by Various
She turned it slowly, feeling for the son, until at last she had made contact.
There.
He was talking with some friends; it would not be hard. She concentrated, and at the same time she heard him talking:
"So look, here's the way I see it. We got the Cobras on our necks, we got to get rid of them, right?"
Someone said: "Right, Rudi."
"So if we start a little rumble, very quiet so the cops don't figure what's going on, then we—"
A silence.
Someone said: "What's wrong, Rudi?"
"I don't know. Something. What am I doing just standing here?"
And someone said: "What do you mean?"
"I mean I ought to be out getting a job, man. Earning some bread for the old lady. Got to have money, got to have a job."
Someone said: "Hey, Rudi. Wait. What's the hurry?"
And Rudi had gone.
Gloria dropped the doll and closed the drawer, and sat back, smiling gently. It was wonderful to be able to help people.
It was just wonderful.
Find work. Find a job.
Go to the employment agency.
Start looking for work, right now.
Get a job.
It will be nice to have a steady job.
Nice—
Somehow, Mrs. Wladek fought off the voices in her mind. It was so easy to succumb to them and to drift into the terrible things they wanted. Mrs. Wladek did not want them at all.
A job, indeed!
But it took effort, all the same, to concentrate on herself instead of the work, the job, the employment agency. It took effort to sit down on a bench in the park, near the building where the case workers were, and plan out the next step.
A witch, certainly. The girl was a witch and she had put a hex on Mrs. Wladek, and that hex had to be removed.
How?
Mrs. Wladek thought first of the old woman in the store.
Certainly a gypsy woman would be able to take off a hex. Mrs. Wladek remembered gypsies from the old country, laughing people with the strange gift, witches themselves but always available for a price—
The gypsy woman.
Mrs. Wladek stood up and began to walk toward the park's exit. She forced her legs to move, creaking, one step at a time, thinking to herself: The gypsy woman, the gypsy woman, the gypsy woman—and trying to ignore the voices in her head that went on and on:
It would be good to find a job.
Go right away to the employment agency.
Right away—
There were those who laughed—Marya Proderenska thought—and there would always be those who laughed, but that did not injure her; for scoffers she felt only a vast contempt. Had she not been shown in a dream that the power was hers? Had not each of her husbands, even the third who had contracted the fever and died with great suddenness in three weeks, admitted to her that she had a power beyond that of any normal woman? It was the power of vision and movement, the power of spell and incantation.
The others called it magic, though no gypsy would call it so.
Marya Proderenska sat quietly in the back room of the little shop and waited. A woman would come; she knew that, and the knowledge was another piece of her power, and a proof of it. Farther she could not see, but in the cloud of the future the woman was clear.
(What power Marya Proderenska had, a blond social worker had, too, and other people; she had never been able to clear her mind of her own superstitions enough to train the power or work very effectively with it. The power was sufficient for her.)
Marya Proderenska sighed. The power demanded its own responsibilities. She could not marry outside the clan into which she had been born. She could not be seen on certain days of every month. During those days many foods were forbidden her.
Thus the power worked, and thus she lived.
The woman would bring money for her, Marya knew. So she sat in the back of the shop and waited, and sighed, until the front door sighed open and Marie Wladek called: "Old woman, old woman!"
"Do you call me?" Marya said in her proud baritone.
"I call you, I call the gypsy woman."
Marya stood up and smoothed her old dress over the big-boned frame all of her husbands had admired. "Then come to me," she called.
Marie Wladek crept into the room, her eyes saucers of awe. To speak of witches was all very well, and a fresh-faced girl could give one fright; but here was the authority and power of witchcraft, in this woman with the fuzz of hair on her lip and the great trumpeting voice.
"I come for help," Mrs. Wladek said.
"I know why you have come," Marya Proderenska said. "You have a great trouble."
Mrs. Wladek nodded. "I am bewitched. A witch has placed a hex upon me, and I come to you to remove it."
