The Witch's Promise (7 page)

After lunch they dropped by Liz's house again for coffee and a walk around the neighborhood. John paused for a minute in the driveway, noticing that the basketball hoop had been taken down, but that the roses were doing quite well. He sighed and shook his head, and then took Jillian's hand. He showed her his old bike routes and the sites of a few of the more memorable adventures from his childhood. Liz supplemented his stories with a mother’s perspective. John had almost forgotten that she would remember things differently, and in some cases he was surprised to learn that she knew what he had been up to.

As they prepared to head back to Washington in the late afternoon, Liz pulled John aside. "She's just what you need, John. Don't let this one get away." John smiled, but his stomach was beginning to bother him.

John and Jillian were both quiet most of the drive home -- seemingly content to listen to the radio. John kept his eyes on the road. Jillian had noticed the stiff formality as he opened the car door for her, and the slight set to his jaw. After more than half an hour, she broke the silence.

"Are you trying to think of a way out?"

"Huh? No, I'm just going to take I-95."

Jillian smiled. "Have it your way. We'll talk later." She reclined her seat and snuggled down for a nap.

John showed no reaction, unless his hands gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

*              *              *

Everyone in the office said they hated the Monday morning staff meeting in the large conference room. Everyone except John. He appreciated the way Hank Douglas, a company vice president and top man at the D.C. office, could run a meeting. It always started on time, focused the staff's attention on the week's work, and always, without any exception, ended on a positive note. John always left the meeting invigorated, focused, and ready to tackle the week.

But today his mind wandered. He knew every face in that room, but somehow he looked on his co-workers differently this week. Of course there was Susan, the New Age nut that he'd always considered no more than an amusing flirt. For the first time he wondered if there might be some depth there -- below the lipstick and the ditzy airs.

And then there was Joe. What a puzzle he was. A staunch Christian of some no-name-brand variety -- John could never keep those things straight -- some would-be descendant of Puritans, maybe. He combined a sort of scientific skepticism and a sterile, almost passionless exterior with a life-changing, all-embracing faith. He read the Bible every day at lunch, but he had no more regard for Susan's form of spirituality than John had a month ago.

John found himself evaluating the familiar personas around the meeting table in a radically new way, and he wasn't exactly sure why. 

When the meeting broke up John got his third cup of coffee and checked his email. He noticed from his buddy list that Sean was online. He pulled out the keyboard from the tray under his light table and tapped in a few commands. John was so accustomed to the voice interface that it felt a little awkward.

JohnMath:
Sean. It's John. Do you have a second?

Aethlrd:
Hi John. Sure. What's up?

JohnMath:
I have to tell you, I'm dying to know what you would have told me from those cards.

Aethlrd:
If you're really interested, I'd be happy to give you another chance. But remember what I said.

JohnMath:
I remember. Are you interested in having a beer again this week? Maybe we can pick a place where the good father won't interrupt us.

Aethlrd:
I'd love to, John, but I'm on leaving on business this afternoon. How about I get in touch when I get back?

JohnMath:
That'd be great.

Aethlrd:
In the meanwhile, can I send you something to read? You might get a little more out of it that way.

JohnMath:
Sure. Nice chatting with you. Have fun on your trip. Where are you going?

Aethlrd:
San Jose. Techie conference. Talk to you soon.

Now I've gone and done it,
he thought. And then a sudden thought struck him and he googled "tarot cards roman catholic perspective."

He sent the documents to his Evernote to read later. 

*              *              *

After a particularly long session at his work table, John decided to stretch his legs with a short jaunt down the hall. He checked his mail box, reviewed the daily offerings in the snack machine, and finding nothing that met both his fancy and his diet, walked toward the kitchen to refill his water bottle. He met Susan along the way.

"Oh, John," she said, "I've been looking for you. Can you come to a party at my house on Friday night?"

"Sure, I'd love to come," John said, surprising his co-worker. "Can I bring a friend?"

Susan smiled warmly. "Of course you can. Who is she?"

