“Hey, buddy,” his uncle called from the kitchen. “Wash up and come help me set the table, will you? We’re having lamb burgers for dinner.”
Charlie set his backpack near the foot of the stairs, washed his hands in the first-floor bathroom, then walked into the kitchen where his uncle was sprinkling spices in a large mixing bowl filled with ground meat. Several buns, fat as hens, sat on a baking sheet. A tossed salad layered with bright vegetables filled a white ceramic bowl.
“This is the way I defy the end of summer,” Randall said, smiling at him. “Grilling in the rain!”
Charlie thought about how much he liked his uncle’s face. His eyes were nearly always twinkling, except when he was mad and ready to explode. Nothing was hidden from view.
“Your face is like a cocker spaniel,” Charlie heard Beverly say once to her husband. “Everything happening on the inside shows up on the outside.”
“Are you saying I have to bid adieu to my poker career?” Randall had laughed.
Even though his mouth smiled most of the time, his dark mustache and eyebrows gave his face some weight. Lines that etched across his forehead thickened when he questioned something. Crows feet marked the years of laughter at the corners of his eyes. Slightly larger than normal ears added a boyish look to his overall appearance.
He liked Beverly’s face too, though it was different. It was more like a deep river. You could make out what was happening on the surface, but you had no idea what might be churning underneath. Smooth, mostly unlined, Charlie thought that she could be the queen of poker if she wanted to be. He had seen emotions on her face from delight, to hurt, to rage. But mostly she held an inscrutable expression, which at times made him nervous.
“I feel different today,” Charlie announced to his uncle.
“You don’t look any different,” Randall replied, wiggling his hand near his mouth as if he were holding a cigar in a Groucho Marx imitation. Then his smile faded.
“Oh, you’re serious. Tell me,” he said.
Charlie went over to the cupboard and pulled down three plates, then began opening drawers to gather the silverware and glasses for the dining room table.
“I’m tired of being afraid all the time. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
Randall’s hands, which had been mixing the ground lamb meat in the bowl, stopped moving.
“Afraid of …?”
“Afraid of everything. Of saying the wrong thing. Of looking stupid. Of worrying about what other people think. Of liking boys. Of Grace. My mom was always shy and hiding out, afraid of everything. I think she taught me to do that. But maybe that’s not really me, you know? I think I just I learned to do it. Like maybe, I was born speaking, uh, Spanish, but she taught me how to speak …”
“Swahili?”
“Yeah, Swahili. And even though I can, it’s not my native language. I want to speak Spanish like I’m supposed to.”
“That’s a pretty amazing realization, Charlie.”
He shrugged. “After what happened the other night with Grace, I started to feel really bad about Joan and Beverly and the others who saved my life. I mean, I felt really guilty.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“Charlie, you started moping around here with a hangdog look on your face. It was obvious. But I also thought it might be about … coming out to us.”
“Yeah, it was. But I just got scared too. I mean, I started thinking about what I did and how it hurt others. And how witchcraft got me into trouble. It freaked me out. But then Diego said some stupid stuff today that made me think.”
He explained about his conversation with Diego.
As Randall listened, he washed his hands in the sink, wiped them dry, then sat on the edge of the counter.
“It’s pretty amazing that you told him that, Charlie. Most people never fess up to all that stuff.”
“I’m just tired of hiding all the time, of hoping no one will notice anything. I thought I was good at it. But even Grace knew about Diego. So why bother? Why not just keep up with what’s really happening instead of pretending that it’s something else? I mean, what I still feel bad about is sneaking out on my own and putting others at risk. But not that stuff about who I am.”
Randall paused, then shook his head slowly. “Charlie, you are destined for greatness. Most people never in their whole lives figure out what you just did.”
“Well, most people don’t have all this creepy stuff happening to them.”
“True. I guess if everyone were hunted down by Grace, they’d all admit to having crushes on Diego,” he said with a mock stern expression before winking. Then he slid off the counter and walked over to Charlie.
“I’m proud of you, son,” he said, and wrapped his arms around him.
Charlie used to feel shy when Randall hugged him. But today he let himself enjoy being enveloped in his uncle’s strong arms, the smell of Beverly’s homemade laundry detergent on his shirt, the way he felt safe and comfortable. Even the way Randall had used the word “son.”
But something distracted Charlie. Something Randall had just said …
He pulled back, breaking the embrace, and looked up at his uncle.
“Why did you say ‘if everyone were hunted down by Grace?’” Charlie asked.
“I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Beverly and everybody keep talking about how Grace is kidnapping kids. But you said, ‘hunting.’”
“You’re right. I did. What’s the difference?”
“I don’t know. Hunting.”
Charlie paused, trying to find the words. “Well, when you hunt something, it’s to kill it, right? To kill it and to eat it.”
“Yeah. You think Grace is eating kids? Like some fairytale witch?”
“No, not exactly. Well, I don’t know. But … hunting is different from kidnapping, isn’t it? Maybe she is hunting them down. Maybe she’s …”
They heard the front door open and Beverly’s voice carry down the hallway toward them. “I’m home. Sorry I’m late. Traffic on Aurora was backed up.”
