*~*~*
"Hello, Myra?" Harriet clenched the heavy black telephone receiver. She'd kept her land line because she liked the feeling of dialing, inserting her index finger into the little holes as if performing some slightly deviant act. In a way, she supposed she was, because nobody used land lines these days—well, almost nobody. Witches did when they felt like it, being quite at home with black instruments bearing nasty news. "It's Harriet."
"Mercy me." Her old friend sighed. "I never thought I'd hear this old thing ring ever again. Well, how are you? Still among the living, I presume?"
"Yes, of course I am," Harriet said, already vaguely annoyed at Myra's gloomy tone.
"Well, you can hardly blame me for wondering," Myra said. "You haven't been in touch for ages, not since you snatched that little pink creature from her home. My goodness, when was that? I suppose it must be, oh, six or seven years ago now."
"Sixteen," Harriet said heavily. "It was sixteen years ago."
"Oh my. Well, that's even worse. How time does fly. My goodness, we're getting up there, aren't we, dearie?"
"Speak for yourself." Harriet forced herself to laugh. "I feel as young as a new-hatched owlet."
"Ah, so you're senile." Myra paused to blow her nose. "Are you calling me by accident, then, Harriet? If you've lost your faculties, you probably don't want to speak to me at all. No, I'm quite sure you don't. For if you did, you would have rung me up long before now. So, I suppose in all fairness, I should hang up and let you get back to your cloudy funk. Nice talking to you, dearie!"
Harriet stared at the buzzing receiver for a full minute before dialing the next number. "Barbara? Greetings, dear. It's Harriet."
"Harriet? Harriet who?" the voice quavered on the other end.
"Harriet Harwich."
"Well, as I live and breathe. What a surprise."
"Barbara, how are you, dear?" Harriet asked, feeling her way cautiously. At one time, she and Barbara had been lovers. They'd reveled in each other's bodies, never caring about wrinkles or spare hairs or benign moles in every crack and crevice. They'd gone everywhere and done everything together, rapturously happy in each other's company. But then Amelia had joined their coven from a sister group in Scotland and Barbara had gravitated toward her, eventually preferring Amelia's company to Harriet's. Harriet hadn't bothered to hide her jealousy, calling Amelia a Scotch tart and a rotten haggis. Barbara had merely laughed and started wearing tartan instead of solid black. And then, one terrible day, she'd sent back Harriet's heart.
"How kind of you to ask," Barbara said tonelessly.
"You sound well." Harriet clutched the curling black cord to her breast. "And Amelia?"
"Not so well."
"Ah?"
"She's dead."
"Oh, dear," Harriet said.
Barbara began to sob. "She was only nine hundred and eleven."
Harriet thought that was quite long enough in Amelia's case but knew better than to say so. "Oh, Barbara, dear, I'm so sorry. Was she ill for very long?"
"She was never ill a day in her life."
"Good heavens, did she have some sort of terrible accident?" Harriet took a quick moment of pleasure at the thought of Amelia flying into an electric grid, or being decapitated by some moron's uncontrollable drone.
"A dragon ate her," Barbara muttered. "Back in Scotland."
"What about St. George and all that?" Harriet asked. "I thought all the dragons were long slain in the British Isles."
"They were." Barbara sniffed. "Except for one."
"I see. Well, as they say, that's all it takes." Harriet gave a nervous little laugh, regretting it instantly because even she could see that it made her sound a bit heartless. "At least you were spared."
"I wasn't with her." Barbara's voice broke. "We'd had a tiff."
"Oh my." Harriet waited eagerly for details.
"Actually, it was a battle royal. When I found out the bowling league she belonged to had moved their sessions to Monday and Wednesday nights, I asked her where she'd really been going on Tuesday and Friday nights. She flew into a rage and vanished into thin air. I let her go, because I was angry. I didn't try to follow her or find her. I thought to myself, let her get out there in the world and see what it's like to be alone." Barbara paused. "She wasn't alone when the dragon came along." Once again, her voice choked with emotion. "They found two pairs of slippers, and two brooms."
"Spares?" Harriet offered hopefully.
"Of course not," Barbara snapped. "She'd found someone else." She broke down into mournful sobs. "Everyone knew but me."
