Where There's a Witch

by Alt, Madelyn

  “I guess we’ll park . . . here,” I said, looping into a spot at the very end, which seemed easiest to manage. I had barely shifted the car into park before Tara was pushing against the back of Evie’s seat.

  “Come on, Evie!” She nudged the seat forward the teensiest bit again.

  “Hold on and let me get out of the way. Sheesh!” Evie waited, standing dutifully aside as Tara climbed out. “Wait, don’t you want your purse?”

  Tara shook her head. “Nah, it’ll just get in the way. I’ve got my cell and some cash in my pocket.”

  The two headed off like a shot toward where all the action was without even a wave or a backward glance, leaving me to shake my head after them. Ah, youth.

  Left by the wayside, I dislodged my purse from the floor behind the passenger seat, dropping my keys into its depths before reaching across the car to roll up the window to within four inches of the top to keep the heat outside from baking the interior, and lock the door. More from habit than because I honestly thought there was a chance anyone might be inspired to steal my beloved, if slightly ragtag, VW Bug. Outside I spritzed myself liberally with aerosol sunblock, then slung my bag over my shoulder and set off idly toward all of the activity myself.

  It was hotter than hot out. Hotter than Hades is what my Grandma Cora would have said with one of her trademark grim glances at the sky. The sun was beating down, the few clouds doing little to dispense it. I hurried over to where the tents were set up, not caring what entertainments would be found there so long as they were under cover. First things first: I found a frozen lemonade at a stand right by the edge of the parking lot and handed my money over with gratitude. It tasted a little too much like the kind of powdered lemonade you get out of a can, but the extra-large cup of smoothly ground ice was worth it. I sipped it slowly as I moved around the widespread gathering, indulging my favorite pastime of late: people watching.

  And there was plenty of it to be had. One thing about church functions that I always found intriguing was the fact that people remained their usual, stressed-out, over-the-top, unlovable selves, despite the churchy goings-on, which one would think would ensure everyone’s best behavior. Good, church-going families, all; and yet everywhere I turned, I saw more than one meltdown in progress. Some of them were even by the kiddos.

  Was it the heat that was fraying tempers all over town? Because it definitely seemed to be a trend on the upswing. Just yesterday morning on my way into work, two men at the gas station I’d stopped by had nearly come to blows in front of me. Not over the astronomically rising prices at the pump, but because one didn’t move his pickup out of the way fast enough to suit the other waiting his turn. And then there was the flustered call from my mom the day before. Seems she had gone to the grocery store only to witness a woman she knew from her own church group roughly handling her oldest daughter. A woman she had known for years to be the soul of grace and patience. Now, everyone knows that anybody can have a bad day. And teenagers have a tendency to push both boundaries and buttons. But this was harsh, even borderline abusive behavior, and it upset the applecart that was my mother’s comfortable, small-town existence.

  Because these were not isolated incidents. Because it was happening over and over again, between people not known to be violent. Longtime Stony Mill families that were displaying the first signs of splintering and dysfunction. Normally that kind of thing, when it did happen, would have been kept quiet. Family secrets better left to sleeping dogs. Even the Stony Mill Gazette sometimes agreed with that philosophy, burying select newsworthy but scandalous local items behind the farmer’s report on page seven . . . but it did publish the police call report religiously. Everything that was called in to Dispatch showed up on those reports. Who, what, when, where, and why dunnit, even if it was as minor as rescuing a cat stuck in a tree. The information it conveyed was better than a gossip sheet.

  Lately, the call reports had been running . . . long. Very long. And not with lost pets. Filled with incidents similar to the one my mother described, like the one I had witnessed myself. So many people, already on short tethers, snapping for no good reason. Not to mention the deaths—murders, actually. No wonder I rarely saw Tom these days. He still had his regular duties in addition to serving as leader of the special task force that had been created to coordinate between law departments. That promotion had guaranteed that any kind of a personal life Tom might have been wanting to have would have to be put off for later.

