Then he remembered his mother saying that she had stolen money, family money that Beverly insisted was hers to take. So, wait! Did she say all that stuff about rich people because she was one of them? Or had been and wanted to hide from them? Or maybe even to distract people so they wouldn’t think she had any money?
Charlie rubbed his eyes with his hands. What the heck was he supposed to believe?
In his mind’s eye, he saw the wave of rippled light flash from his mother’s hands and push the dog back up against the wall. He hadn’t imagined that, had he? No, he didn’t think so. And what about that orange glow from her pendant?
Then he remembered the pressure he had felt as he had held his own pendant in his hands. It had been like anger, hot and pressing on his forehead, but it was different too. It had seemed to come at him from all over. Or at least through his feet and head. He had never felt anything like it.
That orange light, the second time. Had it come from him? Or from the pendant? Had he somehow made it? Made that guy fly up to the ceiling?
But how could that be true? It would mean, that would mean … that he was a …
That was the stupidest thing he had ever thought.
“You’d know if you were a witch,” he said out loud. “Really. You’d know.”
Wouldn’t you?
He leaned back against the headboard and sighed, his thoughts crowding at him like a herd of hungry sheep, pushing and pressing with their loud insistent bleating.
He stayed that way for some time, running ideas back and forth, wanting to refute the growing evidence that the world was not as it had seemed.
The sound of a door opening and closing in the hallway grabbed his attention. He looked over at the clock again. Someone else was up at this hour? Footsteps shuffled across the rug, and then he heard what must have been the creak of the staircase as someone walked down to the first floor.
As if on cue, his stomach rumbled. It wasn’t uncommon for him to awaken in the middle of the night and go downstairs for a bowl of cereal. Could he do that here? Would it be okay?
The hunger in his stomach and the thoughts keeping him from falling asleep won out. He slipped into a pair of shorts, opened the door to the hallway (so different from their own home, so much nicer with shining wood, plush carpet, tall ceilings), and walked down the stairs into the kitchen.
Beverly sat on a stool at the kitchen counter in her bathrobe, her long straight hair only slightly mussed from sleep, an empty coffee mug in front of her. The only light was the blue flame from the stove, heating water in the kettle. She looked at him as he walked in, and then smiled.
“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”
“Uh, no. Is it, uh …”
“Of course it’s all right. It’s not every day a woman gets to meet such an outstanding young man and learn that he’s her nephew. I’d appreciate the company.”
She reached over and turned on the light above the stove.
He ducked his chin, not knowing how to respond to her praise.
“Hungry?”
“Uh, I guess.”
“Can I make you an omelet? Some pasta? How about …”
“Oh, gee, uh … do you guys have any cereal?”
She smiled, then pulled out a few boxes from the cupboards as well as a tall glass container of granola.
The kettle whistled just as he poured the milk in his bowl. They sat at the counter together, Beverly letting the tea leaves steep in her mug, Charlie crunching away at his cereal.
“Charlie, obviously I don’t know you very well. But do you mind if I ask how you’re doing? I don’t want to pry, but I’m very curious what all of this is like for you.”
He thought about it for a while, not sure how to answer the question. He felt less shy right now than he had several hours earlier with three adults staring at him as the tension of their conversation permeated everything. It was quiet now, and Beverly seemed softer, less ready to pounce on everything. Her eyes were so large and thoughtful that it made it easier for him to want to talk. A rare thing.
“I don’t know. It’s weird, you know? I saw that stuff, I really did. But, it’s like, it’s like, I don’t believe it. It seems ridiculous. Witches?” He stopped, then shook his head slightly. “I don’t mean to, uh, you know, offend you or anything.”
“No offense taken.”
“It’s just so hard to believe. I keep trying to remember stuff, but then forget stuff too, you know? It all keeps sort of sliding out of my head. Like that guy, the one who came in, who came in and …”
“That must have been pretty awful.”
He nodded.
“You know, your mom called us after you left your house to ask if the two of you could come up here. She explained briefly what happened. I think she said you were in Oregon at the time. But she didn’t really say how you two got away from that man.”
Charlie looked down at the last bits of cereal floating in the bowl. There were several bubbles in the milk, and all he really wanted to do was to pop them with his spoon. It was a game he sometimes played, to see how many bubbles he could pop without creating any new ones as he dipped his spoon in the milk. It never really worked well, but it was something he had tried to do for a long time.
“If you don’t want to talk about it …” his aunt said.
“Well, um, I don’t really know. Mom and I were in the kitchen, and he was punching her all over. But she had this thing, like a rock or something, and it made this glow, this light, you know?”
It all sounded so ridiculous. He knew what he had seen, but when he said it out loud, it seemed crazy.
“Yes. I know what that is.”
“Oh.” Her direct answer gave him confidence, making him feel less stupid. “And, well, even though it was there, he was hitting her, hard, and she was …” He showed his aunt by jerking his head back, and bending over as if getting punched in the gut.