"Did I say it was a woman?" John teased.

"John, you're not the type to bring a man to a party," Susan said sarcastically, and truthfully. She paused as she seemed to consider adding something, but decided to let it go. "So, who is she? Or do you want it to be a mystery?"

"No. No mystery. Her name is Jillian. I think you'll like her."

"I'm sure I will, but are you sure she'll be able to come on such short notice? I'm sorry I didn't let you know earlier. I tried to send an inter-office e-mail to everyone and I found out this morning that it didn't make it."

John smiled.
That's because you're a flake, Susan. E-mail works for everyone else.

"I'll be there in any event," John said.

"Great," Susan said, and headed back to her side of the office.

Doug, the lothario from marketing, was making himself a cup of coffee and had overheard the last part of the conversation.

"Jillian, huh? Are you tapping that?" he asked.

"I must have been born in the wrong decade," John said disapprovingly, "because that doesn't strike me as appropriate conversation in the office."

"No offense intended, man," Doug said, amiably. "Just wishing you the best. There's a lot for a man to enjoy as the society falls apart around us."

John looked at Doug with a perplexed expression.

"You believe society's falling apart?" he asked.

"Of course," Doug said. "Just watch TV for half an hour."

"And your reaction is 'how can I capitalize on this?'"

"Definitely," Doug said with a wink. "Enjoy the decline. That's my motto."

When John looked completely aghast, Doug went on.

"Look, if I could wave a magic wand, fix all the trouble and settle down with some lovely lady in a little house with a picket fence, I'd do it in a minute. But I'm short on magic wands. So I say, play the hand you're dealt."

And with that he took his coffee and left.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Pressed, dark gray slacks, a knit shirt and a sports coat seemed just right for an office party. Not too formal, not too casual. And spilled drinks, or food, wouldn't show. But the shoes were a mistake. John accidentally kicked the brake pedal and scuffed the dark brown leather as he parked the car in Jillian's driveway. He assessed the damage on the way her front door. She was ready and waiting. 

"So is this 'Susan from the office'?" Jillian asked as they walked from her door to his car. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I like her just fine," John said as he watched Jillian slip into the passenger seat. She was wearing a knee-length, casual dress. If it didn't fit her so well it would have looked conservative, but when she maneuvered into the seat it showed off her figure quite well.

"Did you make that dress?" he asked as he got in and started the engine.

"Do you like it?" she asked, noncommittally.

"You make it look good," he said -- a comment his mother once made to a young niece -- and then realized he didn't want to insult the dress, especially if Jillian had made it. "I doubt it would be as impressive on a rack."

"I'll take that as a compliment. I did make it. It's a design I've been experimenting with."

He reached over and put his hand on her knee. "Well, it worked," he said, and then kissed her.

The half-hour drive to Susan's house in Annapolis passed quickly. Jillian quizzed John about his co-workers, trying to get all the names straight. It was good practice for John, too, who had to wrack his brain to remember the names of all the spouses. He also knew that remembering a co-worker's name in the office is easy, but seeing them in another setting can strain the brain cells.

"And what about Susan," Jillian asked. "Is she married?"

"Oh no," John laughed, as if that was a crazy idea. "I'm sorry, but I have a hard time picturing the man who would marry her."

"Do you mean she's stranger than I am?"

"Compared to Susan, my dear, you are the most normal person in the world," John said, making the last turn into Susan's court.

Jillian laughed. "Then I look forward to meeting her," she said. They parked across the street from the third house on the left.

"Yep. Whatever you did, it worked," John said, again admiring the dress as he took Jillian's hand and helped her out of the car. She smiled and squeezed his hand as they walked up the driveway.

John immediately noticed a large crowd in the living room. Far larger than he thought, and there were quite a few people from the office, considering the distance to Annapolis. Once inside he found that his co-workers were just as curious as he was about Susan in her own lair.

The house was modern, in the plain sense of modern. Smooth surfaces. Lots of glass and metal. Straight table legs. Square corners. No chair rails or crown molding. It bordered on antiseptic.

