Witch Ball

 

 

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FOLLOW THE DRINKING GOURD

Acknowledgments

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

W
e are surrounded by stories of magic. Children know that all princes are handsome, stepmothers are evil, wishes come in threes, and we have a fairy godmother that shows up just at the right moment.

As we get older, belief in magic becomes a bit more cynical. I have never actually met a prince. Are they all handsome?
Probably not, if we can judge by photos of Prince Charles of England. I go to Heritage Academy, where many of my classmates have stepmothers who seem more frazzled than evil. Wishes may come in threes. However, there is no guarantee that they will all be granted. So, it is a good idea to make your wishes in multiples, because if one out of three is granted, then that would be considered pretty good odds.

I do have a godmother. Aunt Fleur is not exactly a fairy. She is not exactly my aunt, either. She is my mother's aunt, my great aunt. I'm sometimes confused about relationships. But, I love her and claim her as my own. She is great company for me during this summer when school is out.

 

Hell must be something like summer afternoons in
Columbus, Mississippi. The heat is liquid. It shimmers off the sidewalks and blacktopped streets, distorting images only a block away. Colors pale into watery pastels. The air is so dense that it seems to drown me. I feel like I'm walking through syrup.

I tell my mom that I am going to the library, which is almost true. I am going
toward
the library, but really making a stop, a long stop, at Aunt Fleur's cottage. I don't lie, exactly. But, I sometimes omit parts of the whole story.

For some reason my Dad can't stand Fleur. He does not say much, but gets quiet when I talk about her. He gives my mom pained looks when her name comes up. He ought to be happy that I am hanging around with an old lady. Believe me, I could choose company that is a lot worse.

Aunt Fleur's house is bright pink, with a wrap-around porch, and railings of white gingerbread. The front door is painted lavender. It looks like something a princess would live in. In the front yard is a sign that has her address written in a curly script, "400 Genevieve Street." This strikes me as a bit strange, because she lives on 6
^th
Street South.

Aunt Fleur makes what she calls "tea cocktails
." They are concoctions of different teas with fruit juice, and who-knows-what in them. Unfortunately, none of the secret ingredients are actual alcohol. She bakes wonderfully, and never eats meat.

"Welcome, Truly!" She is bigger than almost anyone I know, with a deep voice inflected with an enthusiasm that always sounds as if she has just discovered something amazing.

I love being called "Truly. She is the only person in the world who calls me this, since it is not actually my name.

My parents named me Gertrude. How horrible is that? For some reason they thought it had dignity. Well, it might have been a good name when covered wagons crossed the continent. But, in my generation, it is just awkward, and too, too ugly. I refuse to be called "
Gert," or "Gertie." For heaven's sake! I'm only a high school student, not someone's grandmother.

(Note to parents:
PLEEEZE
choose your children's names very carefully. If you must give them an embarrassing name, make it the middle name. No one uses that one anyway.)

Aunt Fleur tried out "Trudy" for a while, but somehow, that didn't feel right. So, my name evolved into "Truly
." I wish everyone called me that.

"What adventure is in store for you today, Miss Truly?" Aunt Fleur wears a scarf around her hair, twisted into a sort of turban, and a caftan made of sari fabric. Her house smells like cinnamon and citrus.

"Oh, not exactly an adventure; just headed toward the library."

"Well, dear, that sounds a bit aimless. What are you looking for, a book on the Renaissance?
Or perhaps some poetry?"

"Nothing, really.
I have a crush on the college boy who works there for the summer."

"Ah, a romance novel then...''

"I guess so."

"It's a good idea to know what you want. Vague dreams seldom come true. We must create our own magic—
specific magic. "

Fleur sets the table with delicate cups covered with roses. Her big hands make them look like a toy tea set.

"And what are you doing today, Aunt Fleur?"

"A million exciting things!"
On one end of her table is a mess of sparkly debris. Scraps of shiny cloth, glitter, some herbs, and a couple of cheap-looking charms (like the sort of thing you might see on a child's bracelet) are scattered across the wooden surface.

