by Curtis Hox
“What’s your story, Mr. Brookings,” she says to the card, “to have to lie so much?”
Josie spends the next hour preparing her mixture. After cooking the material on a burner, she waits for the patina to emerge. Her ability to affect human behavior (especially male behavior) comes from her grandmother, who was a powerful witch with a curious understanding of male witches. She knew how to whip rogue men into shape, and she passed on her techniques to her granddaughter. Josie has certainly come up with her own spells, but most of the simple ones have already been detailed by witches like her grandmother.
Dealing with a liar is simple.
She smashes the dime-sized material into dust with a marble pestle, stuffs it into a pewter thimble, plugs that with a wine-stained cork, and sticks it in her pocket.
A simple toss into the air in Mr. Brooking’s vicinity and the spell will be cast. He’ll find himself unable to tell a lie. His tongue will no longer be under his control. What happens next will be quite entertaining to watch.
Now, let’s go set a trap, she tells herself.
She pauses as her eye catches the mini-refrigerator sitting in the far corner. She walks to it on light steps, almost as if she approaches a shrine. She opens it and spots the hollow crystal shard no bigger than a pinky. Inside, a liquid sparkling like blue champagne swirls inside.
The love potion that Josie brewed years ago was her grandmother’s final gift. Josie was supposed to toss it out, but she kept it. Through her entire adolescence it’s sat here, unused, even as Lennox chose Stella over her. Josie would never use it on him, not in a million years. The last thing she wants is a false love. She wants him to come to her with sincerity in his eyes, not the wide saucers of an ensorcelled man.
She closes the door, straightens with a sigh, and tells herself to forget it even exists.
* * *
She finds Mr. Brookings on the first floor’s north wing. This part of the house has only been shut up for a year and still gets dusted every now and again. He’s in the billiard room that no one uses any more. Two tables dominate the large chamber. He’s setting up one. The room’s high ceilings have a few cob webs in them but the two tables are clean. She never was one much for pool and rarely spent much time over here. Mr. Jenkins seems to like it … maybe he was a good player once … probably not. She swats dust from her nose. She tiptoes on the thick carpet until she stands behind him.
She retrieves her thimble and tosses the contents into the air. They settle on him without him knowing.
“Hey,” she says.
“Well aren’t you a Silent Sally,” he says as he turns, pool cue in hand.
“You any good?” she asks, hoping to catch him in a lie.
“I’m alright.”
He racks the balls and sets up his shot. He aims like he knows how to use the stick.
“You ever play any big names?” she asks.
He pauses, as if he has to think about it to remember.
He looks down the line of the cue. “Yep, I sure have. There was this one time …”
She hears him suck in a deep breath, as if he might take a dive underwater. He even drops the cue and grabs his belly. She watches his confusion as the spell begins its work. A few more seconds and Mr. Brookings opens his mouth to sing in a keening falsetto:
“I’m a big liar, yes, I am. I’m a big liar. Bippty, bippty, bam. Liar, liar, liar, pants on fire. I’m a big liar, as flat as a tire.” He puts his hands to his mouth, his eyes wide in bewilderment. He can’t help himself from sucking in another breath. His feet began to move in a silly, old man’s jig, and he continues to sing even though he’s trying to bite his hand.
“Mr. Brookings,” Josie says, as the embarrassing performance continues, “you’re here because you like to tell lies. Most of them are white lies, sure, but some aren’t. That bit about your taxes is a problem. You should tell your wife the truth. How this works is that any time you try to fib, you won’t be able to. Do you understand?”
He nods, continuing to sing. He glares at her with the sort of fear and hatred that men once had for women like her—except there is no real fight in him. He knows when he’s beat, obviously. The song and dance continue, as they will for the next fifteen minutes.
“You understand what I did to you, and what I am, so you know this is real and works. Think of me and this therapy as a way to save your marriage.”
