by Smith, Skye
"Why don't you get one of your friends to straighten Bret out?" Maya asked. "I mean, with a bath, a hair cut, some clothes other than t-shirt and jeans, and some nice smelling hand sanitizer for his pits, he wouldn't be half bad. All he needs is a little self confidence."
"You forget, small town." Mary said slurping the honeyed milk from her Oatios. "Word would get around. He would get confidence, but the girl wouldn't be able to show her face."
"What about a visitor? There are lots of girls here on holidays and weekends."
"Like you, right?" Mary replied through a smile, and she pointed her spoon at Maya. "He would be the envy of every guy that ever rented your movie, and yes, that would probably give him the confidence to be a ladies man. I mean, I hate him as a brother, but he really isn't bad for a teen." She laughed at the look of horror on Maya's face.
* * * * *
The next morning when the girls drove over to open the cafe, there were three cop cars waiting in the parking lot. Luckily Mary was driving because Maya had a panic attack and would have screeched out and tried to make a run for it. Mary kept telling her to calm down, over and over, even as they were walking up the steps to the cafe door.
Of course, Mary didn't know that Maya was still sort of in hiding from a police investigation into a string of unexplained heart attacks on Wall Street. Maya said nothing. She couldn't. Her stomach was trying to crawl up into her mouth.
The police were all getting out of their cars. A sergeant called to them. "Hey Mary. You're late opening again. We almost gave up on you, like we did yesterday."
"Sorry," Mary called back. "My folks are away, and I'm short handed." She whispered to Maya, "See, it's just the morning cop coffee klatch. They all cruise different areas so they meet here for coffee and a gossip."
Maya made some press coffee for them, because it was faster to make than drip, while Mary shoved her way into the booth with them and sat beside the youngest. Quite cute actually, despite his big mustache.
"Say Mary," said the sarge, "what do you know about two young guys drinking in a fancy car last night?"
"Nothing much. College types. Came in to use the toilet and to buy colas, and then just sit in the parking lot. Probably just using our free WiFi. You know what young guys are like. Always on pornsites."
One of the other cops snickered and had to look away. The sarge gave him a stern look and then asked Mary, "So why didn't you give us a call? They were as drunk as skunks."
"I didn't know they were drunk, and let me tell you, when I am closing up alone at night, I'm not about to walk up to a carload of men to find out if they are drunk."
Maya gave her a big smile. Mary was doing great. She was so not suicidal. "Mary, do you need my help anymore? I've got things to do."
Mary stood and gave her a good hug and whispered "Thanks, I can handle it." As Maya was leaving the cafe she heard Mary say to the sarge. "Besides, why would I be suspicious of them. Nice car, nice clothes, well groomed, and nothing strange or queer about them."
At this all three of the cops broke up and started to laugh. Maya chuckled to herself. The cops must have turned on the guy's phones. A worry crossed her mind and she went back inside and called out "Say, those guys aren't going to blame Mary for being caught are they? I mean, she is here alone, and the nights come earlier and earlier now."
"Well, I shouldn't say. It's police business," replied the sarge, "but, yeh, why not, Mary has a right to know," he looked at the nodding heads of the other cops. "Both fathers came to pick them up this morning. One to drive them home and the other to drive the car. One of the fathers is some big shot lawyer so we cut them some slack. We've held back on charging them, but we have them on file. We told them that if they ever come back here, they will be arrested on sight and we'll dig out that file."
One of the other cops spoke softly. "Yeh, they were just troubled kids from good homes. Let the families handle it. If they ever come on to you, Mary, you just give us a call."
They were all still snickering when Maya walked out the door. "Troubled kids!" she mumbled angrily to herself. "Troubled kids from good homes!" She let out a small scream of frustration. "Effing psychopaths who'll become the next generation of lawyers and bankers. No wonder they get away with so much. Their bad behavior is not only forgiven, it is rewarded."
* * * * *
"How is Mary," Nana called out when Maya came into the cottage.