"I had no idea." Harriet sighed, trying not to pay attention to the wicked little voice deep inside her cackling with spite. Cheaters cheated, hearts broke, and karma fixed it all if you were lucky enough to live long enough to see the third act.
"Why are you calling?" Barbara asked dully. "If it wasn't to share your condolences, then why are you getting in touch with me?"
"I need some advice." Harriet shrugged. "I thought I'd run my problem by an old friend. You see, I have no one to confide in these days, Barbara."
"Nor do I." Barbara let out a long sigh. "What about that little pink cupcake you snatched? She must be old enough to talk by now."
"That's just it. She is." Harriet's eyes rolled upward. "You can only imagine."
"No, I can't. Amelia and I never wanted children. We had the goats, and that was enough for us. Baba Louie and Chenille and the rest of the flock, they gave us such pleasure. And milk."
"Yes, lovely. Cheese, too, I imagine."
"Yes." Barbara paused. "What is your problem, exactly?"
"I don't know what she wants," Harriet said softly. "Nothing I do or say makes her happy."
"How old is she?" Barbara asked.
"Sixteen."
"Oh. Well, that settles it. She's a woman, Harriet, not a witch."
Harriet's hand tugged the black cord hard. "And?"
"She's in rut."
"She's not in a rut," Harriet said indignantly. "She has every sort of entertainment possible and is never at a loss for finding some new plaything. And she also paints. Paints, paints, paints. She has a great deal of talent."
"That's nice, but it's not what I said, dear. I said, 'SHE'S IN RUT'."
"No need to shout. And NO, SHE IS NOT IN RUT." Harriet shook her head hard. "No, no, no. Impossible. She knows absolutely nothing about sex. Nothing. She doesn't even know that such a thing exists. Why, she's never even see a man, not in the flesh. I've made certain of that."
"Poor thing, yearning for something she can't even imagine," Barbara said, sounding almost interested. "When the goats got horny, Amelia and I would hide. Copulation was a dreadful thing to witness. But they seemed to like it. And having the kids around was lovely, I must say. So many laughs."
"I have no idea where to obtain a member of the male gender," Harriet said. When Barbara giggled, she blushed. "And I wouldn't want one here anyway. Men, nothing but trouble."
"Human males," Barbara said, "have a perpetual rutting season. If you do plan to mate her, I would like to be present."
"For what, the act itself?" Harriet bristled. "Wouldn't that be a bit vulgar, Barbara dear?"
"What's vulgar about natural acts that lead to new life?" Barbara asked. "Dear me, when you chose to stay away from the gatherings of the coven, we had no idea you'd become so human—that is, so common, in your thinking. If Amelia were here, she'd be hooting with laughter. You, of all witches, becoming a besotted mommy and living long enough to see the error of your ways. Delicious!"
"You're being very nasty," Harriet said. "I like that in a friend. Brings me back to reality. I've been away from my kind too long."
"So, you'll have a coming-out party for little what's-her-name?" Barbara asked hopefully.
A huge crash from upstairs frightened Harriet out of her wits. "Melissa!" she screamed.
"I'm not deaf," Barbara complained.
"Could you hold on a sec, Babs?"
"
Of course, Hattie."
After flinging down the receiver, she literally flew up the stairs. "Melissa? Melissa?" Pounding on the door, she shouted, "Open up, or there'll be no supper for you, young lady." After a pause in which she was sure she could hear giggling, she said, "I've respected your privacy, and this is what I get. Well, big news. I don't need a key. I have never needed a key. And now, I am commanding this door to open AT ONCE!"
When the door swung open, Harriet almost fell inside.
"Hi, Mom." Melissa's pale white skin could scarcely be seen among the tangle of hairy legs. "Want to make it a foursome?"
"Get off, get off, get away, get away." Harriet wrenched at the excited spiders, slapping a waving leg away only to duck when another came at her. How ugly they were up close, with gnashing teeth, bright black eyes the size of bowling balls, and hairs everywhere that prickled like porcupine quills. "Get out. Now!"
When the two hairy beasts separated themselves, Melissa lay revealed in all her naked glory, her golden hair tousled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, and her nipples as hard and red as tart cherries. All over her silken flesh, tiny spider hairs gleamed. "We were just starting to have fun, and you ruined it."
