9.21 Witchly Trials and Complications
In the kitchen, I refilled our mugs, then filled a plate with some gingerbread cookies I’d made the day before. The boys hadn’t been enthusiastic about them. Carlo had claimed that the cookies were hot on his tongue. I figured that, perhaps they were more of an adult taste. Sure enough, when I set them down on the table, Sheila reached out and took one. Although she didn’t praise them, she kept right on eating them. As the pile of cookies decreased, Sheila started talking. This time it wasn’t about me, but about the place where she lived. I was always eager to hear about other towns. Having experienced only two of them, one which was pretty negative, I found the habits and practices of folk interesting. “Women like me aren’t supposed to work outside the home. It’s expected that I’m good at cooking, sewing, rearing children, and keeping the house pretty. That gets boring, you know?” I nodded. I could understand that. Everyone needed something extra in life, like a beautiful gray stallion and a familiar? But, truthfully, I’d never been a stay at home wife, or any kind of wife. Nor did I resent cooking. I liked trying new dishes and baking cakes and cookies for the boys and for our guests. I thought about the woman who’d smocked my dress with the beautiful daisies. It would be nice to have that kind of talent, but I had to agree with Sheila, sewing wasn’t all that exciting. For one thing, the silly needle always ended up pricking my fingers, and sometimes when I was patching a garment, I accidentally sewed it onto my pants or my shirt. Sheila looked up, saw my nod, and must have decided that the two of us were bosom buddies, because then she went on to discuss how her husband almost never came home anymore. “I know he’s busy. He’s a surgeon, and he has to travel sometimes. When he’s in town, he has a bed in his office. I guess he falls asleep there.” She grew quiet, then reached for another cookie. It was the last one on the plate. “More coffee?” I asked. “Um. Yes, but could you show me where the bathroom is first?” I led her there, then turned back to the kitchen. I placed the rest of the cookies on the plate, filled Sheila’s mug and added a glass of water for myself because my coffee limit had already been exceeded. Anymore and I’d be springing up and down like a wild rabbit fleeing over fallen logs. I brought everything back to the table, and sat waiting for Sheila to return. She pulled out her chair, sat down with her head lowered, then grabbed at her newly filled mug. It was several moments of silence, except for the sudden case of sniffles she’d developed, when I realized that she’d been crying. When I finally saw her face, I saw that her eyes were beet red and tears were streaming down her cheeks.
9.20 Witchly Trials and Complications
“I can’t believe it,” Sheila said, either talking to herself or to me, although I doubted the latter. Although her mother had ordered her out of the house, she remained sitting at the table. She picked up her mug, probably full of cold coffee by now, but drank the rest of it down. Then she recovered her fork, and despite the fact that it had been lying on the table where she’d dropped it, the woman crammed it into her mouth and swallowed the bite of eggs still remaining on it. “These are cold,” she said. “I suppose the pancakes are, too.” I was half holding my breath, not knowing what to do. Martha had ejected her from the house, well, at least orally, but the woman was still here. Should I do something or say something, to make her leave? “Would you like more coffee?” I said instead. Sheila looked up at me, then, examined me as if she hadn’t really taken the time to do so before, although I know she’d earlier scanned my hair and clothes, finding them both deficient in merit. “I would appreciate another cup,” she said, not smiling, but not giving me the scowls she offered before. I grabbed up her mug, then retreated to the kitchen, where I poured the woman a fresh cup of coffee. I fixed myself one, too, figuring that someone should sit with her. I think this was what Old Mother might call the woman’s “hour of need”. When I returned to the table, I saw that Sheila was eating her eggs, cold as they were. She’d forked a couple of pancakes, too, and was cutting them up with a knife. “Thanks,” Sheila said. “It’s nothing personal. You might be a decent person. It’s just that . . .” Either she didn’t know how to finish the thought or she desperately needed the coffee. She blew on the mug and then took a sip. I picked up my mug and sipped it slowly, not adding tinder to the flames of Sheila’s fire by saying anything. Silence is sometimes holier than religious chants, Old Mother once told me, then later ordered me to forget that sentiment, I guess because she really didn’t like anything dealing with conventional religions. So silence it was. Two women drinking coffee and musing on private thoughts. “How did you get the two boys?” Sheila asked after a minute. “I know Dr. Ben said something about it in a letter. I think he said you adopted them, right?” It wasn’t a topic that I would have chosen, but I answered Sheila’s questions. She seemed surprised by my answers. Her eyes widened, almost in disbelief. “So, you’re not even related to them?” I widened the topic to explain how I’d been hired to take care of the boys and placed in this house, which had belonged to someone recently deceased. “I thought I’d only stay a week or two, but Martha and Frank asked me to make it a longer stay.” Sheila had eaten everything on her plate and emptied her second cup. “Is there any more coffee?” she asked, holding up her mug with a hopeful expression on her face. Since she’d begun treating me like a person, instead of a piece of trash picked up from a garbage heap, I nodded and returned to the kitchen for more.
