Welcome to Witchlandia

by Steven Popkes

  Witchlandia: my warm and cozy little corner of the world.

  Chapter 1.6: David

  When a woman wants you it’s a gift, I thought drunkenly as we danced. Any woman. But when this woman wants you, it’s a miracle. Men display, deceive and preen, but it’s the women who choose.

  Sandy pushed her head off my shoulder and looked me straight in the eyes. I felt as if I had been bludgeoned, tongue-tied and drooling. If she were to push against me, I would fall. She wanted me. I was certain. She would stop dancing with me any minute and leave me cold. I was certain.

  She pulled me over to the coolers and grabbed two Cokes and poured out half of each. From her purse she took a flask and refilled the bottles. Sandy handed me one bottle and took a drink from the other. She looked up at me and smiled gaily. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  We necked in the woods leaning against a grand and ancient oak. Walked behind the stadium and then hid in the bushes on the bluff over the creek where we nearly managed to pull off everything but our pants. Sandy held me off, grinning. “Impatient boy.” She pulled her shirt back on, twirled her bra in the air and threw it down into the water.

  I was past caring. I would have followed her anywhere. Done anything. Her skin tasted of talcum and sweat. Her eyes glittered. Her skin was soft and fluid to the touch, warm, mercuric. We drained our Cokes together.

  “Time to go home,” she said, suddenly rising.

  I was stricken. Was she going to leave me now?

  Instead, she reached down and hauled me to my feet. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easily. You’re coming with me.”

  The two of us leaned against the elevator walls and each other on the way up to her floor. I cupped my hand around her breast and she nestled her head against my shoulder.

  It took both of us to navigate the hall to her room. She giggled as we entered the room and fell on her bed. Again we nestled together. The room was quiet. All I could hear was her breathing. The sound deepened.

  I realized: she’s passed out.

  “Take her anyway,” Misty said.

  Misty so startled me I almost fell out of the bed. I rolled off the bed onto my knees, staring at Sandy.

  “Come on,” Misty wheedled. “It’s not like she didn’t want you. It’ll be interesting.”

  I shook my head and the room spun. There was a sour taste in my mouth. I didn’t know exactly where I was right then but I knew I needed to find a bathroom quick. I guessed at the door and ran through. There was a toilet at the far end. I had barely enough time to raise the lid and bury my head inside before everything I had drank or eaten in the last twelve hours came pouring out.

  Afterwards, I leaned my head against the porcelain rim and just lay there. When I thought I could, I staggered to my feet and looked around. The bathroom was shared, apparently, between two dorm rooms. I cleaned up after myself, washed my face and rinsed my mouth out. I looked in the mirror. I hadn’t stained my clothes anywhere too obviously. Even so, I could still smell myself.

  Nothing kills romance like puking in the middle of the night.

  I crept silently back into Sandy’s room. She was still asleep. I stood over her, watching her breathe. She really was beautiful—it hadn’t been a product of my drunken imagination. But now, unconscious, she was no longer so compelling.

  I pulled my clothes together and found my shoes. Dressed, I stood again over her.

  I didn’t think about doing anything while Sandy was unconscious. But I did think about waking her up or at least waiting until she woke up on her own. After all, she was beautiful and I was male.

  Misty didn’t say anything.

  No, I decided. I would remain uncompelled.

  “Noble,” Misty said. “Very noble.” Pause. “Pussy.”

  Of course, I thought, wearily.

  I quietly left the dorm room and walked down the hall towards the elevator. But I was still unsteady on my feet. I sat down and rested in the floor’s common room.

  “What does it say about you that you won’t take free sex from a beautiful woman?” Misty said from the piano on the other side of the room. She made the keys ripple like water in a breeze.

  “Stop it,” I said wearily.

  “Of course, you were more than willing while she was awake.”

  “I was drunk.”

  “Do you need an excuse? You know, it’s more than likely she’ll wake up just as interested as she was when she fell asleep. She hasn’t woken yet. You could still go back. No one would ever be the wiser.”

  “Go back smelling of vomit and whisky? No thanks.”

  “So are you concerned about your appearance or worried about your performance?”

  Suddenly angry, I ran over and raised my fist. I was going to strike the piano. Either the wood or my hands would break. Either way, I would be free.

  When did I start to think of the piano as my master?

  I slid onto the bench and leaned against the lintel. I rested my hands on the cool ivory. What was I going to do?

  Live. Breathe. Get through the day. But I wanted something more.

  I could almost hear Carl’s voice: “You’re not a kid any longer.”

  I shrugged, sullen as an eight-year-old.

  Well, then, I said to myself. Didn’t I feel something tonight? Well, then. It’s not completely lost, is it?

  Maybe not, I thought. I straightened up and rested my hands on the keyboard. Maybe I could recapture it. I tried the Mussorgsky Promenade—softly. It was still late. I was the only soul awake on the floor.

  Nothing.

  “Okay,” I said to myself. Clair de Lune—like Philippe Entremont used to play it, that deft touch that so drew me to the piece. A glimmer but nothing more. One after another, I tried pieces I’d always loved. Pieces I’d struggled with just to feel them spin out from under my fingers. Where once they felt like fire, now they were barely glowing, all of them.