There was a little silence. Then Marya Proderenska said: "The powers will not do work without payment."
Mrs. Wladek dug into her ancient beaded purse and found a crumpled dollar bill. She handed it over and the gypsy woman smiled and ducked her head.
"It is enough," she said.
Mrs. Wladek said: "Then you will help me?"
"I will help you," the gypsy woman said. "Tell me of this curse upon you."
"There is a voice in my mind," Mrs. Wladek said. "The voice tells me—even now it continues—to go to an employment agency, to accept work ... and the voice is not of my making."
"Whose voice is this?" the gypsy woman said.
"It is my own voice," Mrs. Wladek said. "The voice is my own, but I did not tell it to speak. Inside my own head, I can hear my own voice as if someone else put it there."
"Ah," the gypsy woman said. "And who is the witch who has put this curse upon you?"
Mrs. Wladek sighed. "At the office of the social workers, there is one, a young woman. She has done this to me."
Marya Proderenska nodded. Her eyes closed.
Mrs. Wladek stared at the still figure without moving for a minute. Time stretched endlessly. The room was very quiet; Mrs. Wladek heard the continuing voice in her mind and felt fear.
Another minute ticked by.
At last the gypsy woman opened her eyes. "It is a strong curse," she said in a distant voice. "But I have erased it for you. I have taken the hex from you. Is it not so?"
"Taken the hex—" Mrs. Wladek shook her head. "Then why do I still hear the voice?"
"You still hear it?" The gypsy woman muttered under her breath. "Come back tomorrow. We work again."
"Tomorrow is a long time."
The gypsy woman closed her eyes for a second. "All right," she said, and snapped them open. "Four o'clock this afternoon."
"I will be here."
"It is a strong curse."
"You will help me," Mrs. Wladek said.
"I will help you," Marya Proderenska said.
But, after the old woman had left, Marya Proderenska sat alone and her face was troubled. The strength of the curse—she had felt it herself—was enormous. She did not know of any magician who had such power.
She listed over the members of her own clan in her mind, and became satisfied that none she knew was responsible. And yet, the strength of the curse argued real power; was it possible that a power existed within the city, and she did not know of it? Marya felt a cold wind on her back, the wind of fear.
Such a power might do—anything.
And yet it was being used to coerce one useless old woman into taking a job!
Marya Proderenska lay flat on the floor, her arms outstretched. Thus one might gather the vital energies. Four o'clock was not many hours distant, and by four o'clock she would need all of the energy she could summon.
She did not allow herself to become doubtful about the outcome.
And yet she was afraid.
Gloria smiled understandingly at the woman who sat across the desk.
"I understand, Mrs. Francis," she said.
"It's not that Tom's a bad boy, you know," the woman said. "But he's—easily led. Th
at's the only thing."
"Of course," Gloria said. She looked at the middle-aged woman, wearing a gray suit that did not fit her overweight frame, and a silly little white hat. "I'm sure everything's going to be all right," she said.
Mrs. Francis gave a little gasp. "Oh, I hope so," she said. "Tom doesn't mean to cause any trouble. He just doesn't understand—"
Gloria went over the report sheets mentally. Tom didn't mean to cause any trouble, but he had been involved in a gang war or two—nothing in the way of Thompson sub-machine guns, of course, or mortars, just a few pistols and zip-guns and rocks and broken bottles.
Tom hadn't been killed yet. That was, Gloria thought sadly, only a matter of time. He hadn't killed anybody yet, either—but he'd come close. Tom had seen the inside of a jail or two a lot more recently than he'd seen the inside of a classroom.
Tom was easily led.
Sure.
Well, Gloria thought, the problem was to lead him into something more productive and satisfying than the gangs of New York. And that didn't seem to be too hard.
Of course, she had very little practice as yet. The theoretical knowledge she'd been able to dig up in college was mostly on the magic and superstition shelves of the library—and, while she got full credit in her minor, Anthropology, for the research she'd done, a great deal of it just wasn't any practical help.