She walked into the kitchen, smelling of the outside rain mixed with something floral.
“What’s for dinner, honey?” she asked. Then, looking from Randall to Charlie, “What? Did something bad happen?”
“No. Just a chat. And something that can be continued once I get dinner finished.”
“Great, I need a shower. Don’t say anything interesting until I get back.”
Randall walked out onto the back deck to get the grill ready. Charlie set the table in silence, trying to grasp some of the vague ideas floating around inside his head.
“So, what were you two talking about?” Beverly asked as they sat down to eat.
The lamb burgers were delicious. Randall had spiced them with garlic, cilantro, cumin, then added feta cheese. They were thick and meaty.
Charlie and Randall both spoke at once.
“Charlie isn’t afraid anymore!”
“What if Grace is hunting kids!”
“Whoa, whoa, slow down.”
They explained to her how Charlie didn’t want to hide anymore. Beverly listened with growing excitement, and when they finished, she smiled so brightly that Charlie felt a thrill in his stomach.
“Honey, that’s just beautiful. Really. Even people twice your age have trouble with that one.”
“That’s what I told him,” added Randall. “Though I think it’s safe to say people eleven times his age have trouble with it.”
“Now what’s this thing about Grace? And hunting?”
Charlie finished chewing, then explained.
“Everyone talks about how Grace is kidnapping kids, but they don’t know why. Daniel said the other night that there have been more kids taken than just from this community and that he thinks it’s related, but that it’s not to use them as bargaining tools.”
Beverly interrupted. “He isn’t sure, Charlie, though he hasn’t thrown out that idea.
He’s trying to look at this from as many different angles as possible.”
“Well, when Randall said the word ‘hunting,’ I pictured a guy with a gun and a dead deer at his feet. People hunt animals to kill them, right? To eat meat, to use the skin, or whatever.”
“What does this have to do with Grace?”
“Well, it’s not like a hunter traps an animal to, you know, get at its parents, or the herd.”
He paused, looking out at the sunset and the sky growing darker.
“What if Grace and those other witches are using the kids somehow?”
“You mean, like eating them?” Randall asked, incredulity thick in his voice.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe something like that. Is there a way to eat someone? Or some kind of witchcraft where you kill people because it sort of feeds you?”
Beverly’s face darkened. “Who told you about that?”
Charlie felt the water in his throat evaporate under her gaze. He thought of how he had compared his aunt and uncle’s faces, about how Beverly’s could seem so inscrutable. And at other times, deadly serious. Now was one of those times.
“N- … no one, Beverly. Nobody said anything. It was just how Randall talked about hunting. It made me wonder, is all.”
Beverly stared at Charlie, her eyes narrowing as if they were lie detectors scanning him for the truth. Finally, she looked away, casting a sideways glance at Randall. Charlie felt like he had just passed a test. Barely. He exhaled.
“You remember when Mavis grabbed you by the arm and sucked energy from you?”
Charlie nodded.
“That’s certainly one way. Witches try to do it to each other when engaged in hand-to-hand combat.”
Charlie waited. There was something his aunt wasn’t saying.
“But that’s not what you meant when you said, ‘Who told you about that?’”
Beverly looked down at her plate and the unfinished salad. The dressing had blended together with grease from her lamb burger, leaving a small gray pool on the side of her plate.
“No, it isn’t.”
Randall interjected. “Okay, is this one of those moments where you go into mystery mode and your listening audience is left creeped out?”
“I do not go into mystery mode.”
Randall rolled his eyes and looked over at Charlie. “Do you know what I mean about mystery mode?”
“Uh, well, yeah.”
Beverly’s eyebrows furrowed, until she gave in with a smile. “I do not.”
“Oh puhleez!”
“Okay, okay, okay, so I’m a woman of mystery. As I was saying … Charlie, there is so much to talk about. So many things you don’t know about yet in the witching world. It’s not my intention to keep secrets from you. But sometimes I don’t even know where to start. Filling your head with a bunch of history, or even esoteric spells when you’re still learning the basics,” she said. “That’s not a good idea.”
Charlie waited.
“Anyway. We witches tend to carry around a lot of fables about our kind. I say ‘fables’ because most of them are a load of hogwash. One of them concerns a legend where witches of old gained power and strength by killing people. It fits right in with all the demon worship and baby sacrifice myths that are out there about us in the normal world.
“It’s a fable because it’s never been proven to be true. It’s like one of those urban myths. So-and-so said that in Ireland, hundreds of years ago, people did it. Then it changes to the Congo, a thousand years ago. Then Peru, five hundred years ago. Sometimes it’s a zombie story. Sometimes it’s more like Jack the Ripper.
“Now,” she continued, “I wish I could say that the reason these stories are a myth is because no one would be evil enough to try it. But don’t forget, witches are humans first and foremost. And some humans will try anything to gain power.
“The reason they’re a myth is because it doesn’t work. Our historians in Europe have researched cases where witches were tried for committing such crimes using their craft. The accused killed people and attempted to amass power. It never worked. No one has been able to crack the code of using someone else’s death as a way to boost their own strength.”
