A Slice of Magic

by A. G. Mayes

  Sincerely,

  Canine in the coffee?

  Dear Canine in the coffee?

  I think your heart is trying to tell you that you want a dog. Maybe you can start with fostering before making a commitment to a dog. Then you can decide if you’re ready and if it’s everything you hoped it would be. Sometimes the universe sends us mysterious messages and it can take a long time to decode them. Good luck!

  Ask and I’ll Answer,

  Elodie

  I made the mistake of flipping through the paper again as I drank my first cup of coffee. My name in a headline caught my eye.

  Susanna Daniels Flakes Under Pressure By Elodie

  It’s been a tough week for our newcomer, Susanna Daniels. Business at the pie shop has dropped off as she struggles to create edible creations. At the time this paper went to press, there was no word on when Erma Crosby would return. One witness claims that Ms Daniels has been exchanging hostile words with the new cookie shop owner in town, Alice Baker. The anonymous source also states that Ms. Daniels was seen throwing customers out of her establishment. It makes us wonder if she wants the pie shop to succeed or if she’s trying to run it into the ground. Will Erma get back in time to save the pie shop?

  It was as though someone had taken all of my worst fears and printed them in the paper for everyone to read. How about including some of the things Alice and Gina said in the pie shop last night and the fact they poached my customer? This was one-sided reporting if I ever saw it. Was Mrs Lanigan actually Elodie? She was the only one, other than Gina and Alice, in the pie shop last night. I brightened a little at the possibility of cracking the case of her secret identity.

  I took a few deep breath, poured myself another cup of coffee, and got to work. Aunt Erma wouldn’t want me to let this bother me.

  Slowly rolling the pin back and forth across the flour covered crust brought me back to the days when Aunt Erma would spend the night at our house. Even though she only lived a couple miles away from us, she would come stay in the guest room for a few nights before and after every holiday and birthday.

  On the night before my seventh birthday, I woke with a start in the middle of a nightmare. My parents were right. I shouldn’t have watched the scary movie with the witches in it. Thirsty for a drink of water, I grabbed my stuffed rabbit for protection and crept downstairs. The lights were on in the kitchen and I peeked around the doorframe wondering if the witches had found me. I was relieved to see Aunt Erma in there, humming as she mixed blueberries and sugar together in a large bowl. I’d heard my mother talk about how Aunt Erma couldn’t sleep through the night so she would sometimes get a head start on the baking. I’d never actually witnessed it before.

  Aunt Erma saw me and immediately came over, scooped me up, and twirled me around singing silly songs about pie until my nightmare was a distant memory and I couldn’t stop giggling. Then she set me down on the chair she had already pulled up next to the counter. It was almost as though she had been waiting for me to wake up. I helped her make the crumble topping for the pie by measuring the sugar while she mixed in the butter and spices. Then she let me sprinkle it on top of the pie with my hands. I piled it extra high on one part of the pie and asked if I could have that piece. She laughed and said I could.

  While we waited for the pie to bake, Aunt Erma found some cards and we were playing a game of war when my dad stumbled in wearing his bright green and orange floral pajama pants. My mom had bought them as a joke, but the joke was on her because my dad wore them all the time. He joined our game and before long, my mother wandered in wearing her maroon robe with curlers in her hair.

  ‘What’s going on in here?’ she demanded, but I could see the smile tugging at her lips. She joined us in our card game. On a whim, I instituted a rule that everyone had to talk with a British accent. I didn’t really think that anyone other than Aunt Erma would comply, but everyone did, even my mother. We were all giggling hysterically by the time the pie came out of the oven.

  We waited as long as we possibly could for it to cool, which was not as long as the recipe recommended. The filling was runny and hot, but still delicious.

  I fell asleep in my chair and later woke up in my bed with happy thoughts in my head and a small blueberry stain on the sleeve of my pink nightgown.

  I had a plan when the Morning Pie Crew came in. But first I wanted to share my theory about Elodie.

