Girl's Guide To Witchcraft

by Mindy L. Klasky

  Okay. So I'd lied to Neko on the night of his transfor­mation. I did like cream in my tea. But just a bit, and I never kept the stuff in the house. I didn't use much of it on my own, and it always went bad before the carton was empty. Nothing stinks up a refrigerator as much as spoiled milk products.

  Besides, even if I'd had cream on hand the other night, I wouldn't have shared it with the cat-man. I didn't want to do anything to bring out the feline side of his person­ality. That just creeped me out. The night before, I'd come home from meeting with Melissa to find two voles and a mouse stretched out on my front porch, their tiny corpses lined up like a magical offering.

  Neko. I'd already decided not to mention him to Gran. Not Neko, not Montrose, nothing at all about that strange night. She'd only worry about me, and since I wasn't going to be working any more spells, there was no reason to put her through that.

  A waiter swooped by our table and set down a tiered tray. I could make out some cucumber sandwiches (crusts neatly trimmed from impossibly thin slices of white bread). There were also tiny bites of curried chicken salad on glazed walnut bread, and a dollop of egg salad with feathery dill on pumpernickel. I would leave the egg for Gran—it was her favorite—but I could never get past the smell. I helped myself to smoked salmon on lemon brioche.

  "I really appreciate your getting away from the library," Gran said. "I just wish you hadn't changed out of your new outfit. I wanted to see it. I'm sure it's darling."

  I took my time chewing a pale orange bite. After I swal­lowed, I looked down at my neat A-line skirt. An A-line skirt that I'd never wear to work again. An A-line skirt that Jason Templeton would never have the opportunity to admire—even from a distance, much less from the up-close-and-personal view of the sometimes tricky side zipper. "I can't wear those things in public, Gran. The skirt has honest-to-God hoops, and the quilted petticoat looks like something out of a museum."

  "The stays must make you stand up straight, though. You've always needed a reminder about your posture."

  Thanks, Gran. I love you, too.

  I settled for "Before I forget—here are your keys. I left the car with the valet."

  Gran set them on the table between us. For just a moment, it seemed that she put them there to keep them available, like an escape hatch. In case one of us needed to flee the scene. How strange was that? I chased the thought away by asking about her board meeting. She had just come from her monthly session with the concert opera guild board of di­rectors.

  "It was fine, dear."

  "Fine?" Something was definitely wrong. Gran could talk about the opera board for hours—long detailed stories about the volunteers who performed above all expectations, or the prima donna sopranos who arrived at the theater ex­pecting special treatment that wasn't to be found anywhere outside of New York's Metropolitan Opera.

  "Yes, dear, fine." She glanced around distractedly, as if she were trying to find a waiter. A buffer. "Do you need more tea?"

  I looked down at my still-full cup. "Um, not yet, Gran." Now I was beginning to get a worried.

  "Jane, will you make me a promise?"

  Whew. So that was it. Just another one of Gran's promise binges. She had me going there for a moment. "About what?" I asked.

  "I can't tell you yet."

  "What?" I started to ask, but then I remembered my manners. "Pardon me?" I heard the sharpness, barely hidden under my voice.

  "I'm going to ask you to do something, and you aren't going to be very happy about it. Promise me, though, that you'll do it. It's very important to me. More important than anything I've ever asked of you before."

  Wait a minute. This was more than the usual Gran request. This time, she wanted to bind me before I even knew what was at stake. What was going on?

  Suddenly, all the bits slipped into place. Gran's nervous­ness. Her luring me with afternoon tea. The "fine" concert opera guild board meeting.

  Uncle George.

  Uncle George wasn't my real uncle. He was a friend of Gran's, her oldest friend. For decades he'd taken her out on dates—the only grown-up evenings she'd had the entire time that I was growing up. Uncle George and my grand­father had known each other in elementary school, and George had stepped in to help out around the house when my grandfather died.

