10.29 The Abyss of WonderLand
And then came the moment that I began to rise up from my deadened awareness. It was the smell, I think. A sweet vanilla fragrance, reminding me of the sugar cookies that I’d once baked with my grandmother. My nose wiggled slightly, sending a jerk of pain. That shot my eyes open. I attempted to touch my nose, wondering why it vaguely hurt, but my hands were bound, not tied down exactly, but swathed in gloves so thick they might as well have been boxing gloves. “Ah, you are awake,” Simone said, with that sexy voice of hers that made her sound like a Shakespearean-trained actress. I was sitting upright in the same chair where I’d perched when I first arrived and had drunk the odd-tasting tea Simone poured into my pink, gold and very delicate teacup. “Um, sorry. I guess I fell asleep. I had the strangest dreams.” Geeze, did I have to spill out everything I was fuzzily thinking? I sat up straighter, unkinking my back, which amazingly didn’t feel as if I’d been sleeping bent over like a youthful edition of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Here, drink this,” Simone said in a soft voice that still held the quality of a command. As if I were part robot, I took the glass from her hand and sipped it, then, at her urging (or rather her command,) I finished it off. That shot an awareness through me that it was time to visit the lady’s room. I made my way to the dark pink door a few steps away. It opened for me as if awaiting my presence. The light went on, and I sat where one is supposed to sit. When I was ready to wash my hands, I noticed that the room had no mirror. That was especially strange in a salon where women came to be beautified. Simone was waiting for me when I exited. She led me over to a different chair and told me to sit. “What time is it?” I asked, having once again left my watch on the counter at home, still powering up. It was too bad that I wasn’t wearing it that day. It couldn’t tell me the number of steps I’d walked that day, which was a shame because I’d worked a lot further than usual. I should have gotten the happy face award my watch sometimes issued.
10.28 The Abyss of WonderLand
As if I hadn’t been scared enough of this beauty parlor trip, Simone’s statements were making me even more disquieted. Did Judy realize that Simone was developing some kind of madness? Was it schizophrenia? Had she swallowed some illegal drug? Should I bolt out of the room in an effort to save myself from a sudden infection of crazy? But the hand she’d laid on top of mine tightened. “Relax, Penelope. You will like what I’m going to do to you. I am going to show you a new version of you, your true potential.” Okay, the sound of that was both as frightening as a nearby lightning strike but also as enticing as a chocolate brownie of hope. Who doesn’t want to change for the better? Was Simone promising miracles? Was she trying to sell me some magical elixir that would supposedly raise my beauty percentage to a positive number (while subtracting pounds?) I took another sip of my tea and nodded. I was already at Caroon’s Hairstyling and Judy had said the cost was on her, so . . . Besides, since I’d drunk tea with Simone, it was probably too late to back out.
10.27 The Abyss of WonderLand
Apparently, Simone’s space was the room at the end. It was spacious, elegant, and pink with dashes of gold inlay and white furniture. It should have made one feel like they were drowning inside a bottle of the liquid heartburn medicine my grandmother used to take, but it wasn’t like that at all. The design of the room was stylish, smart, and palatial. I sat in the chair she designated and accepted my cup of tea in its dainty pink-flowered China teacup with a gold handle that perfectly matched the tea pot she’d just poured it out of. For a moment I felt like I was in the musical I’d seen with my grandma about a young female named Gigi. She was being groomed to be proper and drank tea nervously from a dainty teacup held with an upward posed pinky. Of course, I remembered then that she was being groomed to be a mistress for rich men, but that’s not what happened, so . . . Simone had sat in the chair opposite me and was staring brazenly. “You really are quite pretty, you know,” she said with that refined British voice of hers. Either she was lying or she was . . . well, lying. I didn’t have a pretty bone in my body. As Granny used to say, “I was a workhorse, a sturdy, no nonsense type of individual. ”I’m not sure whether Granny was complimenting me or putting me down when she said that. I think she just meant that I was just me and came the way I came. Solid was good, anyway. But as to pretty? I hadn’t spoken. I guess my face reflected my feelings on the matter. Simone put her cup down and reached over to place her hand on mine. I wanted to withdraw. I’d never been a touchy-feely kind of girl. In fact, it made me apprehensive when someone did that, like an invasion of my space. But Simone was an extension of Judy. I may have wished to withdraw my hand, but I didn’t. Her eyes were still watching me, studying me as an artist might. I guess that’s what a hairstylist was, or at least they wanted to be. But they had to work with the blob that walked through their door. They couldn’t carefully select the raw material they wished to carve into a masterpiece. “You have an imp inside you,” she said suddenly. What did one say to that? What did she even mean with such a statement? I remained silent thinking about it. “You do not know yourself, I see. Then today, I will do more than cut your hair. I will reveal what is deep inside you.”
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.