Maya didn't answer right away. The cottage was cold. Nana was old school and refused to use the propane heater. She went out and came back with an armload of firewood for the Franklin stove.
"What was it, man trouble?" Nana tried again. "I've seen women cry like that about men before. Bastards."
"Psycho trouble," replied Maya softly.
"Oh no. You didn't kill anyone did you?" Nana knew all about the string of unexplained heart attacks that Maya had left behind on both the east and west coasts. She even had her suspicions about England and India.
"No Nana. I know my aura better than that now. I rarely have psycho accidents anymore. Only if they attack me." When Maya had first noticed that the healing power of her aura was getting stronger and stronger, she found out that her aura would also try to heal sick minds. Unfortunately (or fortunately for Maya in most cases) with psychos, a side effect was the stopping of the heart.
"You're not fibbing to stop an old woman from worrying are you?" Nana had to turn around to watch Maya feed the fire.
After the fire was stoked she came up behind Nana and gave her a long hug and looked over her shoulder at what she was typing on her laptop. "So you are writing your novel again, eh. The adventures of Britta in the War of Independence."
"Yes, but I still need to pick your memory some more." said Nana softly. "You still haven't filled in all of the holes in the dreams you had from Britta's memory crystal." Britta Fisher had been the first of their ancestors to arrive as a redemptioner in New England, and to start a new life in the new world. She had also been a healer through the extra aura sense that ran in the family. Britta's aura had left a memory imprint on the quartz crystal that she had worn as a healer's pendant.
The same quartz crystal that was laying on the table beside one of Britta's diaries, that Nana had been reading.
Maya walked over and looked in the tea pot and grimaced and put on some water to boil. "Where did we get to?" She put some bread on the toasting grill of the Franklin stove, and made a mental note not to forget it. She absolutely hated the smell of charred toast. It was the smell she sensed when around psychopaths.
"Um, let's see. It was in November 1772." Nana paged back in her writings. "Britta, her brother Jon, their pregnant bond mistress the Widow Lydia, and Lydia's baby Robbie have opened the Anchor Coffee Shoppe beneath their apartments near to Faneuil Hall and the market in Boston. There is still no sign of Britta's mother who was supposed to have been transported as a witch from Bristol. Britta and Jon are still hiding from Captain John Brown of Providence because Jon had witnessed the burning of the schooner Gaspee."
She paged forward. "The coffee shop is doing well. Samuel Adams is often there hiding from the Governor's tax collectors and is interested in using the back room for correspondence committee meetings. While delivering Sam's draft of a pamphlet, Britta meets the Otis family. The father, Jemmy Otis is sick and about to retire. The mother, Ruth Otis, hates Jemmy's politics, and Britta. The son Jim Otis takes Britta to the opening night of his auntie Mercy Otis Warren's play. Jim and Britta fall in love, and he announces his intention to marry her in his church."
Maya made the tea and brought it over to the table. She caught the toast just before it charred, so she didn't bother flipping it over, but just smothered the hot side in butter. "That's right, oh good. Some pleasant dreams for a change. Kisses and the love of innocents. Let me finish my tea and toast and get this room warm enough to meditate without shivering."
"Will you need Britta's quartz pendant?" asked Nana, as she did a save and found her pad of paper and
a pencil.
"No, I don't think so. Once my aura has fed me a memory from the quartz crystal, then it is in my own memory. You know, just like after you copy a file off a USB memory stick into your computer, you can unplug the USB stick. That is why I have you wake me up quickly if I am having a nightmare. I don't want someone else’s nightmare stuck in my head. My own nightmares are bad enough."
Twenty minutes later, with the warmth of the stove caressing her skin, Maya sat lotus style, with her mind in a light trance, while she brought to mind and related the memories of a woman who had died two hundred years ago, to a woman who had been born before there was radio. Surreal did not half explain how weird a crystal memory felt.
