Witch Ball (10 page)

"I could probably find one."

"Wrap the bead in this cloth with some rosemary from the kitchen. Tie it with a red string. Tonight at midnight go outside and walk around the house backward. Repeat three times:

I now ask the favor of having the spell removed.

I understand to take back a spell means giving up something of my own.

To show my spirit is true and my intentions are good

I give this pearl from a necklace I own.

This is my will, so mote it be.

Then burn the cloth. Make sure you can see the moon while it burns."

I took the cloth and went home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

M
om made tuna casserole that night. I'm not sure what is in it besides a can of tuna, cream of mushroom soup, and peas, all covered with crumbled crackers. It is one of her staples.

"Mom, do we have any rosemary?"

"You mean the herb?" She isn't exactly a gourmet chef. "I'm not sure. Maybe."

That night, around 11:30, I fumbled around in the kitchen, looking for the rosemary. Surprisingly, I actually found a small sprig. The jar had an expiration date from four years ago, but it was the right herb. I didn't have a pearl-colored bead, but I did stumble upon a pearlish button buried deep in the junk drawer in the kitchen. I placed these things into the cloth and secured it with a red rubber band.

Outside, a lovely half-moon hung high over
Columbus. It looked like it had been deliberately suspended just over our roof. I began walking backward around the house, saying,

 

"I now want the spell removed.

To show I mean well,

I give this
button from the junk drawer.

This is my will—make it so."

 

I knew these weren't the exact words my aunt had given me, but I think they were close. Next time, I will ask her to write them down.

I went over to the barbeque pit and set the bundle on fire. It took a few seconds for the flame to completely catch. When it did, the package flared up in blue and gold flashes. That was probably a good sign.

It hadn't completely burned up when my folks came running out of the house in their rumpled robes. Needless to say, this took me totally by surprise. It never occurred to me that they would see me from their bedroom window.

"Gertrude! Gertrude! What are you doing?" Thin wisps of white smoke curled toward the moon. You would think I had just set off a bomb.

"Just burning some rosemary." Yeah, that was believable.

"Get inside, young lady!" Mom said, grabbing my shirt. Dad went over to the barbeque pit and stirred the ashes into the charcoal briquettes.

We sat at the dining room table. They blinked under the glare of the hanging fixture. "We saw you walking backward, then burning something. What are you up to?" I couldn't tell if Mom was more angry or confused.

"Mom, Dad, everyone has secrets. Why can't I have some, too?" OK, not the best answer when in trouble.

"You live under our roof, young lady," said Dad. "We have a right to know. We have to protect you."

"Protect me from what? I
never
get into trouble. I don't know any criminals. Dad, you told me yourself that the murderer probably knew Coach Russell. I feel pretty safe."

"And what about Fleur?
Was she safe?"

"I was in my own yard. What could happen?"

They exchanged glances. "Lots," said my mother, "lots more could happen." She went into the kitchen and came out with two glasses of wine.

"You guys are overprotective. Why is that? I just don't get it." I went into the kitchen and got a jelly jar from the cabinet. "I am almost sixteen; can't I have some wine, too?"

Dad pulled the box from the refrigerator and poured some into my glass. I took a big sip. They both smiled when I scrunched up my face. The second sip was better.

They were quiet, not even trying to answer my questions, so I kept talking. "You don't approve of Eric, but his father was good enough for you to date, Mom. You act like Clementine is a horrible person who could never be friends with Grandpa Hyrum. Yet it is clear that they are friends, and have been for many years. I need to understand these things!"

"Gertrude, I don't think you are old enough to understand," said Mom.

"Some things belong between adults only," Dad added.

"How will I ever know who to trust, who to date, if you don't explain things to me?"

They were on their second glasses of Pinot. The late hour, the wine, maybe even my persistence, had worn them down. Dad took a deep breath. "This is the story." Mom put her hand on his on his wrist. "No, Tommy, let me tell it."

She looked at me without smiling. "Gertrude, I was a senior in high school when Hunter and I began dating. He had already developed an interest in cars. He was always working on them, fixing them for other people, making all kinds of deals on parts. Those old cars gave us a freedom we had never experienced. We drove all over the county, looking at the moon, speeding, making out."

She finished her wine and poured more into our glasses. "Once or twice, we went too far. I loved him, thought we would be together forever. I was wrong. He got tired of me. Pretty soon he was dating Ruby. I can't tell you how much I detested her."

"I guess everyone has a broken heart at that age," I offered. "Is that any reason to hate him now, or hate his son?"

"I suppose not. Except that I couldn't just get over it. I was pregnant."

"MO-OM, did he know?"

"I didn't tell him. Maybe he figured it out, but it made no difference. He was in love with Ruby, and I was out of the picture."

My dad picked up the story. "I knew your mom, but I don't think she had noticed me. One day I was walking along the river, and saw her sitting alone on a bench. I could tell she had been crying, so I sat next to her and asked what was wrong."

"I just opened up to him..." Mom seemed ready to talk again. "He was so kind. I told him the horrible secret that I was 'in trouble'."

"I had figured out that she was pretty close to jumping into the river. So I said, 'You won't be in trouble if you get married. I will marry you.'"

"But you didn't even know each other, and just like that, you decided to get married?"

"It wasn't quite that easy," she said. "Our parents had to be convinced. We were forced to tell them about my
condition
. They assumed that Tommy was the father. He never told them any different."

"Oh, my goodness!
So you were pregnant with me when you got married. Does that make Eric my half-brother? No wonder you didn't want us dating."

"Hold on there, young lady." Dad held up his
hand. "You are one hundred percent my daughter."