  Truth be told, I'd never liked the man all that much. He'd pulled quarters out of my ears for way too many years. I mean, it was one thing to be amazed and giggly when I was five years old. But when I was fifteen? And he had jowls— honest-to-goodness jowls just like a bull mastiff. They wobbled beside his mouth when he talked.

  But he made Gran happy. In fact, he was the one who had gotten her interested in concert opera. She said that he made even the longest board meetings bearable; he was the presi­dent.

  And now, it seemed that he was finally ready to move their relationship "to the next level." Uncle George was going to ask Gran to marry him. It made sense. I had finally secured a real house through the Peabridge, and even though Scott was out of my life forever, it was pretty clear that I wouldn't need to move back home with Gran.

  I wondered if she would wear a white dress. I mean, I didn't have any trouble with that—I'm hardly a conserva­tive person. Something tea-length, maybe? With a small bouquet of sweetheart roses? We could even have the wedding in the Peabridge gardens, use my cottage's kitchen to serve up punch and wedding cake. I was sure Evelyn wouldn't mind. She'd welcome the opportunity for pub­licity.

  "Jane?" Gran asked. "Do you promise?"

  I smiled, now that I knew we were on safe territory. Before I could say anything, though, the waiter materialized again. He swept away the sandwich tray and set in place another tiered wonder—this one packed with little bites of dessert. Even in the midst of my reluctance to promise— for form's sake, mind you—my mouth watered at the sight of the coconut-dusted scones, the bite-sized lemon-meringue pies and the cherry-crowned pistachio financiers.

  Gran smiled at the treats, as if she were a child on Christ­mas morning. I almost thought that she was going to clap her hands. "Look, Jane! All of my favorites!"

  "Gran—"

  "Here. Let me serve you." She spent a century selecting treasures, maneuvering them onto my plate with hands that showed every single year of their age. Okay. So, she was still nervous. What was going on here?

  She bit into a tiny raspberry tart, and I watched her jaws move as she polished off the treat. "What?" she asked me, when she realized I was staring. "You can't be full already?"

  "Gran, why did you bring me here? What did you want to ask me?"

  She set down her plate and met my eyes for the first time since we'd been seated. "Promise—"

  "Gran, I promise. You know I'll help you plan your marriage to Uncle George. I think it's wonderful that you've finally decided to get married."

  "Get married!" Gran was loud enough that several other tea-patrons turned to stare. "What are you talking about? Who said anything about marriage?"

  "Well, why else would you bring me here? Why would you be going on and on about this great promise I'm supposed to make, about your incredible secret?"

  Gran laughed. It was the deep laugh that I'd heard since my earliest childhood—the one that carried her through my toddler tantrums, my grammar school superiority, my high school rebellion. The sound carried relief, but also a hint of desperation.

  The more she laughed, the more disgruntled I became. Okay, so she probably wasn't going to get married. She and Uncle George didn't need to change their relationship now, after years of their friendship working just fine. But the idea wasn't that outrageous. She didn't have to act as if I were some clown, sent solely to entertain her. I plopped a cocoa-covered miniature truffle into my mouth and let the bit­tersweet chocolate melt its comfort over my tongue.

  "Jane," she said, when she could finally draw a breath. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to mislead you."

  "You did, though," I said, and even I could hear the sulk-iness in my voice. I sat up straighter and p
ushed my shoul­ders back. "What's going on, Gran?"

  "Promise—"

  "Fine! I promise! I'll do whatever you're going to ask me to do."

  She nodded her head, finally satisfied with my pledge. "There's someone who wants to meet you."

  "You want to set me up on a blind date?"

  Gran's smile was small, almost wistful. "Not at all, dear." She took the napkin from her lap and folded it into a precise rectangle. She set it beside her plate, as if she were through with tea. "The person who wants to meet you is a woman. Her name is Clara. Clara Smythe."

  Smythe was Gran's last name. And Clara had been Gran's sister. Great-Aunt Clara had died decades ago in a car crash, just a month before my mother was born. That was why Gran had named my mother Clara, and it was a terrible irony that my mother had also died in a car...

  "Clara?" I made it a question.

