One thing she knew for sure she would do was to teach that Edith Merton a lesson she would not soon forget. Gardening witch, indeed!
It had been a week ago that she had rendezvoused with Edith at the Hi-Lo Doughnut Shoppe, her favorite stop for cream-filled Bismarcks and unlimited coffee refills. At first, when Dr. Sproot had called her to suggest such a meeting, Edith had demurred. Actually, that was putting it mildly. Edith had wondered aloud how Dr. Sproot could possibly work up the nerve to ever speak to her again, and had hung up on her in mid-sentence. So much for diplomacy. More extreme measures would obviously be called for here. The next step involved something that Dr. Sproot excelled at—threats!
Lately, business had been tough for Edith and her husband, Felix, who owned Mertons’ Liquors and Mertons’ TV and Appliance Mart. Livians were spending less on booze, and running their washing machines and refrigerators longer before replacing them. There was also the fact that Edith’s sideline business—running séances for youngsters who had lost their hamsters, guinea pigs, goldfish, parakeets, and other smallish pets and wanted to commune with them—had also hit the skids. Livia’s parents were cutting back on Christmas and birthday gifts. They had also been counseled by their pastors, who had heard disquieting rumors about this resurgence of paganism in Livia, that communing with dead organisms, even if it was all in fun, was not in the best interest of their spiritual lives.
All this had come to Dr. Sproot’s attention. That was mainly through a network of shirttail relatives who operated two of the leading lending and mortgage institutions in Livia and did clerical work at one of the Lutheran Church synod offices in downtown St. Anthony, and usually in return for some gardening consultation work.
It was through this network that Dr. Sproot discovered that Edith and Felix Merton had fallen behind in their business loans, and were in debt up to their eyeballs. That seemed to her to present itself as an excellent investment opportunity. Dr. Sproot’s lawsuit judgment against Earlene McGillicuddy and her $1-million life insurance benefit, awarded to her on the death of her cross-dressing drunkard of a husband, Mort, had in the past year alone ballooned to three times its original amount due to some highly lucrative and somewhat shady investments. And all that money was just itching to be put to work in some new ventures.
Dr. Sproot’s lender relatives, not really all that excited about the prospects of foreclosing on the Mertons’ appliance and liquor stores, were happy to sell her the loans at a premium price.
The next time Dr. Sproot called, she was able to make Edith an offer she couldn’t refuse.
“Hi, Edith,” she told the answering machine at the hardware store. “Dr. Sproot here. I suggest you reconsider my earlier proposal for a get-together, or maybe you didn’t hear it since you so rudely cut me off in mid-sentence. Well, the proposal still stands, so why don’t you call back and we can make arrangements for a little tête-à-tête.”
The answering machine cut off with a beep. Furious, Dr. Sproot called back, her voice now quaking with rage.
“Dr. Sproot again, dearie,” she continued. “There’s something else you might be interested to know. I am now the official owner of both Mertons’ Liquors and Mertons’ TV and Appliance Mart, having bought the loans. Jeez, those were risky loans! I never realized you were such a poor candidate for business loans, Edith. Why, I would have charged you fifty-percent interest, minimum. Why would I have ever wanted to take them on? Call back to find out why. Ta-ta.”
The meeting with Edith at the Hi-Lo was everything Dr. Sproot could have hoped for. Edith positively oozed politeness and a desire to please. Dr. Sproot acted the part of the magnanimous landlady, assuring the scared-stiff Edith that, no, she had no desire to foreclose on their properties as long as she was certain she and Felix were making good-faith efforts to meet their loan obligations.
“Yes, Edith, times are tough, I know,” said Dr. Sproot as she scarfed down her third Bismarck and inhaled her fourth cup of dark-roast Hi-Lo brew. “And I want to assure you that it is my mission in life to support our struggling small businesses.”
Edith was fairly panting with joy and gratitude.
“You and Felix are pillars of the community,” Dr. Sproot said sententiously. “Without you, commerce crumbles into dust. I’m here for you, Edith. Consider me to be your lending source of strength and resilience. Lean on me, Edith. Rest assured I don’t want to throw you out on the street.”
