What Grows in Your Garden

by Carolyn P Schriber

  “Is that your good news? You are a witch?”

  “Well, yes. I didn’t believe it at first, either, but now I know it’s true.”

  Sarah drew a deep breath. Doctor Kaplan had never warned her about a situation like this one, either. “And you know that . . . how?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Remember my friend Mary Jo, the one who had leukemia? Well, the doctors kept her at the hospital for several days, but when she couldn’t pay for the chemo they wanted her to do, they sent her home to die. She needed help, but when my Charlie asked his little congregation at the Cornerstone Church to step in, they refused because they don’t believe in doctors and medicine. They think only prayer can help. But they wouldn’t pray for her, either, because she was still listening to the doctors. So, by then I was desperate, and I started reading Granny’s book of cures.

  “And sure enough, I found a recipe for diseases of the blood. It said to take the dried flowers of two different plants, crush them like tea leaves, and have the patient drink a cup of that tea before every meal. Lucinda helped me identify the flowers in the cellar, and I started making Mary Jo cups of that tea.”

  “What flowers are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I can’t tell you that because you’re not a witch. Both the recipes and the right spells are secrets. Anyhow, Mary Jo kept drinking that tea and feeling better. And the next time she went to the doctor, he couldn’t find any sign of the leukemia. He said the lab that did the tests must have mixed up the samples, although I knew better.

  “But the other thing was—Charlie yelled at me when I told him I was a witch. Then I tried to explain to him that Granny Jernigan had been a wise woman who only used her knowledge for good, but he still thought I’d been bargaining with the devil. So I suggested he pray about it and see what God had to say.”

  Sarah opened her mouth to ask how Charlie planned to talk to God but thought better of it. Instead, she nodded.

  Cassie noticed her hesitation, however, and hurried to explain. “See, Charlie has this way of communicating with God. He asks his questions and then picks up his Bible. With his eyes still closed, he opens it to a random page and touches a spot. Then he opens his eyes and reads the words his finger is pointing to. This time, the passage he touched was in Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, chapter 12, verse 10: ‘Some are given the gift of healing.’

  Then he asked God if one case was enough to prove that I had received the gift of healing. Again he went through the ritual, and this time, he opened to the first Letter of John, chapter 5, verse 8: ‘Three bear witness on earth.’ And that came right after John’s explanation of the Trinity. So Charlie said Christians follow the guide of the Trinity, which meant I couldn’t claim to be a healer until I had cured three people.

  “That threw me for a minute, and then I realized I already had my three patients lined up. I moved on to Charlie’s mother. Under the heading of women’s troubles, Granny had provided a recipe for a potion at bedtime every night. It called for two different plant roots, which I was to grind up and boil into syrup. I found one root in the cold cellar, but not a sign of the other one. I couldn't find it growing anywhere, either, so I called Lucinda for advice. She came by, bringing me a box of the root already in powder form. She had found it in a health food store, so we knew it would work.”

  “Oh, Cassie, even health food stores can carry some dangerous substances. You need to be careful.”

  “No, it was just what I needed. The box said it worked on migraines and hot flashes caused by a lack of estrogen. So, anyhow, I made up the syrup recipe and took a bottle of it to my mother-in-law’s house. She was still in bed but unable to sleep for the pain. I urged her to try a teaspoon of the syrup. She wrinkled her nose and said it smelled like somebody’s old gym socks, but she took it anyhow. She dropped right off to sleep, so fast it scared me. I sat up with her all night, afraid she was dying. But in the morning she woke up with a smile, sat up, and announced that her headache had disappeared. She had slept without a single hot flash or night sweat. She’s now taking a teaspoon every night and is back to her old energetic and trouble-making self.

  “That was the second patient I cured. It was time to work on Lizzie’s finger. I unbandaged it and it looked awful—all red and scabby and still oozing. But I couldn’t find anything in Granny’s notebook that described what to do about a chopped-off finger. So I started prowling around the shelves in the cold cellar. I found a jar labeled ‘for fingertips and toes’ in Granny’s same spidery handwriting. It looked orangey and sticky, but it smelled OK, so I washed Lizzie’s finger and coated it with this sticky stuff. Then I re-bandaged it and left it alone for a week. And guess what! When I took the bandage off, the finger was clean and seemed longer than it had been. When I examined it, I could see where new skin was growing. There was even a little crescent of a fingernail reappearing on the end. There was no more reason for a bandage, and by now, you can’t even tell anything has happened to it.”

  “That’s wonderful news, Cassie, but . . .”

  “Wait. There’s more. When I told Charley I had three cures, and he saw the evidence for himself, he went back to praying. This time he asked whether it was God’s will that I continue to act as a healer. And when he opened the Bible, his finger landed on the 28th chapter of First Samuel. That’s the story of the Witch of Endor. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. I’ve told you that my father is a rabbi. And I know that Talmudic scholars argued over that chapter for centuries. How did Charlie interpret it?”

