by Landon Wark
She frowned. "Is that something you could see happening?"
"I don't know what I see happening," Clay laughed. "There's fucking magic in the world!"
Carmen laughed weakly. "I mean, the world's felt so off kilter over the past few years. I guess we might need actual magic to bring it back into alignment."
"You want it to be real."
"Wouldn't you want there to be magic. Like, real magic?"
"I think we all do."
Carmen winced and groaned. "That's how they get you, you know. Cultists, politicians, corporations. They find out what you want and promise you it'll get done like—" She snapped her fingers. "—that! Magic!"
"Yeah. Hey, um listen. I might need someone a little savvier than me to make sure I don't fall for the old ‘pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.’ Can you help a dumb farm hand out?"
Carmen smiled. "All right, big guy. You and me, we'll keep an eye out for each other. And if this whole thing turns out to be one big grift, we'll go on a murderous revenge rampage together. Deal?"
"Deal. Do me a favour though?"
"Was'at?"
"Don't try anything until tomorrow? I think there's a couple of things we can do to maybe lessen the risk, or at least figure out how much risk there could be."
"I... I'll try."
Clay extricated himself from the doorway and started off down the hall.
"Okay. G'night."
"Good night," Carmen muttered, staring at the crumpled piece of paper and it's precious yellow flakes in front of her.
Overnight. Just overnight and it would have been an entire day and that was usually her limit. There was nowhere near enough on the paper before her to keep the worst at bay unless she did what Clay had warned her against. She made up and changed her mind first once and then twice, the fear of poison running up her veins into her heart doing battle with the pain in her joints and head. Finally she opened the drawer of the unfamiliar nightstand, crumpled up the waxy paper and tossed it inside, rolling into a fetal position in an attempt to finally get some sleep.
The Practical Magic Society's Single Blind
Paul Kwon lifted the last of the large boxes onto the cart and winced against the twanging feeling in his back as a muscle popped. He was not an old man, nor did he consider himself particularly out of shape, having spent a couple of summers helping build houses for needy families, but his back still acted up occasionally. He felt like there should be a gate for him to close, but the two gate posts stood naked to either side of where he stood. Why the delivery people couldn't bring the parcels all the way up to the house was a topic of some debate, but he placed the rumours that Satanists had taken up residence in the house as the primary reason.
The day was already turning out to be a scorcher, to use one of his mother's phrases. At six in the morning the sun was already a few degrees above the horizon and the wind had gone into hiding. He ran his hand over the front of his receding hairline and made a mental note that he was going to need a hat if he was going to be outside for any extended period of time.
The cart rattled and skidded along the tire tracks, refusing to stay straight. The jostling and rumbling of the wheels caused the boxes to slide around the flat surface, forcing him to stop and readjust their positions to prevent them from falling into damp grass. It was an annoying task, but he had been the first one awake and it felt like an obligation that he picked up the delivery.
After several stops he reached the porch and began the equally arduous task of moving the boxes up the steps, juggling to the point where he could manage to wedge his foot inside and kicking it open farther, propping with his elbow and then swinging himself and the box into the house. Sweat from the frozen goods formed in the heat of the early morning had weakened the last box to the point where he had to move each individual item, ice cream, three milk jugs and a large quantity of frozen vegetables.
"Oh," Jenny's voice from the stairway came as he dropped a pint of rocky road onto the entrance floor.
She scooped up the container from the floor and began moving obstructive groceries farther into the house while Paul brought in the rest.
"Next time deliveries come I'm sleeping in," he grumbled.
"I could have helped," Jenny said.
"It didn't seem like such a big job when I went out," he replied.
"Well." She pulled some cereal from out of the box closest to the hallway leading to the kitchen. "At least my Crunchy Flakes got here."
Paul took what pleasure he could in Jenny's slight smile, taking a step back as he thought about the conversation he had had with her (ex?) husband nearly a week earlier. In the interim he had gotten used to Jenny as a sort of slight, spectral figure who would sort of recede into the corner when any kind of attention was given to her. He had made a couple of attempts to talk with her over the brief time when they were the only other two people in the house, but she had seemed too closed off to make a serious go of it. From what he had learned from her husband he had little blame for her.
Strange that the thing that made her open up, however slightly was a box of cereal.
The two of them carried what they could of the items that required refrigeration, along with the cereal box, abandoning the remainder to those who were still asleep to manage.
"How are you doing?" Paul asked as he opened the chest freezer that rumbled quietly along the inner wall of the kitchen.
"Hmm?" she hummed. "Okay I guess. I'm ready to get started with... whatever is going on around here."
Paul closed the freezer with a bang and returned for the milk.
"Can I ask you a question?" He heard Jenny ask timidly.
"Yup," he groaned, lifting the plastic crate containing the jugs.
Glad for the opportunity, Paul mentally shelved his plan to bring up the conversation he had with Bill, which seemed problematic at best.
"Everything that's going on here, does..." Paul could practically hear Jenny biting her lip from the next room. "Do you believe in heaven more now that... Now that all this is happening."
