The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

  Another week passed. My garden thrived as if in sympathetic delight with my own increasing well-being.

  After yet another week had gone by, I saw that Mrs. Risk had once again witnessed the milkman darting furtively back to his truck from my house. I observed with curiosity that she signaled to him, but it was none of my business, I thought, and forgot about it. But I was wrong. It was entirely my business.

  I wasn’t present at their meeting, but was told the following later by both Charlie the milkman and Mrs. Risk, after everything had happened. For clarity’s sake, I’ll tell you now, to keep a proper order.

  That evening, following her instructions, the milkman parked in the graveled lane that led to the witch’s cottage. He waited.

  “Hello, Charlie.”

  He jumped, nearly falling because of the foot he’d left propped on the running board of his ancient panel truck. “Hi, uh, Mrs. Risk. I came like you asked me to.”

  She studied him as he stood in front of her, and while she did so, he relaxed, leaning lightly against his truck. He had thick auburn hair and light hazel eyes that crinkled in the corners, giving him a good natured look. His mouth widened into a broad smile and his eyes twinkled intelligently as he watched her look him over. She admired the restraint he held over the curiosity he must have felt.

  “Well. At least it’s understandable,” the witch finally said.

  “What is?”

  “This attraction you seem to hold for half the village wives.”

  He relaxed a little more. Then she began explaining why she’d wanted him to come.

  Two days later, the witch, bearing a napkin-covered tray before her like jewels of state, entered Ike’s Fish Market at the exact moment that the lunchtime crowd was at its peak. She sailed across the damp floor and, as she presented him with the dish, she lifted the napkin away with a flourish. Revealed was a wide bowl filled with the stew that contains several varieties of fish and shellfish, plus chicken, sausage, spices, and a sauce on rice. A paella. And such a paella that it filled the already odiferous air with a rich, mouthwatering aroma.

  Ike, bursting with self-importance at this unheard-of attention paid him by the Witch of Wyndham, was beside himself with pleasure. He called me to come see.

  Of course I came running. Mrs. Risk explained to the onlookers that it was a gift to show her appreciation for all his kindnesses to Jezebel. I added my polite thanks to his effusive ones. I was extremely relieved when Mrs. Risk insisted that this dish was only for Ike, that no one else was to have so much as a taste. Ike’s chest swelled at this added honor. I stepped away, happy to let him be the center of the commotion. His voice vibrated with pride.

  At the witch’s urging, he picked up one of his own serving spoons and shoveled a great mound of paella into his mouth, swearing with a full mouth that it was his favorite dish.

  Ike then demanded that everyone join him on the house with drinks from the small market as Ike plowed his way through the bowl of paella to please Mrs. Risk.

  When he’d nearly disposed of it all, he wondered out loud where she’d gotten all the fish and shellfish it contained. He didn’t remember selling her any yesterday, or even the day before that, he said. He stoked his mouth with the last spoonful.

  She murmured in reply that he had himself to thank for it, after all.

  When he raised puzzled eyebrows at that—his mouth being too loaded to open—she explained she had ‘borrowed’ a few of Mrs. Elias’ lunches he had himself prepared to provide some of the ingredients of the paella. After all, he always fixed his wife such an overwhelming amount each day, far too much for one person.

  Ike froze. His massive jaws ceased to chew and remained poised in place like a great masticating machine from which someone had pulled the plug. The color fled his perspiring, normally ruddy face. He stood frozen in the center of his shop, holding the dish close under his chin in a shock his friends couldn’t understand, because the paella was no doubt as delicious as he’d said. Suddenly, his eyes the size of golf balls, he swiveled sideways, still not chewing or swallowing, to stare at me. My expression must have reflected the surprise he himself felt. But at the same moment his eyes found me in the back of the crowd, the milkman, Charlie, seized me firmly in his arms. Bending me slightly backward, he planted on my unsuspecting lips an incredible, enormous, (amazingly gentle) kiss that would’ve brought cheers in the late-night movies.

  Ike promptly spewed the contents of his full mouth. His customers fell back, disgusted. He turned purple in the face, clenched his teeth, then reeled and hit the floor like a felled oak.

  Days of hysteria, questions, and long testimonies fraught with suspicions and accusations later, I attended Ike’s funeral.