  ‘I think I know who it is,’ I said triumphantly as I set the last two slices of peanut butter pie on the table.

  They all looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I think Mrs Lanigan is Elodie,’ I announced, after a dramatic pause. I waited for their gasps of agreement, and their praise for my brilliance.

  Instead, they burst out laughing. Not exactly the stroke my ego was looking for.

  ‘Nice try, kiddo,’ Mr Barnes said, composing himself. ‘But until last year Mrs Lanigan lived in Paris, so I’m afraid she is not our Elodie.’

  ‘Oh.’ I tried to hide my disappointment.

  ‘Don’t worry about that article today though,’ Flora said. ‘It was pure garbage, and I’m sure everyone will see it that way.’

  Lena nodded in agreement. ‘Your pies are delicious.’ I would have believed her if she hadn’t smiled quite so hard at me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and then changed the topic because I couldn’t get the image of Lena and the streetlight out of my head.

  ‘There’s a light bulb burned out in that fixture over there. Could one of you help me with it?’ I asked. I had loosened the bulb earlier that day.

  ‘I think Erma has extra bulbs in the upstairs closet,’ Mr Barnes said.

  ‘If you can’t find them, you should come visit me later. I have some nice energy efficient bulbs on sale this week,’ Lena offered.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. Well, that had backfired. I was probably being silly anyway. Surely it was just a fluke that Lena touched the lamp post and it illuminated.

  ‘Did you guys hear about Mac’s new tattoo?’ Lena asked.

  Soon there was excited chatter about the giant tattoo of Mac’s cat that went across his back.

  ‘I have a tattoo of a book,’ Flora told me.

  ‘Really? Why haven’t I ever seen it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s not really in a place most people see very often,’ she said with a wink.

  My smile froze. ‘Oh, OK.’ I prayed she wouldn’t offer to show it to me so I quickly changed the subject.

  Later that day, I was on my way home from the grocery store. I had taken advantage of the afternoon lull to pick up some snacks and a few things Stan had forgotten to bring.

  The afternoon lull was lasting longer each day I was running the pie shop.

  ‘Whoa!’ I jumped back after almost walking into the opening door of the hair salon.

  ‘Hi,’ Henry said stepping outside. ‘Sorry, did I almost get you with the door?’

  ‘It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention. A lot on my mind.’ I was still trying to come up with ways to bring more customers into the pie shop. ‘Your hair looks beautiful,’ I said, motioning to the salon.

  ‘Thank you for noticing.’ He struck a pose. ‘Actually, I’m here with Bernie. She gets her hair done every other Thursday at noon. She’s just finishing up, and I’ve caught up on my gossip for the week, so I thought I’d come out here and work on my tan.’

  ‘Great idea,’ I said. He had the pale skin of someone who burned easily.

  We chatted for a bit. He caught me up on all the latest gossip he’d just heard. Apparently, Mrs Boddington had gone to the city for a spa day and came back three cup sizes bigger. Then, could you believe the Salem sisters are trying to sell knitted toilet paper cozies in their basement? Who in the world would buy such a thing?

  He was just finishing up a story about how Stella’s bad hip was going to keep her from teaching this week’s Learn to Polka class, when Bernie came out of the salon. Her white hair was curled into perfect little ringlets.

  ‘B
ernie, you remember Susanna from the pie shop, right?’ Henry said. Just then, his phone rang, and he excused himself to take the call.

  Her eyes widened and she took a step towards me. Unintentionally, I took a step back.

  ‘Do you remember what I told you?’ She reached out and grabbed my hand tightly between both of hers.

  ‘Yes.’ I tried to smile, but I could feel my brow wrinkle.

  She closed her eyes, still clutching my hand. ‘Dust the cat. The time will come soon, and you have to remember this.’

  I looked over at Henry. He was still on the phone, his back turned towards us. ‘I’ll remember,’ I assured her.

  ‘Good.’ She patted my hand and released it. ‘It’s time for my nap then.’ With that, she turned on her heel and teetered off so fast that Henry had to hurry after her.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the pie shop,’ he called over his shoulder.