It was entirely not what John expected. Susan had a reputation in the office for being messy. Her desk was always cluttered, and she organized papers in stacks on the floor.

She must have a housekeeper,
he thought.

As John looked around he also noticed that his date was attracting some attention. As he watched Jillian work the crowd he had to smile at himself.

How did I get a hold of her anyway?

Dave, the office accountant and probably the nicest guy John had ever met, had brought his ancient, wheel-chair bound grandmother to the party. John took charge of her for a while so Dave could socialize. To John's surprise, she almost immediately asked him to take her to the bar, and then asked if he could make her a Black Russian. John grinned, wheeled her to the shiny white bar in the corner and started looking for the ingredients, but on the way he was intercepted by Jillian and a pair of women.

John searched his memory for names while hunting for the Kahlua.

"As long as you're back there, do you mind playing bartender for a few more damsels in distress?" one of the women asked in a rather loud tone of voice. John remembered that there was something odd about her. She was married to .... No. She's Rebecca's roommate, and she's ....

No. This can't be. She's a pagan too,
he remembered.

"Mrs. Greenbaum has first dibs on my bartending services, but I'll see what I can do," he said.

"John, you forgot to tell me that Mishelle is a Wiccan," Jillian half chided, although John realized she may have been following their arrangement: if he didn't introduce someone, it meant that he'd forgotten the name. He half winked his thanks, and then handed Mrs. Greenbaum her drink.

"Try that and see if it's okay Mrs. Greenbaum," he said. After she took a tentative sip he asked, "So what do you think about this Wiccan business?"

"It's a bunch of damned fool nonsense if you ask me," she said in her deep, crackling voice, "but it sounds like a good excuse for a pretty wild party."

Mishelle and Rebecca roared their hearty approval and ordered two more Black Russians.

"I've never had one," Mishelle said, "but if it's good enough for this delightful lady, it's got to be good."

"And speaking of parties," Jillian added, "Mishelle and Rebecca have invited us to their Halloween party. We don't have anything planned, do we?"

John liked the sound of the "we." It was more intoxicating than anything in a bottle.

"And you too, dear," Rebecca said to Mrs. Greenbaum. "Would you like to see just how damned foolish we pagans really are?" She erupted into a fountain of bubbly mirth at her own joke.

"At my age, one party a month is about all I can manage," Mrs. Greenbaum croaked and winked, taking a somewhat jittery stab at her drink and smearing her red lipstick on the glass.

"Nonsense, you're just being polite and giving us a way out of inviting you," Mishelle said. "But we want to see you there, and we'll send a limo and an escort if we have to."

Rebecca laughed and elbowed Mishelle in the ribs. "And we know some good escort services, don't we girlfriend?"

Mrs. Greenbaum's face couldn't decide whether to look shocked or amused, and the effect was ghastly. John took her drink from her trembling hand and wheeled her closer to an end table.

"More Kahlua?" he asked.

"Hell no. More vodka," she said. "I'm not driving home."

Mishelle and Rebecca howled with laughter again and immediately held out their glasses for similar treatment.

John noticed that Dave was watching from across the room with a half concerned, half relieved look. He had spent the last fifteen years tirelessly caring for his mother. When others would have packed her off to a nursing home, Dave hired a live-in helper and restructured his house -- and his life -- to suit her. John set a hand on the back of Mrs. Greenbaum's chair and smiled reassuringly at Dave.

How many nights do you get to have a good time,
he thought, and made up his mind to look into it. Dave deserved a break.

*              *              *

A single card lay in the center of a wooden table in a rather unkempt living room. A man and a woman sat on either side of the table, their arms illuminated by the unsteady flicker of candlelight. He couldn't make out the details of the card, but he knew that it held a special and happy meaning for the couple. Something about a child. A special child, or a child with a special destiny.

