Husband Rehab (12 page)

“Be careful. She’s a crafty one.”

“I know. I was reading about her.”

“She in many of those books?”

“At least one.” Josie returns to the table, hoping he might sit for a minute instead of making some announcement, then running off again. “You know about the history of the craft?”

“Are you kidding?” He edges closer. “Not much. All I was ever taught was that male witches are dangerous, that I wasn’t supposed to practice and that I was the problem. Case closed. Everything else was kept from me.”

“Yeah, well, what you can do … isn’t a problem to me. It’s wrong you haven’t been allowed to flourish.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He takes a deep breath, the kind that means he has something on his chest and is about to unburden himself.

“What is it?” she asks.

“I was wondering if you … might help me with something.”

“Right now?”

“After midnight and before five am. Best time.” He grins as if they might do something naughty, like raid the refrigerator for some ice cream.

“After midnight …?”

“Come on. I’ll show you.”

He leads her into the winter garden. At this hour she can see moonlight through the glass ceiling panes. Each one breaks up quicksilver light to cast a two-tone, gray-and-black pattern over everything. The few plants and the empty fountain suggest they have stepped into another place, maybe somewhere forgotten and enchanted, where no one will disturb them.
 

Lennox checks on his flower, which is doing fine where he left it.

“The high priestess is going to say I’m the problem,” he says. “I’ve heard it more than once from her, even though she knows how my wife uses me.”

“You’re not the problem—”

“Thanks, but I have to prepare myself … for the worst. I want you to help me with something.”

“How?”

He hands her a camcorder, one of those fancy small kinds no bigger than your palm. “Don’t worry. It’s got low-light filtering. It’ll shoot me just fine.”

She looks into the view finder to see him standing as if made for the device. He reaches behind a rough, stone bench and retrieves a small bird. It looks like a young pigeon, one wing standing out at an odd angle.
 

“Broken?” she asks.

“I saw it out my window. I asked the grounds keeper to retrieve it for me. I told him … I wanted to make it better.”

Josie considers the awesome truth behind the simple claim. She knows he can heal. But to see it in action stimulates a dormant reverence. No glib remarks now. Not in the face of what she is about to see.

“Okay,” she says and taps the red record icon. “Okay.”

As she watches him work his fingers over the damaged wing, the little bird head bobbing up and down, left and right, she witnesses the undeniable truth: A male healer is practicing in front of her. Everyone knows that women, as rare as they are, tend to be healers. She doesn’t follow the old religion, but it’s one of the pillars behind the craft that the female spirit is the nurturing impulse given from the Great Goddess, Gaia to some, the Earth to all. Women give birth, women feed young at their breasts, women bleed for life. Ask any witch, and she’ll tell you that in most cases, a woman will have a healing touch before a man. It’s only because of the West’s infatuation with the Judeo-Christian tradition that men are believed to be the ones who can heal the sick, or raise the dead. The ancient fear by female witches that men are primarily rational animals with rational magic doing rational things is bogus. They can be healers, just like women. Josie knows better, has proof of it right here.
 

Lennox Cruz is performing the most sacred of acts.

When the bird’s wing rights itself and it launches into the air, Josie can’t stop a cry of delight. Her chest swells, as an indescribable emotion surges through her. A distant part of her brain, imbued with something that reaches back to humanity’s primordial past, envelops her. She succumbs to the euphoria like a supplicant before the Earth Mother herself.
 
She rushes into Lennox’s arms. He embraces her, his own body trembling.

“I need to sit,” he says.

Josie clicks off the camera and helps him to a bench.

“I’ll be out of it tomorrow,” he says. “There’s always a price.” He pauses as if a wave of sickness rushes through him. “Tell everyone I ate something bad. Okay?”

She nods, letting him close his eyes.

She can’t help herself and places a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Keep the footage,” he says. “If they try to put me down, please show them what I can do. Only Stella really knows what I’m capable of ... and my mom ... and the people I’ve healed.”

“I will.”

 
“You’re the best, Josie Bran.”

His eyes glow in the moonlight. “I’m alright.”

She helps him to his feet, and the two of them leave the winter garden like an old couple who’s visited many times before.
 