Edith was now positively giddy. She reached across the table to grasp Dr. Sproot’s hand, now sticky with Bismarck residue, and shook it violently.
“Thank you so much,” said Edith, her voice shaking with unanticipated relief. “I never could have imagined in my wildest dreams that you’d be calling me here to tell me that. My goodness, that’s wonderful news. You have no idea what Felix and I have been going through, trying to pay these loans and working these things out. Those lenders, Dr. Sproot, they have no heart, no heart at all!”
Dr. Sproot looked at the cringingly humbled Edith and smiled. Here, under her thumb like a helpless, semi-microscopic bug about to be squashed into nothingness, sat the author of so many of her woes. And the nerve of her, acting as if nothing untoward had ever happened between them!
It was last year, after that horrible, stormy night in July, when Edith had fingered Dr. Sproot as the ringleader of the aborted garden sabotage mission targeting the Fremonts’ backyard. Then, she had claimed that Dr. Sproot had blackmailed her into helping because of an affair she had with Mort. And then came that article in the St. Anthony Inquirer! Why, it had humiliated Dr. Sproot beyond all reckoning.
“Yes, well, so glad to help, Edith. But you do realize that, as a businesswoman, I expect a return on my investment at some point? I’m not just doing this out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Ye-e-e-s-s-s,” said Edith, stuttering. “I do realize that. Felix and I are doing the best we can. But, but . . . ah . . . you know, times are tough and business has dropped off. It’s going to be hard to make these next few payments.”
Dr. Sproot stared at Edith and let a long pause crumple her into a trembling mass of insignificance. Putty in her hands.
“You know what they say, Edith: Adapt or die. You haven’t adapted very well. Either make your payments or I will shut you down! You’re behind four months’ worth of payments on one business, and six months—six months!—on the other! How did they let you go this long being a deadbeat? Huh?”
“But you said . . .”
“I said I didn’t want to foreclose on you, or something to that effect. But you know, Edith, sometimes you’re forced to do things you’d rather not. That’s the story of life, isn’t it?”
Dr. Sproot could see the furiously twitching lips and the eyes filming over, then pooling, with tears. The first one trickled out over Edith’s eyelid and streaked slowly down her cheek.
“Oh, please! Please don’t foreclose on us! We’ll do better! I’m sure we will. Just give us another chance. We’ll . . .” Edith’s sobs were choking off her words. Dr. Sproot held up her hand to signal Edith to stop all this caterwauling nonsense. She smiled in a gentle way meant to look consoling.
“Stop that crying, Edith. Stop it right now. I think I have a solution to your problem. At least a temporary solution.”
Edith dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex.
“What?” she said. “What can we do?”
“I need to learn some witchcraft. And I want you to teach me.”
Edith jerked away from Dr. Sproot. “What!”
“You heard me. Teach me some of your black arts! I’ve got some unfinished business to take care of, and I need some help from down below.”
Edith slouched over the table and cast darting and stealthy glances around the doughnut shop to make sure no one was within hearing range. Then, she leaned over toward Dr. Sproot.
“I can’t do that!” she whispered hoarsely. “I gave that up after last year’s fiasco. I even threw away my own dead mother’s old-fogey spell-casti
ng outfit. I’ve sworn to never practice witchcraft again.”
“You wouldn’t have to practice it. You’d just pass along a few pointers to me, and I’d do the rest. Then, I’d be willing to put off your payments for a few more months, with late-payment interest accruing, of course.”
“But, Dr. Sproot, please! I only do my small pet séances now, and that’s harmless. To go back to evil plant spells, I just couldn’t. Marta’s right; it’s immoral.”
Dr. Sproot cackled. Immediately, despite her reservations, the professional necromancer in Edith saw talent and potential in Dr. Sproot as a witch.
“Don’t pay any attention to what Little-Miss-Goody-Two-Shoes says,” Dr. Sproot said. “She betrayed me and you. It was in part because of her that our mission failed last year, putting us both in the position we’re in now.”
“What if I get caught?”
“Are you kidding? Nobody believes in witches. That’s how you got off the hook last year, putting all the blame on me, didn’t you, you Judas Iscariot, you? Everyone thought I was bonkers when I tried to tell them the truth about you. You sold me down the river, and got off scot-free. Yes, you owe me big-time, Sarah the Witch. Ha-ha!”
