Bones of a Witch (2 page)

“Oh, Tony,” she said, and she slapped my wrists
away from her face. “You’re such a bull-shitter.”

We turned and started walking again. I reached
down to take her hand, but again she waved me off. As we rounded
the corner nearing our apartment, the sun came out, turning the
dirty ice-looking sidewalk into packed beach sand with hopscotch
blocks and crisp black shadows from curbside trees and automobile
silhouettes. I looked to Lilith and said, “Nice. Did you do
that?”

She rolled her eyes and made that tisk sound
with her tongue. “Yeah, that was me. I rule the sun and skies.
Would you like to see it rain?”

See what I mean about the sarcasm?

We were nearly home when a young girl of about
six or seven playing outside our apartment building came up to us.
She had obviously been crying. I asked her what was wrong and she
pointed up into a nearby tree. “My balloons,” she said, in a pouty
voice. “They flew away.”

“They did?” I knelt down on one knee so that
our eyes were nearly parallel. “I’ve not seen you around here
before,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Abby,” she replied.

“Abby? Is that short for Abigail?”

She nodded. “Ah-huh.”

“I see.” I looked up and winked at Abby’s
mother, who had come up behind her holding another child’s hand.
“Is this your mom?”

She turned, looked and nodded again.

“And who is that, your sister?”

She looked back at me and grimaced. “That’s
Ann. She let my balloons fly away.”

“She did?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m sure she didn’t mean it.” I looked
up into the tree. Four of the balloons were tangled up in the lower
part of the canopy. Two had popped already and a frisky breeze
threatened to rake the others over some spiny branches, popping
them, as well. A glance back at Lilith told me she was sorry that
the tree hadn’t already eaten them all. I stood up and said to
Abby, “Would you like me to try to get your balloons down for
you?”

Her face lit up like sunshine. I winked at her
mom and reached up for the closest, thickest branch that I thought
might support my weight. I barely got both hands around it when
Lilith came up to me and said in a harsh whisper, “What are you
doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going up
to get the kid’s balloons.”

She leaned in closer. “I can see that. Why
don’t you get them the other way?”

“What other way?”

She narrowed her eyes and clenched her teeth.
“You know.”

I whispered back, “Witchcraft?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I don’t need to. Lilith, I’ve climbed
trees before. It’s been a while, but I think I still know how to do
it.”

“That’s not the point.”

I had to avoid looking directly into her eyes
now. She had begun drawing a bead on me so focused that I could
almost feel the burn coming from them. “What is the
point?”

“The point is that you have the power to get
them down without risking your neck.”

“No. The point is that you want me to use
witchcraft so that I will step through that stupid door you keep
talking about. And I told you, I don’t care to—”

“Forget it.” She extended her hand up toward
the branches, yet the strings, interlaced into one strand, remained
well out of her reach. They hung from the balloons like limp
noodles, but as Lilith stretched for them further they began
stiffening as if taped to a rod. Then, with just a wiggle of her
fingers, the balloons floated down to her in a clutch. She peeled
two of them off and handed them to Abigail, tying the other two
around the younger one’s wrist. Next, she turned to me and asked
sarcastically, “We done here?”

I gestured with opened palms. “I
guess.”

“Good, then can we go home now?”

“Sure.” I looked to Abby’s mother. Her
expression had turned to stone. “Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Back up in the apartment I turned on the TV and
settled onto the sofa. Right away Lilith started in on me again
about not using witchcraft to help those kids out. I turned the TV
down a stitch, but she grabbed the remote from my hand and switched
the set off entirely.

“Okay, that’s it,” I said, and I snatched the
remote back from her. “What exactly is your problem,
Lilith?”

She positioned herself in front of the
television, her hip thrust just so, her right hand perched upon it
like a raptor, the other hanging loosely, perhaps ready to swing.
“My problem,” she said, “is you. All you do anymore is work, come
home, eat, watch TV, sleep and get up and go to work
again.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s bringing me down. Haven’t you noticed how
I hardly make potions anymore? I try to work a simple spell and it
bombs in my face.”

“So?”

“So? Tony, witchcraft is exactly that: a craft.
If you don’t use it you lose it.”

“Lilith, I’m not so sure I ever really had
it.”

She pitched her weight onto her other hip
before crossing her arms at her breasts. “Trust me. You have it.
The question is for how long.”

“All right, I have it. But what’s that got to
do with you? I don’t stop you from practicing
witchcraft.”

“That’s just it. Don’t you see?” Her words were
beginning to soften now. “You’re a big distraction for me. You
living here keeps me from dedicating the time I really need to
spend on my craft.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling as though someone had
just knocked the wind right out of me. “So, what are you saying?
You want me to move out?”

She dropped her arms and ambled to the couch,
taking a seat beside me close enough that our knees touched.
“That’s not what I’m saying. You know I want you here. It’s just
that.… Did you know I haven’t been able to perform a level five
spell ever since my return to prime?”

“No. I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true. Every time a witch goes through the
rite of passage she emerges refreshed, replenished with the force
of the coven. But like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, she
needs to spread her wings and exercise them before she can take
flight. There’s a lot of work involved in harnessing all that
power. Can you understand that?”

“Sure, you’re saying you can fly.”

That remark earned me a punch to the ribs.
“Jesus, Tony. Sometimes I think you’ve been hanging around
Rodriquez too long. The stupid is rubbing off on you. And what the
hell is that in your pocket? I nearly broke my hand on
it.”

