10.26 The Abyss of WonderLand
I slammed my finger on the elevator button and took a bite out of my semi-wrapped sandwich. I had to scurry to get to Caroon’s Hairstyling. It was a good half mile from the office, in an upscale part of town. When I got there, I took one look at the shadow dark windows and knew it was a prestigious salon. Even from the outside of the building, I could see chandeliers offering elegant streams of lights. The door was fashioned with delicate scrolls of gold that matched the modern-looking door handle. I wiped off my hands on a napkin I’d carted with me, along with my now finished tuna salad with pickle — hold the onions —wrappings and placed my hand on the door’s fancy door opener. The lever didn’t move downwards. The door simply opened at my touch, high class and automatic. No time to pause. A woman, in a sharp-looking, navy skirt suit with a scooped white top and dress pumps that looked tight and uncomfortable, met me at the door. She had the kind of polished look I’d never attain. I bet her outfit was from one of those uptown shops that didn’t carry my size. “Hello, you must be Penelope Casey,” the woman said with a British accent so thick it was like the cream cheese frosting on a carrot cake, the really good kind. Not that I was coming on to the woman in front of me. I didn’t swing that way. I was way more into Darcy’s tall, dark, and dreamy — well, at least, definitely the male gender. “Come right in. I’m so glad you’re here early. We have time to chat over a spot of tea.” A spot? I almost choked on that. I hoped if she gave me tea, I didn’t spill it and put spots on both my clothing and her furniture. Luckily, the woman didn’t require my responses as she kept up a dialogue about how long she’d known Judy Sanders and how she’d do anything for her. Did she slip a look at me, indicating that she was only willing to work on someone who looked like me because of her friendship with Judy? There were at least twelve rooms in the salon, each holding a woman and her stylist. As we walked toward the tea I’d been promised, I had an urge to peek inside the rooms to see what miracles were taking place, but I didn’t know if it was proper to look. Was getting your hair done a secretive operation in this neck of the woods? I remembered the dark tinted windows at the front of the building and thought that maybe it was better if I didn’t peer into the chambers as we passed.
10.25 The Abyss of WonderLand
After that, I hunkered down and got back to work. I completely forgot about the hair appointment until I was munching away on a tuna fish sandwich with barbecued potato chips, and Mrs. Sanders, I mean, Judy called to give me the appointment time. “I’ve already talked to Ed, dear. He’s given you the rest of the day off. Your appointment’s in thirty minutes, so you need to drop everything and get over there.” “Mrs., I mean, Judy, I can’t . . .” I was just about to give her a good reason why I couldn’t desert my work, when Mr. Sanders knocked, opened the door, and pointed to his watch. It was obvious that he, too, was part of this conspiracy. I motioned to my stack of files, each needing my appraisal, but he’d already ducked out, and Judy was talking my ear off about someone named Timothy Caldwell. “All right,” I finally broke in, stuffing the last of the chips into my mouth so I could toss the empty bag into the trash. I quickly repackaged the rest of my sandwich in plastic wrap, determined to take that with me. Then I hung up the phone, grabbed my can of cola, the uneaten portion of my sandwich, and high-tailed it out of the office. I felt guilty as I walked by Cassandra’s desk, but she gave me a high-five and a smile, then picked up the phone that had just rung. “Legal Aide Department,” she said with evident good cheer. Perhaps she was already thinking about Mrs. Sander’s party that evening. Hadn’t her name been mentioned? I wasn’t sure enough to bring it up, and besides, she was busy listening to the caller. As I continued on, my eyes took a moment to admire the deep red of the poinsettia on the corner of her desk. Mr. Sanders had given me one, too, but mine was the white kind with petals of cream. The Christmas tree in the corner of the waiting room looked like it needed water. I started to grab up a coffee cup of water to add to its pot, but then I remembered that I had that dreadful appointment, and it was clear across town.