Edith whimpered.
“Whaddaya say, Edith? Or should I say debtor? Make up your mind now. I’m already thinking of what I’m going to rename my new appliance and liquor stores. Ha-ha! Ha-ha! How about Eye-of-Newt Appliances? Or Magic Wand Liquors? Ha-ha! Ha-ha!”
“Please, Dr. Sproot,” Edith moaned. “Please show us some mercy.”
Dr. Sproot glugged down the dregs of her fifth cup of coffee and fixed Edith with a cold, hard stare.
“I am showing you mercy, Edith. I could foreclose on you right now. Today, in fact. I’ve given you an out. What’s more, it’s an out that allows you to stick to your pledge. And, remember this, Edith Merton: I know you’ve still got the power to take down my gardens. So, now, I’ve got something to hang over your head, don’t I? If I see so much as one little burned tip on my yucca, or a single drooping hollyhock, your businesses are toast. You get me?”
“Okay,” said Edith with an exasperated sigh. “When do we begin? I’m picking up a bad vibe from you. A very bad vibe. That’s good for what you’re planning. I think you’re going to be a natural.”
“No time like the present,” said Dr. Sproot. “Witchcraft 101. Ha-ha! Ha-ha!”
Over the next two weeks, they had met at Dr. Sproot’s house, on her deck. The training—which Edith devised on the fly since she’d never been to a witch college or even taken a correspondence course—was intense, but Dr. Sproot was so obviously born to it. Her soul was so dark and malevolent that it created a powerful magnetism for the forces of evil. These weren’t human forces of evil. That would have been far beyond the ken of Edith, and was reserved for those witches who made what Edith was doing look like a preschool exercise. But, Edith figured, Dr. Sproot had it well within her power to do a bit of localized weather tampering or call forth a plague of something rather minor league, such as that old standby, the plant wilt.
“Tempting, but not dramatic enough,” said Dr. Sproot. “Give me something that will truly bring those wretched Fremonts to their knees in frustration. Something big! A calling card with my special signature!”
“Well,” said Edith. “I can’t do invading armies, or convicted felons with blowtorches. Can’t do stampeding elephants or rhinoceroses. Hmmm. Hail and lightning are the best I can do on the weather front.”
“You already did that,” Dr. Sproot said. “And that doesn’t make it explicitly clear that an evil force is at work. Like I said, give me something I can put my special stamp on. My little ‘Dr. Sproot-the-Witch-Was-Here’ memento.”
The two women thought for a few moments.
“I know!” said Dr. Sproot, jumping up from her chair. “Pests! Gross pests that will make a gardener’s skin crawl. Slugs, snails, aphids, that kind of thing.”
Edith thought for a moment, then nodded.
“Yes, I believe that’s possible. You couldn’t call forth millions of them, but thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Yes, you could do that.”
It had not been hard to get Dr. Sproot locked in on visions of plant-destroying insects. Having fought them for the better part of her adult life, she could see them up close in her mind. The electrical circuitry of Dr. Sproot’s brain was easily directed toward evil and destruction, Edith discovered. It was only a matter of putting out the call for matter that was dead and gone and to direct it to the intended target.
“Think of bugs that have died violently,” Edith instructed her. “Slugs squashed. Aphids gobbled up by ladybugs. Japanese beetles dying slowly after a drenching of bug spray. These are the ones to be summoned back.”
One look at Dr. Sproot’s spindly, twitching fingers told her that here was the medium.
“This is how you transmit the evil electrical impulses fouling up your mind,” said an impressed Edith as she held Dr. Sproot’s hand and studied her gnarled fingers. “These look like the shriveled-up twigs on a dying tree. Just what you want. Now, go and call forth the multitudes. Just leave me out of it, okay?”
So, here was Dr. Sproot attempting her first spell, and nothing seemed to be happening. She pointed and fluttered, and pointed and fluttered again. Nada. That quack, fumed Dr. Sproot! I’ll show her! First thing tomorrow morning it’s off to my attorney to start foreclosure proceedings.