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA'S AURA - Destroy the Tea Party by Skye Smith
Chapter 3 - November 1772, Anchor Coffee Shoppe, Boston
Britta heard cart wheels outside the coffee shop and rushed to the window to see if it was her Jim. One of Boston's many hackney shays rolled by without stopping. She sighed and walked back to the table she had been wiping.
Lydia was watching her pretty young bond slave from the door to the galley. The girl was so deeply, and completely in love that she tended to space out while she was doing simple things, like wiping down tables or sweeping the floor. There was the sound of more cart wheels and she saw Britta turn. "Britta, stick to your work. Too many carts use this street for you to be looking out after every one of them."
A short while later, when Samuel Adams walked into the Anchor Coffee Shoppe with their landlord, Britta barely noticed them other than to register that neither was her husband-to-be, Jim Otis.
Both of the middle aged men ordered coffee, and had to ask twice to catch the girl's attention, and then walked through the shop and sat at the back table nearest to the ladies' retirement room.
They were in the middle of a business discussion when Britta brought them their coffees, so she didn't interrupt to ask if they had seen her Jim. She would ask them later.
There were snatches of conversation such as, "Yes, three doors. This one. One at the back to access the men’s privies, and one into the stairwell that leads upstairs." Britta knew they were discussing the other half of the defunct tavern's space. The part that the coffee shop did not use. There was money counted out on the table, a lot of money. Too much to rent such a dismal back room.
She was torn between loyalty to her landlord and to this nice man Sam. She felt that she should tell Sam that he was being over charged, but how could she without angering the landlord. Sam must have caught her look, for he told her to sit and listen.
"I am renting the space behind the shop," Sam told her, "but for occasional meetings, nothing more. It should add good income to the shop without increasing your work by much, though you will need to buy more cups. The rent counted out here includes the cost of helpers to set it up before each meeting, to clean it afterward, and to be doormen during the meetings."
"If you are hiring men," she grabbed the landlords arm, "I know some fishermen who are short of work this winter. The winter storms are keeping them close to shore and all they are catching is Fenwick flounder."
"Actually, Mr. Adams will be providing and instructing the men. My only part will be to pay them."
Britta gave them both 'the' look, and shook her head at the perversity of businessmen.
Sam saw her confusion and explained. "Under English law, a landlord has the right to bear arms sufficient to protect his property, and the right to hire men to do so in his name. The doormen must therefore be in his employ, not mine, if they are to have the right to use force to protect the door."
Britta felt a wave of panic. Lydia had successfully kept rough men from becoming regulars at this shop. It was a coffee shop for gentlemen, and occasionally gentlewomen. Troublemakers were encouraged to go to the rowdy British Coffee House on the other side of the market.
The landlord saw the worry in her eyes and watched her breast swell as she breathed in deeply. "Sam has promised that all those invited to the meetings will be well-educated gentlemen. The doormen are so that you and Lydia will not be, ugh, bothered."
She knew that they were both bending the truth. She knew from working at Sabin's tavern in Providence last year, what type of things that are discussed at Caucus meetings. These meetings would be about committee business, spy business, and the doormen were to keep the governor's men away. Without saying more, she stood and went to find Lydia to tell her what they were planning.
Lydia was feeding her baby Robby mashed carrots and minced beef. She listened to Britta for a few minutes and then said. "They already asked my permission and I have given it."
"But the meetings could attract rough men. Perhaps even the governor's men."
"Perhaps, but think of the new regulars we may gain. Sam listed the names of some of the men. They are from old Boston families. A few are very eligible widowers. Some have sons not yet married. The wives are respected in this town, and Sam has promised to encourage the women to wait for their husbands in our shop.
Now go back and be nice to them. Just as we never charge the landlord for a drink, from now on we will not charge Mr. Adams." She read the stubbornness in Britta's face. "Do not think me naive, girl. I used to work in the market over by the docks. I witnessed the Boston massacre. I am no stranger to rough men, but I no longer want to be a stranger to society. I am willing to take this gamble in the hopes of meeting some society women."
"But..."
