From a corner of what had become her wingback chair, the hefty albino
cat—Elvira detested it when I referred to her as fat—glared at me. She seemed
annoyed I was wasting the morning on a made for TV movie.
“What?” I said to her.
She rolled her eyes—well, that’s what it
looked like to me.
“Give me a break, will you?” I said. “I
was up half the night writing.”
She snorted.
“What do you mean I didn’t write
anything that mattered?”
She tilted her head.
I shifted on the sofa and bent toward
her. “I’m not bullshitting you!” My voice went up an octave. “You were there.
You saw what I was—”
At the very moment I realized the cat
had again drawn me into an argument, I heard a knock on my front door. My face
hot—from anger at Elvira or embarrassment at letting her get the better of the
argument?—I jumped from the sofa and yanked the door open.
“What?” I demanded with a sharp edge to
my voice.
On my door stoop stood a black quilted
jacket, green rubber boots laced over baggy jeans, a flannel scarf wound around
the little I could see of a face, and a knit cap pulled so low on a head the
figure looked like a cartoon character with no ears. The man on the stoop might
have been a predator who intended to break into my home, ravish my body, and
make off with my treasures. Okay, I’ve already admitted I have an active
imagination. There are no treasures in my home, and my body—well, let’s just
say it’s been a long time since anyone would risk jail for ravishing me.
Besides, I knew who this was. Earlier, while I poured my coffee, through the window
I’d watched my neighbor ride his snowplow like it was the mechanical bull at
Flannery’s Bar.
On the frigid side of the storm door,
Roger Frey swiveled his head from side-to-side, as if searching for who I
hollered at.
At times, I’ve stood before a mirror,
arguing with myself, and seen what I look like when I blush. My neck gets as
red as my hair, then the color dashes uphill past my face to my forehead. So, I
knew what Roger saw when he looked at me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled to what I could see
of his face. “Cranky. I was up half the night.”
His voice muted by the scarf covering
his mouth, he said, “No need to apologize.” He knew the hours I kept when the
muse plopped down next to me.
The glass door misted when he leaned
close to peer past my shoulder.
I looked behind me. Elvira had followed
me to the door. She stared at us, head slightly tilted. The pale pink of her
eyes darkened as if she’d decided something.
Roger nodded at her. “At least you’re
not alone anymore.”
“Me or the cat?” I said.
“Both, I suppose.” When Roger pulled
down the scarf, his grin showed the small gap between his front teeth.
“I prefer being alone,” I said. “If you want company, feel free to take the
cat.”
My friend and neighbor had been alone
since his wife took off for a warmer place three years ago.
Elvira sniffed once. Then she turned
abruptly, wiggled her large derriere at me, and curled up on the floor at my
feet.
Roger laughed out loud.
As if loosened by the laughter that
exploded from deep inside him, a sheet of snow skidded off the roof. He must
have heard the rumble, because he took a quick step backwards. He wasn’t fast
enough, though. While half the snow thudded to the ground, the rest flattened
his wool cap and spilled down his face. His hazel eyes rounded in surprise.
Now I
laughed. With snow all over his body, it looked as though Frosty the Snowman
was on my stoop. I opened the storm door and
brushed the snow from his cheek. “Come in here,” I said. “Let me dry you
off.”
He stamped his feet on the mat to rid
himself of most of the snow.
As I stepped aside to make room for him
to pass, I stumbled over the cat.
Roger moved faster than he had to avoid
the snow drift from my roof. His arm shot out. “Careful!” he said, and grabbed
me around the waist just as I began to flop like a rag doll to floor.
The man is certainly strong. In a single
motion, he lifted me from my feet then set me down. His arms still surrounded
me.
“You okay?”
I nodded, but couldn’t speak, not even
to say yes. I’m sure it was because I was a little bit in shock.
At last he released me, and bent to
stroke the cat. “That wasn’t nice, Elvira,” he said. “You could’ve hurt Emlyn.”
I also leaned down to stroke her. “This
beast probably intended to do it.”
When I glanced at Roger, his face was
precariously close to mine. The look in his eyes told me he might not mind
being nearer still.
“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled, and pulled back
to put a safe distance between us. “She probably did it on purpose…” My words
drifted into a crimson haze.
His cheeks also a bit red—I told myself
this was probably from the near-zero temperature outside—he straightened up,
and unwound his scarf. His chin and upper lip were dark. The morning stubble
enhanced rather than detracted from his chiseled cheekbones and slightly cleft
chin. This was a handsome man by anybody’s reckoning. More than that, he was
kind. He looked after his neighbors, and made sure we were safe. I’d often
wondered why Judy, his ex-wife, would leave such a man.
“I, uh, stopped by to, um…” he said.
I looked down. I had nothing on but my
pajamas and robe, and the robe had fallen loose when I nearly fell. Trying not
to be obvious about it, I tied my robe closed.
Roger took a deep breath. “Yes, uh, the
UPS guy brought this.”