  You might wonder if Ike died at my hand, but I assure you, this all happened before my plants were ready for harvest. A few locals with their own ideas of Mrs. Risk’s character thought she had killed Ike.

  An inquest was called, of course, but the death was declared to be stroke resulting from neglected high blood pressure. Natural causes. A pity at his age, the judge said when it was over.

  A visit to our local banker assured me that the fishmarket’s mortgage, which Ike had early put into our joint names, could easily be transferred to my name alone. He executed the necessary paperwork and gave my hand a predatory shake. I could call it mine—unless I missed a mortgage payment. After what I hoped was a respectful wait of twenty-four hours, I installed an air-conditioner in the upstairs rooms, where I then sat and doodled designs for a new sign: ‘Rachel’s Flower Shop.’

  I also used my time to think. There was a lot I wanted to understand, having now taken a few giant steps towards that long delayed awakening. Eventually I decided that Mrs. Risk was the one to ask. See, I also thought she’d killed him.

  My car, for which I’d traded Ike’s van, (I’d done more than just doodle over those few days) was a battered ’69 Stingray convertible. In my new car, as in my new life, I wanted no room for another person. The passenger seat I swear I kept only because it was handy to put things in.

  As I bounced up Mrs. Risk’s rutted lane, I feared for my ‘new’ car’s low undercarriage. Drooping tree branches lining the narrow trail gouged my car’s tomato red paint and smacked my windscreen, making me flinch. I’d been instructed by a villager to follow the ‘driveway’ until I reached a clearing, but this overgrowth made me wonder if ‘clearing’ would be an exaggeration like calling this path a driveway. Then suddenly the path disgorged me onto an emerald curve of lawn embraced on both sides by wooded hills. My car coughed to a stop. At the other end of this glade, the Sound murmured and sparkled. I had arrived at the very spot where Charlie had stood leaning against his truck, agreeing to Mrs. Risk’s scheme, but I didn’t know it then.

  The air was fragrant and fresh, cooled by an elevated ceiling of interlaced branches of tall old oaks standing guard over what I presumed was her cottage. I inhaled with pleasure.

  The age-darkened log cottage was roughly built, a compact rectangle, one story in front, two in back, with a low shingled roof and no porch. A tall person would have to duck to enter its small screened door. The surrounding vegetation grew with such abandon that the place would’ve looked deserted, if it hadn’t been for the windows. Dozens of clear mullioned panes, thick and distorted with age, glittered pristinely under the overhanging eaves, suggesting a cozy cleanliness inside.

  She came out to greet me. She’d been waiting, she said, expecting both me and my questions. Well, she was a witch wasn’t she?

  She settled us a few yards from the cottage, in those green painted aluminum chairs pulled around a broad tree stump, its satiny surface revealing frequent use as a table. She poured herself wine and me carrot juice. I objected to the juice, but she said obscurely that I ‘needed building up.’

  Then we began what was our first real conversation.

  I sighed. “There was so much happening that you couldn’t have known.”

  Mrs. Risk smiled. “On t
he contrary, my dear. There was much you didn’t know, yourself. I knew it all.”

  In response to gentle prodding, I told her how, a year ago, before too many days had passed in my new marriage, I became conscious of a pattern: no one was allowed into our home except Ike. And I wasn’t allowed out, except to go downstairs to work in the deli. My position resembled Peter’s wife in the Mother Goose rhyme. You know, the wife Peter feared he couldn’t keep very well, so he kept her in the pumpkin shell. Since before meeting Ike, I’d roamed at will, left alone and frankly unnoticed by both parents and school authorities, the one thing I’d always had and treasured was my freedom.

  When I accused him of keeping me prisoner, his dismissive response made me wild with rage. He was a huge man, with muscles hardened by decades of rough work, and I soon learned my true powerless state. I hid in our rooms until the outward marks disappeared. Again I approached him, submissively this time. I asked him to let me go home. This inspired another ‘corrective session’ from my loving husband. When I managed to secretly call my parents, they asked what I’d done to make him treat me that way. Openly disgusted at my ‘behavior,’ they hung up.

  I may have been unwise and uneducated, but I wasn’t stupid. Quickly I learned to conceal my rebellious nature. And my hatred. And fear.