She smiles as he dances for the exit, hands on mouth, as if nothing else in the world matters but escaping.
Could be an easy case, she thinks, and hopes.
Stella Spivey appears in the doorway. She’s wearing linen slacks that probably came from Nordstrom’s or somewhere fancy, an open silk blouse with pink paisley’s, and garish gold bracelets that encircle her forearms. Josie feels instant jealousy she looks so good.
“There you are,” Stella says as if they’re the best of friends. “I’ve been looking all over for you. This house is huge.”
“It’s easy to get lost.”
“How may floors?”
“Four, plus the basement levels. The top two floors are closed. Only a bit of the basement is in use.”
“Shame, I bet this was the place to be when it was built.”
Josie nods, considering sharing some of the history but deciding not to. Stella Spivey is the enemy, as sure as she is standing there. For some reason her husband came running to Josie in his time of need. Stella has to be the guilty one.
“Have you spoken to Lennox this morning?” she asks.
“I did.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That you two are having problems.”
Stella wanders into the billiard room and looks around, nodding with appreciation but careful not to get dust on her clothes. “My father was a pool player, a good one. I never cared for it much.” She runs a nailed finger along the green felt-like, worsted-wool top. “What do you think you can do for my husband?”
Josie catches her breath at the venom leaking from the woman’s lips. She knows that tone. Stella Spivey is a crafty witch, a lone-wolf who never speaks about her abilities. However, she must have some skills with craft, maybe even some true talent, to talk like that.
“I’m new to this. I wasn’t even aware he was coming. He didn’t tell me any specifics.”
“No?” Stella says, appearing relieved. “Then you haven’t prescribed any … therapy?”
Ah, here it is, Josie thinks, one witch challenging another over her craft. She wants to know what I’ve done, or plan to do. But I don’t even know the real problem yet. Besides, something about all this suggests their problems aren’t normal, everyday, husband-and-wife problems. This is probably way out of my reach. Christine might be able settle it with the help of the coven.
Stella moves closer, one confidant to another. “He won’t listen to me anymore.”
“Listen?”
“You know: do what I say.”
“What do you mean, exactly? Like clean up after himself or help with the dishes?”
Stella composes herself, a woman aware she’s in the lime light. “You have no idea, do you?”
“Not really …”
Stella smiles, laughs a little, even cocks her head. “I was worried for nothing.” She walks past Josie. “This was a mistake. He’ll see that. I’ll be taking him home with me today.”
“Uhm, yeah, I don’t think that’ll work. He can’t leave the house.”
“Can’t leave the house?”
“Roxy’s doing. It’s to make sure the guys hang around, at least for the weekend. So they can understand what needs to happen.”
“Don’t get between me and my husband, Josie Bran. Trust me, you little brewing vixen.”
Again, witch talk. Josie is convinced that Stella Spivey is more than she seems, that this situation is complex. What has she done to Lennox to make him come running for help? Josie wants to rehabilitate wayward men, not save them from their witchy wives. Something about all this smacks of the
political infighting between the covens and their control of male witches. She doesn’t want to get involved in any of that. All she wants to do is help some wives and rejuvenate Birchall Mansion in the process.
“He came here. I didn’t go looking for him.”
“You remember what I said. I’ll handle Roxy and her … restraining spell. Where’s Christine?”
“I have no idea—”
Stella Spivey exits as swiftly as she came.
Christine’s rooms are in the north wing, and Stella will probably have a hard time finding them. That gives Josie time before more drama. She needs to confront Mr. Boris Reiner; she wants to get it over with. Mr. Creeley was her first real worry, Mr. Reiner her second. He’s a major player in Georgia state politics, having spent time in the General Assembly for ten years, and is now a consultant for the Democratic Party. He’s a charmer and a power player.
Yeah, could be a very hard case.
* * *
Josie hurries to the first floor drawing room, where Lady Birchall sits in her favorite chair.