  Gran nodded. "Clara. Your mother."

  The room had suddenly become too warm. I wondered why they couldn't control the temperature better in a public space. I felt as if a giant fan had sucked all the air out of the room. I stared at Gran, unable to process her words. I realized that I was tapping my butter knife against the table, and I set it beside my saucer, lining it up precisely with the edge of the table.

  "My mother." My voice didn't sound like it belonged to me. It was a little voice. A child's voice. A voice that was swirled in a cotton candy of hope, spoiled with the sour dust of fear. "She's dead."

  Gran shook her head. "She isn't, dear. She never was. That was a story that we told you—that she decided I must tell you—when she left."

  "When she left...." I knew that I should say something more, that I should be thinking faster than I was. But my brain seemed stuck in neutral. I could hear my thoughts revving, faster and faster as they chased each other.

  My mother was alive. My mother had left me. My mother had let me think that she was dead for all these years. Gran had let me think that my mother was dead for all these years.

  As I tried to think of something to say, something to ask, something to jolt me back onto the ordinary path of being, the waiter appeared from nowhere. "And how are we doing here?"

  I looked up into his false smile, and I could not think of the right response, the polite words that everyone knew.

  "We're fine," Gran said.

  "More tea?"

  "No, thank you."

  The waiter nodded professionally and transported over to the next table. I looked into Gran's face. "What hap­pened?"

  "Your mother was very young, dear. She had no idea how much responsibility a newborn would be. She tried—she really did. But she just couldn't do the job."

  Job. I'd been a job. For one insane moment, I pictured my mother punching a time clock, her hair wrapped up in a bandanna, her face weary from long hours on the graveyard shift.

  "So she just abandoned me?"

  "Jane, dear, she left you with me! That's hardly aban­donment. She knew that I could take care of you, that I could give you everything you needed."

  "Except the truth!" I heard how loud I'd become, how melodramatic, but I couldn't stop myself. "I should have known the truth! You should have told me that my own mother thought that I was too much trouble—"

  Gran cut me off, a clear sign of just how upset she was. "She was sick, dear. She was lost." For one horrible moment I thought that Gran was going to cry. I had never seen her cry, not ever. She swallowed hard and touched the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and when she spoke again, her voice was even. Quiet, but even. "Your mother had a drug problem. She stayed away from the stuff while she was pregnant—that's how much she loved you. But after you were born... And when your father left..."

  "So he left, too? He wasn't in the car crash?"

  "There wasn't any car crash, Jane." Gran shook her head. "There was never any car crash. No one died. I've sent your mother letters through the years, told her how you're doing. She's asked to meet you now. She's ready."

  She was ready? Well, that didn't mean that I was.

  I'd gotten used to having no mother a long time ago. All those Mother's Day art projects in school, all those parent-teacher conferences where I had to explain to the other kids why my grandmother was there instead of my mother and father. I'd filled out endless forms, striking out parent and writing in guardian.

  But now, to find out that it was all a lie... And my own grandmother was the biggest liar of all....

  I stood up very carefully, grateful that I had stuck to pear oolong and forgone the champagne that had been an option on the menu. "The valet will get your car for you, Gran."

  "Where are you going, dear?"

  "Home." Away from here. To a cottage filled with witches' books. To my gay feline familiar. To the colonial dresses that had become my new uniform. To the sudden wreck of my life.

  "At least let me drive you there." Gran reached for her handbag. "I'd rather walk," I said. "I need some fresh air." I heard Gran call the waiter. I heard her start to negoti­ate paying for our treats. I heard her call out, "Jane, you promised!" She was torn, frantic.

  I only started to cry after I left the hotel, pounding the heels of my black suede pumps against the sidewalk.

  The yoga instructor spoke in a voice that she meant to be soothing: "Remember, Downward-Facing Dog is your friend. Ease into the stretch. Push your heels toward the floor. This pose is restful. Soothing. Relaxing."