With a snap of her fingers and a feral growl, Harriet reduced the spiders to tiny mites. When she lifted her foot, Melissa screamed, "Don't! They're my friends!"
With an evil grin, Harriet stomped down hard. "I love it when they squish."
"Oh! I hate you more than ever." Melissa wailed and rolled over to pound the floor with her fists and kick it with her bare feet. "I want to die, I want to die, I want to die."
Feeling sickened, Harriet said coldly, "Get up and take a bath at once." Without waiting for Melissa to comply, she marched over to her and snapped her fingers.
Instantly, Melissa rose from the floor, instinctively covering herself by cupping her groin and placing an arm across her breasts so that she exactly resembled what Harriet always thought of as 'Venus on the Half Shell', the seductive painting by Botticelli. "We were only having fun, you know," she mumbled.
"My dear girl, what you were doing is not fun," Harriet hissed between clenched teeth.
"What, a nine-legged race?" Her blue eyes widened. "Reggie and Gordon said it was the most fun in the world." The shining eyes filled with tears as round as pearls. "And now they're dead."
"Look," Harriet said, pointing at the two mites scurrying into a crack in the floorboards. "They're not dead. I just pretended to crush them, as a lesson to you."
"Some lesson," Melissa said bitterly. "My mother's either a killer or a liar."
Harriet shook from head to toe. "You," she seethed, "are a nasty, wicked girl to say such things about your own mother."
"Oh, and that's another thing." Melissa tossed back her golden mane, her blue eyes narrowed into glittering slits. "You can't possibly be my mother. You're a witch and I'm a girl."
"Who told you that?" Harriet gasped.
"Not Reggie and Gordon." Melissa sauntered over to her dresser, giving Harriet a double vision of potential sexual trouble when she saw the white body reflected in the mirror. Yanking open the top drawer, she pulled out a gray booklet and flipped it expertly at Harriet. "I read this."
"A Handbook for Coven Life," Harriet read aloud. She hurled the book onto the floor, where it gave off a soft powdery pink glitter. "Oh, dear, sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." Picking up the booklet, she smoothed its pages before stroking the cover until it turned purple. "Melissa, you shouldn't have been reading this without the proper guidance. Mine."
"Oh, yours." Melissa strolled over to her wardrobe and plucked out a pink silk kimono with pinker cherry blossoms tangling in leafy sprays embroidered on it. "That's all I ever have. I never get to do anything interesting, or see anything interesting, or learn anything interesting. All I do is sit at your feet and worship you. Not."
"I know that well enough now," Harriet said grimly. "I've tried to give you the best of everything, and you literally throw it back in my face."
Melissa slipped into the diaphanous garment with a shrug. "You've given me nothing. Zero. Goose egg. Zip."
Harriet nodded. "I see. So, it's confirmed. I give you nothing; you deserve everything. You thank me with illicit behavior and filthy looks. It's all very clear. Yes, indeed it is."
"You're babbling." Sinking down on her massive bed, Melissa picked up an emery board and began to rasp it across her nails. "You can go now."
Speechlessly, Harriet gawked at the girl.
"You heard me." Melissa looked up coolly. "Dismissed."
Suddenly, Harriet remembered her disrupted telephone call. "Oh, my word." Spinning on her heels, she ran out the door, calling over her shoulder, "This conversation is far from over."
"For me it is."
Harriet heard the door slam not once but five times before she snatched up the receiver. "Barbara, oh, my goodness, are you still there?"
"Of course I am," Barbara said smoothly. "I wouldn't have missed that for the world."
"How much did you hear?" Harriet asked weakly, leaning up against the heavy hall console with its black marble top and carved lion's legs as the door slammed for what had to have been the dozenth time.
"Every blessed word." Barbara's voice grew louder. "What's she doing now, slamming her door?"
"Yes. She's been behaving just terribly." Harriet pushed her lips closer to the receiver and whispered, "I think it's time to have that sweet sixteen party."
"A coming out party." Barbara sounded positively excited. "She'll be our first debutante."
"But a debutante ball needs swains," Harriet said. "Swarms of swains."