Josie grimaces as she enters the room. The rococo stylings touch every surface, from the frolicking pastel angels on the ceiling, to the gilt furniture that looks as uncomfortable as sitting on stone. The indigos, pinks, turquoises that line every object give her a headache. There’s a reason the Baroque period is considered the Renaissance on crack—and why Modernism went crazy in response.
“Hello, Lady Birchall,” Josie says. “Are you enjoying the sunshine?”
She sits before an oriel window with at least twenty individual panes of glass, each mullion painted a bright blue with silver tracery. If ever a room needed to be renovated …, but she knows that such a thing would never be done. Restored, yes, but the parts of Birchall Mansion that were designed with the beaux arts would have to be endured. Sad, but true.
Lady Birchall reaches out. “Yes, yes, Josie, such a fine day.”
Josie takes her hand. “Have you seen Lady Cruz?”
“She’s making arrangements with the others. They’ll be here tonight to see your progress.”
“I just started …”
“You’re doing fine. I’m so happy to see us taking this step.”
Step?
“You mean being more public?”
“Of course, Josie. When I was a girl the craft was still dangerous. Papists and Protestants would come for you, or warlocks . Now that most churches have plenty of us and the warlocks are taken care, why not? You’re a smart girl, like your grandmother.”
Lady Birchall moves her jaw around, as if her bridge is bothering her. She’s so wrinkled and dried up, she looks mummified. Josie can’t imagine she has much more time among the living. If only she can last until the first funds come in so that she can see Birchall shine again.
“I want to help get your home back on its feet.”
Lardy Birchall smiles and pats Josie on her hand. “That’s so sweet.”
Christine strides into the drawing room. She’s wearing summer clothes fit for gardening. By the stickers in her socks, it looks like she’s been walking the grounds. “They’re coming. We’ll have visitors tonight.”
“Members of the coven?” Josie says and tries not to gulp.
“That’s right. To see what you’re up to.”
“What we’re up to.”
Christine smiles. “Of course.”
“I was wondering,” Josie asks, ”if you two might have a suggestion on how to … stop a cheater.”
Lady Birchall perks up, even shimmying in her chair a little. “You mean that Boris, don’t you?” She raises a scrawny finger into the air. “I know just the thing. We once had a young man who was gifted, so gifted, and we trained him to be a good-and-proper witch, but he strayed, as most men do. We put down his warlock ways and made him pliable. But he turned to copulation. Yes, he did. He was such a charmer and worked his way into a number of respectable ladies’ beds. We found a witch who cast a spell so that anytime he cheated—and this young man was, indeed, a philanderer—that his clothes would, poof, disappear sometime afterward. I saw it once. He was standing in this very drawing room. One minute fully clothed. The next … well, he was holding a mint julep when he realized he was naked. He had the poise to exit the room without spilling it.”
Lady Birchall chuckles to herself.
“That’ll do fine,” Christine says. “Can you work something similar?”
“Sounds perfect,” Josie says. She sees Stella descending the grand staircase, heels clickety-clacking. “I’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Josie corners Boris Reiner in the salon. The house keeper must have just opened the room. She’s yanked the covers from the furniture and pulled back the tall blinds. The room’s a nod to a much less pretentious sensibility. The beaux arts insistence on extreme ornamentation has been replaced with dark woods and paneling, almost as if a Victorian designer was given free reign.
The wide oil paintings of Lord and Lady Birchall dominate the far wall, near a fireplace. This room was once used regularly, she remembers, although it has been left behind. She feels saddened by the dust and the muted sense of lost time. The world moves on its course, while places like Birchall Mansion fall into ruin. Modernity’s a mean bitch. She chides herself for being so crude and wonders if she should have stayed in school. If she is anything it’s analytical. She can find the details in things and pull them to the surface, often to a fault.