  I stopped. Maybe there was nothing left.

  “Excuse me?” came a voice from the hall.

  I looked over and saw the kid I’d been playing to that night. Curious, I thought. What’s a boy too young to shave doing here?

  “You left the dance with my roommate,” he said in a low fierce voice. “Is she all right?”

  Roommate? I looked at the boy and my mind danced a quick jig of reorientation: that was no boy.

  “Oh,” I stammered. “She’s fine. She’s asleep. I’m David.”

  She nodded. “David Sabado. Piano prodigy. I heard. I’m Katelin. Sandy’s roommate.” She looked at me for a moment. “Wait here.” She disappeared for a moment.

  I looked at my hands. Maybe it would remain intermittent. Growing ever more rare until one day I would realize it was gone forever. Wonderful. Puke in the middle of the night instead of having the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen and fail at music. Both in the same night.

  She returned. For a moment, she watched me. “I guess you’re harmless.”

  “Completely.” You’ll never know how much, I thought bitterly.

  Chapter 1.7: Katelin

  I stalked halfway across campus before I calmed down. Why are you so upset? I kept asking myself. Three guys get together. They maim themselves. Where’s the surprise?

  Face it, I told myself. You’re not angry at any of them.

  You’re so smart; who am I angry at? I asked myself. When you’re having a conversation with yourself, you may as well take the opportunity to actually find something out.

  You’re pissed Sandy got there first.

  I stopped dead in the quadrangle. “What?”

  The sound of my own voice startled me. I looked around. There was nobody nearby to hear.

  I thought about David playing the piano. Sure enough, I was actually interested in him. Fancy that.

  I shrugged. It’s not like I actually had a clue as to what kind of person he was. I thought he looked good. He played well. He watched me while I danced. Not much to go on. It must not take much to get me interest
ed if I was so inclined. Not that I was so inclined very often. Not in years, as a matter of fact. Not since high school.

  Subdued, I walked the rest of the way to the dorm.

  Coming out on our floor, I heard the sound of a piano. Great. He’s serenading her. Just what I need.

  But he was playing by himself, rolling through one snatch of music after another. He looked bad, too. Not hung over—though you could see that in his face. He had that sallow look people with a little pigment get when they’re sick or they don’t get out much. A sort of grimness around the jaw and lips. I wondered if he had a Spanish family. Sabado sounded Spanish. But this was more than the after-effects of alcohol; he looked haunted.

  What had happened to Sandy?

  “Excuse me?” I asked. Then, I told him to stay put. Sandy was snoring. She’d wake up cheery and smiling, I supposed. She always did after she took somebody home.

  I returned to the common room, told him he was off the hook. I was going to tell him to either go back to Sandy’s room or get the hell out of here. There was no need for strange men to be on the floor. But I thought better of it.

  We looked at each other for a moment. He still looked good to me but Sandy had got there first and I wouldn’t try to pick up the pieces later—I had a little pride, after all. But I didn’t want him to leave just yet.

  “I really liked the way you played tonight,” I said. Lame. Very lame.

  He nodded.

  “I can’t play anything.” Shut up. Just shut up.

  He looked up at that. “You just never learned.”

  “I’m about as tone deaf as they come. I’d never be able to learn it.” I didn’t know what I was saying—just leave, I told myself. You’re embarrassing yourself.

  “Anybody can play the piano.”

  “Yeah. Right. Anybody can get up on that stage and do what you did.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t say that. That takes a long time and a little talent. But anybody can play the piano and make music. That’s nothing special.”

  “All right,” I said, irritated. I’ll call your little game. “Show me,” I said.

  He looked startled, then scooted over. “Okay.”

  I leaned my stick against the wall and came over, a little smug to see him surprised and then a little scared that he had agreed.

  He thought for a minute. “Did you ever hear the theme from the Ninth Symphony?” He hummed a little of it.

  “Maybe,” I said guardedly.

  “It’s easy. A child of three could figure this out.”

  He picked up my right hand—instant shock and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I had expected his hand to be weak, somehow. Loose. Flabby. Like he’d never worked a day in his life. Instead, it was thin and strong and utterly controlled. He placed my hand on the piano with a gentler touch than I could have imagined. Heck, for a second I think I would have let him put it on a hot stove.

  “Here,” he said. “E-E-F-G-G-F-E-D-C-C-D-E-E-D-D.” For each note he named, he pushed a finger down to make the sound. What do you know? I was playing music.

  “So, this is all there is to know about playing the piano?”

  He grinned at me and chuckled. “Mostly. And a lot of practice.”

  I liked that grin. I liked the way his hand felt.

  I pulled my hand away. Don’t get attached, I told myself. “Your folks must be proud.”

  He fiddled on the keys for a moment and looked up at me sideways. “You should know.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  He nodded next to the piano. “I know a stick when I see one. You’re a witch. Can’t be more unique and special than that.”

  “You don’t know anything about it.”

  David shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Something in the way he just let it go pissed me off, as if it was okay to poke at me and then walk away. Like half the people I’ve ever met. Like my brothers. Like my father. Like Sandy. “My dad ran for governor in 1984.”

