“Is it safe?”
We exchanged a long look. My grandmother’s face was solemn, the expression one of sorrow.
I wanted to get sick again and it wasn’t the potion this time.
C HAPTER S IX
The dog barks, but the caravan moves on
Nonnie turned and led the way to the back door of her house. I hesitated at the stones, but after a quick look at her, I stepped over them, Charlie following me. He’d been a perfect dog up until then, sitting at my side, ignoring the squirrel chittering at him from the fence, and paying no attention to the butterflies flitting near the bushes.
We followed my grandmother up the three steps to the back porch.
I hesitated at the threshold, wondering if I was going to be zapped. Nonnie had always been my bulwark, my supporter, and the one person in the world I trusted.
Not anymore.
I raised one foot, cautiously placing it on the other side of the threshold. I didn't feel any humming at all, no incipient headache. I wasn't feeling any different from the countless times I’d come into the porch as a child.
She’d erected a clothes line from one end of the long porch to the other to use when the spirit moved her. Ever since she'd gotten a new dryer, the spirit evidently didn’t move her all that much. She used to say that things smelled so much better when they were dried outdoors and never commented on the stiff, razor like towels or the sheets with the odor of mildew.
A stack of bath mats were piled in front of a green, old fashioned metal chair, the kind that bounced when you sat in it.
My grandmother changed bath mats like you changed underwear. I think she had a different set for every day of the week, the colors ranging from bright yellows to rich burgundies that worked well in both stark white bathrooms. Next to the chair was a brand new washer and dryer with cockpit like controls.
Large Amazon boxes were piled in the corner of one side of the porch. I wondered if she was saving those to return merchandise to the online retailer or if she simply didn't like breaking down boxes.
We entered the kitchen, but I waited until Nonnie waved me toward the table before going to sit at my usual place, Charlie flopping to the floor beside me.
The wall was to my back, the window overlooking the backyard to my right. Directly to my left was the door to the dining room used only during holidays. Ahead of me was the long kitchen stretching the length of the house. At the end of the room was a staircase to the second and third floors. One day Nonnie might find it difficult to mount the steps, but I couldn't imagine her living anywhere but here.
How many times had I sat here on the banquette against the wall, staring through the filmy white lace curtains at the backyard, feeling peaceful, calm, and at home?
Everything was the same except for the feelings. Any warmth had been replaced by anxiety and a touch of fear. I wasn't a fool, after all. I knew of at least twelve women who weren't kindly disposed of me. And one mother.
"If you’re a witch, can you be a Christian?"
My grandmother attended church every Sunday, was a member of the Ladies Guild, and occasionally taught Sunday school.
She glanced at me from her position in front of her electric kettle. She was making tea as she always did. Summer or winter, Nonnie enjoyed her hot tea. Never the iced variety, though.
"How can I not believe in God knowing what I do?"
"Don't witches also believe in a goddess?"
She brought the teapot to the table along with the mugs, sugar and lemon.
"You didn't come here to ask about my faith, Marcie,” she said.
Her lips were pursed, her eyes narrowed. The same look I’d been given when I did something wrong as a child. I'm not talking a small infraction, either. I only got that look when I had done something like steal a pack of gum from Aunt Susan's purse. I had been trotted in front of Susan, made to apologize profusely and offer my services for an entire
Learning to Kill: Stories