  Oh, Tom denied this. We’d talked about it before. But even though he’d said mostly the right things, and even though he had more than hinted that he would like our so-called relationship to go somewhere—although the somewhere in question was clearly open to interpretation—the two of us never seemed to achieve liftoff status.

  Maybe it was too much to ask right now. Timing, as everyone knows, is everything. History proved that particular Nugget O’ Wisdom, over and over again. Knowing it was one thing. Accepting it, well, that was another matter entirely.

  It was a sore subject with me, growing sorer by the day. Was it any wonder Marcus and his gentle but compelling flirtatious ways had held so much intrigue for me? Tom told me time and again that he’d like to deepen our relationship, but it was beginning to feel like lip service. And Marcus? Marcus went out of his way to make me feel I was important, without demanding a single thing in return. Everything he did said that he wanted me. But what did I want? I was starting to wonder if I knew. All the more reason to steer my thoughts out of treacherous waters and channel them into more calming venues. Deep within me was the sense that change was on the horizon, must be on the horizon. It would come whether I was ready or not. Going with the flow guaranteed an easier passing. At least, I hoped it did.

  Sipping delicately on my frozen drink and relishing the cold burst of ice and lemon on my tongue, I cast my gaze around me as I wandered along through the makeshift stands. This was your typical, large-scale church money-raising event—all of the usual suspects were here. An ice cream tent that I was going to be making my way back to after the lemonade was gone. The white elephant auction, which was really just a way for people to clean unwanted gifts out of the backs of their closets, and who could blame them? It allowed them to be thrifty and charitable all at the same time. The pie toss (whipped cream-lined pie-tin toss might be a more apt description) was getting a lot of attention, as was the dunk-the-deacon tank. The poor guy getting dunked looked half-drowned, and boy, I hoped that suit he was wearing had been headed off to Goodwill, because it was a mess.

  I moved on. Down the “lane” were more things for the kiddos, or at least the kids-at-heart: duck pluck, three-legged races, pin-the-wings-on-the-angel. Or how about the ever-popular throw-darts-at-the-devil? Just right for teaching the little ones to be ever vigilant in the war against Satan and his dark minions, complete with scary red demon face, horns, and flames. Just in case they weren’t sure what to watch for.

  Yes, it was your typical church fundraiser. Kids running happily amok, darting here, there, and everywhere, and making valiant efforts to evade the long-armed reach of parental law. Exasperated moms chasing after their sweaty, sticky kids with baby wipes in hand, looking frazzled and a little sweaty themselves as they made equally valiant efforts to collar their rowdy offspring. The dads for the most part let the moms do their darnedest to keep up with the kids while they looked after more important things, like talking sports teams and stats, and waiting for the one event they were actually looking forward to: the soapbox derby. Since it was a church function, the lemonade stand would probably not be offering a spiked variety, no matter how much the dads might want it to. Anything of that sort would have to come later, in the privacy of their own homes.

  And I was pretty sure that it would. They might not be able to buy it on Sunday, but that didn’t mean no one would partake, just as soon as their kitchen doors closed behind them. Their little secret.

  At the end of the main aisle was the makeshift stage I’d noticed when I first
arrived; at its center stood a podium with a sun umbrella attached to keep the rays at bay. The stage was surrounded by crescents of straw-bale seating as well as a bevy of collapsible camp chairs in a rainbow of colors. People were starting to filter in that direction as a soberly dressed man in a navy suit climbed up on the platform and approached the podium. He clapped a stack of papers down on the podium’s slanted surface and began to fiddle with a microphone on a metal stand. I didn’t need anyone to tell me that the man in question was the pastor of the Baptist church; the Bible he’d set down with the papers pretty much clarified that issue for me. This was not the place for me; if the quibbles I’d long had with the theologies taught at St. Catherine’s were enough to keep me from attending Sunday morning mass, I certainly couldn’t justify a Sunday meeting with the local Baptist assembly to my mother. Time to back away, s-l-o-w-l-y. I turned to head in another direction—any other direction—but instead found myself being shuttled along like a dried leaf floating on the currents of a fast-moving stream, taking more steps backward than forward, until I stood on the edge of the circle, receiving more than a few odd looks because I was facing in the wrong direction.