Not if you were a witch—or what passed for one.
"You see what I mean, don't you?" Mrs. Francis said.
"Of course I do," Gloria said, and gave the woman her most reassuring smile. "I'm sure something can be done. Do you know where your boy is now?"
Mrs. Francis nodded, birdlike. "He's home now. I think he's sleeping. He usually doesn't wake up until after noon."
"I see." Gloria hesitated a moment. "Can you describe him for me?"
"Describe him?"
"That's right," Gloria said. "You see, the somatotypes have, we've discovered, a great influence on mental and emotional makeup."
She didn't feel right, lying to the woman—but chances were that what she'd said didn't make any sense to Mrs. Francis and, in any case, Gloria could hardly tell her the real reason she wanted a description.
It would aid in making the doll she needed.
"He's about six feet tall," Mrs. Francis said, "but he's very thin, and sometimes I worry about that. I try to give him the best nourishment I know how, but he—"
"What color is his hair?" Gloria interrupted.
"Oh," Mrs. Francis said. "Brown. And brown eyes. Really nice eyes; they're his best feature; everybody says so."
"Any distinguishing marks, or anything unusual about him?"
"He has a scar now, on his left arm just below the elbow, but he got that in a fight with these boys—"
"All right," Gloria said. "Thank you very much."
"What are you going to do?" Mrs. Francis said. "You're not going to have him arrested or anything, are you? Because he's not a bad boy, you know that. He's only—"
"Easily led," Gloria finished. "Of course. There won't be any need for arrest, or for anything as drastic as that. You just go home now, and don't worry. I'm sure everything's going to be all right."
"I only want to help my boy," Mrs. Francis said.
"Of course you do," Gloria said. "I want to help him, too."
Mrs. Francis stood up and swallowed hard. "I appreciate that," she said.
"It's my job, that's all," Gloria said, feeling unaccountably shy. As the woman left she thought about that embarrassment and finally decided that she felt she had no right to be complimented. She was doing a job; it needed to be done; that was all.
True, she had special talents for the job—but Mrs. Francis didn't know that, and she hadn't made the talents anyhow, but been born with them.
Congratulations?
Don't be silly.
As a matter of fact, Gloria thought, she deserved a good talking-to. She hadn't had enough experience, and that was the simple truth. It was all very well to work on a boy like Rudi, or another one like Tom Francis, when they didn't have any idea who you were or even that you were trying to do something. That was easy.
But a woman like Mrs. Wladek—
She was suspicious from the start, and Gloria thought that perhaps she shouldn't have done anything. But it was obvious that the woman needed help to become a functioning member of society.
The only trouble was that Gloria hadn't been quite expert enough. Oh, given enough time, the command would work, and eventually become part of the personality. But, because Mrs. Wladek had been afraid and a little forewarned, she'd been able to fight off the command a little.
Practice, Gloria told herself, makes perfect. And it wasn't her fault that she couldn't do any better. Next time, she'd have a little more practice and she'd be able to do a clearer and more complete job.
And, in the meantime, there was no real harm done. Mrs. Wladek would come round, before long, and then everything would be all right.
Why, after all, there was Rudi, too. And Rudi undoubtedly had a job by now, or at least a good chance of one through an employment agency.
There was no reason to be depressed.
Her son was waiting for her when she arrived at her home once more. Mrs. Wladek looked at the boy with relief and some suspicion. It was not natural for Rudi to be at home during such an hour; he was out with his friends through the day, and this was good for a boy.
"Ma," Rudi said, "guess what?"
"You are in trouble," Mrs. Wladek said at once, in a heavy voice.
"Trouble? I got no troubles, ma," Rudi said. He stood before her in the dusty living room, self-assured and proud, and it came to Mrs. Wladek all at once that her boy was a man.
"What is it?" she demanded. "Tell me at once."
"Sure I will. Ma," Rudi said. "I got a job. I start tomorrow. In an office, wrapping things. The mail room, they call it."
