Witches Under Way (29 page)

It was one of the most honest looks in the mirror Vero had ever heard, by a heart not used to looking.  And it gave Vero what she needed.

Briskly, she stood up and went to the piano.  “It’s not happiness you need.  It’s a good rant.”  She looked up into Elsie’s shocked eyes.  “You’ve journeyed from adult to child and back today, my sweet, and it’s a bold and generous thing you’ve done.  But the woman didn’t get a chance to be angry for the child—and she needs one.”

She reached for Elsie’s hands and dug for words that would make more sense to her rational pupil.  The words of one of her more stormy maestros came back to her.  He’d been a student of psychological motivations.  “What are the stages of grief, my darling?”

“Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.”  Elsie’s therapist training answered automatically.

“Indeed,” said Vero, well pleased.  “And today you traveled from denial to acceptance, all in one fell swoop.”

“I don’t understand,” said Elsie, eyes beginning to fire.  “Isn’t that a good thing?  How do I get on with the rest of my life without accepting?”

“Acceptance is a very good thing.”  Vero wondered how far to go.  “But you’re Italian, my love.  You need a good rage to be completely, fully done.  It’s why all the best operatic dramas are Italian.  The Germans know depression, the Russians excel at despair and bargaining.  But the Italians have perfected the full-blown temper tantrum.”

Elsie’s body stiffened.  “I’m not a child.”

“I know you’re not.”  Vero walked over to her beloved Victrola and carefully slid on one of her most cherished records.  She needed her hands free for this next bit.  Turning, she reached out to her wary student.  “But trust me on this—you’re never too old for a tantrum.”

She closed her eyes as the first strains of the aria flooded the room.  “I’ll sing.  You follow my actions and let the music carry you.”

Vero swept her arms, passion in every fiber of her soul, and started to sing.  It was the music of a woman scorned, never properly loved, never understood.  The unvanquished temper of one who had just learned the truth—and despised it.  Vero became the woman raging, not just with her voice, but with every cell of her being.  And waited for her student to follow.

She wasn’t surprised when Elsie’s first moves were small and wooden.  When the first waved fist wouldn’t have scared a mouse and the chest heaved not an inch.  Patiently, Vero raged, fists and voice, face and feet, every inch the woman spurned.  She felt the cleansing burn of anger steaming in her veins, pulled by the imperious notes of musical perfection.

And she watched, proud, as Elsie was called to the roots of her Italian blood.  It was her hands that woke up first, expressive and vivid, pulling her arms along for the ride.  Then color rose in her cheeks, eyes snapping with fire unleashed.  And finally, her heart joined, an angry tumble of fire and magic and streaming passion.  She even managed a passable rendition of a very difficult aria, notes spurred by a beautiful fury.

It was a tantrum worthy of the greatest of divas.  Vero was mightily impressed.

When it finished, Elsie’s eyes blazed in glory. 

And gratitude.

~ ~ ~

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To:
[email protected]

From: Vero Liantro <
[email protected]
>

Subject: Watch for the tempest.

––––––––––––––

Lovely Jennie,

I believe I’ve just taught our Elsie the value of a hotly passionate rage.  It occurs to me I probably shouldn’t send her back out into the world without giving you a bit of a warning.

Her mind walks ahead of her heart—ready to forgive, to grow up and be the woman she is meant to be.  Her soul needs more time to grieve, to be sad for what is lost, and to rage at the unfairness of it all.  Music set her anger loose today, and it’s a gorgeous temper she has.

Not that we should be surprised—she is both Italian and fire witch. 

Melvin says that if I am impressed by her passion, the rest of the world should cower in fear.  I believe he exaggerates.

He is, however, worried again—and it’s not Elsie that concerns him now.  Her wave has crested for now, or so he says.  It is our other witch he seeks, holding his pendant and gazing off into the distance.  I wonder if his heart is young enough to do this twice in one day.

Perhaps someone could go check in on Lizard and lay our interfering hearts to rest.

All our love,

Vero

~ ~ ~

It was written down.  Lizard clutched her poetry journal in her hand and tried not to puke.  If she didn’t hand it in today, there was no point in going back to class.

