Suffer a Witch (11 page)

“Looking for my father,” Em said.

“My love,” George said. “Benoni didn’t survive.”

“Thomas, either,” Em said.

“Then why . . .?”

“Feeling,” Em said with a shrug.

“Let’s look tomorrow,” George said. “One of the benefits of living more than three hundred years has to be that we let tomorrow work out some of our problems.”

“And tonight?” Em asked with a smile.

“Tonight, we shower, rest, and recover our balance,” George said.

He held out his hand. She took his hand and kissed it. She got up, and they walked hand in hand to their apartment.

She’d known it was him, her father, the man who had sired her, the moment she’d seen his photo on his Facebook page. She would have gone to see him right then and there, but George had come to usher her to bed. She could have gone to see him when George had fallen asleep. She could have gotten up the next day and gone, but they’d slept in. She’d lingered over scones and good coffee until it was time to check on the store.

The next day was Monday, of course, and she had a lot of Monday-like things to do. Tuesday went the way of Tuesdays — lunch with Alice, the afternoon with Wilmot going over the store’s books, and closing up after Sarah Wildes’ class. She wasn’t sure what had happened to Wednesday, but Thursday she’d spent her free time trying to track down a new gasket for her honey extractor.

Friday mid-morning, she found herself in Jamaica Plain, walking down Green Street. Staring at her cell phone, she almost ran into a pungent man clutching a six-pack of beer. She knew what it was like to reek of body odor and grease. She knew what it was like to prefer alcohol or drugs or depression over anything else. She’d spent more time than she’d like to remember just like this man. As if to acknowledge their similarities, he gave her a broken-toothed grin. She nodded and kept walking.

She hadn’t told George where she was going, but that wasn’t unusual for Fridays. She ran errands on Friday mornings. According to the spell she’d cast, this morning’s errands just happened to bring her within five miles of where her father lived.

There was a sign on the side of the brick building that said, “Rooms for Rent” in large red letters. Through the glass door, she could see a dingy closet that served as the front desk. She stopped near the door of the building, where she caught a familiar scent. Magic leaves an odor unique to the person who creates it.

George had been here.

Not recently, probably not within the last year, but he had definitely been here. She scowled and pressed the button for the super.

“Yeah?” A man’s voice said on a dilapidated metal set into the wall.

“I wanted to ask you a few questions,” Em said. She winced at the neediness in her own voice.

“You the police?” the man asked.

“No,” Em said. “I’m looking for my father.”

“We’re all looking for something, lady,” the man’s voice said.

There was a click, like the sound of a telephone hanging up, and nothing else.

“Hello?” Em asked. She pressed the button again. “Hello?”

“He ain’t very nice,” a woman’s voice came from behind her.

Em turned around. A towering, curvaceous woman, whose rich chocolate skin was packed into tiny strips of clothing, was standing behind her.

“I’m looking for someone,” Em said.

The woman looked at Em’s jeans and her white business shirt and raised a penciled-on eyebrow.

“Someone?” the woman asked.

“Why do you care?” Em scowled.

The woman took her time adjusting her ample bosom in her push-up bra before responding.

“Martha is considering if there’s something in it for her,” the woman said.

“Martha?” Em scowled at the woman’s use of her birth name.

The woman pointed to herself.

“What do you want?” Em asked.

The woman’s lip bulged out as her tongue made its way across her white upper teeth.

“I can’t know what to offer you if you don’t know what you want,” Em said.

“Whatchu think Martha is?” the woman asked. “Martha ain’t no whore with the heart of gold. Martha is a business woman.”

To emphasize her point, the woman thrust her enormous rear backward, causing the fabric to rise above her crotch. A man whistled at her from a passing car, and a delivery truck honked.

“You see what Martha means?” the woman asked.

“You want me to show my crotch, too?” Em asked. “Get them to honk?”

A laugh like an exploding volcano burst out of the woman. She nodded to Em’s questions. Em shrugged, unbuttoned her jeans, and began shimmying out them. Before she got very far, the woman shook her head so hard that her wig shifted. Em buttoned back up.

“Breakfast?” Em asked.

“It’s ten in the morning!” The woman batted her false eyelashes to indicate that the negotiations had just begun. “I’ve been up for hours.”

“Money?” Em asked.

“Money’s always good. But for you . . .” The woman looked Em up and down. “I won’t take your money.”

“Why?” Em asked.

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “Maybe Martha has become the whore with the heart of gold.”

“Yeah, you’re a real Dolly Parton,” Em said.

“Hey! Don’t you be knocking Dolly Parton!” the woman said.

“Best Little Whorehouse in Texas,” Em said. “Plus, Dolly Parton is a businesswoman — like you, like me.”

“Oh,” the woman said.

Martha raised an eyebrow and turned to walk away. Em watched her amble to the end of the block. When it looked like she was going to keep walking, Em whispered a small encouragement for her to return. The woman turned in place and sauntered back to Em.

“I want to know why you’re here,” the woman said.

“I’m looking for someone,” Em said.

“George ain’t here!”

“Who?” Em asked.

“Your man,” the woman said.

Em’s scowl deepened, and the air became thick with electricity.

“Don’t panic,” the woman said. “He carries your photo. Gave me this name, ‘Martha,’ because he said it was the best name he knew. Said it was
your
name.”

The woman leaned toward Em.

“You ‘Martha’?” the woman asked.

