a stroke, you moron, sneakin’ up on me! Christ!” Joe lowered the painting gingerly to the ground. Within seconds, the two men were grappling on the carpet, grunting with exertion, and bumping painfully into furniture legs.

  “Stop it! Stop it!” came a piercing shriek.

  Both men paused to look up. Joyce hovered over them. Poised high to smash a head—or both heads, B.J. wasn’t sure which—was a steel-shafted number-one wood golf club gripped in white-knuckled hands. The expression on Joyce’s face brought them scrambling to their feet.

  Joe lifted shaking hands and began backing away. “Now, missus…”

  “Stop right there!” she screamed.

  He stopped.

  “Now—now, calm down, darling,” begged B.J. in a quavery voice.

  “Shut up!”

  He blinked and his mouth slowly shut.

  A glint entered Joe’s eyes. Without permission he lowered his hands and slowly straightened himself.

  Joyce hissed at Joe. “Take off the mask!”

  “Aw, now, missus,” whined Joe.

  “DO IT!”

  He whipped the stocking from his face.

  “You looked better with it on,” she sneered.

  Joe whistled softly. “A firebreather.” He glanced sympathetically at B.J.

  “What’s your name?” asked B.J., trying to appear as if he were in charge.

  Joe sighed. “Guess you could ID me, anyway.” He told them his name. “And I got no gun on me, so you can relax, lady. A piece means extra time, an’ I ain’t stupid. Wanta search to make sure, be my guest.” He lifted his arms invitingly away from his portly figure. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt, baggy green work pants, and pristine white sneakers with the words, ‘cross-trainer,’ printed across the tongues. He looked like a grocer. “Give the club a rest, lady. Believe me, I’ll stay put. I don’t want you making no pumpkin pie outta my skull.”

  Joyce lowered the club slowly. B.J. relaxed slightly and gave Joe a covert grimace of gratitude.

  “So,” began Joe. “Where’d a couple a’ losers like you pick up a hot item like that? Izzit for real?”

  Joyce bristled. “Who’s a loser!”

  Joe slid his eyes around the room in a pointedly appraising scan of their living quarters, but wisely declined to answer.

  B.J. examined their crook doubtfully. “Are you an—an art thief, Joe?”

  Joe shot him a sarcastic look. “If I was, I wouldn’t be here, would I? Hey, I know my limitations, but I ain’t lived my life in a brown paper bag. The Mona Lisa ain’t izzackly an obscure hunk a’ art.”

  Joyce lifted a haughty eyebrow. “The painting’s ours. We inherited it.”

  Joe’s mouth twisted. “Save it, Missus. That item’s so hot it burnt my fingers just holding it.”

  Joyce’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Joe, but he stared back, undaunted.

  Joyce swiveled her gaze speculatively towards B.J. At that moment he could feel the painting turning ‘hot’ just as if Joyce had grabbed it and run with it out the front door—and she hadn’t moved.

  His head began to move involuntarily from side to side. “No, Joyce,” said B.J. “Nuh-uh.”

  She interrupted. “Do you—would you happen to know where a painting like this could be sold, Mr. Alvione?”

  Joe crossed his arms. “Oh, it’s ‘Mr. Alvione,’ is it?” He shrugged. “Could be. Could be I could think better if that golf club was put away somewheres.”

  Joyce flung it across the room where it smashed into a lamp. Joyce ignored the crash. “Would you like some coffee, Mr. Alvione?”

  Joe glanced shrewdly at B.J. “Her coffee worth drinking?”

  B.J. shook his head, hardly realizing what he was doing.

  “B.J.!” snarled his wife.

  “You better make it,” commanded Joe. B.J. left the room in a daze.

  When he returned, tray in hand with three steaming cups of coffee, Joe had made himself comfortable in B.J.’s favorite chair. Joyce was just finishing sweeping away the pieces of glass from the broken lamp. He handed cups around, feeling like Alice at the Queen’s tea party, his head hunched down between his shoulders in anticipation of the ax.

  Without consulting B.J., Joyce and Joe reached an agreement on percentages. Since Joyce was understandably reluctant to allow Joe to take the painting with him to show to a certain big time art fence he said he had in mind, Joyce took some photos of it in different lights and angles. Joe departed with the film, promising to call in a few days.

  B.J. went to work the next morning, but felt engulfed in a fog, hardly aware of his own actions—a feeling he began to get used to as day foll
owed day.

  Joe returned as promised, a deal was confirmed, and the painting was exchanged for a certain amount of money four days later. To B.J. it seemed a shockingly enormous amount of money, even after Joe’s cut.

  To B.J.’s surprise, Joyce immediately handed a large portion of it to B.J. and told him in snarling tones what she wanted done with it. He obeyed. The next day he paid back in full the deficit he owed his brokerage firm, eliminating their immediate need to file for bankruptcy.

  The atmosphere at home became kinder when the painting left their living room and the threat of bankruptcy left their lives. Joyce began consulting a cookbook and elevated the quality of their diet, and also began initiating a few activities in bed that B.J. had nearly forgotten existed. B.J. perked up at these benefits, and eventually formed the useful habit of repeating to himself Brian’s comments about the infamous Dr. Sams whenever guilt threatened his growing complacency.

  Then Lady Luck, always capricious, turned her attention to the Maxwells.

  First, B.J. sold an article to a prestigious financial newspaper. Soon after, to his astonishment, they asked for two more. After he delivered those, his editor proposed a lucrative contract for a weekly column, promising that he could advertise his market advice newsletter in the column. A few months later, B.J.’s column became syndicated across the nation and his newsletter came hotly in demand. In short, B.J. was a success.

  Then, to B.J.’s even greater astonishment, Joyce sold her book. B.J. had no clue to the book’s contents, but whatever they were, the publishing company promised big things for this new author, hereby known as Joyce Throughfro Maxwell. Throughfro was Joyce’s maiden name, which she now claimed she’d always regretted forsaking at marriage because it sounded so literary, so her. (B.J. wondered if his mind was tricking him—he recalled only how she’d leaped at the chance to dump it.)

  But then, B.J.’s mind was becoming busier and busier these days.

  … The problem was, Your Honor…

  B.J. began having frequent mental conversations with the judge who would preside over his arraignment. In his mind, he framed excuses that would be so persuasive, so heartrending, that he’d be let off with a warning never to do it again, which B.J. fervently promised—every single time he ran through the imaginary legal proceedings in his head. At least three times a day.