It was almost three in the morning. She would skip the fish market this time, but she still had to be at Dr. Nishimura’s office by eight-twenty. She tightened up the strap in the sack, threw it under her bed, and went back to sleep.
11
In which we make a visit in the name of decency and good morals
The little woman looked for the sack under her bed. It was empty. Had it all been a dream? Even the particular smell of yeast and freshly mowed grass that had filled the room the previous night had dissipated. She scrambled around the room looking for a sign of the demon, but found nothing.
She got dressed and entered the kitchen.
President Buer stood atop the cupboard, about three feet tall in height, whipping eggs in a metal bowl with two fingers.
“There you are,” he said to the little witch. “Did you have a good night?”
The little woman looked around in dismay. The demon had spilled a full gallon of milk and tossed the broken eggshells on the floor. There were charcoal fingerprints on all the kitchen cabinets.
“I thought you would like it if I prepared breakfast. There is toast and tea on the table.”
The little woman looked at the table. The toast was burnt. The teacup was overflowing and dripping onto the floor. The little woman grabbed a sponge and started cleaning.
“Oh, please leave that and sit down,” President Buer jumped off the counter, splashing egg batter all over the stove. “I’ll clean all this. What do you want in your omelet?” He licked his fingers clean and opened the fridge. “I wish you had prawns and bacon, the Lord would find that so offensive—Oh, fudge,” he cursed, turning back to the little woman. “I think your sisters ate all the cheese.”
“Tell me, my dearest” the demon said after breakfast, perched inside the little witch’s rucksack as she rode to Dr. Nishimura’s office, his fluffy ears flapping in the wind, “that girl that you want to murder—she’s a dish, isn’t she? How delicious? Pretty as the moon and the stars, or pretty as a field of wildflowers? I’m dying to meet her. We have plenty of time, don’t you worry. The recipe for beauty and young looks calls for a young maiden murdered on a moonless night—that’s as much as I can tell. This weekend the moon will look just like the wedge of a lemon, much better to prepare an unguent to fly made with a baby’s bones. We should keep the bones, my dear. The Little Master will not notice…”
“I am of the opinion that such a clever woman as you shouldn’t be prevented from socialising with the wicked for something that happened so long ago,” he said later, as he enjoyed a cup of Earl Grey at Dr. Nishimura’s office while the little woman scrubbed the floor. “The Little Master will hardly remember you. And if he does,” he wiped a finger over a cabinet top to check for dust, “by now, he must find the whole event rather laughable. If there is redemption for the lamb, couldn’t there be damnation for the salamander?” he giggled at his own joke. “To teach yourself how to summon a demon and then trap one—me, of all demons! That was incredibly smart!”
No one but the little woman could see the demon, yet Dr. Nishimura’s wife noticed the saucer and the second cup. She expressed her disapproval with a stern look.
“What a miserable woman,” President Buer said. His words, too, could only be heard by our little friend. “Before we leave, I’ll spit inside her jar of biscuits.”
President Buer was considerate enough to tag along to the little woman’s next job, too.
“Do you know when it was the last time I served as a familiar?” he asked, sitting now on Ms. Cummings’ couch, right next to the spinster, during her Bible study meeting of every Tuesday. The little woman sat on a chair just behind, close to the kitchen door. “Almost forty years ago, believe it or not, to Mr. Alexander Wilkins, an assistant to the Master at Downing College in Cambridge.”
There were three more people in Ms. Cummings’ living room that afternoon: Mr. Alfred Roberts, a cheesemaker from Market Street; her friend Mrs. Agnes Tortellini, a retired teacher, from Westminster Avenue; and Brother Joseph Kirby, from the New Bethel Baptist Church on 5th and Brooks. The first two were about the same age as Ms. Cummings. Brother Kirby was much younger, in his early thirties. Officially, he led the group. Unofficially, Ms. Cummings did, her authority coming from her ever-present smile and the way she tilted her head up to look at you through her thin spectacles. A slight bow of her head indicated to the others when to start or stop talking; a raised eyebrow, that she didn’t agree with their opinion. The overall expression was anything but affable. Brother Kirby found it scary.