  Relaxing, my ass. My arms trembled, and my ham­strings felt like they were roasting in one of Melissa's ovens. I glanced over at my supposed best friend who was gazing at a point on her yoga mat, blissed out in the per­fection of her pose.

  The yoga instructor said, "All right, now. Hop your legs up to your hands. Hop!"

  Yeah, right. Somewhere on her mantle, Gran has a trophy that I won for Best Hopper, when I was in preschool. My life as a bunny was long over. I straggled my right foot forward and tried to look jaunty as I dragged my left one into alignment.

  "Let's move into Warrior I," the instructor said, as if she honestly believed I had all the position names memorized. I sneaked a look at Melissa to figure out what we were supposed to do, and I spread my legs into the expected triangle. As the instructor recited the rest of the exercise, I let my mind drift.

  My mother was still alive. My mother. The woman that I thought had loved me. She was alive and well and could have come back to me at any moment, at any point in the twenty-five years that had passed since she walked away.

  And now she wanted to see me.

  I kept replaying my conversation with Gran in my head. I heard the words, over and over, like an old vinyl album skipping and repeating.

  What had Gran been thinking? Had she realized how shocked I would be? She must have—that was why she'd staged the afternoon tea. She had wanted me in a public place, a place where I couldn't throw a tantrum, where I couldn't say words that I might later regret.

  Even as I tried to build the case against her in my mind, I knew that I wasn't being fair. She was my Gran. She loved me. She had taken me to the Four Seasons because she wanted her revelation to be special, to be happy.

  My mother was still alive. My mother.

  "Jane," the yoga instructor said. "Raise your right arm. Look out over your fingertips. Flex your legs more. Activate your right leg."

  I gritted my teeth and squatted lower, but the motion proved too much for my poor out-of-shape body. I stag­gered sideways, narrowly missing the woman on the next mat. I caught Melissa's quick smile, but she smoothed it away when I glared at her.

  The instructor's voice remained calm. She spoke to the entire class, but I knew her words were meant for me. "If you ever find an asana too challenging, remember that you can assume the Child's Pose."

  Sounded like a good idea to me. I folded myself onto my mat, sitting on my heels and stretching my arms in front of me. I tucked my head down and tried to focus on my breath­ing.

  Child's Pose. I was a child. My mother's child. My mother was sti
ll alive.

  Enough! Yoga was definitely not for me today. (Was it ever?) As the instructor started to move the class into a series of sun salutations, I rose up out of Child's Pose. I collected my mat, not even bothering to roll it into a tight cylinder.

  Both the instructor and Melissa looked at me question­ingly. "Cramp in my foot," I said.

  The instructor started to offer me a bottle of the over­priced water that she sold from a minifridge at the back of the studio, but I shook my head and mouthed to Melissa, "I'll wait in the hall." She looked torn, but I shook my head. "Stay," I enunciated silently.

  I limped out to the hallway, exaggerating my supposed foot cramp like a teenager trying to get out of gym class. I dropped the act as soon as I closed the studio door, and I slumped against the wall to wait for the dogs and warriors and children to finish up their class.

  I thought about lighting up a cigarette.

  I don't actually smoke. I never have. I can't stand the smell of cigarettes in my hair. But there have been times when I wanted a cigarette as a prop, as an image. I wanted to lean against the wall like a weary ballerina, staring down the hallway as I struggled to bear the burden of my recent knowledge. I would look wan and brave, with wisps of my hair just curling beside my high-cheekboned face. My col­larbones would jut out like wings as my delicate wrist rose, as my lips pursed one last weary time to take a deep, men­tholated drag, and the cigarette tip glowed vermilion in the darkening hallway.

  Yeah, right. I'd probably cough like a patient on a con­sumption ward, and my eyes would tear up, and my mascara would run.

  By the time Melissa joined me, I'd had time to select another vice.

  "Mojito therapy," I said.

  "What?" Her face was flushed with her yogic success. She went on as if I hadn't actually spoken. "I went from Bow to Camel today! I could feel the energy flowing through me, down my arms and legs, all at the same time!"