“You make it sound like it’s a goal or something, honey,” said Randall.
“No, what I’m trying to say is that it has been tried throughout history. But it has always failed. Nature is nature, thank God. When something dies, whatever force gives the creature life, goes away. It cannot be harnessed. We don’t know where it goes. On that count we’re no closer to knowing if there’s an afterlife than non-witches. But we do know that we witches haven’t been given the ability to use someone else’s life force when they die.”
* * *
Charlie’s mind rushed with thoughts of the day as he lay awake in his room that night: telling Diego to shut up when he continued to apologize, finding the desire in himself to stop being afraid, hearing Beverly’s stories about witches killing people to bolster their witchcraft.
There had to be a reason why Grace and the other witches were kidnapping young kids. Or hunting them down. What had she said to him? That there were other things she wanted to tell Charlie, things that Beverly and the others were hiding. He had no illusion that Grace had his best interests at heart or that she even wanted to help him.
But he did believe that she knew things, that she held the key to certain secrets. And maybe there was a way to find out what those secrets were.
CHAPTER 21
Something Like Normal
SEPTEMBER CAME TO AN END, and Charlie dove into his witchcraft studies with fervor. Part of not hiding out anymore meant studying as many aspects of the craft as he could. He had temporarily lost his drive to embrace witchcraft after his solo ride caused so much trouble. But one of the side effects of his talk with Diego was the realization that he couldn’t hide from Grace anymore. And that meant he knew she would probably come for him eventually, or at least come for someone else in the community whom he would want to protect. He needed to be well-prepared and well-armed.
So every afternoon when he came home from school, he diligently finished all of his homework. Some days he spent an hour or two with Diego. But he always made sure that he had at least a few good hours in the evening for expanding his craft.
He spent some of those evenings with Beverly, down in her workshop. She introduced him to the uses of plants and herbs, how to make a simple magical object so that it would hold a spell and how to deepen his concentration.
Some evenings were spent with other adult witches. Rose and Sean took him out at night, which came much earlier now that it was October, showing him the finer skills of broomstick riding in the dark. Charlie could barely remember what it felt like to be as wobbly as he had been on that first day in Malcolm’s field. The broom had become second nature to him.
Rita Jostich and Daniel Burman worked with Charlie to develop skills in hand-to-hand combat. This was completely daunting at first. He didn’t know enough spells to actually do anything if someone attacked him.
“All I can do is make a Ping-Pong ball float around!” he complained.
But they showed him that a lot of fighting was about keeping a cool head and staying resourceful. They built on what he had learned in his broom-riding lessons, showing him how to mount the stick and still keep his hands free for attack. They taught him how to fight with bewitched knives, how to blast beams of light that were stronger than hitting someone with your fists, and how to surround himself with a protective glow.
“Because the best offense is a good defense,” said Daniel, feinting a jab at him as they circled each other in Rita’s basement one day after school.
“Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?” asked Charlie.
“Not for you it isn’t,” Daniel answered, his intense gaze cutting off any retorts from him. “Don’t ever forget that in a fight.”
Is he really gay? Charlie wondered for the hundredth time. Does he have a boyfriend?
When did he first tell someone? Does he …?
Pow! Charlie felt a sharp stab of pain in his shoulder, and he found himself lying on his back on the hardwood floor.
“Don’t lose focus,” Daniel admonished, standing over him.
There were so many things to learn. On the one hand, Charlie was extremely excited by how much he was accomplishing. On the other hand, he felt overwhelmed because of how little he actually knew. Things that had seemed impossible at Malcolm’s cabin now seemed easy. Yet he still felt like a kindergartner compared with his adult teachers.
“I’ve been doing this for years, Charlie. Give yourself a break,” Beverly liked to say to him.
“Yeah, I know, it sucks. Just keep going,” Jeremy Lostich said one rainy afternoon when Charlie was having trouble mastering a tracking spell.
“Are you going to let that stop you?” Daniel asked one night as he pinned Charlie to the ceiling with a wispy cloud of smoke vaguely resembling a large hand. “Grace could be here any day. You need to be ready.”
Charlie went to bed so tired every night that he didn’t even remember turning off his bedside lamp. His muscles were constantly sore from either fighting or hunching over scrying bowls and miniature cauldrons every day, not to mention all the late-night flights on his broomstick. “You get used to it. Like Lance Armstrong,” Joan said one evening. Charlie had trouble believing her.
Charlie was finishing his schoolwork on time. It had become a game for him; he would crack his books as soon as he got home and race to finish everything before dinner, knowing that if he did he would have more time to learn witchcraft. However, being in school was another issue altogether.
“You look tired,” Diego said more than once as Charlie wandered down B-wing, momentarily forgetting where his next class was.
“Stay awake, Mr. Creevey,” his sophomore English teacher said while tapping him on the shoulder. They were reading The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson. All of his classmates were glued to Jackson’s prose and the terrifying ghost story. Charlie had been fighting to keep his head from dropping.
The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (The Broom Closet Stories Book 2) Page 15