Witch Ball (9 page)

"Oh,
pleeeze
. This is Columbus. How many could you have known here?"

"More than you will ever understand." He slammed a book against the shelf. I walked away, angry, confused, but certainly no longer in love with him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I
thought that both mysteries were quieting down—the big one, Coach Russell's murder; and the small one, the attack on my aunt and her friends. But both remained unsolved. There was little about either in the papers, now. Her injuries were healed for the most part, and I felt relief.

One afternoon, I stood on her front porch about to ring the bell. I heard a weak meow from behind a potted fern. When I looked behind the pot I saw Michael-Ray lying in a puddle of red. A sound came out of me that I had never before heard. Something shrill and primitive started deep in my gut and rolled out of my throat in a wail that startled me.

Fleur threw open the door. I couldn't speak. My hand trembled as I pointed to the little black cat. He looked up at us, helpless. There was so much sadness and love in his eyes. He took one breath, and then his chest was still. We knew that he was gone.

Aunt Fleur knelt beside him. Blood seeped up, staining her caftan; the crimson blot blended with the light blue fabric, turning the growing stigmata deep purple. She went back into the house and emerged with a piece of white linen. She wrapped the cloth around Michael. We both cried quietly. There was nothing to say.

She went into the house, clutching the tiny body close to her. Once inside, she made two phone calls. I don't know how long it took for her friends to arrive. I just sat at the kitchen table staring at my tea cup.

When her friends came, there was hugging, but few words. We went into the back yard and buried the cat under a crape myrtle tree. Fleur placed a porcelain figurine of a cherub over the grave.

Aunt Fleur said, "Cross the Rainbow bridge, dear soul."

Her friends repeated, "Cross the Rainbow bridge, dear soul."

Aunt Fleur said, "We will meet in the sunny meadows. We will run by the sweet streams."

"We will meet in the sunny meadows. We will run by the sweet streams." I joined her friends in the chant.

Fragile blossoms fell from the branches, draping the raw ground with a soft white
mantle. It looked like a layer of snow against the damp earth.

We all went inside. Her friend, Algonquin, helped Fleur with the cups and saucers for our tea. This time
, she splashed some sherry into each cup.

The ladies stayed for a while. We talked about pets we had loved. One friend, Trillian
Bacakus, told us how her Cockapoo, Cordelia, sometimes came to visit, even though she had been gone for almost three years.

Algonquin said that sometimes she
can feel her cat, Larkspur, rubbing against her legs as she reads at night.

"How sad," I said.

"Not at all," she said as she smiled at me. "I find it comforting. Love doesn't die."

It wasn't hard to see why these ladies were friends. They had similar styles. Each wore flowing clothes and lots of
jangly jewelry. The heavy makeup and thickly-lined eyes were not typical of Columbus women. Our local look is conservative, and slightly boring. Yet somehow, this weird fashion seemed right for them.

After they left, I stayed with my Aunt, hoping to give her some comfort.

"Fleur, why didn't anyone call the police? This was a murder. Aren't you frightened?"

She smiled at me with her mouth closed. "Yes, a murder, to be sure."

"Maybe the police could at least solve this one." She didn't respond. "Aunt Fleur, how could someone be so cruel?"

"Well,
Truly, it may not be as much a mystery as you imagine."

"Oh!" The realization hit me. "You know who did this to Michael-Ray." Then I said, "And you know who beat you!"

She looked so weary. "I don't know for sure. It was dark, and they had bandanas around their faces. But I have an idea."

"Let's call the police now. We could lead them to the criminals."

"Truly, the police don't care who killed a little cat. This is my personal tragedy."

In my life, I have had almost no experience with police. I was taught that they were there to help us. The cruisers have "To Protect and to Serve" written on one side. The have "The Friendly City" written on the other side. Why would they not help us?

I remembered the story of how the policeman had done nothing when her father tried to beat her so many years ago. Maybe this was the same sort of thing, good-old-boys sticking together.

Kids my age believe that life is fair, that there is justice in the world. We never think that someone we love could be hurt and no one would care, that no one would be punished.

Eric had talked so much about The Underground Railroad. That, too, was a million years ago in my perception. In those days, some people helped the runaway slaves. Some people hunted the humans who were trying to escape. I wonder which side I would have been on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

P
eople who had probably never met Coach Russell demanded that the Columbus Police solve his murder, and now. They were afraid to go out at night. The usually calm and uninvolved citizens transformed into a rabble calling for justice. It was not clear toward whom this justice was to be directed, because evidently there were no actual suspects. 

Many people changed their patterns. Fewer parents allowed their children to play on the summer baseball teams. Concerts at the
Riverwalk were poorly attended.

No one was at all concerned about my aunt and her friends being the victims of gang violence. That was small potatoes compared to murder.

Interestingly enough, those closest to the coach remained mostly silent. Current and former members of the track team had little important information to contribute. 

Sue Ellen and the ubiquitous Roxanne found a lot to say, however. Their comments were confined to the coach's sterling character, his great love for young people, and his twenty years in education. They did not appear to be giving the police much pressure about solving the crime. In interviews they appeared less outraged than strangers did.

One evening, after dinner, I asked my dad what he thought about the murder. "Do you think the murderer is long gone? Maybe he left town and will never be found."

"Well, I don't think it was done by some random criminal. It takes a lot of anger to kill another person with your bare hands."

I hadn't thought of that. In my mind, criminals were strangers.

"Yes, but everyone liked the coach. Who could do that?"

