The Flower Bowl Spell (6 page)

The trees begin to thin as we crest the hill.
A breeze swirls around my moistened skin and I lift up my arms,
letting it dry some of the perspiration. I sit on the ground and
the dogs plop down around me in a circle, sodden tongues draped
pinkly on their lower jaws. Lothar leans on my feet. I take out a
bottle of water and a dog dish from my bag. One by one, my
companions heave themselves up for a drink. I do stretches while
they lap wetly at the bowl. The afternoon sun is halfway done with
its day’s journey. I close my eyes and for one brief, miraculous
second, my mind is completely still.

Through the dogs’ panting, I hear a snicking
sound, like small scissors at work. My eyes open and there’s the
fairy floating right in front of my face, his wings rapidly
beating. He’s maybe five inches away, the closest I’ve ever been to
one. His face is smooth and brown like a polished seed, and he
wears a fawn-colored tunic and pants. Twinkle Toes notices him and
barks. Ham Sandwich startles and howls, and Junkyard the
Rottweiler-spaniel mix growls in solidarity.

The fairy zooms away.

I scramble to my feet and the dogs heave
themselves up as I run after him. We have to go off-trail to keep
up—for seconds here and there I lose him in shafts of light, but he
always reappears. The crashing of our running feet through fallen
leaves and duff makes me think of the clashing cymbals from Tyson’s
songs.

The sun is getting stronger and I see up
ahead that we are headed either for a cliff or a hilltop. I slow
down, aware that the dogs won’t stop themselves, will keep running
without fear of the edge. The fairy hovers, looks back at me, and
with a vigorous flap of his hummingbird wings dives down and away.
I stop and try to catch my breath. I swipe my gummy lips with the
back of my hand, and the dogs regard me, tongues lolling with
jaunty wetness.

I walk carefully to the edge. I feel
unsteady, like taking a tumble is beyond my control. It’s a steep
hill. Bone-breaking steep. At the bottom is a fenced-in playground
and baseball field. The fairy is nowhere in sight. I study the
playground and after a while it begins to look more familiar. I
definitely played there once or twice when I was little. There’s a
sculpture of a bear I remember climbing on, and a larger-than-life
snake the color of a clay pot. Other than that, it’s an
unremarkable place. I close my eyes and try to remember those
times.

They are coming.
The phrase whispers
across my mind, and my eyes open.

“They are coming?” I say. “Who?”

The only answer I get is the panting of six
hot and tired dogs. After another minute or so, I turn around and
lead them back to the truck.

****

The Arsenic Playground article runs the next
day. Amazingly, the
Planet
is still a daily. It was formed
by a few friends back in the grand, elegiac days of the hippies,
mimeographed sheets and all. (Ned still calls photocopies
dittos
.) Comparing the
Planet
to the
New York
Times
or even the
San Francisco Chronicle
is simply a
reason to hoot and holler, but we have our share of subscribers as
well as some foundation money—one of the hippies made it big by
turning his organic garden into a baby food empire. There are also
grants, government and private. A fair portion of the money comes
from those S&M advertisements, despite the advance of free
online ad sites like Craigslist. And Ned and his cronies have
lovingly embraced going digital, hinting that we writers should all
be blogging and tweeting. Most of them are. Marisol maintains six
blogs under various names about things like restaurants,
relationships, and, for some reason, Japanese painters. Whatever.
It’s not for me. As a part-timer, I only turn in one or two stories
a week and I never read what I’ve written. The paycheck is like mad
money.

I stop by the office in the afternoon to pick
up some mail, and Ned calls me over.

“Zhang.” He says my name so it rhymes with
dang
even though he knows I pronounce it
zong
. “What
are you working on?”

“A review of the new play they’re doing at
Campo Santo.”

“Forget it. We’ll give it to someone else.
I’m lending you out.”

“Okay,” I say. “Can you do that?”

He stands up and opens a copy of today’s
issue on his desk. There’s my Arsenic Playground article in the
“Pop Culture Now” section. He pokes it with his squared-off
finger.

“They loved it.
Loved
it.”

“Oh.” I smile my best modest-yet-grateful
smile, which is a little too much like my I-know-I-rock smile.
“Well, good. I’m glad.”