  An antiquated sound system let out a rude squawk that made me jump. “Testing, testing,” a deep and surprisingly pleasant male voice announced over the speakers. I sneaked a look over my shoulder. It was the pastor all right, all jovial good humor and blushing chuckles as he tap-tapped on the mike with a fingertip and then looked out at the crowd again. “Is this thing on?”

  “We hear ya, Pastor Bob! Loud and clear!” some helpful soul from the crowd shouted.

  “Ah, good. Thanks, Pete. You all know from worship, I’m sadly all elbows when it comes to technical things. Give me a pulpit and a fair-to-middlin’-sized room filled with a bunch of good-hearted folks, though, and I’m a-rarin’ to go.” Pastor Bob chuckled and gave the crowd a self-deprecating twinkle worthy of the best televangelist. For a moment, I wondered if he thought of himself that way. A tall man, middle-aged certainly, but still with a spare frame and a good head of hair to keep his age at best uncertain, he spoke with a mixture of warmth and down-home inflection that most people here seemed to receive with equally appreciative amounts of warmth.

  “Why don’t we just get things started here, then?” he continued in that same, gently humorous way. “For those of you who don’t know me”—this received a gentle wave of laughter from the crowd—“I am Pastor Robert Angelis—Pastor Bob to those of you who do—and I’d like to welcome you all to our little get-together this beautiful afternoon in the middle of God’s country. Has anyone ever seen better weather?”

  It was a question without need of an answer, but of course there were a few catcalls of agreement from the ranks. Thank goodness for those helpful someones. Apparently no one else minded the steam rising from the grass—not to mention from foreheads. God’s country was in dire need of a little rainy spell to cool things off a bit, in my humble opinion.

  “Here at Grace Baptist Church, as you all know, we have been spilling out of our humble walls for quite some time. Not that we’re complaining, mind you!” Another chuckle with a soulful wag of his head. “The good Lord knows, we welcome any and all souls who seek solace from the world within our doors . . . but it has presented us with a few challenges to be overcome. After consulting with the board of deacons and after helpful suggestions from many of you, we’ve taken a number of measures over the last years to try to accommodate the needs of our growing flock. Nevertheless, as you all know, we have at last come to the decision that we have outgrown our beloved church. Our white beauty. Our country clapboard queen.”

  Oh boy. It was getting a wee bit deep. Good thing we were outside.

  “We already expanded her once, but that wasn’t enough. The modern way would be to let her go, to build new and fresh a space that would accommodate all of our needs. But we refused to abandon her,” the pastor insisted. “The good Lord didn’t give us this sacred haven only for us to discard it when it no longer served our purpose. No, God wouldn’t want a thing like that. He’d want us to be creative. He’d want us to be smart. He’d want us to use the brains he gave us, praise his blessed name, to come up with a solution that honored the gift of this old building. And, I’m happy to report . . . that”—he punctuated the word by slamming his palm triumphantly against the wood podium—“is just what we’ve done. Thanks to the work of a lot of good, decent, hardworking folk, we are now able to contract for a new expansion of our blessed church. A new wing to mirror the first addition . . . which, if you’ve seen the plans, will make the architectural layout into a complete Y. Y for Yahweh!” he enthused. “Not only will we have the space we so desperately require, but we will also retain the beauty and integrity of our original sanctuary . . . not to mention the beautiful courtyard garden my lovely wife, Emily, and my mother-in-law have worked so hard to put in. There’s a whole lot of love and attention that’s been lavished on this place by a lot of people. We are truly blessed here at Grace.” He paused a moment to allow the crowd to reflect on that statement, a studied method of attack used to great effect by ministers, politicians, and high inquisitors. “But we’re not done yet. We have raised enough to get us started and keep us going awhile, but we have a ways to go. So today, we need you all to dig deep into your pockets and enjoy yourselves. Both. Be sure to take your family to the ice cream social and the various auctions our Bible study groups have put together. Enjoy the music the choir has prepared for you. Enjoy the food. Enjoy the fellowship. Visit the garden. Just enjoy your time here today. Oh, and don’t forget, the groundbreaking ceremony kicks off at three, and I’d like to personally invite you all to attend this momentous occasion in the history of our church. And once again . . . Dig. Deep.” He rumbled this last and slanted an impish but completely serious grin at the crowd.