“Oh, was I helpful to Mr. Wilkins,” the fiend continued as the four zealous characters sat absorbed in reading Saint Paul’s advice in 1 Timothy in silence. “He called me Edgar and I was his cat. We had a lot of fun mortifying the students. We always said ‘no,’ no matter what they asked. We ran that place like a prison.”
He bent over to slurp some of Ms. Cummings’ tea. He did it with the utmost care, for even he had felt the spinster’s grin a little unsettling.
“Too bad he died, Mr. Wilkins—you can only feed your familiars with so much blood,” the demon giggled. “I miss him. There is such a reward in inflicting harm on others that cannot be consciously perceived as such. And there are some arrogant fellows in Cambridge, let me tell you.” He nibbled on a baloney sandwich that Ms. Cummings had just left on her plate. “Universities tend to attract the worst people—I am bored. Would you like me to take the shape of a cat and scare these buffoons?”
The little woman remained silent, holding her book with both hands, but her eyes shone with excitement. President Buer vanished from Ms. Cummings’ side and instantly reappeared in the shape of a black feline, hissing outside the spinster’s window.
Both Mr. Roberts and Mrs. Tortellini rose from their seats. The woman let out a shriek.
“Shoo!” Brother Kirby scared the cat with a fast swing of his Bible.
The cat left. President Buer re-entered the room through the kitchen.
“Look at her, all frightened,” he pointed at Mrs. Tortellini. “She must think a black cat is bad luck. If she weren’t already old and barren, I would do something to her ovaries… I cannot wait to start doing evil things again. Can you? Why are we still in here? Of all the books inside the Holy Writ, I find the Pauline Epistles the most irritating. Why should a woman dress with modesty or be quiet? Women should be loud and be able to express their sexuality in whatever ways they want. And it’s so nice outside,” he added, walking to the window. “Let’s go to the beach and ride your bike down the boardwalk.”
The little woman shrugged. She couldn’t leave.
President Buer chugged with disappointment.
Next, he turned into a fly and tormented the readers for a few minutes. When the discussion of the lecture started, he became exasperated. He locked himself in the bathroom and spent the next half hour squeezing some blackheads on his nose that had been bothering him since the morning.
The day spent at Ms. Cummings’ sitting room was, nonetheless, fruitful. During one of those breaks that naturally occur when you have been discussing metaphysical questions for over an hour, Brother Kirby started talking about his duties as a pastor. He was especially concerned, he said, about a Negro family that belonged to his congregation, whose members had gone astray.
“They live a few blocks north of here, on Broadway Street,” the man explained, with a lisp. “Their eldest daughter, Cora, is only sixteen, and already became an unwed mother last April.”
He pronounced these last words offering a glum look to his audience, as if he had just shared with them the most terrible secret. Mrs. Tortellini flinched a little. Mr. Roberts raised his eyebrows with disparagement. Ms. Cummings expression didn’t change.
The little woman pulled her chair closer, the better to listen.
“All of this would be easily solved if she were to marry,” Brother Kirby continued. Ms. Cu
mmings nodded in agreement. “However, the girl refuses to give me the name of the father. Neither she nor her parents seem to be ashamed or even understand how offensive her condition is in the eyes of God. You know how difficult it is with these people,” he sighed.
“They are beyond help, Brother,” Mr. Roberts remarked.
“They are not, Alfred,” Kirby replied. “You shouldn’t think that way.”
“I agree with you, Brother,” said Ms. Cummings.
The pastor’s eyes gleamed at Ms. Cummings’ remark. He took half of a lemon cookie from the coffee table, unable to disguise his content. “I couldn’t carry the guilt in my conscience if I stood aside and did nothing,” he continued, dipping the cookie into his tea. “I’ve talked to the Hamms—don’t think I haven’t. I told the mother, Dorothy, that if she didn’t tell me who the father of that innocent child was, so I could get her daughter married, I was not going to let the girl inside my church. Do you know what she said? She had the arrogance to respond that if that was the case they would all stop coming. Of course, she used less eloquent words. That was four Sundays ago. True to her word, they stopped coming. I sent for the other kids—oh, yes, I did—but they declined the invitation. Could they be more ungrateful? All I wanted to do was to help. They live in the direst conditions. Four kids and the two parents in a two-bedroom house. That’s six of them. Seven, now, with the baby.”