“Got a call from Chad Beane, their manager.
Actually I knew Chad at Stanford and, well, let’s just say I owe
him a favor.”

“A favor?”

“And you’re it.”

What did he just say?

“They want you to go on assignment with
them,” Ned continues. “The tour has two cities left and then
they’re shooting that music video. They want a reporter on the road
with them. They picked you”—he points again to my article—“because
of this.”

The paper rests limp, the news already old,
stale, and flat, the converse of what it has supposedly evoked in
this Chad Beane person.

“It’s such a nothing piece,” I say. Maybe
it’s a joke. But Ned has no time or patience for jokes.

“Nice attitude, Zhang. You’re a bona fide
go-getter.”

I know I should feel gratitude.
Real
gratitude. But the overriding suspicion—
these things just don’t
happen
—is blocking that thankful feeling.

“Look, we’ll pay your full salary on this.
Plus, Beane has agreed to match that. Travel expenses too. Per diem
and all. They’ve got dough. They’re up-and-comers. There’s even
talk of you writing their authorized biography.”

There’s a genuine lump in my throat, filled
with elation and panic.

“So what do you say?” Ned holds up his hand
as I open my mouth. “The only answer I want to hear is yes.”

I shrug. “Then it looks like yet again,
you’re getting what you want.”

****

I’m on cloud nine. I wonder what cloud nine
really is and what it’s actually supposed to evoke. It must be akin
to the feeling I get during the magickal season of oestra, when
plants are curling open, baby animals are born, and the world
awakens from the dead of winter. Even here in the Bay Area, the
land of barely changing seasons, rejuvenation is palpable. The
thought tickles through my mind, and I let it:
You’ve made
it
.

Made what? And what comes after this?
Something tells me more of the same old. Which is fine, but my
fancy scratches at the possibility of great fortune, grand deeds,
bold moves.

Despite the fact that this professional coup
has simply fallen unbidden in my lap, I want to celebrate as soon
as possible with my man. But when I get home, it’s quiet and
unoccupied.

There’s a note next to the phone:
Am out
for a dinner/movie with Hil. Viveka (?) left you a message. Don’t
wait up. C
. Hil is Hillary, Cooper’s tween-age daughter from
his first—and last—marriage, which I did not break up. I’m not a
complete ho. They were already separated when Coop and I made our
current love connection.

As for Viveka, that’s another blast from the
past.

PART TWO: THE COVEN KIDS

Chapter Six

I dial Viveka’s number, which Cooper wrote on
his note, and the phone only rings once before she picks up. The
line cracks and spits.

“Yes?”

“Viveka?” I ask. “Is this Viveka Murray?”

There’s a pause before she answers. “Memphis.
Can I come over?”

“Of course.” I don’t hesitate, even though I
haven’t seen Viveka Murray since I was a kid. Not since her
grandmother, Gru, disbanded the coven. The phrase
what the
hell?
floats through my thoughts.

“Great. We’ll be there in two minutes.” She
hangs up.

I stand with the phone held to my sticky ear.
Outside, joggers pass by my window, the thwack of their running
shoes and their breathless conversation audible. The setting sun
reflects off of the monstrous white apartment building across the
street as it does every early evening, each day a little earlier as
autumn progresses.

I remember to blink.

Even though we were both coven kids, Viveka
and I were not friends. She was a few years older than me, which
makes a big difference when you’re a child. She also seemed pretty
mortified by the whole magickal scene. Eventually the Murrays moved
to Oregon, and a while later Gru retreated to Mendocino to practice
solo. Without her leadership, the coven fell apart.

Viveka’s mother, Sadie LeBrun Murray, was
friends with Auntie Tess, though when we were alone Tess used to
refer to Sadie as The Princess. Sadie was the epitome of a modern
witch. She looked like Stevie Nicks and she had apparently never
officially married Viveka’s father. I could never tell whether Tess
liked Sadie because of her social status in the coven or because
she sincerely deemed Sadie friend-worthy.

The doorbell rings, and as it does the
something that has been bothering me rises to the surface of my
thoughts. Viveka said
we
.
We’ll be there in two
minutes
. Exactly two minutes have gone by according to my wall
clock.
We
who?