"Leave that to us," Barbara said. "When I phone around to the rest of the coven, they'll find all sorts of ways to bring handsome young men to your castle, even if they have to gag and bind them."
"Oh, my, I shouldn't think they'd have to do that," Harriet said with a laugh. "All they have to do is show the lads the Botticelli painting of Venus rising naked from the sea and they'll be here in droves."
*~*~*
"Seriously?" Melissa stared at Harriet across the dining table where pale blue candles in elaborate silver candelabra flickered over a tasty array of sweetmeats and fresh fruits. "You mean you called me down here for dinner to tell me I get to have my party? With people? I mean, other people? Humans? Not just witches and ghosts?"
"Yes, you are going to have a marvelous party." Harriet took a sip of sparkling water from her crystal goblet, making a mental note to ask the cook, who in the flesh had been in the service of Marie Antoinette and was now a spirit who could still find her way around a kitchen, to slice the lemons just a sixty-fourth of an inch thinner. "I owe it to you, dearest."
"My goodness." Melissa's big blue eyes blinked. "Yes, you do owe me. But I didn't think you'd ever admit it."
"I have decided to give you what you desire because I have a heart, my dearest. And it belongs to you." Harriet put down her goblet. "I know you've been yearning for adventure and excitement and all the things a human girl wants to experience." Tactfully, she kept the awful prospect of being manhandled by a lout with a scratchy beard and a bone in his britches to herself. After all, Melissa would probably like it. No, in fact, if she could roll around on the floor with a couple of arachnids, she'd adore it. Disgusting as it was to Harriet, she'd just have to keep telling herself that humans were different—not inferior, no, she couldn't bear to think in such a bigoted way, but simply, different. As in slightly off. But still loveable. Of course.
"Mum?" Melissa patted her rosebud lips delicately with her napkin. "What will I wear?"
"Goodness, child, you needn't worry about that. We'll see to it you're the belle of the ball." For the first time, it struck Harriet that her precious child might have competition. She'd have to call Barbara and emphasize that it was to be MEN ONLY.
"Will we dance?" Melissa asked, her eyes shining.
"Oh my, yes. You'll dance your little slippered feet off." When Melissa's face da
rkened, Harriet realized she'd reminded her of that horrible old fairytale where a girl was condemned to dance herself to death. "No, no, dearest, not a dance like the one in that old fairytale. Heavens, no. What I meant was that you'll be whirling about in ecstasy until you wear out your soles." When Melissa looked puzzled, Harriet said, "Never mind. Just think happy thoughts."
After Melissa left the table, moderately happy and more civilized than she'd been in a great while, Harriet rushed to the telephone and dialed in a surfeit of joy. "Hello, Babs? She's become positively angelic at the thought of this to-do, and I owe it all to you."
"Hattie," Barbara said. "I was just about to call you, but I didn't want to interrupt your dinner. I've been doing nothing but thinking about our coming out ball. Do you want a formal orchestra or one of those rock-and-roll groups that are so popular among the young these days?"
"Oh, dear." Harriet scratched her chin. "I much prefer a formal orchestra, but perhaps Melissa would like something more au courant."
"They're very odd these days, you know." Barbara sighed with more envy than contempt. "One young woman wears costumes composed of nothing but spiders. Live spiders."
Harriet laughed. "As the young people say, she's been there, done that. What else do you have in mind?"
"Well, there are a group of lads with kilts and bagpipes," Barbara began.
"That's a bit old-fashioned, isn't it?" Harriet said.
"Well, perhaps. But, you see, they play the kilts and wear the bagpipes," Barbara said.
"Sounds dreadfully uncomfortable," Harriet said. "And how does one play a kilt, may one ask?"
"I haven't the foggiest," Barbara said. "I was informed by Josefina that her great-grand-nephews ten times removed had formed just such a band, if one might call it that."
"I'd remove them more than ten times," Harriet said. "They sound like idiots."
"Oh my, yes, complete dolts," Barbara said with a giggle. "Josefina says they've made more than a million dollars with their recordings. Can't hear squat, she says, just this sort of rustling noise and the occasional squawk when one of them prods his privates with a pipe."
Musical Hearts Page 2