9.19 Witchly Trials and Complications
Before I could admonish the child, Martha stepped in. “You are absolutely correct, Carlo. I want to know if my daughter is going to be mean again, too.” As if Sheila’s response were not important to her, Martha picked up her mug and took a quiet sip. “Shama, I don’t know how you do it, but the coffee you make always tastes better than mine.” Sheila’s face was red and she was glaring at everyone around the table, as if she couldn’t figure out exactly who to focus on. She picked up the cup of coffee that I’d just brought her and drank some, only to place the mug back on the table and shrug her shoulders as if she didn’t find anything worthy of praise. “Martha told us that people are mean when they’re unhappy. Are you unhappy?” Carlo asked. The little guy was just shy of five. His sentences were now amazingly profound, as if everything we said to him was sticking, especially the gentle sayings of Martha. I was so proud of him. “We’re not supposed to talk to adults like that, Carlo. Let Shama deal with it,” Francis advised him. “Do you want another rabbit?” Francis was already reaching for the platter, but Carlo shook his head. “I wish I could, but I’m full.” “I’m not. I could eat a hundred more of them. Thank you, Martha. These are soooo good!” He forked up two of them, then plopped them on his plate. Next he ladled some fruit on top and dug in. “You cooked for the boys?” Sheila asked. “I thought that’s what Shama was for.” Martha sighed loudly and heartfully. She picked up her mug again, downed it, then cleared her voice. “Sheila, you used to be sweet to everyone. I don’t understand what has changed your goodness into wrinkled prunes of disparagement.” Sheila started to interrupt. “Mother,” she cried out in dismay. “No. You listen. I don’t know what Ben Stevens wrote you, but this is the truth. I plan to adopt Shama and the boys. I’m aiming to make them my family, and you can argue until your face turns green with jealousy, or you can settle down and adjust to it.” Sheila’s mouth shot open, then closed. The fork with a bite of scrambled eggs that had never made it into her mouth was still lying on the tablecloth where she’d dropped it at the first admonishment from her mother. “Honestly, that is completely ridiculous. These boys are as common as the girl,” Sheila declared, sniffing with contempt. Martha’s eyes narrowed with rage. “Enough! Sheila, you are no longer welcome in this house. Go home and think about your nastiness. You may try again tomorrow, but leave, right now!” Martha rose, scooted her chair back under the table, and signaled to the boys to come join her. Although Francis still had his mouth full of pancake, he and his brother scrambled up and ran towards her, inserting their little hands in Martha’s. None of them looked back as they walked away.