I hurry to the door, and in an uncontrollable
fit of spasticity, kick over a pile of CDs I’ve been transferring
to my iPod.

“Just a minute!” My voice is shrill. I right
the mess into a precarious tower of jewel cases, take a deep
breath, and open the door.

Before me stand two versions of young
Viveka—but with darker skin and curls—one about four years old, the
other about eight. Two little girls, both with hair the color of
rope and the texture of fluff, look up at me with their mother’s
light brown eyes, the irises rimmed in black. They are dressed as
alternatives of each other, the younger one in a buttoned-up pea
coat and blue-and-green striped leggings; the older one in jeans
and a pearl puffy ski jacket. A hand reaches between them towards
me, an adult hand, and for a heart-stopping moment I think it’s a
succubus stretching out from their backs, that they have tentacles
of human arms and have come to claim me for a snack. But of course
it’s really just Viveka standing behind them on the steps
below.

I extend my hand to take hers. Our eyes meet,
and her grasp—desperate and clinging—jolts me into a sudden vision:
The last time I was at the McLaren Park playground, Viveka was
there too.

We were girls. We sat on the swings side by
side and tried to see who could go the highest. We were so
enraptured by our little contest that we missed the Wyrt Moon
ritual the coven was performing in the neighboring field. Viveka
won hands down, Queen of the Swings. I remember her laughing, her
cheeks dimpled, even as the women near us cried and chanted, “Bring
him back. Bring him back.” A ritual, I recall now, for a missing
coven member, Viveka’s Uncle Isaac. I paid no attention, thrilled
to have Viveka, this older girl, all to myself.

My memory of her gleeful face softens and
refocuses, calling up an unfamiliar man’s face. He is angular,
African-looking, and slim. Before I can complete a thought of
recognition—the girls’ father?—the image changes again. This time
it’s a person with thick black hair and features that could be
Asian or Latino, the skin around his or her eyes dark and
bruised-looking from lack of sleep or a sickness or both.

Viveka steps between the girls and into my
home, still holding my hand. She’s gripping so tight it’s like she
needs to prop herself up. I take on the burden of her weight as she
leans into me for just a moment. When she lets go of my hand the
visions disappear. At a glance from Viv, the girls step inside. I
close the door and show them into the living room.

“Are these your daughters?” I ask.

“Yeah. This is Romola.” Viveka points to the
older one. “And that’s Cleo.”

Cleo returns my gaze with all the bearing of
a forty-year-old dame. I can’t help but connect her to the
legendary Egyptian queen and the ancient Egyptian city, my
namesake.

“Nice to meet you.” I offer them the couch,
then hurry to the kitchen. A quick survey of the cupboards produces
a half-empty canister of instant hot cocoa and some peppermint tea
bags.

I’m just filling the kettle with water when
Viveka joins me. I get my first good look at her. She’s gained
weight, and her face is round in a way it wasn’t as a girl, a sort
of moon—still dimpled. Her hair is short, a mom haircut. She’s
dressed in jeans with an elastic waistband, a Fair Isle sweater,
and tan loafers with a woven-basket design across the top of her
foot. This grown-up Viveka is not what I would have pictured, if I
had bothered to picture her over the years.

“So Viv, are you still in Portland?”

“Look, Memphis, I need you to watch my
girls.”

I drop the kettle in the sink and most of the
water pours out, splashing me.

“There’s something I have to do,” she
continues, “and I can’t have them around.”

“What about their father?”

Her face becomes hard. “He’s out of town.
Besides, we’re having some—problems.”

“Oh.” I dab at my wet shirt with a kitchen
towel. “Your mother can’t take them?”

“She died.”

I stop dabbing. “Sadie died? I didn’t know.
Viveka, I’m sorry. When? How?”

“About two months ago. She drowned.”

“Oh my god. That’s—” I am stuck and
horrified. “That’s awful.” How could I not know that Sadie died?
Surely Gru would have called or at least written to me. Perhaps
she’s been too overcome with the grief of losing her only daughter.
I can’t imagine how she must feel. “But how? I haven’t talked to
your grandmother in ages. She’s got to be devastated. Does anyone
else know from—you know. Does Tess know? I guess not. She would
have told me.” I am unstuck and babbling.