  He stopped playing for a moment. “Governor?”

  “Yeah. Representative democracy. Separation of powers. We’re giving it a try now that they’ve worked the bugs out of it back east.” I caught his eye. He was looking at me now. Really looking. “I was ten years old. He was dragging me all over the state—my brothers were older and campaigning on their own for him. But nothing makes photo opportunities like a little girl. In fact, his handlers thought that I was too old. They thought it was fortunate that I was small for my age and dressed me like I was six.”

  “Sounds like…”

  “Oh, it was fun. People like to kiss little kids. Especially, kids of politicians. I was coached, trained and ordered to stand still and smile when they did it. Reporters asked me what I thought of my father running for such a big office. I had three or four responses for that, all written out and memorized.” I let my voice drop to a whisper. “But I had a secret. I could ride my bike down the street and lift it up a whole foot in the air before it came down. I could keep it there, too. I tried it every chance I could get and one day a reporter saw it.” I leaned towards him. “You see, we’re not entirely enlightened out here. I mean the aptitude tests are voluntary, and a whole lot of people don’t let their children take them. After all, the Baptists and Church of Christ people aren’t so keen on witches. Not so sure we really should be covered by the Civil Rights Act or if the government should be even testing for it. After all, they teach evolution in schools, right? Who’s to say what those aptitude tests are really testing for. It cost Dad the primary. It almost cost him his seat in the Senate, but he rallied. After all, it’s an American ideal that I be treated just as if I was as good as everybody else.”

  David was silent for a moment. “I was just returning the compliment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave me a long sad look. “You said something nice to me and I was saying something nice back to you. Something folks from back east like to do.”

  “Witch is not a nice word.”

  “I’m from Gloucester.”

  I stared at him. “What does that mean?”

  He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “It’s about eight minutes from Salem.”

  Light dawned. The Salem Conclave. “I get it.” Crap. I’d ripped into him for no reason at all. Great, Katelin.

  “Yeah. They practice for the games right over the harbor.”

  “I know.” It made me remember flying with Sam over the water. Sam had been from up there, too. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked at me and it was gone. He’d just let it go. He wasn’t angry at me or hurt—it was as if in the great scheme of things my blowing up at him was not so big.

  Usually, when I burnt a bridge there wasn’t much left but a greasy streak floating on the water. Not having charred embers to rely on was a new experience and I wasn’t sure what to do next. “You might have seen me flying, then. I’ve been to the Conclave. Once, anyway.”

  “Maybe,” he said at last. “I left Gloucester twelve years ago. You would have been six?”

  “Twelve years ago I would have been eight. But I was out there just last year.”

  He turned back to the piano.

  It was a little thread of connection but I wanted to keep it going. “How old were you when you started piano?”

  He chuckled like I’d said something funny. “They had a piano in McLean’s.”

  “McLean’s in Belmont?”

  “The same.”

  Even I had heard of McLean Mental Hospital—Boor and Miegle did most of their work there. “You’re a paranormal? What kind? What were your scores?”

  “Witch? Me?” He laughed out loud. “No. I’m just a run of the mill psychotic.”

  He used the word as if he were talking about a tomato or an onion. “Excuse me?”

  He played a series of descending chords I recognized. “Rhapsody in Blue,” I said. “My dad played that on the stereo when I was a kid.”

  He nodded. “When I was seven, I had imaginary
playmates.”

  “Don’t most kids?”

  “Mine wanted me to burn down the house next door.” He made a chord that sounded so sad it could make you weep. “So they sent me to the hospital. I was an inpatient there for three years. Outpatient for another four. Gerald wanted to blow things up. Amanda liked fire. Donald kept telling me to steal things.”

  “You don’t act crazy.”

  “I’m a very well-adjusted psychotic.” He slipped into that long soft section in the middle of the Rhapsody, that part that feels like you’ve been wrapped in a blanket. “Turned out I was actually gifted. Came as a surprise to my folks—Mom’s a nurse. Dad’s a fisherman. But they made sure I had teachers in Gloucester. Finally, Carl heard me play—he used to live up there. He’s known Dad since before there were boats. He put me in touch with Meister Eisenhart and I moved to Boston. Then, I studied in France.” He saw my blank stare. “Carl Spotts? Bass player for Mulholland Smog? Teaches cello in the school of music?”

  “How did he end up here?”

  “I have no idea. It happened while I was in Paris. How about you? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m from Jefferson City. Columbia is practically my home town.”

  He glanced up at me. “What’s keeping you here?” He nodded at the stick. “You could likely study anywhere. It’s not that common a talent.”

  “Neither is playing the piano,” I said hotly.

  He stopped and looked at me curiously. “I just complimented you again and you got angry.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Ah, I see.” He didn’t say anything for a moment but just kept playing Gershwin.

  After a while, I calmed down. I felt stupid about getting mad—he hadn’t actually said anything wrong. There was just something about him that got under my skin.

  He kept playing Gershwin and I sat next to him and listened. It came to me his playing stood in for his apology even though he didn’t really have anything to apologize for. It felt cozy. After a few minutes, it felt too cozy.