  Ike taught me to cook and I even waited on customers during the busy times. A few villagers Ike was unable to fend off from speaking to me told me things about the village I lived in, never guessing that if I could ever step outside my husband’s shop, I’d have no idea where I was. Except I could see the Bay across the street, and from the higher apartment windows and roof, Long Island Sound beyond the Bay. On a fine day, I could even see across the Sound to Connecticut.

  “The customers also talked about you,” I told her. “The local witch,” I added tentatively, but she only smiled, showing no offense.

  Eventually, I admitted that desperation gave birth to the idea Mrs. Risk had understood with one glance at my garden. I stopped at that point, too miserable to go on.

  We sat in a silence that grew strangely companionable after a while. It was then I vowed silently to myself never to allow weakness to rule my life again. I’d been dependent and trusting. Two big mistakes. Okay. The past was over. Forget it, but never forget its lessons. The future may be unknown, but I was on my own two feet again, so let the future come.

  Then Mrs. Risk spoke. I’d nearly forgotten her presence, so deeply had I sunken into my own thoughts. No longer interested in anything Mrs. Risk could tell me, I decided to leave as soon as I could do it politely, eager to start my new life alone.

  But Mrs. Risk had a few surprises waiting. “Tell me,” she asked. “Why didn’t you just escape by conventional means? Talk to a divorce lawyer?”

  “Ike swore if I left him, I’d be dead within the day. He said I was his, only his, and no one else would ever have me. I believed him.”

  She nodded. “You were wise to believe.” Then she explained how, if she hadn’t intervened, I’d have died soon anyway. Something about me, she said, some strength I showed, must have convinced him that he wouldn’t be able to hang on to me for long. So he was slowly poisoning me, putting ever increasing amounts of pesticides, the stuff he’d bought for my garden, into those appalling lunches.

  Believe me, the irony did not escape my notice. Sipping my carrot juice with new compliance, I snorted, then suddenly exploded into wild laughter.

  “Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Risk. “What a collection of toxins you managed to cultivate in that garden of yours. I hope you realize that I not only saved your life from Ike’s loving stranglehold, but I saved you from throwing your life away by murdering your husband.”

  I spluttered, “He was poisoning me? And before I could poison him, you killed Ike with his own poisoned concoctions?”

  The witch looked scandalized. “Certainly not. I would never make paella with days-old reheated food. For pity’s sake. How disgusting.”

  I wiped tears from my eyes and finally calmed down. “You mean it was all fresh and—and poison free?”

  “Every bite. Ike’s not the only fishmonger around. What an idea, making paella with leftovers. Those atrocious lunches. Tcha.” The witch made a face.

  “Then how did you kill him?”

  “Kill him? I killed nobody. The pathological jealousy that made him want to imprison, then ultimately destroy you, killed him. He knew about the milkman, you see.”

  Mrs. Risk held up a palm to forestall my protests. “I know. No relationship existed between you and Charlie. But to Ike, any man’s mere existence on the same planet with you was more threat than he could handle.”

  Then she gazed at me, one eyebrow high with interested speculation. “Charlie showed unexpected flair with that kiss. In my opinion.”

  I lifted my glass of carrot juice to my lips.

  She briskly continued. “And don’t forget: Ike thought he’d just swallowed a few days’ worth of the poison he’d been feeding you. That had to be a shock. I’d had your lunches analyzed, you know. Those last doses were enormous. I wonder what he thought when you stayed so healthy? Well, never mind. He died of rage plus fear, my dear, compounded by a macho stupidity he had of not taking care of his blood pressure properly. He killed himself.”

  We gazed out over the water for a while as I considered this last information. Then Mrs. Risk said, “By the way, Mrs. Elias, I think it’s rather deplorable that the only way you could think to get yourself out of trouble was to murder. You need to learn other methods of survival in this world, my dear.”

  I smiled and stretched my young, robust, and not visibly depleted body, feeling particularly good at that moment. “Don’t call me Mrs. Elias anymore, if you don’t mind. My name is Rachel.”

  “Very well. Rachel Elias.”

  “No, just Rachel.”

  Mrs. Risk nodded. “My name is Mrs. Risk.”

  “What can I call you?”