She’d written it.  One lousy poem with clothes, intended for possible public consumption.  But damned if the first set of eyes on it were going to be some professor geek who didn’t even really know her.  There was only one person who’d earned that right.

And she was standing here waiting for his bus.

He pulled up to the curb, right on time, as always.  Lizard was fairly convinced the man had traffic magic—the kind that zapped small, annoying traffic jams and moved buses through the time-space continuum.  She held up a brown paper bag.  “Got biscuits today, with some of Caro’s special homemade grape jelly.”

Freddie’s eyes lit.  “You gonna introduce me to this Caro?”

And have the people in her life ganging up on her?  Not likely.  “She’s old and ugly.  Not your type.”

“Girlie, I looked in the mirror this morning.”  Freddie laughed long and hard.  “I know an old and ugly face when I see one.”

Lizard grinned.  “Maybe you’re not her type.”

“How could a woman resist Freddie?”  He shook his head sadly.  “But my wife says I’m not allowed to have a type that isn’t her.  Forty years she’s been keeping me in line.”

Lizard was pretty sure that was why Freddie was one of the most content people she’d ever known.

“So why you riding today?”  He eyed her journal.  “That what I think it is?”

“Yeah.”  She glanced around at the empty bus.  Even her toenails were nervous.  “I did what you said—I wrote a poem that didn’t have so much of me in it.  I might read it for you.”  She glared at him.  “If it sucks, you better tell me the truth.”

Freddie’s laughter rolled again.  “I ever told you anything else?”

Nope.  Not ever.  She paged open her notebook.  Sheer perversity had made her write it in the middle.  “It’s kind of long.  Let me read it through to myself first, okay?”

“Take your time, girlie.  There’s never been anything but time here on Freddie’s bus.”

“I don’t know what it’s called yet.”  And that bothered the hell out of her.  It usually meant the poem wasn’t finished.  She’d probably have to call it something stupid just to be able to hand it in. 

Lizard stood up and faced the rear of the bus.  The friendly ghosts of warm, safe hours in those seats stared back at her.  Comforting—and demanding.  It was time to start.  Time to say her truth.

She took a deep breath around the choking tangle in her throat and began, not needing to look at the words.  She never did.  Once she’d written them, they were burned in her soul.

Four walls and a door,

A window or two and fancy names for rooms

that are really just meant for sitting and sleeping.

People mortgage their souls for those four walls and a door.

Okay, she wasn’t going to die.  Puke maybe, but not die.

“It’s a home,” they say.

“Our children can grow up here.”

Kids don’t need four walls and a door

unless a whole lot of other stuff in their lives has gone wrong.

“We’ll have made it,” they say.

“We’ll be homeowners.”

You can own a house.  You can’t own a home,

although there are a whole lot of people making money

off the promise that you can.

“It will make us happy,” they say.

“We really need more space.”

Space never made anybody happy,

even a million-two’s worth of emptiness.

“It’s in our budget,” they say.

“And it’s got double sinks and a really big closet.”

If your neighbors are mean, the double sinks won’t matter.

And life is better out of the closet.

Frack.  That line was a lot naked, but if she stopped now, she wouldn’t finish.

“It’s meant to be ours,” they say.

It’s four walls and a door

and all the mystical crap in the world can’t change a house into anything else.

Home isn’t what you buy.

It’s how you live.

Lizard looked up, knowing Freddie could see her in his mirror, and willed herself the guts to get through the most important part.  “This next part isn’t written down.  But I wanted to say it.”  Even though it didn’t have any damn clothes at all.

My home doesn’t have four walls and a door.

“It’s a bus,” they’d say.

“Just a way to get from one place to the next.”

And they’d be wrong.

Homes come in every kind of shape.  Even a bus.

She couldn’t turn around.  She couldn’t breathe.  And then some totally rude guy behind the bus started leaning on his horn, and Lizard realized the bus was stopped.  In the middle of Main Street.

When she spun around, Freddie was still in his seat, his big hands still holding the wheel.  And his face was drenched in tears.