9.18 Witchly Trials and Complications
I prepared a heaping bowl of pancake mix. After the horrible evening, I figured that would be one way to boost the smiles on the boys’ faces. Bunny pancakes, like Martha made. Or maybe, snowmen or . . . The boys came thumping down the stairs. Their voices seemed light and cheery even without the knowledge of the morning treat. They came dashing into the kitchen to say good morning, and in their wake, Martha entered, looking restored by her night of sleep (and Willow’s purring, because my kitten familiar seemed to have excellent powers of healing.) “Pancakes?” Martha asked, peeking into the bowl as if she had any doubts with the pan already on the burner heating up. “May I make them?” she asked. “Yes, yes!” the boys shouted out. “With bunny ears?” Carlo asked. Martha smiled down at the two little boys, her face revealing that she was as excited as they were. Martha hadn’t been cooking anything for months, not since she was so sick that we feared to lose her, but this morning, she donned her kitchen apron and set to work. The boys scurried to set the table. Carlo liked to place the cloths under the silverware. Francis was old enough now even to put out the plates and pour the milk. The first batch of pancakes was on their plates a few minutes later. I’d fried some eggs to go with the bacon, and there was fruit salad left from dinner. It was a nice spread for only the four of us. For a moment I missed not having Dr. Stevens and Frank sharing a meal with us, but since they hadn’t arrived yet, I assumed they were both working. I poured Martha and me some coffee and had just sat down to eat a Martha bunny when a knock sounded at the front door. By its nature, it was easy to tell that it wasn’t either of the men. I stood up and went to greet our company, knowing already that it would be the grouchy ogre. Yes, I hear you Old Mother, I said to myself. Old Mother would be telling me to feel empathy for Sheila, and definitely not be calling her ugly names, (even if that was only in my mind.) But, I’d never said I was perfect. I opened the door and was just about to invite Sheila in when she pushed past me without a word, almost, in fact, barreling me over. “Mother, I’m here,” Sheila called out. I closed the front door gently, (although, yes, I was tempted to slam it,) then returned to the table. Sheila had already invited herself to breakfast and looked like she was impatiently waiting for me to serve her. I went to get Sheila a plate, utensils, and a mug of coffee, and had pushed the platters of food in her direction when Carlo looked over at Sheila and said. “Are you going to be mean again?”
9.17 Witchly Trials and Complications
(Frank) “No, you’re wrong, Ben,” I said, giving him an amused smile. “If you married Martha, Grumpy Toes would become your daughter.” The man let out moan deep enough almost to shake the house in its wake. Then, he shook his head, rose up, and said, “Yeah, you’re right. Good thing Martha won’t have anything to do with me.” I was still chuckling as he saw himself out. I gathered our dishes, retreated to the kitchen to wash them up so Shama wouldn’t have to do it, then walked out of the house, locking the door with the key Martha had given me. Strangely, I was whistling as I made my way to the sheriff’s station. I’d spent the evening with Shama, and despite the sourness of the Sheila nastiness, I’d had a pleasant evening. Anytime I was near my future wife it was a good evening, I figured, and with that note, I changed the song to a happy tune about lovers working out all their problems. Shama The next morning arrived quickly, as it was prone to do. I clad myself in jeans and a tee and spent time with Frey, as was my habit first thing. There was always fresh manure in the backyard which I shoveled up twice a day to keep the neighbors from complaining. Frank and I still hadn’t figured out a good way to deal with the filled garbage cans since Tinkle Town’s only dump collector had retired and moved away. The small backyard had no room for a compost pile, so Frank and I were still filling up the garbage cans and hauling them away. When we did that, borrowing a truck from Mr. Beanie who owned the hay store, it took a good twenty minute’s drive to get to the unclaimed lands north of the town. There, Frank and I, with the help of the boys, spread the manure out thinly so it could fertilize new trees without bringing flies to Tinkle Town. But that wasn’t one of Frey’s worries, of course. My stallion was just always glad to see me and to get his morning carrots and apples. He enjoyed our grooming sessions, too. He loved having his whiskers brushed, the only horse I’d ever known that favored that. But then, Frey was unique. I’d raised him from a day-old foal, and I think he thought he was human. Without a doubt, he believed he was my best friend, which was absolutely true. That morning, Willow didn’t pop out like she usually did. The kitten liked to sit on Frey’s strong back and watch proceedings. I assumed she’d stayed inside to be with Martha or was greeting the boys, kissing their faces to waken them. I missed her company, but I had little time to give her attention anyway. My actions were always quick in the morning, because I needed to get inside and get cleaned up before the others got out of bed. Then I’d start the coffee and prepare breakfast. Having a routine helped. It meant that there were few moments lost in contemplation or admiring the wondrous orange and gold sky of sunrise. I started the bacon frying, but couldn’t keep myself from worrying about Martha. I hoped the stress of the day before hadn’t sent my dear friend back into an invalid state. I wondered if Ben’s letter to Sheila had mentioned how sick her mother had been a couple of months ago.