"Gertrude, I have no idea. Our lives are filled with irritation and annoyance. Road rage, jealousy, the resentment of just being trapped in a bad job, or a bad marriage, all of these sometimes make us furious." He took a drag from his cigarette and stared down at his slippers. "But, few people have enough fury inside them to do something so violent." He smiled at me and added, "No matter how much we are tempted."

I thought about Aunt Fleur telling me that mysteries have layers. There must be more to the story than I, or anyone, could piece together from the news.

Mom came into the room with a tumbler filled with red wine. The glow from Dad's reading lamp reflected in the glass. It almost looked as if the wine was illuminated from within, flickering on and off when she moved. I knew she had been drinking during dinner. She must not have stopped.

"What I think," continued Dad, "is that not only did the murderer kn
ow Coach Russell, but that someone, or even several people know more than they are telling. The police are not as bumbling as you might think, but they need leads, help. For some reason no one wants to talk to the police."

Mom listened quietly. "Everyone has secrets," she said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

S
ince her
accident
, I had been spending more time with Aunt Fleur. OK, I knew that technically she was a man, but to me she will always be a woman. I considered her to be wise.

"Aunt Fleur, do you think that everyone has secrets?"

"What on Earth makes you ask such a question?" She had returned to making her Accessorines. The table was once again strewn with bits of fabric and sequins. She held a strand of purple thread between her red lips, narrowing her eyes, straining to focus on the tiny needle she was threading.

"My mom said that everyone has secrets. I got the feeling that she was talking about something specific."

"That is most likely true." She tossed a ball of white stuffing to Jimmy-James. He batted it back to her with a lazy, uninterested motion. She had not let him outside since Michael-Ray was killed. I think he was beginning to get cabin fever.

"But," she said, "
those secrets are never as horrible to others as people imagine that they are. Almost everyone's are about sex. People keep secrets about sex." Then she added, "And lies. People lie about sex."

"I don't know much about sex." I wish that I did, but it is apparent that this subject is destined to remain a mystery to me. "What sort of things?"

"Mostly, who they slept with. Sexual attraction is a strong force. We usually know who we are
supposed
to be attracted to, and how far we should go. So many times we are drawn to someone that we shouldn't be, or let our feelings get out of hand. Later, we may want to hide our actions, and our partners."

"Yeah, I know that I should go out with boys whose father has the right sort of job, and whose mother came from a family that my mom finds acceptable."

"That is exactly what I mean." She looked up from the tiny garment she was stitching. "I didn't ask to be attracted to boys. I never understood why I was so driven to dress like a woman. I have always been an embarrassment to my family. That is the major reason I left home so young."

"Why did you come back after all these years?"

"I guess I thought that all would be forgotten. My parents are both dead. I believed that most people would not remember a teenage boy who was bullied and made fun of. I was wrong. Memory in this place is like evolution. It is inherited from one generation to the next." She dropped her arm heavily against the table's surface with a clatter of her bangles.

I thought about her old boyfriend, James. She once told me that he was now married. "Aunt Fleur, do you think that James keeps you a secret from others?"

"I am sure of it. He married into a wealthy family and would have to be discreet. You might even have heard of him, Judge Sanders."

"Yes, I have heard that name."

"But, Truly, do not forget—this is a secret that
you
must keep. It could cause him a great many problems."

"Wouldn't you like to
out him? Make him confess to your old romance?"

"Absolutely not.
I want only the best for him." She squinted at the skirt she was hemming with tiny stitches of the purple thread, a bright contrast against hot pink felt. "He is a husband and a father now, well-known in the community. Anyway, what purpose would that serve? It isn't ever a good idea to be unkind. There is such a thing as karma." She looked up from her sewing: "However, Truly, there's a catch to secrets. They seldom stay secret forever."

"Your romance with James was so long ago, you probably don't even love him anymore. Does that secret even matter now?"

"Truly, you get smarter every day. We grow. We change."

"I didn't exactly get 'smarter.' I figured it out, because I just don't feel the same way about Eric as I did a couple of weeks ago."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. He is all worked up about slaves who have been dead for more than a hundred years, yet can't seem to muster any sympathy for people right here in Columbus."

She took a sip from the tea cup. There was a long silence
, as though she were choosing her words very carefully. "I thought he was slightly distant when we met. I could tell that I made him uncomfortable."

"Yeah, that's true.
But he never gave me a good reason. I guess there are folks he doesn't like—his old coach, you, and maybe me, too—at least at first. I wish I could understand what makes him tick."

"There is no real need to know why someone doesn't like us. It all goes back to what your mother said: we all have secrets." She stared into her empty cup
, as if something fascinating was printed at the bottom. "What do you mean about not liking you 'at first'?"

"It's weird, really. Now he says he can't stop thinking about me. Aunt Fleur, I think that attraction charm really worked."

"I tried to warn you. Even the most innocent spell has power. Magic should be practiced with great caution." She stopped for a moment and added, "Every spell has an opposite reaction. If you do something hurtful, then it will come back to you . . . or to someone you love—usually more than one time."

"I get that. I didn't do anything 'hurtful
,' at least not to him. Um, can a spell be
un
done?"

"Possibly... Just one wish can change many things."

"I don't think my wishes are all that strong."

She went into the kitchen and came back holding the tea pot nestled in a crocheted cozy. She poured some slowly into each of our cups. "There are reversals. Most are more complicated than putting the magic in motion, especially since it was your spell to begin with. That confuses our spirit guides."  She rustled around in the mess on the table. "You might try this. No guarantees." She selected a scrap of black felt and dropped some fragrant oils onto the cloth. "Now,
Truly, do you have a pearl, or even a faux pearl?"