“Everyone calls me . . .”

“Em,” the woman said. “He said that.”

“How do you know George?” Em said.

“He starts every winter in Jamaica Plain,” the woman said. “Like Santa. He stops by to find out who’s been naughty and who’s been nice, or, more like, who’s sick, who’s getting the shit beaten out of them, stuff like that. Since Martha is sort of a . . . goodwill ambassador for the neighborhood, I see him every December.”

“What does Martha give him in return?” Em asked.

“Martha gets to live another year,” the woman said.

“He extends your life?” Em asked.

Em’s voice betrayed her doubt. She knew of no spell that could indefinitely extend life, and she’d looked. If there was a spell to extend life, there had to be a spell to help Alice end her immortal life.

“I have liver cancer,” the woman said. “Picked it up in Kuwait when Martha was Michael.”

Em nodded. There was a spell to strengthen the liver. It lasted about a year.

“So you see, I’m the trannie with the heart of gold,” Martha said.

Em smiled in acknowledgement that Martha was transgendered.

“He loves you very much,” Martha said.

“Who?”

“George,” Martha said. “I met him in Kuwait.”

Em nodded. Every few years, George got bit by the war bug. The next thing she knew, he’d joined up and was off to basic training. The Gulf War was one of the few hundred wars George had fought in over the last three hundred years.

“Gulf War sickness?” Em asked.

“Sure,” Martha squinted at Em. “Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Em said. “A man. Goes by the name ‘Bill Panon.’”

Martha scowled at Em. She made a hip-swaying journey over to the button on the building and pressed it.

“Yeah?” a man’s voice asked.

“Somebody looking for you,” Martha said.

“Who?”

“George’s woman,” Martha said.

The buzzer rang to open the door. Martha grabbed the door and opened it. Em took two twenty-dollar bills out of her pocket and held them out to Martha.

“What’s dis?” Martha asked.

“For your time,” Em said.

“You’re a good egg,” Martha said. She took the money and stuck it in her bra. “You want me to go with you so he don’t give you no hassles?”

“I can manage,” Em said.

“I bet that’s right,” Martha said. “You going to see the Reverend tonight?”

“Probably,” Em said.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Martha said. “Only George knows what George is goin’ to do.”

Martha grinned, and Em started into the building.

“You tell George I said hello,” Martha said.

Em stopped and turned.

“I’ll do it,” Em smiled.

Martha raised her hand in a wave. Em plunged into the building. The front lobby was empty, as was the dingy front desk. Em looked around for a moment, before taking a few steps into a dark hallway. Em stopped under a hanging single-fluorescent-tube light in a four-light fixture. The hallway reeked of urine and despair. Em put her finger under her nose to block the smell. A door near the end of the dark hallway opened with a bang. Yellow light and music filtered into the hallway.

“Down here,” a man’s voice yelled.

On guard, Em shuffled slowly down the hallway. The building had once been a livery stable. The hallway carried some of the old charm. It was light enough for Em to make out the basic features but dark enough to make Em walk down in the middle of the hallway. She reached the door and turned to peer in. The apartment was so bright that Em could see very little from the dark hallway. An enormous man looked like a shadow as he filled the entire apartment doorway.

“Whatchu want?” the man asked.

“I’m looking for William Panon,” Em said.

“Who wants to know?” the man asked.

“A friend,” Em said.

The man snorted.

“He don’t have no friends,” the man said.

“Father?” Em leaned forward to peer at the man.

The hallway began to spin. With nothing to grab onto, Em dropped to her knees and covered her head. As she had the time George had talked her into “riding a tornado,” Em spun around and around and around. Time lost all meaning. She spun and spun until what felt like days later she passed out.

“Have you seen Em?” George asked as he approached the front desk of the Mystic Divine.

“No,” Shonelle said. “But she’s avoiding me.”

George glanced at the waning light outside and looked back at Shonelle.

“Why would she avoid you?” George asked.

“You know,” Shonelle said.

“I don’t,” George said. “Hence the question.”

“Huh,” Shonelle snorted at him.

For the briefest moment, George saw his own irritated face and “you’re an idiot” mannerisms on the girl’s beautiful face. He scowled.

“So, you haven’t seen Em?” George asked.

“Em left to run errands,” Sarah Wildes said from the loft upstairs.

George looked up to see Sarah Wildes leaning over the railing.

“Is Em avoiding Shonelle?” George asked Sarah Wildes while raising his eyebrows at Shonelle.

“I don’t think so,” Sarah Wildes said. “She was going to talk to her about going ghost hunting with her friend.”

“
Really
?” Shonelle’s voice rose with hope, and she gave a little clap. “And the séance?”

“I told you,” Sarah Wildes said. “Hell would have to . . .”

“Freeze over.” Shonelle went from elated to pouting.

George grinned at Shonelle. She gave George his own best sneer and pushed past him to go to the back. George chuckled. He turned to see Sarah Wildes coming down the stairs.

“Em’s not back?” Sarah Wildes asked.

George shook his head. Sarah Wildes grimaced with worry.

“You set a tracer?” Sarah Wildes asked in a low tone.

“I did,” George said.

Sarah looked at her watch and then looked outside.

“Did you make anything for dinner?” Sarah Wildes grinned.

“No, Em hasn’t started anything for dinner,” George said.

“She hasn’t been back?” Sarah Wildes asked. “That’s just weird.”