9.16 Witchly Trials and Complications
Frank: This wooing of Shama was going overly slow. I knew it was my fault. All of it, but I wanted to return to the easy camaraderie we’d had before. I wanted to put my arms around her and sprinkle kisses across her forehead, nose, and lips. Fates, did I ever want that. But there was a huge wall between us that hadn’t been there before. A stubborn wall, perhaps, although I’d badly earned its presence. I loved the boys. I wanted to claim them as mine as much as the sweet woman I loved. I hoped we could go before the judge and request that. But it would be difficult. How could the boys be given to us when their father remained alive? Would he ever allow them to be adopted? In my dealings with him, from his jail cell, I’d seen no interest in the boys’ fate. The man absolutely had no tender feelings for them, but yet, I would bet that he wouldn’t let them go. They were his property, to do with as he pleased. Would the judge order the prisoner’s death? He had murdered his wife, their mother, sneaking into the hospital to finish her off. That would be considered pre-meditated. But justice was fickle. A good acting job could put off the death sentence. Besides, public hangings weren’t good for the town’s citizens. Perhaps the judgement and the rendering could go elsewhere? I’d suggest that. My mind was wandering, as it did so often. My coffee was gone, as was the doctor’s. Was it time to call it a night? “So you took Sheila home.” I said. Duh. I knew that already. Ben had already said it, but it was an opening to the road I wanted to walk down. “Sheila’s going to be difficult, going to cause Martha problems.” “Yeap. You’ve sure got that right. I expect there will be a big cat fight before this all gets settled. Maybe it will make Martha see that what she wants to do is wrong.” I picked up my mug and tried to inhale another drop. It was empty. I set it back down. There might be more coffee in the kitchen. I wondered if I should check. “I don’t want Shama hurt by that,” I said, forcing my voice to come out even and calm. Ben’s eyes scanned my face. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you. Just sweep the girl up in your arms and carry her off.” I laughed. “You think she’d ever forgive that?” “No,” he said, shaking his head with a soft chuckle. “If I thought that would really work, I would have done it years ago with Martha. You know, If you married Shama, and I married Martha, we wouldn’t have to deal with Grumpy Toes.” I’d never known Ben to name call folks. He didn’t believe in that, but Sheila had gone way past what was cordial. She deserved the name. I grinned.
9.15 Witchly Trials and Complications
I’d managed to finish the dishes, scrub the pans, and get the kitchen back into spit spot condition before I heard Dr. Stevens call out that he’d returned. It had been nice of him to walk Sheila to the house where she’d lived before. Not that it was dangerous in Tinkle Town. No one would have bothered the woman. Many would probably recognize her from her younger days and be happy to see her. I doubted Dr. Stevens had wanted to accompany her, though. Perhaps he’d felt guilty for having written to Sheila about what Martha was planning to do. That letter had caused a bunch of stress and drama and was the entire reason for Sheila’s arrival. But, I suppose it needed to be done. Although it was Martha’s right to do as she wanted, I’m sure her daughter felt that she should have a say in it. Frankly, I saw both sides. I really, really wished I weren’t in the middle of it. I set out the doctor’s piece of cake, poured him some coffee, and sat down a minute to keep him company while he ate. It seemed he wanted to apologize for Sheila’s behavior. I listened as he said his piece, but I changed the subject the moment I politely could. Inside the living room, the book reading was over. Frank ordered the boys to go up to their beds. Of course, they came running into where I sat to bid me a good night. I hugged and kissed them each, then watched as Frank with a fond smile sent them packing. “You want to tuck them in, or should I?” he asked. My heart wanted me to do it, but there was a look in Frank’s eyes that told me he was hoping to get to have the pleasure of it, so I told Frank that I was keeping Dr. Stevens company while he ate his cake. Glancing over, I saw that the doctor’s plate was empty, so I changed it to, “I mean, while he finishes his coffee.” Besides, mentioning the cake might make both men beg for a second slice. That thought was in vane, however. When Frank came back downstairs, Dr. Stevens was drinking a second cup of coffee . . . and eating another slice of cake. I’d placed one out for Frank, too, with a fresh mug of coffee. “If you two will excuse me,” I said, once Frank had sat down and finished thanking me for seconds. “I want to check in on Martha.” We said our good nights, and I carried a tray with tea and cake, in case Martha wanted them, up the staircase. As I’d guessed, Martha was still awake. She smiled at me, waved for me to set the tray down on the table by her bed and asked me to sit with her awhile. Willow was curled up at Martha’s side, purring full force. I patted the kitten’s head, then set myself down in the spare chair. I wasn’t eager to discuss the dinner or to give an opinion about Sheila. Luckily, Martha didn’t ask me anything. She started in talking right off about witchcraft.