“Oh, God. Oh, God,” she said, her hands fluttering up to the sides of her face.
“That orange light was kind of, well, going out, you know? Fading? And he wouldn’t stop. He kept saying …” Then Charlie thought about it for a moment. He had forgotten just what the dog, and then the man, had been saying.
How strange. This whole time, these two days away from home, all the way in the car up until now, it was as if he had driven the words from his mind.
“Aunt Beverly?” It was the first time he had said her name. It felt awkward coming from his mouth, like a new Spanish word his teacher had given the class.
“What, honey?” she said.
His chest felt hollow, and he was horrified to feel his eyes burning. Oh, God. Don’t start crying, please. Not here. That would be so embarrassing.
He took in a deep breath and held on to the counter with his hands so that his aunt wouldn’t see them shaking.
“Why did the man tell my mom to give me to him? Why did he do that? Why did he … come for me?”
There, he had said it. He got the question out of his mouth without crying. But he refused to look in his aunt’s eyes, knowing that if he did, it would make it a lot harder not to burst into tears like a little baby.
“We don’t know. Your mother doesn’t know, or at least if she does, she hasn’t said why. It doesn’t seem to make any sense. Usually they … usually those people keep to themselves. I’m going to have to ask around and see if we can’t figure out what’s going on.
“Charlie, I want you to know you’re safe now. There are many of us here. And nothing can break into this house. I know you may not believe me, but your mother … your mother let her own skills weaken over the years. She told me so. That means that her ability to protect you faded to almost nothing. I don’t mean to say anything bad about her. It’s just that it’s like a muscle. If you don’t use it, it gets weak.”
Beverly looked out the window, her eyes narrowing. In that moment she didn’t seem like the soft welcoming aunt in a bathrobe with her cup of tea. She was something steely, somet
hing dangerous.
“I use my muscles. They are very strong.”
CHAPTER 13
Show and Tell
CHARLIE SURPRISED HIMSELF with what he said next, in part because his aunt looked dangerous as she stared out the window, as if at any given moment she would stand up and yell, “Bring it on!” to whatever might be lurking in the dark. And in part it was because he was finally having another reaction to all of this, one that had been overshadowed by the shock and the terror of it all: curiosity.
“Um, could you, like, show me something?”
Beverly turned to him as if she had forgotten that he was still sitting next to her. Her eyes lost their hard stare.
“What? What do you …?” And then her mouth spread into a slow smile. “Oh, you mean like a demonstration?”
He nodded, his desire to see some proof overshadowing his embarrassment.
“Well …” she said, drawing out the word.
Her voice reminded him of his freshman year algebra teacher, Mr. Peyton. He was a really funny guy, always making the students laugh. But he was tough too. He threw more pop quizzes at his students than any teacher Charlie had had before. However, on rare occasions, when there had been several quizzes in one week and the class had been doing well on homework, someone would beg him to tell stories of when he had fought forest fires in Montana. If they could get him talking, they knew they would be spared more tests. Plus, Mr. Peyton’s stories were filled with eccentric characters and funny endings. He would precede each story by saying, “Well …” and then would look over his shoulder as if at any minute the school administration would burst in through the door and arrest him for not doing his job. Once the students heard him say that one word, they knew they had won out, and the classroom would erupt in applause and shouts.
“I shouldn’t just show it off,” his aunt said, the smile on her face telling him that she didn’t really care what the rules said. Charlie knew he had her then. He half expected her to look over her shoulder à la Mr. Peyton. Instead, she stood up from the counter and walked over to the doors leading out to the deck. She reached up and drew the shades.
Then she said, “Come here,” and walked into the living room.
Charlie stood up, feeling a little worried that he had asked for too much. What was she going to do? Turn him into a frog?
She sat down on one of the couches. He took a seat on the matching couch opposite her.
“Now, Charlie,” she said, her voice low, “normally I wouldn’t do this. But because you’ve been thrust into this so quickly, and especially since it’s been against your will, I figure you have the right to know. However, we’re going to start small, okay? Nothing big and scary.”
He nodded, though he wondered to himself what “big and scary” would look like.
He watched as she picked up an opaque glass votive from the coffee table. Inside the votive was a small round candle, the white kind his mother sometimes used.
She held it in her open palm, then moved her lips slightly. The wick sputtered, and soon the candle burned, casting a gentle glow over her hands and arms.
“Cool!” Charlie said out loud.
“Shh,” Beverly whispered, though her voice came out in a quiet laugh. “We don’t want to wake the others.”
“Sorry,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Not too creepy?”
“Not too creepy. Keep going!” For the first time in days he felt excitement bubble inside of him. Beverly had just made a candle wick light by itself. He wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. She hadn’t pushed a hidden button somewhere or struck a match when he wasn’t looking. She just looked at the candle, whispered a few words, and …
She laughed. Then her lips moved again, and the votive lifted up and floated several inches above her palm.
“Whoa!” Charlie exclaimed, barely able to keep his voice quiet.
“Pretty nifty, huh?”