He pulled off his gloves, unzipped his
jacket, and took a cardboard box from a large inside pocket. Holding it out, he
said, “It came yesterday afternoon. All the snow, the UPS guy couldn’t get to
your door, so he left it with me.”
The box was about nine inches wide, a
foot long, and maybe two inches thick. I turned it over in my hands, examined
the label. The return address said the package came from Naples, Florida.
“It’s from my mother,” I said.
“What is it?” Roger asked.
I shrugged. “I’d have to open the box to
find out.”
“So, open it.”
Glancing sideways at him, I smiled.
“Later.”
“Come on,” he said, and reached for the
package. “I hauled it all the way over here. Plowed out your driveway while I
was at it. You gotta show me what’s in there.”
“All the way over, huh?” I laughed. “You
live next door.”
“Yeah, well.” He took off his jacket,
and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. His black hooded sweatshirt
barely made it to his hips. “I had to wade through three feet of snow to get
here. That’s gotta be worth something.”
I laid the package on the kitchen
counter. “How about some coffee?”
I yanked the wet knit cap from his head,
and tossed it into the sink. Snow clinging to the fibers sprinkled onto his
dark brown hair, and melted into the gray that had begun to invade his temples.
While I brushed the wet beads from his curls, I said, “A gentleman takes off
his hat when he comes inside.”
He picked the box up and handed it to
me. “Don’t try to change the subject. I know you, Emlyn Goode. You’re dying to
look inside.”
I was. But it was just so much fun to
tease him. A girl’s got to do that now and then, just to stay in practice. I
turned my back, and refilled my mug then poured coffee into a second mug.
He pushed the box in front of me.
“You’re a big snoop, you know that?” I
said.
He let out the laugh that never failed
to disarm me. “Of course I am. I’m a cop. Snooping is what I do.”
“Yup, and I’m your good buddy. Like in
novels, it’s the sidekick’s job to give the cop a hard time. That’s in my job
description.” I pointed at the package. “And see, it’s written right here.”
Another deep, resonant laugh burst from
him. “You’re definitely a piece of
work,” he said.
Elvira seemed to grow impatient with my
stalling. She leaped onto the counter and pawed at the package. How the devil
did she manage to move her large body so lithely?
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I can’t fight
both of you.”
I took the box to my dinette table, and
sat, glancing around.
“What now?” Roger asked.
“I need something to slice the tape
with.”
He tilted sideways in his chair and pulled
a Swiss army knife from his pants pocket. As he flicked open the smaller blade,
he said, “I was a boy scout, I’m always prepared.”
Settled on Roger’s lap, the cat smacked
his hand with her paw. Then she glared at me. C’mon, knock off the flirting and get to it, she seemed to
say—well, that’s what her growl sounded like.
I slit the tape and raised the cardboard
flaps. Inside was what appeared to be a very old book. Without removing it from
the box, I carefully lifted the leather cover. The words on the first page were
faded. Still I was able to make some of them out.
“What is it?” Roger asked.
“Seems to be someone’s diary.” I suspect
I sounded puzzled. Why would my mother send me something like this?
Between the next
two pages was an envelope addressed to me. Inside was a note. I’ve been holding onto this, Mom wrote, hoping the line that’s led from Sarah Goode would end with me.
Apparently it hasn’t, so I’m sending you this. Please, Emlyn, try to make
better use of this than some of our ancestors have.
Elvira sniffed the book and purred.
Quickly, I refolded the letter.
Roger leaned over, peered into my eyes.
“What is it?” he said.
“It’s…um, it’s…” I stammered as I
searched for a lie he might believe. I didn’t want to tell him my mother had
sent me Sarah Goode’s Book of Shadows.
A guy like Roger—his life was built on the belief every mystery could be
logically explained, and magic is nothing but sleight-of-hand. He’d remarked
about that the night we saw David Copperfield perform at the Seneca Niagara
Casino. The fastest way to end our friendship was to tell him I’m the latest in
a 350-year line of witches. If I said that, he would stare at me as though I’d
winked at him from a third eye in the center of my forehead. Then he’d leave
and not come back. Oh, he’d be polite about it—Roger’s always polite. But our
friendship would be over. I mean, if it ever got out Detective Roger Frey of the Niagara Falls Police Department had a witch
for a friend, he’d die of embarrassment. Or maybe he’d have to resign
his position or even move to Rochester or something. If he did, who would plow
my driveway then knock on my door to share my morning coffee and help me with
the Sunday crossword puzzle?
What? I already said I have a vivid
imagination.
As if Sarah Goode’s book was catnip,
Elvira dropped her head on it, mewed, and rubbed her paw across her face. Roger
shoved her aside, and leaned over to see, I supposed, what caused my concern.
Before he could remove the book from the
box, I closed the flaps.
“It’s, uh…um, just an old family diary,”
I said. It wasn’t much of a lie. A Book of Shadows is a diary of a sort. Witches record their herbal mixtures in it,
and the words they chant to work their magic. My friend, Rebecca Nurse, had
explained that when she showed me hers.