9.14 Witchly Trials and Complications
The boys had cleaned their plates, yet they still did justice to the big slab of cake I brought each of them. Frank did, too, practically licking the plate, or at least scraping up every bit of icing with the side of his fork. While the three of them were eating their dessert, I cleared the table and started in on the kitchen. Dishes always seemed to pile up, especially when dinner included company. Of course, Frank and Dr. Stevens were practically regulars at mealtime, so there had only actually been one extra plate at the table, but I had prepared extra side dishes in case our guest didn’t like something. When the cake was gone, the boys retreated back into the living room to play with their blocks. Frank came in to help with the dishes, but I asked him to watch over the children instead. Since Martha had gone to bed, they had no one to supervise their play. Although they were both well-behaved and rarely got into spats with each other, they were still just little boys who needed adult eyes on them. That wasn’t really an unusual request. Frank spent a lot of time with the boys. They’d even begun to think of him as their daddy, which made me feel a little uneasy, but it was good for them to have a strong male figure in their life, one who didn’t have the violent tendencies of their real father. I was glad that they had adopted Frank so readily, but it did put pressure on me to reaffirm the relationship I’d had with the sheriff before the incident when . . . No sense thinking of that. Frank had let me down, distrusted me, and almost chased me away with his suspicions about my moral character, but he’d long ago apologized. I needed to get beyond that let down. I wanted to give Frank another chance, or at least I was leaning in that direction. I heard Frank send the boys upstairs to put on their pajamas. Since they’d already had their bath earlier, in honor of Sheila’s arrival, their bed preparation was quick. In minutes, the thumping of their bare feet coming down the stairs, informed me that they’d returned to the living room. I soon heard a discussion of the evening’s book, and then I could picture Frank on the couch, the boys sitting as close beside him as they could wiggle, probably draped across him. I loved the way Frank did book reading. The man had no talent for voices, so each time, he stopped and said, “And what does this character sound like?” Little Carlo always did the animal sounds, and Francis produced voices. It was always a treat for me to listen in on such pleasantness.
9.13 Witchly Trials and Complications
At the table, everyone was silent. Dr. Stevens stood up, pushed in his chair and said, “Will you save me whatever it is you’ve fixed for dessert, Shama? I’ll be right back, but I think I should walk Sheila to the house she’s staying at tonight.” Sheila didn’t move. She was pouting like a toddler. “My mother expects me to spend the night alone? Why can’t I stay here?” Dr. Stevens cleared his throat and heaved a heavy sigh. “I’d say it was fairly obvious that your mother has sent you to your room for bad behavior, so to speak,”he explained. “And I think that’s an excellent idea. Besides, being in your old bedroom in the house you grew up in should be much more comfortable for you.” “It isn’t about comfort,” Sheila said. “It’s an outrage. I’m her daughter. And why does she own two houses, anyway? Wasn’t our family home good enough for her?” No one looked up to respond. In my eyes, if Martha wanted to buy a hundred houses, it was her business, not her snotty daughter’s, but silence was more congenial than putting Sheila in her place. Besides, there were all those things Old Mother had said, about a rude person being an unhappy person. Something was really wrong in Sheila’s life. She was practically bursting at the seams with anguish. Without looking at any of us or saying anything, Sheila stood up and walked out of the room, heading for the front door with Dr. Stevens. Neither of them were talking either. I suppose his words had chastised her, hopefully enough for her to rethink her attitude. I had finished eating. I’d barely taken a bite of my salad, but sometimes a person just can’t eat. Old Mother called that an emotional fill-up. My body would have push away