"You do realize that this means that Jemmy Otis will become a regular here, and that his son Jim will be driving him. Oh dear, I suppose your Jim will be forced to wait for his father in our shop."
Britta's expression turned from worry, to elation in a second, and she pirouetted to show her intense joy at this news. She ran over to Lydia and kissed her, and kissed Robby, and then had to wipe the mashed carrot from her cheek. "Oh, oh, oh. He could be here now. I must go and see." She stopped in front of a small mirror on the wall beside the hat rack. "Oh, we need a better mirror. How am I supposed to know how he sees me?" she complained in a light voice as she danced her way around the tables and chairs to the front door.
Jim was no where to be seen but there were fresh customers sitting at tables and looking around for service. As she took more coffee to Sam and the landlord, she told them "On the house," and smiled. "Always on the house for you two. Boss's orders." The door to the unused back room was open and she poked her head inside to see who was there. No one. No Jim. She went back to her customers.
Every time the door's bell rang, she would look up with her heart in her mouth, only to be disappointed. The good news was that Sam had not left, though the landlord had slipped out the back way. The next time she did her rounds, she asked Sam if he were waiting for someone. He said yes. Simply yes. Not who. He could be so infuriating sometimes.
Eventually two men did arrive asking for Mr. Adams and she led them to him. Lydia was now sitting with Sam drinking her Chinese tea, though Sam would never drink such tea. It was against his politics. He stood and made introductions.
"Mrs. Lydia Caldwell, may I present Dr. Joseph Warren and Dr. Benjamin Church. They represent the Freemason's Arms, where we used to hold our meetings. They have come to see our new room. Gentlemen, the widow Caldwell is our hostess. The girl with you is her right hand, Britta. They can be trusted."
Dr. Church was neat and well-dressed, and at least forty. Dr. Warren was younger, perhaps thirty, and though his clothes were costly, they were not brushed and his collar was soiled, and he wore a black arm band. They both stood stiffly and overly proud, overly self important. Typical physicians. Full of themselves.
Jim's aunt was Mercy Otis Warren so Britta asked "Are you related to Mercy's husband, James?" She wondered if either of these physicians was responsible for Jemmy Otis's addiction to opium syrup.
"Goodness no," Dr. Warren replied. "No relation at all save that we share a name. Though my wife, bless her memory, was a
distant cousin of Mercy's."
"Oh, I am so sorry," said Britta realizing the reason for the black arm band and his dusty look. "Was the baby lost as well?" Since moving to Boston she had heard countless tragic stories of women who died in childbirth and of children who died as infants. It seemed to be much more common here than out in the countryside.
Britta and her brother Jon had moved to Boston from the countryside with their bond mistress Lydia after Lydia's husband had died. They had started this coffee shop as a way of paying living expenses while Lydia's inheritance was locked in the legal wrangling about her husband's will. Until the courts decided the argument between Lydia and her step daughter, her husband's large farm down south near the Rhode Island border, was being run by a trustee.
Lydia's husband had been a slaver. His dairy was run by Black women who were chattel slaves. While living there Britta had helped the farms midwife, Lucy, and had learned as much from her as she had learned at the knee of her mother, who was also a midwife. She wondered if the high number of birthing deaths here in Boston was due to the physicians taking over birthing from the midwives.
All these thoughts brought a tear to her eye. Not for Dr. Warren's wife, but because it reminded her that her poor mother was still missing. Her mother had been charged with witchcraft in Bristol, England, and had been transported to the American provinces. Britta and her brother Jon had taken passage on a ship as redemptioners so as to follow her here, but they still hadn't found her.
Sometimes she wondered if her mom had not been transported to Boston at all, and if not, then to where. She prayed that she had not be been transported to the prison colonies of Georgia. Britta shuddered at the thought. She had been told horrid stories about what happened to women prisoners in Georgia. Fresh tears filled her eyes and she sniffed at them to pull them back. That trick never worked. Dr. Warren must have thought they were tears of empathy for he too had lost his proud look and seemed to be fighting back tears himself. She hugged his arm around the black band.