Paul paused. It wasn't an unexpected question, but one that took him a moment to compose an answer to. He again drifted back to Jenny's frazzled husband sitting on the pew next to him begging for some kind of absolution for having witnessed (what he considered) witchcraft and not having baptized his son. Paul had told him that witchcraft had a certain feeling to it and that he would know it. He had felt no such thing himself upon being invited into the house and at first he had thought that he was witnessing miracles of a purely divine nature. But, the miracles he had seen had a lot of rules and, over time had taken on a distinctly mechanical, almost secular air. Was there rhyme and reason to miracles?
God gives us the tools we need.
"I don't believe in it any less," he hedged. "Do you?"
"I'm not sure." She pulled a jug out of the crate he had placed on the table, her thin bicep bulging. "I did the first time I saw... the magic, but now... I can't really say for sure."
The corners of his mouth turning down Paul opened the fridge, put his own two jugs inside and held it open for Jenny to wedge hers in behind.
"I can see where you're coming from," he told her. "I never thought that a miracle would come when beckoned and then disappear."
"Yeah. The will of God shouldn't need so much human intervention," Jenny said. "I just... I need heaven right now."
Paul was about to reply when a series of quick thuds from out in the hallway accompanied by a loud bang distracted him.
"The hell is all this?" The voice of Clay came through a wince and a sharp inhale that usually accompanied banging a shin or elbow. His head leaned into the kitchen. "Did the fridge break?"
Not bothering to look, Paul finished tossing frozen vegetables into the freezer. Clay was not the kind of person he would have chosen to cohabitate with if all things were equal, and he was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. Apparently a graduate student when his studies had been interrupted by a lack o
f funding Clay seemed to Paul to be full of the kind of entitlement of someone born middle class and trying to work his way up. A superiority complex, maybe? He had hit a few hiccups in life and surrendered to the idea that everyone was out to get him. While undeniably intelligent, the larger man had an overbearing manner that Paul found difficult to be around. Maybe it was his know-it-all attitude, or maybe Paul's own insecurities that caused the standoffish air between them. It was difficult to say which was more true.
"It's groceries," Jenny explained simply. "Can you give us a hand?"
Carrying one of the non-soggy delivery boxes Clay began placing its contents willy nilly into the cupboards in silence. After a few pensive minutes he spoke up.
"Did any eggs show up?"
"Yeah." Paul motioned towards the fridge.
Clay began shuffling through the eggs and Paul was about to ask what he was doing when a groan, like the opening of a creaky coffin lid hit the kitchen. The three of them swiveled toward the open door frame.
"Oh my—" Jenny's voice seemed to cut out.
Standing in the doorway, using a sallow, almost waxy skinned hand to hold herself upright was Carmen Carruthers. The blanket that had been on her bed was wrapped around her shoulders, a makeshift hood ensconcing her yellowish eyes around which droplets of sweat traced long lines. Shaking legs hobbled half a step into the kitchen before realizing that they would not be able to make it any farther and settling for holding her against the door jamb.
"Jenny," she whispered hoarsely before vainly licking her dry bluish lips. "If you can spare a moment, can you come hold my hair while I puke?"
Jenny went to her almost instantly, holding back from actually touching any part of the Madonna-esque wrappings of the bedspread lest she start without her hair being held back. She was rushed off to the bathroom down the hall without a word. Before he fell into line behind them Paul took a look back to where Clayton was busy shuffling through the egg cartons on the counter, a grim countenance cast over his face with the morning sun blazing through the curtains.
Paul did a double take and scoffed mentally before exiting after the huddled pair of women.
Despite the mandate of the church (and Jesus, of course), Paul had limited experience with addicts. When he had first arrived from seminary, Reverend Newman had told him that they had counselled a few at one point, but all that had ended when a few silver crucifixes had gone missing over the course of a weekend. From then one they had focussed almost entirely on retirees whose wealth was completely secure. In the back of his mind Paul had thought that instant was likely the start of the parish's short, harsh slide into garishness.
From what he had heard outside of the bathroom, Paul considered himself lucky, because as he shuffled, nauseated himself, back to the kitchen, he wondered if that poor woman even had a stomach left.
He found Clayton along with Ezra and Sandy sitting at the large kitchen island table, two plates of scrambled eggs between them. Paul siddled onto one of the stools next to Ezra and took the plate of eggs that Clay slid towards him. He poked at it noncommittally as the muted sounds of expulsion echoed down the hall outside.
"Someone is going to have to go to town." Ezra mused.
Sandy glanced over at him.
"I've been in the carnie long enough to know what withdrawal looks like."
"Maybe you can get someone to bring it here then," Sandy said.
"I wouldn't trust any of those numbnuts to deliver a pizza. She'd likely get a package of tartar sauce with 'Drugs' written across it in Sharpie."
Paul's early morning hunger overcame his nausea and he began spearing at the eggs. While he was more than a little annoyed that Clayton would ignore someone in obvious distress he was thankful for the overdone breakfast as an anchor in his stomach.
"How long do you think she can hold out?" Paul muttered.
"People do die from this sort of thing," Clay replied grimly.
He reached out and took the plate of eggs from Paul whose brow furrowed
angrily. Ezra harrumphed and pushed the second plate over to Paul. Shovelling another fork full into his mouth Paul listened quietly.