“It breaks my heart,” interrupted Mrs. Tortellini.
Ms. Cummings looked askance at her.
“It breaks mine, too,” Brother Kirby continued. “What will become of the poor child? Letting him grow up without a father is to predestine him to a life of misery. Mr. Hamm works in the derricks; the mother is a homemaker. All of the kids look like they’re up to no good. They’re still young, but you should see their faces—full of scabs and marks of malnutrition. It gives me the shibbers.”
“You mean the shudders,” Ms. Cummings corrected the pastor.
“That’s what I meant, yes,” Brother Kirby responded.
“I know the woman,” Ms. Cummings said. “I can talk to her, if that’s what you want,” she added, and then reopened her Bible, making everybody in the room aware that the conversational break was over.
“Leave it to her, Brother Kirby,” Mr. Roberts rushed to say. “Elvira will get you the name of that man before the weekend.”
“Oh, would you?”
The spinster replied with a cold grin.
“That would be wonderful!” Brother Kirby exclaimed. “I’ve been so concerned I cannot sleep. I find myself losing my thread during service. I get distracted trying to find them among the congregation. It is a challenge, I know—”
He interrupted himself when he noticed Ms. Cummings’ severe look. The conversational break was over.
The little woman entered the bathroom and filled in the demon with the details of the conversation.
“That’s our baby!” sang President Buer.
He was done picking his face and was now trying on some of Ms. Cummings’ makeup.
“I had my mind set on a fat little girl with red locks and long and beautiful curled eyelashes, but this one will do just fine,” he said, stretching his face to apply eyeliner. “When are we going?”
The visit took place on the following Thursday. Bible in hand, like a Roman legionary holding a shield and a javelin, and accompanied by our little friend and her demon, turned into a brown spider hidden in the neck of her sweater, Ms. Cummings showed up at the Hamm’s’ family residence at 622 Broadway Street, in the heart of Oakwood, ready for battle.
The house was a small, one-story cottage with white siding and a brick chimney on the side. The front yard was all dirt and no lawn. A wooden cable spool served as an outside table. On it lay some flower pots made out of paint cans.
Mrs. Hamm’s large body sat in a rocking chair by the front door under a fairly pompous neoclassical portico, half-eaten by termites. She was all breasts and arms and no neck, with thick hands that looked like mallets.
Ms. Cummings introduced herself from the fence. Mrs. Hamm acknowledged her with a sweet, raspy voice, having seen her before during service, and invited the spinster to come in.
Her soft tone surprised the demon.
“Hard to believe in a woman her size,” he whispered in the ear of little woman.
Ms. Cummings crossed the yard and sat on a wooden stool next to Mrs. Hamm’s rocking chair. The little woman stood behind her, one step below. There was no space for her to sit with them under the portico.
“Dorothy,” Ms. Cummings began, calling Mrs. Hamm by her given name, after being offered a glass of water, which she politely accepted but let stand on the floor without sipping, “I am here to talk about your daughter, Cora.”
Mrs. Hamm nodded. She wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. She smelled as if she had spent the morning peeling potatoes.
“Do you realize that she has committed a mortal sin?” the spinster asked.
“I do, Ms. Cummings,” responded Mrs. Hamm, a little piqued by the question.
The spinster raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
“We’s not happy,” Mrs. Hamm replied to the gesture.
“And do you realize that her soul and that of her child are in peril?” Ms. Cummings continued.
“Peril of what, Ms. Cummings?”
The spinster’s grin grew even bigger. “Of going to Hell, Mrs. Hamm. What a stupid question. An unwed mother is unworthy in the eyes of God. You surely know that.”
She did. Mrs. Hamm was a good Christian, but she didn’t enjoy being reminded that her daughter was condemned to spend a few hundred years in purgatory. She remained silent.
The spider said in the little woman’s ear: “She looks like she’s about to jump on your boss and bite off her head.”
The little woman put a finger to her lips to hush him.
“I say things as they are, Dorothy,” Ms. Cummings continued. “This is not a courtesy visit. It is in the name of decency and good morals that I came here to speak to you. You may not think so now, but you and your husband will be thankful one day that I took the time to see you. Brother Kirby needs to know the name of your grandchild’s father. He wants your daughter to get married.”