A montage of images flickered by quickly, and then the scene changed and he saw a man opening the back of a computer case with a screwdriver. He knew the man, or felt that he should. And then he saw that it was his computer, and the man was installing a new card on the mother board. Some kind of listening device, he thought, but as he looked more closely it became a snake coiled about a staff. The snake fascinated him, and he thought he should know what it meant. An almost physical pain stabbed his mind as he tried to understand, but then the dream shifted to titillating images and he gladly drifted into passionate forgetfulness.

*              *              *

Despite everyone's best efforts, Mrs. Greenbaum really couldn't be persuaded to the Halloween party.

"She's not just pretending to be old," Dave explained on the phone. "It took a week for her to recover from Susan's party. She'd love to come, and she's touched by the attention, but she really does need to stay home and rest."

"Alright, Dave. Maybe we can drop by on the weekend and bring her something from the party."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate that. Thanks."

"Well, it's just us," John said to Jillian as he hung up the phone. Jillian was putting the finishing touches on her white face paint. They were going as Thing Number One and Thing Number Two.

"Too bad," she said, and then a look of concern seemed to show through her makeup. "Uh ... John," she said. "I know you've read a bit about pagans, but .... Well, there are pagans and then there are pagans, you know. I mean, I run with a pretty straight crowd, but some of them ...."

"Are you trying to tell me there might be drugs at the party? Should I call mother?"

"Well, that too. But I mean ... Well. Wedding rings tend to come off at pagan parties, if you know what I mean. Don't be surprised if you hear some pretty forward propositions."

"And should I be worried if you disappear for a while?" John said, trying hard to sound funny and failing miserably.

"Consider yourself slapped," Jillian said, seriously. "Wiccans are non-judgmental. People do what they want to do, so long as they don't hurt anybody. That's not my life, but I'm not going to tell them how to run theirs."

"So that was a non-judgmental slap, I take it."

Jillian's eyes went slightly blank for a moment, then she said, "Come here and let me fix your make-up. You smeared it on the telephone."

The long dirt driveway from a sleepy back road to Mishelle and Rebecca's house was lined with scores of jack-o-lanterns. More than a hundred at least.

"Oh, I forgot," Jillian said. "We were supposed to bring a pumpkin."

"I think they have enough," John said, watching as Darth Vader set a new one in a gap on the left-hand side.

A hundred feet farther the driveway opened into a field full of cars. John found a spot and they worked their way toward the house, along with a hag, a goblin, a ghost and a medieval warrior, complete with chain mail and broad sword.

The house itself was packed and rather dark, lit only by candles, oil lamps, jack-o-lanterns and two fireplaces. The brick patio had an open fire pit as well as two portable fire pits. A huge black cauldron hung from an iron rod over the open fire, and an enormous, black-robed witch was stirring it with a wooden spoon that would have suited a small man as a walking stick.

The air was a bit below crisp but the costume, the collective body heat of the crowd and the omnipresent fires kept things comfortable. The smell of hard-wood fires filled the air, along with other mixed smells: the candles and, if John could trust his nose, incense. It looked as if every chair in the house was scattered around the yard, but bales of straw served for extra seats. There were apples, cider and freshly fried, spiced donuts in abundance. An old Jethro Tull song played on the speakers near the house. If Fall himself were to come alive and throw a party, it wouldn't be much different.

John remembered something he'd read about the Wheel of the Year and began to think that there may be something to these cycles and rhythms of life. Some corner of his mind seemed to say "yes, this is right," as if someone had read his subconscious desires and written the script for this party.

A knot of revelers interrupted his train of thought. In the center of about six shouting, laughing and singing drunks a man held a large wooden bowl, about the size of a couch cushion. A very flirty and clearly intoxicated woman produced a pewter mug from somewhere in the folds of her gown, filled it from the bowl and set it to John's lips. Before he had a chance to think about what he was doing a warm, sweet, frothy, spiced and slightly carbonated liquid poured down his throat and dribbled around his lips. The woman laughed and began to lap up the spills from his chin -- apparently unconcerned about his makeup. A moment later the sensation changed and he realized the woman was kissing him.