Crap.  She knew what it was called now. 

Freddie’s Bus.
  And the last lines would have to get written down.  He deserved it.

~ ~ ~

Elsie cranked the volume on her iPod speakers.  Operatic passion screamed through the house, stoking the fires of her restlessness.

She needed to do something—and she had no idea what.

But it needed to be bold and daring and reckless and crazy.  Apparently she hadn’t totally burned off all her feelings in Vero’s music room.

She looked around the four walls of her bedroom.  Everything was neat and tidy.  Organized, efficient Elsie, never a problem, the child who always picked up after herself and hung her clothes in color-coded order.

She was so done with that.

In two steps, Elsie was at the door of her neatly hung closet.  The yellow dress could stay, and the jewel blue skirt, and the red shoes that were the most agonizingly beautiful things she had ever owned, and a few of the other pretty things from her shopping spree.

The rest was going to Goodwill.

And then the soprano on her iPod hit a deliriously high note and something inside Elsie snapped.  Something beyond reckless.  An idea, pure insane temptation, pierced her soul.

The old Elsie shrieked in terror and tried to run for the door.  The new Elsie told her to shut up.  Singing along with the soprano, hopelessly off-key, she pulled clothes out of her closet in deranged abandon. 

Summer was a lovely time for a bonfire.

“Holy crap.”  Lizard’s voice happened to catch a momentary lull in the music—otherwise Elsie might never have heard her.  “You moving out?”

Elsie froze—and then the soprano’s voice chased to the heavens once more.  Maybe insanity would be more fun with a friend.  “Got anything you want to burn?”

Lizard jumped back, cracking her head on the wall.  “House fires are a really bad idea.  Really, really bad.”

She was insane, not suicidal.  “No, we can use the fire pit outside.  I don’t think Caro will mind.”

Lizard stared.  “You’re going to burn all your clothes?”

“No.”  Elsie stroked the yellow dress hung carefully off to the side.  “Only the ones that don’t fit anymore.”  She could feel all the passion Vero spoke of.  Building.  Flaming.

“No sparking inside.”  Lizard grabbed half the mountain of clothes.  “We’re so going to get evicted if you burn the house down.”

Elsie looked at her fingers, edgy lightning dancing from their tips.  And rejoiced at the blaze inside her. 

“Don’t make me kick you in the shins.”  Her roommate looked awfully tough.  “Clothes.  Outside.  Now.”

Fine.  Elsie scooped up what was left of the pile and headed down the stairs and through the kitchen.  Nothing stopped her triumphant march until she tried to go through the back door and got stuck, wedged in by her own mountain of clothes.

Lizard got them unstuck by the most expedient of methods—a foot on Elsie’s butt.  Which got them both through the door—and heaped in a pile on the back lawn.

“I’m a fracking genius,” said Lizard, a really prim button-down shirt hanging from her ear.

Elsie started to giggle.  That was the shirt she’d worn for volcano making.  “We need to borrow a teleporting witch.”

“I’m already a delinquent.”  Lizard got to her feet and started collecting clothes.  “Let’s not corrupt anybody else.  Bonfires are probably illegal in city limits.”

Illegal?  Elsie felt her newfound recklessness melt.

Lizard looked up sharply and then rolled her eyes.  “Good grief.  Only a little illegal.  Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

She was back in less than two minutes—just long enough for the last remnants of Elsie’s courage to entirely flee.  And then she heard the music again.  Opera, booming from the kitchen window.

Lizard stepped out the back door.  “That’s as loud as it gets, so do whatever sing-y thing you do that makes your head feel all brave and crazy.”

Elsie didn’t have to do anything.  She could feel the flames unfurling in her belly to the beat of the music.  She held out her hands as Lizard dropped another armful of clothes in the fire ring.  “Stand back.”

Her roommate jumped of the way with impressive speed.  Elsie let her power free, a bolt of lightning streaking from her fingers.  And watched it land in the clothes and smolder a moment before it died.

“I think you’re going to need a little more juice than that,” said Lizard dryly.