Secondhand Spirits (7 page)

Or should I go further and try to get Jessica back? Was it even possible? And could I then somehow banish
La Llorona
? Graciela used to tell me that I hadn't come anywhere near the limits of my abilities; she said I lacked the courage to explore my power. But I left home before finishing my formal training, and I feared unleashing powers I would not be able to control. Now that I was creating a home for myself, and even developing friendships, was I grounded enough to go further with my talents? Or would dueling with a child-stealing demon put everything I had been working for—my “normalness”—at risk?

Chapter 5

Back at my cozy apartment, Oscar ate a peanut butter sandwich and then curled up to sleep on top of the refrigerator. He was snoring within minutes. I wasn't so lucky; sleep proved elusive. I took a long shower, scrubbing myself with a natural loofah and olive oil soap, then tried to clarify my mind by burning a little frankincense and myrrh.

The incense made my apartment smell fantastic, but my thoughts were as jumbled as ever. Indicative of my desperation, I unearthed my heavy crystal ball from the old black steamer trunk at the foot of my bed. A gift from one of Graciela's wealthier magical friends, the crystal ball sat on a base of intricately worked gold inlaid with semiprecious stones. It was easily the most valuable item I owned.

I set it on the coffee table in the living room, sat cross-legged before it, breathed deeply to center myself, and gazed into the crystal ball.

Divination was not my strong suit. I often experienced a foreshadowing of things to come, as though my spirit guide were warning me, but that was about the extent of my fortune-telling talents. At times I suspected Graciela believed I was faking my lack of such an obvious skill, but it was no joke. My life would have been much simpler if only I had been able to foretell the future.

The art of seeing things in a reflective surface—a crystal ball, a mirror, or even the surface of the water—is called scrying. It's a classic tool for witches and seers, but I just plain wasn't any good at it. I concentrated on staying focused but open, willing my mind to concentrate while simultaneously allowing it to wander—no mean feat. This is the kind of skill that anyone can hone with enough training, but some practitioners are much more gifted than others from the git-go.

As was typical for me, I could see only fleeting shadows, silent and unfathomable, in my crystal ball. Plenty of portentous omens, but not a one gave me any clear sign as to what was going on in the present, much less the future. Nothing to shed light on Jessica's fate or to explain the presence of the dreaded
La Llorona
in San Francisco.

Not a single, cotton-pickin' thing. Frankly, if the spirits couldn't clarify things, I'd just as soon they kept their omens to themselves.

I stifled the decidedly unwitchlike impulse to throw my beautiful crystal ball through the window and watch it shatter on the street below.

 

I awoke to a gargoyle with questionable breath perched on my brass bedstead, staring at me upside down.

“Can I have the pizza?”

“What?” I croaked.

“Can I have the leftover pizza in the fridge?”

“It's
may
I have the pizza.”

“
May
I?” He rolled his big green eyes.

“Surely. Help yourself.”

He bounced onto the bed, then trampolined onto the floor.

“You really don't have to ask, Oscar; just make yourself at home.”

The warmth of my cushy comforter beckoned me, tempting me to roll over and go back to sleep. But once I'm up, I'm up. Besides, bright sunshine streamed through my multipaned windows in San Francisco's version of a late winter's morning, and I felt my spirits lift. As my grandmother used to say, despite tragedy and grief, the sun will always rise.

The great thing about owning my store—and living above it—was that it was like having an enormous walk-in closet. My whole life I've been a blue-jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal, but lately I'd developed an addiction to my own vintage clothes. I sneaked downstairs in the purple silk kimono I used as a robe and started poking around.

With bits of pizza crust and mushrooms decorating his snout, Oscar trotted along at my heels, in his piggy mode in case anyone was peeking in through the front plate-glass windows.

After some consideration I tried on a sleeveless late- 1950s pink-orange-and-aqua floral dress with a scoop neck, wide skirt, and a narrow pink belt. It came from a garage sale in Marin, and its vibrations were comforting and mellow. I assessed my reflection in the full-length mirror. The outfit suited me. I'm of average height and weight, nothing special. Dark hair and eyes. I tan easily, but since I never take the time to sunbathe, I tend toward pale. Men don't drive into lampposts when I walk down the street, but I receive my share of appreciative glances and subtle once-overs.