  “He says that God was telling him that I’m a direct descendant of the Witch of Endor and have inherited her powers. It means I’m here to fulfill the will of God. I agreed because my name—Cassandra—came from a Trojan prophetess whose warnings of doom always fell on deaf ears. And her story is just like the Witch of Endor, when she warns Saul that he will die in battle and he refuses to believe her.

  “Oh, no, no, Cassie. The Witch of Endor is an evil spirit—a tool of the devil. Saul asks her to bring Samuel back from the dead, and Samuel tells him that when he leads the Israelites into battle against the Philistines, he and his sons will die. That is the will of God, but the Witch tries her best to stop him from going into that battle. She even feeds him when he is trying to fast in preparation. She is thwarting God’s will, not doing it. That’s why she fails.”

  “You are the one who does not understand, Professor Chomsky—you and your so-called rabbi authorities. The witch is doing God’s will by warning Saul. It’s not her fault that Saul doesn’t believe her. She’s a force for good, even if no one around her understands that. And that’s what I shall be. Christianity has brought the world the understanding the Israelites did not grasp. But you’ll see when you read my bibliography. That’s the topic I will use for my dissertation someday—the historical changes to views of the Witch of Endor.”

  “Your bibliography? I haven’t even received it.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’d better see if the library has printed it yet. Back soon.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Another Mood Swing

  Monday evening, January 12, 2009

  Sarah sighed in relief when Cassie dashed off. Somehow the young woman seemed to suck the air right out of a room. She was still puzzling over how to handle this latest outburst of enthusiasm when the phone rang.

  “Sarah? David here. Good to hear from you.”

  “I’m embarrassed to be calling you after the miserable showing I put on yesterday, but I just learned of a command performance required of all faculty members. Our trustees will be in town in two weeks, and there’s a fancy-pants reception for them on their last Saturday night. My invitation is for me and my ‘plus-one,’ which is academic-speak for ‘you-must-bring-a-suitable-date.’ I’m hoping you’ll be willing to go with me.”

  “If you’re sure you want to let our friendship become public knowledge . . .”

  “Oh, David, please, don’t make this harder than it alr
eady feels.”

  “We need to talk it out. I’ll be through with work in two hours. Why don’t I go by Billy Bob’s and pick up a bag of sliders? When I get to your front door, you can decide. If you only want the sliders, open the door just a crack and I’ll hand them over. If you want to see me, too, open it all the way.”

  “I’ll . . . Oh dear, there’s a student at my door. Talk later, OK? Bye.”

  Cassie sidled in with a knowing smile on her face. “Sorry to interrupt, but you said the paper had to be in by 4:00 today.” She handed it over with a flourish.

  Sarah matched her, one sardonic smile for another. She picked up her pen and scrawled “Received at 3:58 PM on Monday, January 12, 2009. SJ Chomsky.”

  “See? I always do what I say I’ll do.”

  “That’s why it worries me when you speak without thinking.”

  “Touché. Read it. I have lots of time, and I’m eager to hear what you have to say.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t have the time right now. I wouldn’t grade it in front of you, even if I did have the time. I’ll get to it soon, but your grade doesn’t have to be in until Friday. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have another appointment I need to keep.” Sarah turned the paper upside down on her desk and began to gather her things. She had seen enough, however, to know the entries were not in proper Chicago style and there were no annotations to accompany the basic entries. It was already unacceptable.

  On the way home, she stopped at the gas station and picked up a six-pack of beer, hoping that, for once, no one saw her. Then she bustled about the apartment, sniffing to make sure there was no odor from the litter box. She shoved a few objects into convenient drawers and blew away some dust traces from the table. A glance in the mirror warned her that her hasty morning bun had not weathered the day too well. She pulled it down, shook out a head full of unruly curls, and touched up her lip gloss. Then she waited, growing more nervous with each passing minute.

  When the doorbell rang, she rushed to the door and then hesitated with her hand on the knob. A deep breath propelled her into opening the door wide and welcoming David with a smile.

  “Um-m-m-m. Something smells wonderful.”

  “I’ve heard that line before.”

  “It worked once.”

  “Oh, I like this Sarah much better than the one I met yesterday. Welcome home!”

  “Thanks, but I have to warn you. Behind this smile lies a frazzled wreck. I expected the first day back from vacation to be hectic, but I got little sleep last night—thanks to one over-excited cat. Then I sat through a three-hour faculty meeting and spent the greater part of the afternoon trading barbs with my least-favorite student.”

  “Not that Cassie-person again?”

  “Who else? I may have to give her such a low grade in my class that she’ll get kicked out of grad school.”

  “Uh-oh. I’d be careful about that, Sarah. She’s not a stable personality to begin with, and not someone you want to antagonize.”

  “But she conned me into giving her a seven-week extension to finish her class project, turned it in with just two minutes left in her deadline, and did not follow instructions. I’m not feeling very stable myself at the moment.”

  “I’m serious, Sarah. Don’t antagonize her. We—the police, that is—had a slight altercation with the McGehee family while you were in New York. I’m not free to talk about it, but I have to warn you. If someone has to pick on her, let it be your department chair, not you.”