Silence descended on the little room.
"Ma," Rudi said at last. "Ma, what's wrong?"
"Wrong?" Mrs. Wladek said. "What should be wrong? Nothing at all is wrong. You have a job, very well, you have a job."
"You're not happy about it, Ma?"
Mrs. Wladek gave a short bark. "Happy? Indeed I should be happy? My son goes to work, like a dog, and I should be—" She paused and gasped suddenly. "Why did you go to work?"
"You mean why did I get a job, Ma?" Rudi said. "Listen, let's have supper and we'll talk about it, huh?"
"Supper?" Mrs. Wladek snorted. "Supper we will have when I find out what I need to know. Not before."
"But I'm hungry, Ma, and ... oh, all right." Rudi sat down on the old brown couch and sighed. "I just thought it would be a good idea to get a job, bring some bread into the house, you know? So I went down to the agency, and they had this application waiting, and I went down and got the job, and I start tomorrow. That's all. Now let's eat."
"You got the idea to have a job?" Mrs. Wladek said. "Fine. Fine. Just fine. And when did you get this idea?"
"I don't know," Rudi said, and shrugged. "Some time. This morning, maybe. Look, what difference does it make? I thought you'd like the idea, Ma. Some more dough coming in ... you know."
"This morning." Mrs. Wladek raised clenched fists over her head. "Cossacks!" she screamed. "Monsters! Witches!"
Lunchtime.
Gloria looked up and smiled sweetly and distantly as Harold Meedy appeared at her desk. "Got any special place to go?" he said.
"As a matter of fact—" she began, but he was too quick for her.
"It's always 'as a matter of fact,'" he said. "What's the matter—you got another boy friend or something? You don't like poor Harold? Look, Gloria, if you want to avoid me, then you go ahead and avoid me. But—"
"It's nothing like that," Gloria said.
"So come on," Harold said. "Listen, I'm really a sweet guy when you get to know me. You'd like me. Sure you would."
"I'm sure," Gloria said. "But I really do have something to take care of."
"Can't you take care of it later?"
She shook her head.
"Well ... all right, if you want me to grow up all frustrated." He grinned at her and moved away.
When they were all gone, and only Mr. Fredericksohn remained in his private office, behind the closed door, Gloria opened a drawer of her desk and took out a piece of modeling clay a little bigger than her fist. Working without haste, and never bothering to look up she made a doll in the shape of a tall, thin boy.
The voodoo sects in Haiti used hair or fingernail parings from the subject, Gloria knew; she had learned that in her college research, but she had known about the doll long before. Hair and fingernail parings: what superstition! And it wasn't as if you really needed the doll; if necessary, you could get along very well without it. But it was a help; it made things easier; and why not?
She tried to picture Tom Francis. His mother's description of him had been pretty vague, but Gloria found she could locate him at his house; she turned the doll until she had the feeling of contact, and then—
There.
It didn't take long, actually, not once you had your subject located. Tom hadn't really been a hard case; his juvenile delinquency, Gloria was quite sure, was a thing of the past. He'd be back in school as soon as the details could be worked out between Mrs. Francis and the Board of Education, and that would take care of that.
With a satisfied smile, she put the doll away in her drawer. She'd mash it back into clay later in the afternoon; that would enable her to use the same piece over and over again.
Clay cost money, and a case worker's salary wasn't large. Gloria could not see how she could put the cost of the clay down on a special requisition, anyhow; she had to pay for it herself, and so she was very careful and saving with it.
After she'd put the Tom doll away with the Rudi doll, making a mental note to take care of both of them before she left for the day, she fished out her beret and put it on and went out for a quick lunch.
It was just after two o'clock when Mr. Gerne came in. The others were used to his periodic arrivals, of course, and Gloria had never felt any fear of the director. He didn't work in the same office, but elsewhere in the building, and once a week he made a habit of touring the various social-work agencies under his direction.