10.24 The Abyss of WonderLand
I was poring over the sad case of Mr. Samuel Gonzalez, comparing his expenses with his income deficit when the phone rang. It was Mrs. Sanders inviting me to another one of her dinners. Of course, I agreed. There was nothing in my refrigerator at home, and I listened with urgent stomach rumblings while she talked about her plans for the meal. “Would you like me to come over early, so I can help out?” I asked, chewing on one of my pencils, but thinking about the package of peanuts in the bottom drawer of my desk. “You know we have Natalia for that, and if she needs more help, there’s always Tina or Cassandra to pitch in.” I nodded, even though I knew Mrs. Sanders couldn’t see me. Remembering that, I reached into the drawer and pulled out the peanuts. “Penelope, I was just thinking. . .” “Yes?” I queried, having just ripped open the bag and spread salt and peanut mixture across poor Mr. Gonzalez’ paperwork. I popped in a couple of nuts and waited for Mrs. Sanders to continue. “I could make an appointment for you at Caroon’s Hairstyling, if you’d like. Simone Caroon does my hair, and she’s just wonderful.” I sighed, slurped at my diet cola, and sighed again. “Uh, Mrs. Sanders . . .” “Judy, my dear. Mrs. Sanders sounds so stilted between friends.” I sighed again. “Judy, I really appreciate the offer, but . . .” “Good. Then I’ll call right this moment and see if they have an opening this afternoon. It’s important, Penelope, because I will have the most adorable and worthy gentleman sitting next to you at dinner. I know you two are going to fit perfectly.” “Mrs. Sanders, Judy, I . . .” But it was too late. She’d already hung up. I tried five times to call her back. I would have continued trying, but Mr. Sander’s secretary, Cassandra, came in wanting the figures concerning Mr. Gonzalez’ request for aide. I had to scurry to finish them, brush away the peanut stains that I found on one paper, and sort the file properly for Cassandra.
10.23 The Abyss of WonderLand
Actually, I liked the way my hair looked. I’d never wanted to be a blonde, and curly hair reminded me of a bowl full of worms. Besides, bangs, although not in favor at the moment, were very useful for hiding and for covering up baggy eyes – the kind you get from staying up late and reading a good novel – something I preferred to dating. As to the rest of my appearance – the chubby part — show me a man who tastes as good as a box of chocolates. I was sure he didn’t exist. And no exercise was ever equal to a good, hard cry when the heroine finally is swept up by her Mr. Darcy. I could suffer through Judy Sanders’ matchmaking. It was usually just a single evening here and there with a stilted goodbye handshake, and an I’ll never never hear from Mr. Too Good For Me again. That was fine, but what was making life the most difficult was the fact that I absolutely hated my high prestige job. Having the best boss in the world still couldn’t make dry paperwork interesting. It was my responsibility to read through accounts that could make one’s heart weep for the injustice of it, but it wasn’t part of my job to seek restitution, only to check that the statistics pointed out the client’s evident need. For months I’d been telling myself that I was helping people, but that didn’t stop my eyes from sagging, my yawns from popping my jaw, or my fingers from reaching out for another chip or chocolate-covered malt ball. Mr. Sanders constantly praised my work. “You’re the most industrious worker I’ve ever had,” he assured me day after day. I was good at my work, and it was nice to hear it said, but tedium was rubbing the edges off the praise. I wondered how long his former investigator had stuck with it. Had he or she one day pierced the air with a deadly shriek and been carted off to an insane asylum to spend the days counting flies on the wall? Wouldn’t that be less tedious? Yes, the pay was good. I earned enough to pay for my apartment (with a roommate sharing the rent.) Nothing fancy, but it had clean, white paint which I’d applied, wooden floors that I’d stripped and varnished, and a location that, although not entirely safe at night, was still not too bad – especially since I had no car to leave parked on the faint-lighted street. My place was just around the corner from the library and two blocks from a used bookstore. That was the best part about it, plus the fact that in between was a bakery; a market that sold fresh goods, candy, and sodas; and an ice cream shop, where they had ninety-three flavors of ice cream, at least, that’s what they’d told me when I asked. But, life is supposed to be WonderLand when you’re young. And mine wasn’t, and because I couldn’t admit my unhappiness to Mr. Sanders, I continued, munching my way through the days, lost in a fog of endless romance novels.