  I waved, still feeling a little weird after my encounter with Bernie.

  I gathered my bags and closed my eyes turning my face up to take in the sunshine. My eyes flew open. Suddenly I was drenched. It was raining! How in the world had that happened? A minute ago there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and now it was raining so hard I thought I might need scuba gear just to make it back to the pie shop.

  I ran to the nearest awning. It was strange. No one else was running. In fact, they had all stopped and looked as though they were taking in the rain. It was the weirdest thing I had ever seen. I looked around to see if anyone else thought the scene was strange. I noticed the gray cat pressing herself against the window behind me and realized I was standing in front of Alice’s shop. She was inside standing behind the counter glaring at me with such intensity that I decided I’d rather brave the rain than her. I stepped out from under the awning and just as quickly as the rain started, it stopped. The sun was shining again. The streets glistened with the rain. People began to bustle about as though nothing had happened.

  I felt as though something important had just happened, but I didn’t know what it meant. Like I had gotten up in the middle of a movie to go to the bathroom, and when I came back everyone was gasping, and I didn’t know why.

  After several persistent invitations, I had finally caved and gone to one of Mr Barnes’s yoga classes with Holly. Flora and Lena had invited me to go with them, but they liked to go to the 6 a.m. class. They had all failed to mention that it was hot yoga. The room felt suffocating, and I began dripping sweat the moment I walked in.

  I looked at all the contorted bodies around me. Maybe I didn’t need new friends this badly.

  ‘Doesn’t it feel good in here?’ Holly rolled out her mat in the front row of the class. There were lots of words I could come up with to describe how it felt in here, but good wasn’t one of them. I reluctantly unrolled my rented mat next to her and gazed longingly at the back row where I belonged.

  Class began. Mr Barnes spoke in such a confident and soothing voice that I almost believed I could do yoga until the poses began to get a little more difficult and I started to slip in puddles of my own sweat.

  I looked at my arms and then back at Mr Barnes, trying to copy the way he was twisted up. He had called it eagle pose, but in all my years on earth, I had never seen an eagle in a pose like that. The rest of the class consisted of me trying to copy the crazy contortions, all the while being told repeatedly to breathe. My breathing was coming out more like groans, and I prayed that I would be able to get out of bed the next morning.

  I thought that yoga class mostly consisted of people sitting cross legged in a circle while gossiping. Apparently, all my knowledge of yoga came from late night sitcoms.

  I looked at the clock. Only twelve minutes of the hour-long class had gone by. I peeked over at Holly. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Do we get a break?’ I whispered to the woman next to me who made the mistake of glancing in my direction. The woman wore a blue and pink tank top and shorts set that perfectly matched her yoga mat. Her reddish-brown hair was piled into a bun on top of her head. She sized me up as though trying to decide if I was joking or not. I wasn’t.

  She shook her head with a curt smile and went back to staring straight ahead.

  Finally, the class ended with us laying on the floor with our eyes closed. Why couldn’t the whole class have been like this?

  ‘What did you think?’ Holly asked once the class was dismissed with a chorus of ‘Namaste.’

  I groaned as I struggled with the exhausting task of rolling up my mat. ‘I liked the last part,’ I said.

  ‘Trust me. After a few weeks of classes, you’ll feel amazing,’ she said with a serene smile.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there was no way I was going to make it through a few weeks of this torture. Holly excused herself for a minute to go talk to a woman across the studio about a special order that had just come in at the grocery store, and I busied myself trying to dry off my feet enough to put my socks and shoes back on. As I debated about what to eat first when I got back to the apartment, pie or pizza, I began listening in on the conversation happening right behind me.

  ‘I think she’s in on it,’ a woman’s voice said.

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence that the spells have been altered and are showing up in other communities right after she got here,’ a man’s voice said.

  Did he say spells?

  ‘For everyone’s safety, I think they should just arrest her until Erma comes back,’ another woman said.