  “You can call me Mrs. Risk. Fetch me that volume by that log, dear. We have a lot to do.”

  Then she, who’d wrought my miraculous rescue, surprised me again. The heavy book she opened was a horticultural encyclopedia, believe it or not. She announced we would now begin my education. I dimly got the notion that she thought I needed her.

  I was a prickly thing to deal with in those days. Even before Ike, I’d been a jumble of pride and fright. But when she spoke to me, she used such a detached, matter-of-fact air that I didn’t know what to make of it. If she’d taken any other tone, solicitous or demanding, I’d have bolted like a deer fleeing gunfire. Life so far, embodied by Ike and my parents, had taught me that only pain lurked behind attachment. So, unrepelled and unalarmed for the moment, I stayed. I’m still staying.

  Call her Mrs. Risk. Everyone does. I’ve never heard anyone use her first name, although she must have one. But since that day I haven’t used Ike’s last name, or my parents’, either, so I can kind of relate to her attitude. When she wants you to use her first name, she’ll let you know. When I find a last name I want, I’ll let you know that, too.

  It’s August again, nearly two years later, and I’ve just finished my chores in the back room—that former dungeon where I used to eat Ike’s poisonous lunches, but I rarely think of that now. I hopped off my stool and stretched into a huge, satisfying, end-of-a-profitable day yawn. One of the few things of his I’d kept was the industrial sink, but instead of fish, it held long stemmed roses from today’s shipment. The glass-fronted refrigerated deli cases had come in handy, too. For keeping cut flowers fresh, yet visible to the public in the front of the shop.

  My gaze roamed the overflowing shelves. Ceramic bunnies crowded plastic tubes filled with rainbows of glitter. Paper oak leaves in stacks of brilliant gold and orange, candles in twenty colors and sizes, miles of ribbon. All made a cheerful tangled nest. Baskets of every style and shape hung from nails studding the walls, waiting to be filled.

  Contentment rose in me like sap in spring as I thought of all
the occasions I’d contributed to in the last two years: weddings, births, graduations. Dinner parties, apologies, seductions. I felt linked to the other villagers through the milestones in their lives. Yes, I’m still here.

  I even have a logo. A life-sized, full length painting of myself, done for fun by a local artist last summer in Mrs. Risk’s glade. Since I’m fairly tall, the original takes up most of the wall space behind my front shop counter. I’m stretched out on my side in a leisurely manner in the grass, my nude body littered modestly with lush summer flowers. Tiny prints of the painting decorate my stationery, gift boxes, and so on. Yes, I’m definitely here.

  August had come in extra hot this year. The air-conditioner began wheezing, so to let it rest, I turned it off. The sun was retiring and the day was cooling anyway. As I propped open the shop door with a potted hibiscus to catch more air, Daniel Cox, my ever-faithful assistant and very cool teenage man-about-Wyndham, exploded into whoops, jolting my euphoria.

  “Go, Mrs. Risk!” He pointed his broom handle at the street through the open door.

  Daniel had walked into my shop one summer afternoon last year. With just enough humor to keep him on the right side of pompous, he explained he’d decided I needed his help and waited for me to snatch up his offer. I did. But not because of what he said. While he talked (which took some time—Danny’s one of those meticulous people who explains every detail twice) he’d picked up a small vase and filled it with ivy and moss roses. Nervous fiddling or planned? I don’t know. But I admired what he did. We’ve been together ever since. One of my life’s better decisions.

  Medium-short, dark, well-upholstered from dedicated hours at the gym, and this year a varsity football running back, he’ll start his junior year at the local high school next month. His mother is short and dark like he is, and just as energetic. His father had elected to drop out of their lives in Daniel’s infancy. His loss.

  I looked where he pointed. Black skirts swirling around bare ankles, slim hips in the lead, Mrs. Risk was striding across the street towards us. Daniel and I watched in fascination. Despite looking totally preoccupied, she was somehow threading her way safely through a bristling thicket of handlebars of a herd of revving Harley hogs. They were inching and swerving their thunderous way down our congested Main Street like royalty on slow parade. The hefty sweating leather-clad riders saluted her passing with amused gestures which she returned like afterthoughts. Something was obviously distracting that formidable mind.