"We'll have to buy quite a bit," Sandy said with resignation. "We can't be doing this every day."
"I'll go," Clayton said, placing his fork on top of the remaining pile of eggs. "I mean... I have no idea where to go and I'll likely wind up asking some undercover cop where I can find 'the hookup'."
"I should go," Sandy wheeled the plate over to where she sat.
Clay reached out a hand to stop the movement of the plate. When Sandy glanced up at him he grabbed the second plate away from Paul and switched them.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked, beating Paul to it by a fraction of a second.
"Nothing."
"Anyway. I should go. I was with her the last time and I have some business I should take care of at the bank anyway."
"I'm going." A groan came from the kitchen door where an anemic, cloaked figure stood alongside Jenny.
"Eggs?" Clayton offered.
"Fuck off."
"I was talking to Jenny."
"You can't keep down breakfast, let alone drive a car," Jenny said, walking over to the table. "I'll go with her."
"You'd do even worse than I would," Clay muttered.
Ignoring him Jenny continued, "Sandy, I can take care of what you need at the bank, too. I just need a signed letter saying you're designating me as your representative."
"I don't know," Sandy hemmed. "I should really do it myself though..."
"I'll go with them," Ezra said, shifting his bulk on his own stool, but not moving. "I actually know a shady character at the carnie who might be able to get us what we need. And I can supervise the kids with the credit card."
"Yeah, come on, Ma," Clay interrupted. "Let the kids go to the carnival."
Sandy grumbled. "Well if it will get you out of here."
Paul turned to Carmen who was nestling her head under her arm like a sleeping bird. "Are you okay with that?"
"Yeah, sure," she groaned. "Let's go get some of that good carnie smack."
Clay clung tightly to the wheel as the car fishtailed onto the narrow paved road from the dirt path that ran up to the house. He sucked in air through his clenched teeth and shot a glance sideways at the passenger who was shuddering against the door even in the blistering heat of the un-air-conditioned car. Wind from the naked roadside struck Clay directly in the face and stole away his breath for a moment.
"You okay?" he asked loudly to Carmen.
"Not really," she choked. "At least the wind got rid of big man's cologne."
"You all wouldn't know class if it time travelled from the turn of the century and slapped you," Ezra said.
"Carmen, let us know if you need to stop," Jenny said from her place wedged in between Paul and Ezra in the backseat.
"Even if I tell you to, do not stop," she muttered. "And, I feel worse for you right now."
The car fell into silence and Clay drummed on the steering wheel for a few moments until Carmen flailed at his hands.
"How did you all like the eggs?" he asked.
"Okay."
"Not the worst I've had."
"Needed pepper."
Clay nodded solemnly making a few mental notes as he attempted to concentrate on the sun sprayed highway. "Both batches?"
"Could you shut up about the eggs?" Carmen coughed and spit out of the window. Clay slowed the car.
Paul chimed in. "Why exactly are you being so weird about the eggs?"
"Yeah, I think it might work," Clay mumbled.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ezra barked.
"You remember what we were talking about?" Clay asked in Carmen's direction. "You know, last night?"
"I remember you talking me out of a decision that would have made me feel a helluva lot better right now."
For one horrifying moment Clayton James channelled his father. "Oh, well you should've done it
then."
Jenny made a rare step forward into the conversation. "Not that it's any of our business, but what are you talking about?"
"I was... well, we were thinking we could be making drugs the same way we were making quarters."
"You want to... sell drugs?"
Clay fumbled the conversation. "Not... Well, if we need it then... I mean it's easier... I mean, safer... Help me out here."
Carmen groaned.
"So... why didn't you do this already?" Paul asked.
"Well, making the quarters wasn't exactly perfect. Making complex proteins could... We could be making poison is what I'm trying to say."
In the midst of his trying to figure out exactly what the other man was talking about, Paul seized on a single point. "And now you're saying it's okay because?"
"No one noticed the eggs."
There was silence in the car for a moment and then the back seat erupted into objections. Even Jenny with her normally reticent personality shouted at the back of Clay's head.
"Hey! I had the first few bites!"
"There's a thing called ethical considerations," Paul said.
"So... should we get checked for tumours?" Jenny seemed a little frantic.
"One plate was normal and the other was... What are we calling this? Conjured eggs? Nobody said they tasted any different. That's a successful test."
"You suck!" Ezra kicked the back of Clay's seat.
"I agree," Carmen shuddered.
"Say what you want, but it's possible to create complex biological molecules out of nothing... Well, not nothing. You get it."
"And you did the quarters worse than any of us," Paul said. "What if what Jenny said is right? Should we be looking for cancer?"
Jenny groaned.
"The quarters aren't mirror images which means chirality shouldn't be an issue—"
"I wouldn't tell Sandy about this," Jenny said. "Maybe Sandy, but not the other one."
"He seems like the territorial type," Ezra agreed.
"He's out in that shack working on theory," Clay said. "We're the... practitioners. We're the practical magic... society?"
"So, our acronym is—" Ezra began.
"Stop!" Carmen said.