“What? This?” I reached into my pocket and
pulled out my key chain, dangling from it a small rock carving of a
dolphin. She took it and held it away from her as if I had brought
a lump of dog shit into the house.

“What the hell is this?”

“What?”

“This.” She pointed at the carving.

“It’s a dolphin. Cute, huh? I bought it because
it reminds me of Florida.”

“Where did you get it?”

“From a street vendor on the corner. He has a
ton of these cool looking rocks that he carves into animal shapes
and then sells them on key chains. Why, what’s wrong with
it?”

“This is dolomite.”

“Yeah, I guess. The guy said it’s a
rock.”

“Yes, it’s the type of rock used for making a
witch’s stone, something you need to know about if you’re going to
be a witch, and something you definitely don’t want to be walking
around with in your pocket.”

I shook my head in ignorance. “Why
not?”

“Because it’s a carbonate rock. It contains a
mix of minerals known to inhibit a witch’s powers.”

“What, like kryptonite?”

“Mother of…. Tony, no wonder I can’t do magic
in this house. See, that’s exactly what I’ve been talking about.
You’re a witch now. I’m a witch. We both have got to start acting
like witches together, or this simply isn’t going to
work.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Here, give it to
me.” I snatched the key chain from her and broke off the stone.
Then I walked to the front door, opened it and pitched the stone
out into the street. “There,” I said, kicking the door shut with my
foot. “Happy?”

She turned her back on me without answering,
taking flight into the kitchen on an angry thread of steam. For
Lilith, that was as good as a yes, and I was happy to get it. With
that settled and behind us, I reclaimed my seat on the sofa and
turned the television back on. The mid-day news was just starting.
Barry Dell, anchor for WNCW news, led off the top of the broadcast
with a story about an ongoing road-widening project down by the
cemetery. I was still thinking about what Lilith said and not
listening much to the story, when Lilith’s scream sent me jumping
out of my boots.

“Turn it up!” she cried. “Quickly, quickly,
turn it up!”

I did, and she came around the coffee table to
take a seat on the sofa next to me. A live video feed from on the
scene now accompanied Barry Dell’s narrative. It showed a backhoe
sitting idle just outside the west wall of New Castle Cemetery
where a road-widening project was taking place. A close-up shot
moved in on a grave marker, long since knocked over and overgrown
with earth and vegetation for more years than anyone could imagine.
That the burial site lay just outside the original stone wall,
erected in 1746, suggested it likely contained the remains of one
of New Castle earliest settlers.

Lilith and I both scooted to the edge of our
seats, crowding the TV in hopes of seeing the writings on the
marker as the TV camera zoomed in further on the granite slab. The
site foreman brushed his gloved hand over the stone, sweeping aside
the last of the dirt and grass obscuring the simple writing. As he
read the engraving aloud, I heard Lilith whisper along.

Ursula Bishop

Hanged

July 27 1692

Through my peripheral, I saw Lilith turn her
head to me. I turned mine and our eyes met. No longer were they the
haunting, penetrating eyes of the great mind dweller that so easily
harvested my most guarded secrets in my most fragile moments; nor
were they the eyes of hypnotic persuasion that had bent my will
into submission so many times in so many ways. Instead, now they
were the eyes of a woman, vulnerable to the whims of fate and
slaved to the echoes of history. I reached for her hand and she let
me take it.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, her voice barely
above a whisper.

I pointed at the TV set. “Do you know anything
about that grave marker?”

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Who is it, then?”

She blinked softly and my heart melted. “Ursula
Bishop,” she said. “She’s a distant great aunt of mine.”

Lilith Adams:

I don’t know what’s gotten into
Tony these days. Ever since he hooked that job on the police force,
all he wants to do is talk shop:
Spinelli
this, Carlos that. Ooh, I’m a big bad detective now. I have a gun
as big as my penis
. Pah-leez, give me a
break.

I think things really started coming to a boil
after that walk back from the Cyber Café. I was in a great mood, as
usual, and naturally Tony was his usual stick in the mud self. We
were almost home when this snot-nose kid came up to us, crying
because her stupid balloons got stuck in a tree. Well, duh, kid,
that’s what you get for letting your whiny-ass little sister hold
them. What do you expect from a kid that plays with her own
poop?

Of course, I did not say that out loud. Tony
would have had a shit. But I did suggest to him, nicely, that
instead of climbing the tree to get them down for her, maybe he
might want to consider using witchcraft. I mean, it’s better than
him busting his ass falling out of the tree.

“Screw your witchcraft.” he says, all
excited-like for no reason. “You always want to fix things with
magic, don’t you?”

I eased up to him nicely and tried to coax the
conversation down a notch so that the girls’ mother wouldn’t hear
us. “Tony, I’m only thinking of your safety.”

“Damn it, Lilith, I used to climb trees all the
time when I was a kid. I was the grand tree-climbing champion of
New Castle in 1947 and again in 48. I think I can handle a measly
Massachusetts elm.”

“Of course,” I said, but—”

“No buts. I’m going.”

He started up on the most flimsy of branches,
which had already begun to splinter under his weight. I had no
choice but to step in quickly to save him from himself. I checked
first to make sure the girls’ mother wasn’t looking, and then I
made a gesture with my fingers and the balloons dropped right into
Tony’s hand, making him the hero. He gave two of the balloons to
snot-nose and two to whiny-ass; then we went up into the apartment
where the real sparks began to fly.