10.22 The Abyss of WonderLand: Beginning of the Novel
Prelude How do you know your soul mate? Does your heart beat faster? Do your knees quake at the sight of him? Or do you suddenly spin down a hole, like Alice and Wonderland, waving your arms and flexing your legs, screaming at the top of your lungs, NO!!!!!!!? Perhaps, finding your soul mate is all of these. At least for me it was. I worked in Legal Aid, as an assistant for Mr. Sanders. Straight out of San Jose State, in the top 10% of my class and with some law classes under my belt that gave me a leg up on other candidates, I’d felt like life was a silver Porsche, sweeping me off to great adventures, to happiness. My boss was a kindly, elderly man, the ideal employer. Not only had he immediately accepted me as a valuable employee, but he had enveloped me into his unbelievably rich and comfortable life. Childless, he and his wife had large hearts for young neophytes like me. They more or less adopted me, begging me to spend Christmas and Thanksgiving feasts at their home two years in a row. Of course, I wasn’t the only one there. Ed and Judy Sanders were well known for their benevolence, but they made me feel extra special, loved even, a strange emotion to garner from one’s first boss – at least one not interested in the usual extra-marital sort of relationship. Luckily, there had never been any hanky-panky with Ed Sanders, not that I knew of. As well as I could tell, he and his wife were as much in love as a young married couple, still holding hands during cocktail hours, as if they were dating instead of celebrating thirty plus years of connubial bliss. I enjoyed my almost weekly visits with them. I sipped exquisite wines, sampled exotic cheeses, dined on gourmet food, and savored their CD collection of opera. The Sanders spoiled me, and I felt warm and at ease with their friendly banter and the frequent extravagant gifts they showered on me. There were only two drawbacks to the situation, the first being the fact that Judy Sanders’ principal occupation was matchmaking. Each and every dinner she hosted found me sitting with a new and approved bachelor, each of which was bored to death with me and considerably embarrassed at the overt pressure placed on him. Mrs. Sanders needled the men for commitment before they’d even pronounced my name. Needless to say, they ran faster than floodwater. I could endure the awkwardness of that and the men’s subtle putdowns as they brushed me off like I was dandruff that had fallen on their black suits. Indeed, they played their part in front of Mrs. Sanders, earnest to climb Washington’s ladder of success, but there was never any footsie under the table, no requests for my phone number, or offers of lunch the next day. Not that I expected it, of course; I wasn’t much for looks. My long dark-brown hair was straight. I still had bangs at age 24, and I rarely used much make-up. I suppose that all could have been overlooked. I was obviously a favorite of the Sanders, and they were the cream on top the milk of the influential. However, I was also plump, the social faux pas of the fashionably up and coming.
10.21 The Witchling Shama: The Conclusion
I suppose you want to know if I gathered the shreds of hope about me enough to trust in Frank. Would we marry? Would the town overlook my witchy side? There was also the question of the outcome for the men who falsified my past. Would the town’s judgement board cast them out or jail them? Would those two liars and do-no-goods retreat or be taken away from my presence — or would they keep returning to plague me for evermore? Some of you will ask what is to happen between the doctor and Mrs. Penn? Will romance flow into both their hearts in equal measure? Will Mrs. Penn’s abilities in witchcraft strengthen with Willow’s presence and mine? I have heard that such can happen. Would the good doctor marry a witch? How will Frances like school next month, and will he adjust to being among children of his own age? Will the students mock him for being the son of a murderer? That opens up another question: what will happen to the boys’ father? The sentencing is yet to come. Will a legal case like that rip away the healing scars and cast the boys back into the gloominess they’d dwelt in such a short time before? As if that were not enough to send me nightmares, I worry about what Mrs. Penn’s daughter will say about the dear lady wanting to adopt me? Will her daughter rage with jealousy and bitterness, storming into Tinker Town like a spinning tornado, eager to chase me away? Will her heart be stone, even when she sees the sweetness of the boys? And, I must not forget that since Mrs. Penn has witch heritage, her daughter may also have that potential. Will an angry, untrained witch be just one more threat that forces me to jump on Frey and gallop out of town? If all those problems would suddenly disappear, then I’d ask Mother Earth if she’d help Willow and me to find the rare relationship of a fully grown witch and her familiar. Will I one day be able to communicate with Willow as Mrs. Penn already can? If that should come to pass, then would my magic bloom inside me and allow me to brew tonics and potions like Old Mother could? There are so many questions I have about the future, but since I cannot read tea leaves or routinely