  Over beer and hamburgers, Sarah explained the Founder’s Day reception and handed David the formal invitation. He looked impressed. “They go all out once in a while, don’t they? The Grand Ballroom? Open bar? Heavy hors d’oeuvres? It’s a far cry from Billy Bob’s, but I’ll try to mind my manners.”

  “You’ll go, then?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t miss a chance to squire you around. And since this is on January 31, it’s just far enough removed from Valentine’s Day that I can invite you to have dinner with me on another Saturday night.”

  Sarah laughed. “You’re incorrigible!”

  “No, I’m just a man who knows what he wants.”

  “David, about yesterday . . . I . . .”

  “No, let me tell you what I realized about that conversation. You’re scared. You’re scared because this is happening fast . . .”

  “. . . and because it doesn’t fit into my five-year plan. Planning is a part of my life, David. I keep appointment books and calendars and diaries. And I always know in advance what my next steps must be. In my mind, I have the next five years laid out, semester by semester.”

  “A five-year plan? Oy Vey! Most people don’t know what they will eat for breakfast when they get up in the morning. It’s human nature to ‘go with the flow’—to make up our minds as we go along. How can you know what you’ll be doing five years from now?”

  “I have to know. Five years is the framework for a tenure-track job, and what I do with these next years determines whether I have a permanent position on the faculty or find myself in the ranks of other failed academics flipping hamburgers for Billy Bob.”

  “All right. I admit I don’t know a lot about the inner workings of the university. So tell me. What does this five-year plan involve?”

  “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. I think of the years in four-month blocks, corresponding to semesters. During the first semester, I’ve concentrated—or tried to concentrate—on learning the ropes of my job: how the school functions, what the administration expects of me, what comes due on particular days, who to talk to, and who to avoid.

  “Now that spring semester is starting, I’ll still be learning about the job, but I’ll also pay more attention to the inner workings of the faculty, like who gets tenure and who doesn’t. And I’ll be working through my research field, which has to do with the social and economic engines that drove the American Civil War and the period of Reconstruction that followed it.”

  “That’s what you have studied in the past? Or is it a new area you want to explore?”

  “That’s the official definition of my doctoral dissertation, but for future research, I’m thinking about splitting the topic and concentrating on just one aspect—social or economic. If I can decide on one or the other, I’ll be ready to spend next summer investigating research options in this area. There are several major universities within easy driving distance from here, and many of them house valuable collections I have never seen.”

  “Such as?”

  “Take the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, as just one example. They hold the papers of the Penn Center, which was an early South Carolina experiment in educating freed slaves. The library contains the diaries of the woman who founded the Penn Center and the Southern Oral History collection. I'm not ready to start new research yet, but I need to learn the workings of that private library and find out how difficult it is to get access to the important papers. And with luck, I might stumble upon a tidbit that I can develop into a quick conference paper or journal article.

  “That will determine what I’ll be doing during year number two. In the first semester, I need to come up with a paper topic and start circulating my proposal to historical conferences. If I can get an idea accepted for a conference, I’ll write the paper during the second semester and present it during a summer meeting. Then it’s on to submitting the same paper to journals and the whole editorial process of getting a small publication out there. It’s only a place-holder, however—an attention-getter as I work on a complete book proposal.

  “By the second year, I’ll also be attending every conference I can get to and volunteering to serve on discussion panels. That’s where we meet the movers and shakers in our field. And those contacts will become vital by year five. Besides the small, regional meetings, there’s the Southern Historical Association, a Nineteenth-Century Studies group, and The American Historical Association next January.”

  “What
you’re telling me is that the old saw about ‘Publish or Perish’ is not a joke.”

  “It’s no joke. It’s a cut-throat competition. And considering that we are just two years away from the sesquicentennial anniversary of the start of the Civil War, my particular niche will attract swarms of people trying to leave their mark. Without at least some conference papers and a published article or two, nobody gets tenure. And even if you have those, you still need to have at least a signed book contract, even if the book is not out yet.”

  “And tenure’s that important?”

  “It’s the difference between being established for life or eating peanut-butter sandwiches in your car while driving from one adjunct teaching spot to another—jobs that pay a two or three thousand dollars for a one-class semester’s work. Please don’t ask me why anyone would want to get involved in such a gamble. There are many times when I’m not sure myself. But I have to give it a shot.”

  “And the last three years?”

  “More of the same. Doing the rounds of conferences, teaching classes, serving on college committees, and writing the great book on weekends and late at night. During the fifth year, a candidate for tenure has to secure that publication guarantee, provide evidence of prominence in the field, and, keep winning over the students who will be evaluating every candidate. Julia Winthrop is going through this process so I’m learning what to expect. It’s not pretty. And falling in love is not a part of that master plan. I have a job to do and do well, conference appearances to stake out my national reputation, and a book to research, write, and publish.”

  “Wait. Say that again.”

  “Say what?”

  “The falling-in-love part.”