all the unpleasantness before I could manage another bite. Meanwhile, the boys were still eating. “Do we still get some dessert even though the company is gone?” Francis asked, his eyes wide with worry a he continued to chew a mouthful of biscuit. Sheila had said such cruel things about the boys. Hadn’t her petty beliefs registered on them? In addition, there’d been all that talk about their mother being killed by their father. But Carlo was scooping up potato salad like someone might try to steal it. No loss of appetite for either of them. I smiled at my sweet little boys, thanking the Fates that they seemed unharmed by what Sheila had said . “She’s very ugly,” Carlo interjected, as if reading my worries. Frank jumped in before I could think of how to respond to that. “Gentlemen never say such things about a lady. Carlo. Besides, Sheila isn’t an ugly woman. She’s rather handsome.” “You’re just saying that because she’s Martha’s daughter,” Francis said. “But her face is ugly because she makes it like that. But I think what Carlo means is that she’s mean. Ugly and mean are different, maybe.” “She’s just unhappy,” I said, interrupting their man to man talk. “Maybe that’s because Sheila doesn’t have two sweet little boys who love her,” I added, springing up to give them both a big hug before I headed back into the kitchen for the chocolate cake everyone was wanting.
9.12 Witchly Trials and Complications
“What rubbish. The judge isn’t going to kill your father. Surely this town has more mercy than that,” Sheila said, sticking her nose where it had no business going. I opened my mouth to contest that, but I didn’t really want to add vinegar to open wounds. Besides, maybe the judge wouldn’t order the man’s death. Did they hang people in this town? (Or maybe they stoned them, like my town had tried to do with me?) Would the death of Francis’ and Carlo’s father be a good thing or a bad one? What if the boys’ father was declared not guilty? What if he demanded the boys back? My heart started pumping faster at the thought. Perhaps Frank felt my tension. He rubbed the back of my hand in a soothing manner. I think he was about to speak, but Dr. Stevens added his own thoughts at that moment. “I think this conversation is hard on the boys, Sheila. It would be better if we just finished this delicious dinner that Shama prepared and left the matter alone. Boys, it’s some distance off and all this worrying about which way justice will prevail won’t help anyone.” “Who is Justice?” Carlo, the four-year-old asked. “Is he the judge?” “Justice is not a person. It’s doing things right,” Francis told his little brother. “Justice is what our father should have done — instead of killing our mother.” “Oh,” Carlo said. “Then I hope Justice does kill our father. Our father’s mean.” “Yeah,” his brother said, leaving us all speechless. Except for Sheila. She didn’t seem to have any compassion in her soul. “I can’t believe I’m sitting at the table with the two sons of a murderer. Thank goodness I didn’t bring my own sweet children.” Martha suddenly stiffened in her chair. She leaned forward, turned her head, and met the eyes of her daughter fully. “Do you still remember how to get to the house you grew up in?” she asked Sheila. “Of course, I do,” her daughter said, acting like her mother was half demented. “Good. It’s not nearly dark yet. I’m sure you can walk yourself home. I’ve had more than enough of your company this evening.” “What?” Sheila gasped. “I’m not done with the meal. And you and I haven’t gotten to talk privately yet. I was expecting some time with you alone. That’s why I traveled so far.” “Good evening, Daughter. I hope you sleep well,” Martha said, rising from her seat and slowly walking away from the table. She stopped after a few steps and without turning around continued. “Shama, thank you for the lovely dinner you prepared. Goodnight Carlo, Francis, Frank and Ben.” She sighed heartily, then said, “Shama, I sincerely hope Willow will come visit me. I’m feeling poorly right now.” “Willow,” I said no louder than a whisper, mainly because I knew she could hear my voice without my saying a thing. The kitten could probably feel Martha’s need. I bet anything Willow would scurry into Martha’s bedroom before Martha herself arrived there.