  A round of applause and chuckles broke out, but instead of climbing down off the do-it-yourself stage, he held up his hands to quiet them all. “Before we all head off into four different directions, why don’t we take some time to offer our thanks to the great Father above.”

  All around me, people started backing up and reaching out to form a series of concentric prayer circles, linking hands. Now it really and truly was time for me to go—I didn’t belong there, and it seemed dishonest somehow, an invasion of their privacy and space, to stay. I avoided the reaching hands and questioning eyes of the woman to my left and the man to my right and ducked my head. “Sorry, bathroom break needed,” I whispered by way of explanation with an apologetic half smile, then turned and fled. The other parts of the event had all been closed down while the church’s pastor had been offering up his take on the day. Where, oh where had Evie and Tara disappeared to? Wherever the work crews were hiding out, if I had to venture a guess. Which would be . . .

  I hovered at the edge of the entertainment area, weighing my options. I could hide out in the porta potties—ew—or I could go back to the car and wait awhile until it was obvious that everyone had returned to the festivities of the day—too hot—or I could set out to try to find the girls.

  Guess which one got my vote?

  Most of the construction equipment was sitting idle in the church parking lot. I hadn’t seen any men wearing grungy work clothes or hard hats around the assemblage, so I had to guess that if they were in attendance at all, as the girls had claimed, they were hiding out up by the church itself. Maybe in the courtyard garden the pastor had encouraged everyone to visit or in a fellowship hall somewhere outside of the afternoon sun. That second possibility was sounding better and better to me by the moment. I made a split-second decision to head that way myself.

  I had nearly reached the church’s neatly edged walkways when I heard raised voices in the vestibule. Raised and very angry.

  Ruh-roh.

  Chapter 3

  “What do you mean, what the hell am I doing here? I’m working here this afternoon, just as soon as the pastor gives the go-ahead for the groundbreaking. What are
you doing here?”

  “I go to this church. I have every right to be here.”

  “Well, sounds like we both have that right, then.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t want you here. This is my church. You don’t belong here.”

  “I don’t think you have much of a say.”

  “Oh, you don’t think so? I can have you taken out of here anytime that I want.”

  “Right. ’Cuz you have connections, that it? Sheee-it. Give me a break, Ronnie.”

  “Why should I give you a break?” the female voice spat. “Huh? Because you say so? I’ll give you more than a freaking break, Ty. I’ll give you a—” Her last words were made unintelligible by fury and the sound of a scuffle inside.

  Enough was enough. I rushed toward the widespread doors only to see a petite woman who had vaulted herself in attack against a buff young man in worn, paint-smeared jeans, a plain T-shirt, and work boots, and was now being held at arm’s length while she swung small, tight fists in his direction. She reminded me of a little bantam hen, squawking and flapping her wings at the big, bad dog threatening the chicken yard. Entertaining, but futile in the end. Neither of the two noticed me.

  “Take it easy, Ronnie. Christ!” The man gave her a little push to get her away. “Back. Off! Jesus, there’s no reason for this, is there? It’s not like our split wasn’t mutual.”

  Ronnie looked as though she were tempted to go at him again, then she seemed to reconsider and stood her ground, three feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts, her face contorted in fury. “Mutual? Is that what you call that? Well, it’s mutual now, dickweed. I don’t need you, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Oh, Ty, buddy. I shook my head at his dense response. Don’t you recognize when a woman is yanking your chain to preserve her own dignity?

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Case in point—anyone with ears could hear the self-satisfied smirk in her tone. “But since you’re asking . . . I have—what do you call it?—moved on. Onward and upward, I always say.”