dream prophesies of what the Fates are bringing. Like all the rest of us, I can only cross my thumbs and murmur the old children’s saying: Wishing and washing, cat in the tree Tell of the fortune that belongs to me May it be good. May it bring smiles Else I shall run for miles and miles. Except Mrs. Penn told me sternly that I can’t keep running. She said I must learn to take the good with the bad. With her eyes crinkled into lines that spoke of love, she held my hand and whispered, “A woman who wants to give you a name and to form us into a family, a man who wants to marry you and will cherish you as you deserve, children who already adore you and call you their mother, your good buddy, Frey, and this precious little kitty, Willow. Those are the building blocks of your happiness, Shama, if only you will make it so.” I think she was right. That’s why I didn’t run away. I gave my trust to Tinker Town. Maybe as Mrs. Penn said, happiness is worth a little pain. And besides, there’s Frank, who despite his occasional disbelief, sometimes kisses me, smiles into my eyes with love, encourages me, and now speaks of our future. And if I’m truthful in my heart, although I quiver in fear, a kernel of hope is growing. The potential of what Mrs. Penn saw for me, for all of us, is a carrot too wondrous to ignore. I will let you know how my story continues, whether Tinker Town can give me a home and a place to grow the roots that were ripped away so cruelly. But that tale is no more than a promise, and I will continue it in: A Witchling in Tinker Town Book 2 in the Shama Series
10.20 The Witchling Shama
But I wasn’t the only guilty one here. I had erred as much as Officer Krugel. Two boys with eyes wide from all the excitement and disappointment they’d encountered that morning were staring at me with the exact same message in their eyes that my heart was feeling: disappointment, disillusionment, yet with sprinklings of hope among the dark reflections of despair. We would all need to build up our trust again. Perhaps it was like a bank, and the more we put in, the greater our savings would be. I’d heard about such banks, and Frank had explained that he kept some money in one, but the idea of someone keeping my money, someone who I’d learned to trust completely, just seemed illogical. But perhaps that was what I needed to do, for the sake of the boys, for Mrs. Penn, for Frank, and for me. I guess everyone living together has to work on trust. I’d written letters to those I’d left behind in the village. That was a kind of trust. Had my letters been the cause of these two men coming to Tinkle Town? Had someone betrayed my whereabouts? But confrontations like this needed to be made final, anyway, to bite off the many tails of the monster. Frank told me that both men would be jailed and judged for their false accusations. That would mean another court session — not something to look forward to, and what if the town didn’t like my being a witch, which is what the preacher kept calling me? What if they . . . The deputy took the two men off to jail, the preacher still calling out that we should not suffer a witch to live. Mr. Barner just struggled against his handcuffs and cursed up a storm. I hoped that Mrs. Penn’s hands over the boys’ ears would keep them from hearing the nasty words flowing from the man’s lips. It was too late to wish they hadn’t heard that I was a witch. I led Frey back to unsaddle him. My escape hadn’t gotten me very far. I supposed that was a good thing, because I truthfully didn’t want to go. Mrs. Penn had reminded me that running was a coward’s way. She’d said that I must stick around to see if everything couldn’t all get ironed out. I closed my eyes and tried not to see the faces of the villagers throwing their stones at me, their mouths twisted ugly, their eyes shooting out hate, their bodies primed to hurt me, and maybe even kill me. Frank took the saddle from me and hung it up on the rack he’d built for me. I slipped off Frey’s bridle and spoke softly to him, explaining that we couldn’t go for a ride at that moment, but I promised him I’d take him out the next day. “Things are going to be okay now, Shama. Nobody in the town will believe you could be evil. They know you. They’ve accepted you. They, frankly, adore you. You’ve won them all over with the sweetness of your smile.” He had wrapped his arm around me, and was walking me back to the boys and Mrs. Penn. All three of them, plus the doctor, were beaming at me as if I’d done something marvelous. Mrs. Penn even winked. “You bet your boots they’ll stand by you, young lady. Now that you’re the fiancé of our head sheriff, they will be even more loyal,” she added. Fiancé? I waited a moment for Frank to deny it, to rush forward and assure Mrs. Penn that there was no such agreement, but he didn’t. Instead, he’d gently pulled me closer, kissed my forehead, and said, “You bet they won’t dare say a single negative about you. Not ever. Because you’re the one I love, and the one who will soon become my wife.” I didn’t negate the statement that day, but I didn’t agree either. My insides were raw, tender, and uncertain. I bit my lip but vowed to keep my relationship with Frank in hesitant mode for a while. Stability isn’t achieved by someone just telling you the quicksand is solid enough to walk on.