* * *

The next morning Josie piddles around in her room, waiting for the arrival of the high priestess’s husband, Mr. Oswald Dooley. She peeks downstairs several times, thinking he may have arrived without making any noise. By lunch, all the men prepare to leave Birchall but Lennox. Christine stands at the front door, holding it open, as each one hurries down the grand staircase and out of the house.

Josie watches them go from her window. None of them wave goodbye, maybe because they guess they’ll be returning at some point.

From the landing, she hears Lady Dooley asking about Lennox. Josie has already explained to Christine that he won’t be coming down because he is ‘sick.’ Just as she turns to explain that Lennox will probably be in bed all day, Mr. Oswald Dooley drives up the gravel road in a massive Lincoln Continental that the elderly always seem to drive.

He exits his vehicle two feet at a time like a spry man of younger years. He’s dressed in his Sunday best: gingham-patterned sapphire-colored blazer with matching pleated trousers, a bowler hat, even a slim tie the color of jade. He looks like he might be on his way to the Kentucky Derby.

That’s the cranky, old man, she wonders?

Instead of walking up the steps to the front entrance, Mr. Dooley pivots like a setter spotting a bird, pauses as if frozen, then heads for the front lawn. He walks under Josie’s window as he edges along the house. She imagines he’s seen something by the horse barn. Or maybe he knows about the outbuildings that once kept Birchall running smoothly.

She hurries downstairs to find Christine and Lady Dooley standing in the vestibule, both baffled, both chattering about where he could be going.

Lady Birchall snores in her chair in the drawing room.

“I lost him,” Josie says, “after he passed under my window.”

“That man …” Lady Dooley says.

“Should we follow him?” Christine asks.

“I’ll bet the farm he’s going to check on whether the house is secure or not. He thinks fire hazards exist in a field of snow.” Lady Dooley eyes Josie as if seeing her for the first time. “Have you cooked up something special for him?”

“Well …” Josie says, looking for a good lie. “I need to meet the man first. “

“No, you don’t,” Lady Dooley says. “He’s a mean old devil. You’ll see. Make him nicer. That’s what you do here, correct?”
 

Josie wonders why such a powerful witch needs help. She also wonders how Mr. Dooley has escaped her clutches for so long. The grand dame standing before her must have a wide array of earth and sky magic at her disposal. To be a grand dame is to be more than a religious leader, like a high priestess; it’s someone who gives guidance to many covens, or to anyone who comes asking, and someone who’s made a difference in the secular world. It’s assumed she’s in touch with the most difficult of magics. But she can’t manage her own husband? That just doesn’t sound right.

“Where’s that young, handsome actor of Stella’s?” she asks. “He’s the only one not cured, I hear.”

“Stomach ache,” Josie blurts. “He must have eaten something bad yesterday.”

A twinkle in the woman’s eye means she doesn’t believe one word. “I imagine so.”

“We might as well go find our new guest,” Christine says.

Josie trails along as the two older women move onto the front porch. The morning is still cool, although summer heat will come on fast. Josie has chosen shorts and a light cotton tee. Her flip flops mean her ankles will be getting wet, which is fine with her. Christine glances about happily, as if taking a walk around the mansion is a perfect idea. Lady Dooley looks miserable in her trim, ankle-length dress and long-sleeved shirt buttoned up to her chin. That’s her own fault for coming to Birchall without the sense there might be some out-door activity.
 

They spend the next thirty minutes skirting the southern portion of the mansion, taking a few side trips to visit the decrepit horse barn, the busted corral, the empty chicken coops, the dried-up vineyard, and even a vegetable garden the grounds keeper still manages to cultivate. Josie hangs back while the two witches talk shop. Husband problems aside, it’s no secret that Lady Dooley is a powerful seer and that she uses this skill to her advantage. Josie has never thought divination should be so praised. It’s not as reliable as her brewing. You can’t just look into the clouds, or a crystal ball, or a pile of beans, and know the future or the past. It’s always cryptic. Spells and potions, though, work ... mostly.

“There he is,” Lady Dooley says.