"Yes, Gertrude, I had a miscarriage about a month after we married. I told your father that he didn't have to stay with me. He said he would think about it. He never left. Eventually, I was expecting again. He was so happy, and we are still together, with you."

The sun threw a wide beam across the floor. Mom yawned. "Let's go to bed," she said. "It's Sunday morning."

 

 

 

 

 

 

W
e all got up around noon on Sunday. I didn't feel refreshed, and I doubt if my parents did either.

I went onto the porch to grab the
Dispatch
. When I unfolded it, the headline struck me as violently as a slap. Johnny D., the father of Skip, had made some horrible accusations. He said that Coach Russell had sexually abused boys on the track teams, all the track teams, during his years in the school system. That, he claimed, was the reason his son committed suicide.

Suddenly, weird things began to make sense.
The overnight "parties," the costly "gifts," the reason that a married man would have a separate and secret home away from his wife—all fell into place. I remembered how Eric had said Coach was "mean." At that time, Aunt Fleur suggested that "mean" was not the whole story. Once again, I was reminded how wise she is. The coach was much more than just "mean." He was a vile predator.

Evidently, Johnny D.'s accusations opened a flood of other claims. Boys who had attended classes years back came forward to condemn the dead man.

"Dad," I asked, "do you think this could be true? Why would they say these awful things
now?
Why not sooner?"

"Gertrude, I do think it could be true. If only one boy had accused the coach, or even two or three, there may be some question. But so many... It's very incriminating."

"I still don't get it. Why would they wait so long to tell something so horrible?"

"I don't know. You would have to ask them."

I dialed Eric's number. He must know as much about this as anyone. The machine clicked on three times. On my fourth try, the line was busy. I suspect that he, or his father, had taken it off the hook.

Mom and Dad read the paper quietly that morning. I'm not sure that they understood it
anymore than I did.

Sue Ellen Russell was quoted as saying that the charges were completely false. It was horrendous to speak so badly of the dead. These hoodlums must have some atrocious vendetta against her wonderful husband, Lewis Russell.

I headed over to Aunt Fleur's house, knowing she could explain it to me. There were several police cars in front of her house. She emerged, with a policeman on each side of her. Her hands were bound in handcuffs, and she was crying.

By the time I ran home, my parents already knew what had happened. Mom was on the phone. "Yes, Daddy," she said. "I know, I know, but we have to do something. We have
to help her." I could hear Grandpa yelling, but couldn't make out what he was saying.

"Tommy, you know everyone in City Hall. Can't you help?" Mom's voice cracked. She sounded a bit like a talking baby doll. My heart, too, felt as if a thousand tiny fissures were fracturing its surface. I could almost picture a web-like pattern crossing, growing with each beat. Somehow, I knew that I would never be completely healed.

"Kay, it's Sunday. There isn't much that can happen today."

Mom's face fell into lines I had never noticed. Her skin turned ashen. "Bye, Daddy," she said. I think she hung up without waiting for his good-bye.

Dad walked over to her and guided her to the sofa. He pulled out the phone book and started making calls.

By 6 p.m., Fleur was back at home. I gave my dad some credit for this, and had new respect for his influence at City Hall. As it turned out, his connections did not have as much power as I thought.

Fleur had been part of a round-up of known homosexuals in Columbus. About twenty men had been brought in for questioning. She, and others, was released because there was no evidence to connect them to the crime. They were told not to leave town.

I couldn't understand why being gay would make them suspects in a murder. Fleur didn't even know the coach.

My dad said this was a crime of passion. They were considered weird, strange, and therefore criminal. I still didn't get it.

"It's like the witch trials," he said. "A long time ago, in
Salem, women were accused of witchcraft. People were found guilty, and executed in horrific ways."

"Some people around here have said that Fleur is a witch. Could that be true?"

He thought for a few seconds. "Gertrude," he said, "it doesn't matter if something is true. It only matters if people think it's true."

"But, Dad, do you think it's true? Do you think Aunt Fleur is a witch?"

"I don't believe in witches. What I think means nothing. This town could crucify her just for being different."

 

 

 

 

 

 

C
olumbus clearly needed someone to crucify. Coach Russell was the most likely candidate. His crimes, if they were actual, were more than just evil, they were illegal. However, he was dead, making it hard for him to defend himself, or to face any sort of trial.

Boys from Columbus High began repeating accounts that were growing impossible to doubt. Now
-grown men with families claimed to have suffered at his hands. They knew details about the house on 3
^rd
Street North. There was a basement where the coach's "favorites" had private beds.

The coach's widow, Sue Ellen, made more statements to the press. At first she denied that there was any truth to the claims. Later, she said that she knew nothing about the "loathsome" acts that he was
supposed
to have committed. She was quoted in the press saying, "The things that he has been accused of are a complete surprise to me. Naturally, I believe that they are lies."

I knew that my aunt had not left the house since her arrest. So, I went over to see if she wanted to go for a walk.

I rang the bell and was surprised to find her just inside the door, sweeping up bits of shattered glass.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," she said.

I picked up a chunk of brick in the middle of the shards of glass. "What's this?
Nothing?"

"Just a small gift from the locals.
Next time I'll be expecting pitchforks and torches."

She handed me a scrap of paper. "This was wrapped around
the brick," she said. On the paper, written in a scrawly script, were the words:
"
A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones: their blood upon them." —Leviticus
20:27

We cut a piece of poster board and taped it into the place where the pane had been. I convinced her that a walk to the river would be good for us. She grabbed a heavily embroidered bag, throwing the long strap across her shoulder.