10.19 The Witchling Shama
“You’re right, Shama,” the officer said, his voice sounding almost as tired as mine. “We have not lived up to your standards. I have not lived up to your standards. I have been weak. I told you I loved you, but then I quaked on the brink, allowing my feet to step back from a bluff that might have landed me into happiness. I was a coward, Shama. And I fear that I will never measure up to the goodness inside you. Forgive me. Please. “When I saw you faint, my feelings deepened. I couldn’t bear to think of you ill or dying, but yet, I allowed still another wedge to come between us. It was so easy to believe these two offensive men. Did I want to believe them, so that I would be rescued from taking that final step into the unknown? I don’t know. I don’t understand such a weakness. “I do know that Mrs. Penn saw the truth. She sees the truth and always has. She accepts you as the key to a life lived in integrity and kindness. She never doubted you, and yet, you are willing to leave her and these precious children. That’s because of me. But I don’t want you to leave either. I want you to stay with us, to continue to love us and to forgive my doubts. I want you to teach me to be the kind of person you are. “Actually, what I really want, my darling Shama, is for you to marry me and live forever at my side.” Unbelievably, in front of the kids, Mrs. Penn, the two horrid men who’d just come from the village, and the deputy, who was still standing in the doorway and waiting to see what was required of him, Officer Krugel got down on one knee and begged for my hand. I know what everyone wanted me to do, except maybe the preacher and the thief/drunkard, Mr. Barner, but I couldn’t. I’d lost my trust.
10.18 The Witchling Shasma
“You going to allow her to take off?” Mr. Barner cried out, irate because another of his plots had fallen into the dust. “Wait,” the preacher said. “We have not told you all. She may not be at fault for what this man says, but she is not an innocent. In fact she is guilty of even more vile deeds.” I knew what was coming next. Should I run for it? Should I hop on Frey and gallop out of Tinkle Town before they all gathered up their stones and pummeled me with them as my village had done? I turned and spoke. “Yes, I am guilty. I trusted people. I worked unceasingly to right wrongs that were not mine. I loved an old woman who’d promised to adopt me, but was too soon taken from me. I planted goodness wherever I could, offering assistance for team sports, for non-readers, for the poor and needy. Yes, I’m guilty, because you see, I believed that people had goodness in them.” “You speak with a forked tongue, which is to be expected, because according to the village, you are a witch.” “A witch?” I said, looking into his eyes. “What do you actually mean by that? Did you find out why the village called me a witch? Was it because of a judge who ruled in my favor? Or was it because the mayor wanted to lie with me in sin? Or could it be that greed and evil thoughts had permeated the village, and they cast about to find someone to blame? “Could that be the same reason that you, a supposed man of god, a god who is supposed to be synonymous with Agape love, points your finger at someone without proof, without cause, and for no reason other than it feels good to empty out your bowel full of hatred? “I am done with all this. I shall seek nature and the justice found in peace.” “Stop her. We cannot allow a witch to live,” the preacher screeched. I thought about the chant I’d used on the village. I could have sung it now. I could have ridden away, freezing them all once again, but I was tired, worn down with disillusion, so I just stood there.
10.17 The Witchling Shama
I recovered my paper from the drawer where I’d kept it. Then, I slowly descended the steps, casting glances right and left, scooping up more memories to recall later. That was where I’d sat with Frances, teaching him how to read. Over there, I’d worked with Carlo on catching a ball, rolling it to him over and over. On the left was the kitchen where I’d honed my skills and learned to widen my repertoire of meals, thanks to Mrs. Penn. Maybe at some future time, I could get a job as a cook, I thought, but the idea crushed me. I fought back tears, knowing that it would be a long time before I’d want to dwell among people again. The moment I exited through the backdoor into the yard, the boys, loosened from the doctor’s hold on them, flung themselves at me. “Take us with you, please,” Frances said. I wanted to say yes, but that would be selfish. I shook my head. “You need school. You need stability. You need everything this town offers you.” Carlo didn’t even attempt to beg. He was deep into his hysterical crying, devastated that I’d break my promise. For that I felt great guilt. I really did, but I knew that they’d be better without me. Mrs. Penn would be their anchor. She would provide the love they needed. “I love you,” I told them again. It was inadequate, but it was all I had to offer them. Willow had followed me. She ran over to Mrs. Penn, jumped into her lap and kissed her cheek with her cat tongue. I wished I could leave her with the boys and Mrs. Penn, but I knew I couldn’t. Willow loved Mrs. Penn, but she was my familiar. I set my carryall bag down on the ground and handed the officer my bill of sale. “If you don’t believe the officialness of that, you can also speak with Mr. Henderson in person. The village is only the next one over. I can give you a list of people who can verify what I told you. I’m sorry for the necessity of needing to do so. I’ve never lied to you or to anyone.” Officer Krugel read it over, then handed it back. “Where will you go, Shama?” I didn’t answer him. I simply picked up my bag and went to saddle Frey. With my bag strapped in place, I called out an I love you to Mrs. Penn, then led Frey toward the gate.