The next morning, she followed her usual schedule: downing three mugs of coffee while it was still dark outside, and, once the dawn was advanced enough to provide sufficient light, doing her initial rounds of the gardens.
But what was this! Gazing down from where she was perched at the deck railing, Dr. Sproot instantly noticed that something was amiss. It was in the closest bed of coreopsis-salvia-hollyhock blend. The flowers were twitching. Odd, thought Dr. Sproot, there’s not even a whisper of a breeze this morning. And what was there about the color? All the flowers looked so different. Dr. Sproot squinted. My God, they’re crawling with insects; the flowers are alive with them!
Her first impulse was to run for the bug spray and douse the little shits with streams of lethal insecticide. Just as she turned to head inside for the garden products pantry, she stopped and turned to look back at the plants. Then, she looked at her fingers, puffy and twitching with power. It felt as if a surge of blood had just fattened them.
Dr. Sproot laughed. She lifted her arms, and pointed her fingers out and up toward the sky. Then, she thought incredibly evil thoughts, and wiggled them. Halfway expecting lightning bolts to shoot out of her fingertips toward the little cumulus cloud that was chugging away overhead, she was disappointed to see that nothing was happening. Ah, well, she thought, my powers are limited. But just strong enough to do the job at hand.
“It’s time to show those Fremonts who’s boss in this burg!” she shouted at the thousands of insects that were in the final stages of laying waste to her bed of coreopsis, salvia, and hollyhock. “Destroy! Destroy! Destroy! Ha-ha! Ha-ha!”
26
Fairy Tales
Marta Poppendauber was cutting some brown-and-orange tiger lilies to be placed in a vase on her dining table when she sensed something strange. It was if all plant suspiration had stopped. Not gradually. Suddenly.
Is this some kind of weird dormancy? she wondered. Then came a disturbance she could readily recognize: the sound of footsteps treading the redbrick pathway that threaded its way through her gardens. And here came her visitor, stepping briskly from behind the spirea bushes. Why, it was Edith Merton! Marta dropped her hand clippers clattering onto the brick walkway. What could Edith Merton possibly want of me? she thought. I really don’t want anything to do with her.
Edith approached Marta meekly, but out of breath and obviously in a panic about something.
“Why, Edith, so interesting to see you! Is there something I can do for you?”
“Marta, please help! Please!”
Marta was dumbfounded. Wh
at could she possibly do to help a gardening witch?
“Calm down, please, Edith. What’s happened?”
“Dr. Sproot’s on the warpath again!”
Edith paused, heaving for breath. She had run all the way from her home three blocks away, Felix and their son, Merlin, having taken the family cars to a convenience store and beer bong contest, respectively. “Fremonts. She’s going to wreck the Fremonts again. I had to teach her. No choice.”
Marta frowned.
“This does sound desperate. Well, come inside, Edith, and we’ll have some tea, and you can tell me all about it. No sense in running around half-cocked.”
It was a clear night illuminated by a full moon. That, Dr. Sproot had been lead to believe, wasn’t the best time for casting spells. It had something to do with spirits not favoring placid conditions and being more apt to awaken when the weather was really crappy. And, in fact, the weather forecast had called for a 60-percent chance of thunderstorms, the best such opportunity for a week.
Dr. Sproot fumed about the blown forecast. If it messed up her spells she’d sue, that’s what she’d do.
But at least I can see what I’m doing, she figured, which is a pretty good trade-off. So, here she was in the wee hours, mucking around the Fremonts’ property and preparing to wreak havoc among their gardens. Just like old times.
There were some welcome differences between this time and that night last July. For one thing, there was no torrential downpour. For another, she wasn’t carrying sharp-edged tools, or wearing a gas mask to protect herself from the hallucinogenic fumes of the angel’s trumpets, which, this time, would be far enough away from her field of endeavor to pose little danger. For yet another, she was starting in the front yard. The fact that she was working the front yard this year posed more of a risk, as she would be visible, albeit as a shadowy form, to anyone driving by on Sumac. It was a risk she was willing to take. Besides, she would be mostly hunched over, keeping close to the ground, for the task at hand.
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