I topped the dress with a soft turquoise cashmere cardigan, pulled my straight dark brown hair back in its customary ponytail, and tied it with a butter yellow silk scarf. Oversize pink, orange, and yellow Bakelite bangles finished off the outfit. A sweep of mascara and sheer pink lipstick completed my simple makeup regimen.

Compared to my earlier globe-trotting life, my current everyday schedule might seem a bit tedious to many. But after years of rootlessness, I reveled in my shopkeeping routine. I loaded an old Billie Holiday CD into the store stereo and sang along to
Lady Day
, imagining myself to be like any other merchant along Haight Street who started work early, straightened her inventory, washed her windows, and put the cash in the register.

Unlike most of my neighboring business owners, however, I always took time before opening to cleanse the shop of negative vibrations by sprinkling salt water counterclockwise around the periphery of the store, and then smudging deosil with a sage bundle. Afterward, I lit a beeswax candle, murmured a brief protective incantation at the front doorway, grabbed my usual marketing basket, flipped my hand-painted wooden sign to OPEN, and unlocked the front door to Aunt Cora's Closet at ten o'clock sharp
.

On the curb directly in front of the store sat a tall, gaunt man-boy. Conrad was a neighborhood fixture who referred to himself in the third person as “the Con,” though as far as I could tell he hadn't actually done any time in prison. Come to think of it, unlike most of the local youth, he had no visible tattoos at all, prison-inspired or otherwise.

He turned to greet me.

“Dude,” which he pronounced,
doooooooood
. “How you doin' this fine sunny day?”

“I'm well, Conrad. And how are you?”

“Fit as a fiddle and ready to roll. Want me to sweep your sidewalk?”

This was our unwritten rule: Conrad did an errand for me and kept an eye on the store while I went down the block to the café to buy him breakfast—usually bagels or a couple of cinnamon rolls—along with a drink called Flower Power, a trademarked mix of espresso, chai, and soy milk. I kept hoping the near-daily morning meal would put a little weight on his skeletal frame.

Since the 1960s the streets of “the Haight” have been a beacon to young men and women hoping to find—or lose—themselves among the open-minded citizens who people this town. They come from the mountains of Wisconsin and the streets of New York City and the suburbs of Kansas in search of a bohemian ideal of music, a non-materialistic life, and an ethos of tolerance. Unfortunately, a lot of them realize too late that high rents mean life on the streets, and many fall under the spell of easily available drugs. A lot of locals refer to them, as they do to themselves, as “gutter punks,” but I hate the derisive tone of the phrase.

Conrad liked to say he was high on life, but his blood-shot, often unfocused eyes told a different story. I had offered many times to help him get off whatever he was on, but so far he had politely and consistently refused my assistance. I was tempted to hurry the process along by forcing him with magical intervention, but as with so much in life, “the Con” would have to be
ready
to change before he could succeed in any sort of lasting psychic transformation. The effects of enchantment are not all-powerful; rather, they are limited in the face of the dogged human pursuit of self-destruction. You have to believe, to
want
, in order to have a dream come about.

This is true even for us witches. Many's the time I've wished I could just wiggle my nose and make things happen like a certain television “witch” I grew up watching on after-school reruns. But real magic isn't that simple. A properly cast spell opens and broadens opportunities; it's then up to each individual to pursue them. Witch or no witch, there was no way around the fact that establishing a vintage clothing shop took a lot of long hours, hard work, and moving outside one's comfort zone. In some ways I wasn't so far removed from Conrad; I had to deal with my own daily fears and stubborn addictions.

Today I asked Conrad to unload the bags of Frances's clothes from the van rather than sweep the sidewalk. I led him over to the driveway I rented right around the corner from the shop, opened up the van's sliding side door, and then hurried down the street to the quirky, funky coffee shop called Coffee to the People.