Mr. Dooley stands in the shade of three white oaks at the head of a promenade with a hedgerow on one side and a colonnade of pollard trees on the other. The three oaks were planted at the time of the original construction. They surround a monument to men who fought and died in the Civil War. It’s nothing more than a piece of granite stone cut slantwise, listing etched names of the men. Josie has always known it to be weathered stained and unreadable.

Mr. Dooley leans over it as if he can read every word.

“Having a nice time?” Lady Dooley asks.

“I am,” he says, glancing up with a sour look. “I knew you’d find me.” He straightens, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. “I’m Oswald Dooley, young lady. Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” Josie manages. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“Glad you came,” Christine says.

“Shame what’s happened to this place. I used to enjoy coming here … before it all changed.” He glares at his wife, as if it’s her fault, which much of it is. “So you’re the one running this operation?” He glues his eyes on Josie. “You go ahead and cast your spell. I’m ready for whatever it is. I’ll endure. I always endure.”

He lifts his chin, standing at attention. His arms stiffen at his side like a cadet’s in training. He huffs and puffs, reading himself for what is to come.

“Uh … I, uh, don’t have anything ready yet, Mr. Dooley.”

“That’s fine with me, too,” he says, stepping past them. “If I still have some time as an autonomous human being, I think I’ll see how the water well is doing.”

Josie is so confused by his demeanor that she can’t identify his problem. He’s brusque, odd, and certainly immune to his wife’s charms. However, there’s a curious quality about him, as if he may warm to Josie if she follows him around a bit and lets him do his thing. She feels a touch of panic that not being married might prove to be a hindrance. Her spells work on some ineffable feeling she gets during the brewing process. She arranges objects and cooks them on instinct, following a method that unfolds like a melody on the tongue. She feels a solution to whatever problem she’s considering. Some spells are simple, some complex. With Mr. Dooley, she fears he may need a few tries to get it right.

“I think I’ll get to work,” Josie says, “right away.”

* * *

At dinner, Josie can’t sit still. Alice has prepared a small table for five. Roxy and Aunt Emma have left. Josie sits between Christine and Lady Dooley. Lennox and Mr. Dooley are on the other side of the table.
 

Three against two, she thinks.

Josie has been aimlessly picking at her fried catfish and boiled dumplings. Everyone has eaten their fill. Josie can’t stop thinking about the problem of Mr. Dooley. She has already searched through her grandmother’s grimoire for hints. Normally, solutions come to Josie in a flash of ingredients and the right cooking temperature, and the unexplainable chemistry bubbles up with ancient alchemical magic. Today, though, she waffled because she senses that Mr. Dooley is more than a cranky, old man.

Still, Josie did as she was asked and prepared a simple concoction.
 

The thimble and cork rest in her pocket. She can’t stop fiddling with it.

Christine notices and knits her brow.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Josie thinks, trying to pretend to be interested in Lady Dooley’s lecture on the need for discretion in this modern age.
 

“Yes, witchery is accepted,” Lady
 
Dooley says, “but our tireless enemies have never truly been defeated.”

Right, Josie thinks, monotheistic religion and modern science are such bugbears. Please. Our ‘enemies’ have transformed the world into a globalized neighborhood. And in America, at least, the old magical ways that have been reborn are more accepted than ever. Come on, we can all get along. I want my smartphone and my spell book. Don’t tell me I can’t …

She sees Mr. Dooley staring at her as if he has something to say.

Lady Dooley sees it as well and pauses long enough to clear a scratch in her throat. She continues, now declaiming that even though the Church is full of witches and that there could never be another true inquisition, they still must be vigilant.

“When are we going to get to it?” Mr. Dooley asks. Like a gentlemen, he dabs his cloth napkin at both sides of his mouth, sets it on the table, and rests his fingers on the edge. “I am excited to see what you cooked up for me. Do you know, the last bit of sorcery my wife threw my way gave me gout? What a miserable time. I guess I deserve it for being such a bore.”

Lady Dooley clutches her fork like a weapon. “It wasn’t sorcery and you know it. Don’t bait me.”

“Distinctions, distinctions. From Gaia or the Devil himself, what do I care?” He waits. “Well?”