“Totally!”
“A little more?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah.”
She nodded, and the votive candle scuttled forward through the air as if pushed. Passing over the coffee table, it went directly to the brick fireplace, then landed on the hearth.
Nothing happened for a moment. He turned his head to see if she planned to do more. She smiled and gestured with her chin. He looked back in time to see the flame on the candle elongate, extending forward in a thin arc. The fire licked at the kindling and rolled-up newspaper laid in the fireplace before shrinking back into the candle. A second later the newspaper caught fire and spread two feet along the length of the fireplace, then began to catch on the small stack of logs. The wood spit and crackled, and soon the fireplace was filled with a cheerful blaze.
“Totally cool!” Charlie whispered, looking at her. He was not afraid at all, only wanting to know how she had done it. And if he were being completely honest with himself, he wanted to know if he could do it too. Was that too much to ask, he wondered?
He turned his head in time to see the glass votive return back through the air and land on the coffee table.
Beverly smiled at the flames sputtering in the fireplace. Then she looked out through the doorway that opened into the living room, and the smile left her face. She lifted her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture.
Charlie looked over at the doorway, and a moment later his mother walked into the room.
“A fire?” she said. “In the summer?”
“It’s Seattle. And besides, we wanted some ambiance,” Beverly answered, her voice cool.
“You two couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Elizabeth asked. Her voice sounded casual, but Charlie saw the suspicion in his mother’s face as her eyes darted back and forth between her sister and her son. “Mind if I fix myself some tea?”
* * *
As Charlie rinsed his bowl in the sink, his mother opened drawers and pulled out spoons and cups. She clearly knew her way around the kitchen.
“Honey,” she said to him. “I’d like to have a chat with Beverly. Why don’t you go back up to bed? Some more sleep would do you good.”
He knew that there was no choice in the matter. It was his mother’s way of telling him what to do. He looked over at his aunt, who now sat on one of the breakfast barstools, the expression on her face neutral, unreadable.
As he walked back up the stairs, he could hear the soft murmur of their conversation but could not make out the words. Amos padded out from Charlie’s bedroom and greeted him at the top of the stairs. His black fur was soft, and his hindquarters shook as his tail wagged back and forth.
“Hey, boy, whatcha doin’?” Charlie petted the dog’s back. He walked into the bedroom, the dog following.
Charlie’s mind swam with what he had just seen, how the flame had arisen on the wick with no match, how the candle had floated, how the fire had started in the fireplace. It wasn’t scary or violent. Strange, yes, but totally and utterly cool. He wanted to know if he could do it.
He picked up one of his shoes, held it in his palm and said, “Ooga booga.” He half expected the shoe to soar across the room or to turn bright red. Of course nothing happened. He laughed to himself, tossed the shoe in the corner, then crawled into bed and pulled the sheets up to his chin. Amos settled down on the carpet between the bed and the doorway, letting out a long dog-like sigh.
CHAPTER 14
The Note
CHARLIE AWOKE TO SUNLIGHT shining on his face. This time he had no trouble remembering where he was. He had slept deeply, and his mind felt clearer than it had since they had left California. He glanced at the bedside clock, then sat straight up.
Oh, God! It was already nine thirty. He couldn’t believe it. He never slept this late. He and his mother would have already been outside this early on a weekend morning, hauling mulch, pruning trees, tying back wire fencing.
Wait! Was it the weekend? What day was it? He couldn’t even remember. He walked into the bathroom and turned on the light.
In the tub he found small bottles of shampoo and liquid bath soap. He smelled them and was transported back to his own house. This was the same kind of stuff his mother made: lavender and lemongrass soap, chamomile shampoo. She infused the soaps and oils with herbs from their gardens. Charlie had seen some fenced-in beds from the deck in Beverly and Randall’s backyard but hadn’t had the chance to investigate them yet. He wondered if they grew their own herbs too.
After a quick shower, he found his toothbrush and toothpaste in the small toiletry kit his mother had packed for him and brushed his teeth, all the while hoping his hair would calm down after it dried. He put on clean clothes and walked downstairs, smelling bacon and coffee, hearing music coming from the kitchen.
Randall stood at the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl and pulling spices down from an upper shelf.
“Hi,” Charlie said.
“Wah!” Randall jumped and spun around, nearly knocking the glass bowl of cracked eggs to the floor.
“Shit, Charlie, you scared me!”
Charlie felt his cheeks burn as blood rushed into his face. “Oh, I … I’m sorry. I was, uh …”
But Randall just laughed. “Jeez, I guess I’m a little jumpy today. And don’t tell your aunt I said ‘shit,’” he added, wagging a wooden spatula at him.
“Sorry I slept in so late. I usually get up at …”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, no worries, my man. Hey, I’ll go get your aunt. She’s in the garden.”
“Um, is my mom awake?” he asked as he looked around the kitchen and the dining room.
The Boy Who Couldn't Fly Straight: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (Book 1, The Broom Closet Stories) Page 8