As its name suggests, Coffee to the People is an unrepentant throwback to San Francisco's famed Summer of Love. Classic Bob Dylan or Grateful Dead tunes dominate the playlist on the overhead speakers. The walls are plastered with bumper stickers reading: DEMOCRACY IS A MUSCLE; USE IT OR LOSE IT!, HAS ANYONE SEEN MY CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHTS?, and YOUR SILENCE WILL NOT PROTECT YOU. Large posters feature Mandela, Gandhi, Einstein, and Harriet Tubman, and dated pins plastered to the tables read, STOP THE OCCUPATION OF EL SALVADOR, SUPPORT OUR BROTHERS IN VIETNAM, and FREE NICARAGUA.

Finally, the coffee drinks are made from fair-trade beans, and there are multiple vegan options for baked goods that succeed in making me feel guilty about being an omnivore. I'm always half expecting Angela Davis to pop out of the bathroom and deliver a lecture on issues of social justice.

Still, the times they are a-changing: The café now offers free Wi-Fi. As I swung open the dark wood-and-glass front door and walked in, few eyes looked up from the glowing screens of MacBook portable computers, and at least half the crowd wore earphones that attached them to electronic equipment while cutting them off from the people around them in a way I imagined must be anathema to 1960s ideals. This morning four bleary-looking students were already sprawled on the big, cushy couches near the back, while a group of young women sat at a large round table, chatting and knitting. All in all the ca fé's a bit noisy, some of the people can be rather fragrant, and I wouldn't recommend leaving your laptop unattended for even a second. But it is just
so
San Francisco.

I took my place in line, knowing from experience that it would move slowly. The sometimes surly baristas existed in their own world, involving one another, the music, or their friends leaning on the counter telling loud stories over the noise of the steamer.

But I bided my time, enjoying the chance to people-watch. Bronwyn and I had started swapping our favorite “overheard” snatches of conversation from the coffee line. Today a tall, lithe wood sprite of a teenager turned to her slouching, purple-haired companion, put her hands on her hips, and declared: “He's just so
unabashed
when he talks about the theoretical aesthetics of commercial architecture. After all, it's just more . . . what's the word? I don't know, just I guess
essential
to live in a world of essence.”

I tried to commit it to memory.

“What'll you have?” demanded the barista, Wendy, when it was my turn.

“Something chocolate,” I said, hoping Wendy might jump in with a suggestion. Yesterday's events and three hours' sleep left me feeling like an emotional punching bag, and the only cure I knew for such a state was chocolate.

“I can't decide between a cayenne hot chocolate and the Chocolate to the People,” I tried again when Wendy remained mute. “What do you suggest?”

Wendy tapped her black-painted, chipped fingernails on the counter, barely refraining from rolling her eyes. She didn't share much in common with her Peter Pan namesake. She was big and tall, her bangs cut straight across, the rest of her thick dark hair slightly curled under and cut to brush the top of her shoulders. A brave young woman who seemed quite at home in her own oversize-for-current-fashion body, she had a tendency to wear black satin bustiers and other lingerie items as everyday clothing.

“I'll just go with the Chocolate to the People, then,” I said when it became clear Wendy wasn't going to be of any assistance. “And I'll take one Flower Power, two cinnamon rolls, and a bagel with cream cheese and avocado . . . and jalapenos.”

My personal goal was to come here often enough so Wendy and the other regular barista, Xander, would recognize me, smile in welcome, and maybe even ask, “The usual?” as they did with their friends. Complicating this plan was that I never ordered the same thing twice. Still, a witch can dream.

Ten minutes later I emerged into the sunshine balancing my goodies in my handwoven Brazilian basket, and crossed the street.

“Lily!”

I looked around to see a neighboring merchant, Sandra, trotting out of her storefront and waving me down. A petite, pretty woman in her mid-thirties, she stopped when she reached me on the sidewalk. As usual, she stood just a little too close and stared just a little too intently.

“Good morning, Sandra. How are you?” I asked.

“I'm so glad I caught you outside your shop! I've been trying to get you over here for days! I believe you simply work too hard. Staffing the store every day plus buying and then preparing all the clothes—it's too much!”