  Then I heard someone pointedly clear their throat. I glanced back at the group, and they were all staring at me. I quickly slipped on my other shoe, and went to return my mat and find Holly. I thought about asking her about what I’d overheard, but I didn’t want her to think I was suffering from heat stroke. I tried to sort out myself what I’d heard in my head, but it just didn’t make any sense.

  When I got back, my head felt fuzzy. I put on a pot of coffee, but no amount of coffee seemed to help.

  I went back to the kitchen and began digging around in the cupboards, continuing my unending quest for Aunt Erma’s recipes. I heaved large bags of sugar and flour across the shelves to see if there was anything behind them. Clouds of flour poofed out through the edges of the bags and surrounded me. I even felt along the backs of the cupboards and along the floor in case there was a trap door that led to a secret compartment where she kept all of her recipes. Aunt Erma was the trap door and secret compartment type. I was blindly reaching behind a stack of pie tins on the top shelf when I felt a box. Finally, I thought as I pulled it out.

  It was a solid wooden box about the size of a loaf of bread, painted purple and covered in a glaze that made it sparkle. I ran my finger over its swirled carved designs, and I felt a strange tingling run up my arm. I unlatched the two bronze clasps on the front and opened it up. There were twelve glass bottles inside. I picked up one that was filled with a tan powder. It was labeled Spice #7 in curly green handwriting that I recognized as Aunt Erma’s. I pulled the stopper out of the top and sniffed. It smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on, but it made my mouth water. Maybe that was what my pies were missing. Aunt Erma’s special spices. These looked different from the ones that sat on the counter. I vaguely remembered her telling me about them once as I helped her clean the kitchen after Thanksgiving. I had stood next to her at the sink, carefully drying the steaming plates as she handed them to me. She was explaining the importance of different spices and how if they were combined correctly, they could create magic. Just then, my mother had bustled into the kitchen and swept me out. She told me to go help my dad find some playing cards so we could get our traditional group solitaire game started. It wasn’t until I went to college that I discovered most people considered solitaire to be a solo activity. In my family, it was a fast-paced game where everyone played on everyone else’s aces. As I headed towards the living room, I could hear angry whispering from my mother and Aunt Erma’s dismissive responses, but I
kept moving because I was too afraid to get caught eavesdropping.

  It was late. I thought tonight would be the night that I would meet Minerva and Jane, the late-night kitchen cleaners. I paused for a moment to listen for them unlocking the door, but nothing. I carried the box of spices to the bottom of the steps and glanced back at the kitchen, surveying the mess one more time and grateful to have kitchen cleaners even if I didn’t know who they were.

  I brought the box upstairs so Minerva and Jane wouldn’t move it somewhere. I couldn’t risk losing it again. I sat at the kitchen table and sniffed the contents of each bottle while Mitzy surveyed me with interested eyes. Each one smelled delicious and vaguely familiar. I wondered if they would be able to work their magic to make my pies taste more delicious.

  Chapter 11

  Day 10 ― Friday, November 11th

  Dear Elodie,

  I think my sister is on drugs. We own a duplex together, each living on one side, and lately I’ve heard her singing loudly and often. Then the other day she suggested I come over and we order a pizza at nine o’clock at night. Nine o’clock! Of course, I didn’t go at that hour. Finally, I’ve seen an unfamiliar car parked out front at all hours of the day. I can only assume the car belongs to her dealer.

  I’ve started to avoid her because I’m afraid of being sucked into her drug world. Should I stage an intervention? Or should I just move to avoid the problem?

  Sincerely,

  Sober Sister

  Dear Sober Sister,

  Far be it from me to question your take on your sister’s actions, but it sounds to me like she’s possibly just in love. Try inviting her over for pizza at a time that’s acceptable for you and ask her what’s going on. Maybe she’ll be inspired to share her secret love affair with you. Either way, I think you should spend less time at the window watching your sister. If she is on drugs, there are support groups out there who can help you find the right path.