School? Maybe, but not now, she tells herself. Right now I have Boris Reiner to sort out. Boris and his little problem …
She finds Mr. Reiner sitting on a sofa, reading a magazine. He has kicked his feet up on a settee and appears to be enjoying himself. He’s even whistling.
Boris, as he likes to be called, is wearing tennis shorts and a smart Lacoste shirt. He probably heard the courts were open.
“Mr. Reiner,” Josie says. She walks into his line of sight. He sets his magazine down. He’s wearing reading glasses, which age him by a decade. Still, she sees what must be considered charming for some women. That, and the fact, he’s loaded, and connected. “Can we chat?”
“Ah, here it is,” he says, smiling graciously. “My wife said I have no choice. It’s either come here and listen, or I’ll be hearing from a divorce attorney. She threatens me with that at least once a year. This time, she’s really got me by the …” Another grin. “Well, you know what I mean.”
Josie has changed out of her tight jeans and tee. After preparing her last spell, she put on some baggy shorts that hang past her knee, and a ratty, abused, long-sleeved Miami Dolphins sweat shirt. It’s something she found in her drawer upstairs. She wants him to be focused on the matter at hand, instead of her shapely figure. The brewing of this potion required a delicate touch, and she doesn’t want to mess up.
“What I know is that your wife caught you with another woman—”
“I had no idea she’d be home.”
“You brought a mistress to your house?”
“It’s not like that.” He sat up and looks over his nose at her. Is he indignant, she wonders, about getting caught porking another woman? Or just annoyed he has to explain himself. “I care about Julia. She’s … someone I can relate to.”
“Listen, Mr. Reiner, I’m not here to make you feel bad about it. You’re married, and your wife doesn’t seem to like your cheating. I guess that means it’s a problem, right?”
“It is.”
“Here’s the solution.”
She opens her palm and blows into it. A tiny cloud of sparkling dust puffs into the air. The sunlight from the windows catches the micro particles, creating a resplendent display, as if a thousand tiny creatures are suddenly born all at once. The cloud expands to the point it dissipates. She sees a few specks land on Mr. Reiner.
“What is this … stuff?”
“Here’s what happens now,” she says, wiping her hands as if she is a teacher and they’re covered with chalk dust. “You can think all the nasty thou
ghts you’d like, but if you so much as flirt with another woman or, worse, lift a finger, and I mean that pinky finger, and touch another woman … you’ll get a surprise. No flirting, no touching. Simple.”
“Surprise?”
He stands, incensed, although he doesn’t act threatening. Mr. Boris Reiner obviously knows the history of Birchall and the coven associated with it. He obviously knows what’s happening here. He’s a man of means and connection. He understands when he’s in no position to negotiate.
“My wife has me, doesn’t she?”
“She does.”
He nods. “Is that it?”
“Don’t you want to know what the surprise is?”
He looks like a man who needs to swallow some foul medicine. “No.”
Josie wants to tell him so that he doesn’t end up on TV or in front of a committee without his clothes. “Ever had a dream where you’re naked in a public place?” He nods. She smiles, lifts an eyebrow, and waits. She sees the recognition in his eyes. She adds: “Magic’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
Mr. Boris Reiner hurries out of the salon, magazine rolled up into a baton as if he might take a swipe at someone. Josie’s relief at finishing the last of them doesn’t last long. It’s replaced by the annoying feeling she’s done something nasty to him. She can’t shake the feeling that this could all go wrong. No, she tells herself, it’s necessary—like working out or practicing an instrument. Sometimes you have to work a little to see results. And if these men want wives who care about them and tolerate them, this is the requirement. She’s just helping them see that.
* * *
Lunch that day is served by dutiful Alice in the servants’ kitchen. All the men have paid for her to cook (a service Josie hopes will earn needed cash). They charge a premium, and Alice is happy to be cooking again for a group.
Most of the men chat away while eating. Only Mr. Creeley remains silent. Josie keeps her distance, but she listens down the hall to verify all is well.
Lennox is the only one absent.