Her two black cats
, Jimmy-James, et al, and Michael-Ray, et al, are jumping across the table, hitting the bits of papers and baubles, producing an even greater mess. She pulls a round ball out of a box that is well padded with colored tissue. It seems to be a Christmas ornament, but clear and hollow.

"I am making a 'Witch Ball'."  Aunt Fleur has only lived in
Columbus for a couple of months. So, I don't really know her too well. She moved back to her home town after living in California and New Orleans and Mexico. It is hard to understand why anyone who had so many options would settle here.

She must see that I have never heard of a Witch Ball. "It's very simple magic," she says. "It attracts good spirits to the home. Sometimes they grant your wishes."

I still don't really get it. This city is pretty boring for humans. It must be mind-numbing for a spirit who can live anywhere.

The ball has a latch on one side. It pops open with a click. She fills it with carefully chosen clutter from the table. This involves some selection from the assembled objects. Evidently, this sort of magic requires specific trash, and possibly a sliver of claw or tuft of fur shed by "the boys
," as she calls the cats. When she is through, she threads a silver ribbon through a loop on the top and hangs it in her kitchen window.

"There!" she says. "Fabulous!" as if it were an object worthy of hanging in the Louvre.

"Well, I hope it works," I mumble into my teacup. I am skeptical.

"So, what about this young gentleman?
What is his name? Why do you like him?" Aunt Fleur wears an armload of thin, vibrantly-colored bangles. They clatter and clang when her wrist hits the table. It is as if she has some odd rainbow-hued percussion accompaniment to everything she says.

"His name is Eri
c. I like him because he is so cute."

"Cute? A start, I suppose." She is holding the cup close to her fiery red lips.

"I guess you had a lot of boyfriends when you were young," I said.

She is far away for just a moment then flashes her heavily-lined eyes at me. "Oh, yes, many.
Hence, the names of my cats. They are named after some of the 'gentleman callers' from my past."

"I can't understand how someone as wonderful as you never married."

"My dear, Truly, there is so much in this world to understand. No one person can ever grasp it all."

"Were you ever really in love? Did you ever want to get married?" I like to get her talking. She had experiences that are so much more interesting than my boring life. I could listen to her all day.

"Certainly! Why, right here in Columbus, Mississippi was where I met the love of my life. He, too, was 'sooo cute'."

"What happened? Why didn't you marry him?"

"Oh, dear, there were
complications
. My father hated him. One day he caught us holding hands. We were sitting in the gazebo in that little park on 5
^th
Street."

"You mean
Leadership Plaza?"

"Yes, there. Papa became enraged! He took off his belt. Right there in
Leadership Plaza."

"He actually hit you?!
In public?" There are a lot of things that make my dad angry, but I can't imagine him ever beating me, and never in public. "So, then what happened?"

"The police were called."

"And they stopped him. Was your father arrested?"

She laughed, or snorted. I'm not sure which. "No. The deputy knew us well.
Columbus was a much smaller place then. He just told us to go home."

"That's all? Just 'go home'?"

"I remember it well. He said to my father, 'Clyde Thomas, you need to work this out at home.' Then he bent close to my father's ear and said, 'Everbody in town knows your kid got snakes in the head. That one just ain't right. Never has been.' "

"So he took your father's side. But you were the victim!" This information needed processing. "What about your boyfriend? Where was he through all this?"

"Oh, James? He ran away when he saw my father staggering toward us in a rage. I don't know if the policeman saw him, but I suspect that he did. James' father was the city attorney. The policeman probably didn't want to make too much of a stink. You know how those good ol' boys protect each other."

"So then you had to see him secretly. It was true love. No one can stand between people who are meant to be together."

"Not all fairy tales end happily ever after, dear. I never saw him again. I packed a bag and left home the next day before dawn."

"Just like that?
No goodbyes to anyone?"

"Just like that."