“I’ll go check on that baby,” President Buer said, jumping off the little woman’s red sweater on a long silken thread and crawling into the house.
“My husband and I know that our daughter broke the rules, Ms. Cummings,” said Mrs. Hamm, unconsciously imitating the spinster’s stilted tone in her response, “but we love her. We don’t judge her. Cora is a good girl and we’s gonna help her raise the child. Ain’t nothing more to say. Tell Brother Kirby he don’t need to worry.”
“Perhaps I should come back later and talk to your husband,” Ms. Cummings’ replied.
Mrs. Hamm’s chair rocked a little faster. “I can speak for my husband.”
Where could that baby be? The spider stopped in the middle of the living room floor wondering which door to head to next.
“But your grandson needs a father.”
“My Daniel and I will provide.”
The baby lay on a bed inside the girls’ bedroom, between his mother and Cora’s two youngest siblings. The boy and the girl played with his little feet, kissing them, making funny faces to make the cherub cackle with laughter. Cora rested on one elbow trying to listen to the conversation taking place on the porch. She had the stiff expression of her mother and she was rather large, too, but pretty, even dressed in a quilted robe.
The spider crawled to the top of a dresser to have a better look at the baby.
So fat and juicy. Like overripe fruit.
He noticed that the bottom drawer had a pillow and a blanket inside, to serve in place of a crib.
My, poor people are so ingenious!
Outside, Ms. Cu
mmings had raised the pitch of her voice: “Dorothy, I understand that you have three other children already.”
“Four,” Mrs. Hamm corrected her. “They five in total. Two boys and three girls.”
“My goodness. Five?” Ms. Cummings exclaimed. “Just look around you. How can you and your husband provide? Your daughter must get married. You are condemning her child to a life of misery.”
Cora noticed the spider. She stood up.
“Not to that ne’er-do-well, no,” Mrs. Hamm replied.
“So you know who the father is, don’t you?”
Cora took one of her slippers off and tried to smash the spider, but the false arachnid crawled up the wall and escaped the room.
“I do, but I ain’t gonna tell you, Ms. Cummings. Not you, not nobody else. I rather raise that child as one of myself than to give my daughter to that degenerate good-for-nuthin’. He would sell the baby for a bottle of liquor.”
“Then you must give that child up for adoption.”
“Say what…?”
Mrs. Hamm turned to the little woman, pleading for confirmation of what Ms. Cummings had just said. The little woman hunched and looked down.
“I think you better go now, Ms. Cummings.”
“Don’t you realize you are being selfish? You must consider the child’s—”
“The baby stays here,” asserted Mrs. Hamm.
Ms. Cummings took a small daybook out of her purse. “I can put you in contact with an agency.” She browsed through the pages. “They’re good, and—”
“Ms. Cummings,” Mrs. Hamm had stopped rocking. You could tell that she was making a tremendous effort not to jump up and slap the rangy white lady in front of her. “When that little boy was born and my Cora saw him for the first time, tiny and wrinkled, she thought the poor thing was so ugly no one would ever love him. She started to cry. I know babies is born damn ugly, I had five of them. They all look like a prune the day they been born. The midwife knew that too, and she started laughing. But I didn’t laugh. It broke my heart to see my child cry for her baby. I told Cora not to cry, that all babies get pretty after a day or two, but she wouldn’t believe me. She kept crying. Nothing could convince her that he would become a beautiful child, so I promised her that I would love that baby no matter what, no matter if he grew to be the ugliest baby in the entire world and no one else liked him, I would love him like my own, and I made my husband promise that, too. My Daniel was mad at her, but I told him that I would break a chair on his neck if he ever dared to be mad at that baby, because he ain’t had nothing to be blamed for, he an innocent angel, and now my Daniel love the child more than he love me, he love him more than he ever loved any of his other children, he seen him grow and become a beautiful child, strong and healthy, and because he love his daughter too, he forgiven her. You ain’t no need to come tell us what to do, Ms. Cummings. We can manage without your help.”
Love, or the Witches of Windward Circle Page 16