Witches: Wicked, Wild & Wonderful (46 page)

The latter was a trickier enterprise, but the right choice given the circumstances.

Working on her spell rhyme, she wrote down the words then scribbled them out only to rewrite until she had:

By the consummate grace

Of frog and garter snake

This new beginning is in motion.

Banished by birch

My spell is purged

And now rewritten with this potion:

Three ounces of reddest wine,

Sticky sap of greenest pine.

Mix and mingle, stirring nine times nine.

Purest drop of morning dew,

Ground up leaves of sacred yew.

She needed a statement of redirection. Considering rhymes for words like
narcotic
and
psychedelic,
her thoughts were interrupted when someone in the hall shouted, “Hey! Who’s hungry?”

There was an overwhelmingly positive response. Every apartment had its own kitchen, so the thought of them going to their rooms was a welcome one. But the raised voice wasn’t finished. “Let’s all go to Grumbellies!”

That was the name of the facility’s small deli-type restaurant that made sandwiches, salads, and soups. It was on the first floor near the front entrance and the administrative offices—the last place she wanted this crowd to go.

Leaving her spell components on the counter, she headed into the hall once more. Half the crowd was gone already, having filed into the stairwell while those few with wheelchairs, walkers, or oxygen tanks on rolling carts waited for the next elevator. An elderly man was holding Demeter’s shoe and examining it. “How in the world does someone step out of their sneaker in the gap of the elevator doors and leave it?”

Demeter snatched it from his grip. “Wouldn’t you like to know.” She inelegantly replaced it on her foot and shuffle-stomped away, ramming herself into what was left of the crowd. They were funneling into the stairwell.

On a day when she’d already made at least one bad call, this definitely had to be the second. A deep tiredness settled over her after only a few steps. Her knees were aching by the time she had descended half a flight. Something was grinding in one joint. Clutching the rail with white-knuckled hands, she took each step slower than the last. Around her, others objected to her pace and complained they were going to miss something as they scurried around her.

Sweat had beaded on her brow by the time she reached the second floor landing. She wanted a cigarette more than she’d
ever
wanted one in her whole life, but she had to get to the cafeteria. She had to break this up before Mr. Loudcrier returned from his lunch.

Just one more flight of stairs. Just twelve steps and you’re done.

Twelve steps. Like a Twelve-Step program. Demeter knew the program from a volunteer experience long ago when . . . Now was not the time to dwell on past history, but using her knowledge for the present . . .

Pausing on the first step, she whispered, “I admit that my spell was selfish, and that I am powerless over tobacco. My spell, such as it is, has become the proverbial turd in the punchbowl.” On the second step, she said, “I have come to believe that a power greater than myself will restore the bunch of buffoons I live with to their usual amount of sanity.” She hesitated on that step, adding, “ . . . and granted, they weren’t all equally blessed to start with.”

On the third step, she mumbled, “I’ve made a decision to turn my spell casting and my cigarette smoking over to the care of my patron Goddesses: Hestia, Artemis, and Athena.”

On the fourth, she hesitated to count the steps she’d taken before saying, “I will make a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself as soon as I get this bullshit fixed. Five—” another step—“I admit to no other human being the exact nature of my wrongs—the Goddesses already know what I’ve done and we don’t need to keep harping on and on about it.” And another. “Six, I am entirely ready to have my Goddesses or any willing deity remove all the defects from my aching knees, and the sooner the better.”

She groaned in pain, rubbed her knees and proceeded. “Seven, I . . . humbly . . . ask that my shortcomings be ignored by that peckerhead Mr. Loudcrier and that my witchery is not revealed to him. Eight, I will make a list of the persons involved in this malarkey today—no, wait. I’ll just use the directory—but I will make amends to them all by baking up a batch of oatmeal cookies bespelled to make them forget the whole damn incident. Nine . . . ouch, ouch, ouch . . . I will make that recipe and that spell as benign and sweet as possible, except where there are diabetics who would be harmed by the sugar. Oh Hell, ten—two to go—I’ll continue to take personal inventory and when, I mean
if,
if I am out of line again, I’ll promptly conduct corrective measures, even if I have to . . . apologize.” Demeter made a face that had more to do with the word
apologize
than the pain in her knees.

“Eleven, through prayer and meditation I’ll improve my conscious contact with my Goddesses, praying for knowledge and the good sense not to create such a whacko circumstance for myself ever again. Twelve—Goddess thank you it’s the last—I have had a spiritual awakening as the result of the suffering I’ve endured coming down these arduous, bone-grinding, pain-in-the-ass steps. Let it be my penance for screwing things up so royally and I will carry this message—well a shorter and plainer version to my Alzheimer-ed and aged peers—that they might practice these principles in all our affairs.”

She drew an equal-armed cross in the air. “So mote it be.”

Opening the door from the stairwell, she heard squeals of laughter and delight and was nearly run over when two men zipped past, pushing ladies in wheelchairs.

Along with cheering and applause from the cafeteria, someone shouted, “George and Imogene are the winners of the wheelchair race!”

There were many people here. More than just the third floor.

Damn it. That spell
was
for the whole facility. The ventilation system here must be better than I thought.

As she digested the scene, she saw two of the nurse’s aides sharing a joint near the front doors. It surprised her, but that surprise turned to horror and dread as she saw Mr. Longcrier walk in behind them.

He stopped dead, sniffed, and his usually pale face turned beet red. He demanded of the aides, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Their eyes widened and they shared a long look before turning to face the overflowing cafeteria and gesturing. That forced Mr. Longcrier take in the entire scene. Nearly every resident in the facility was mingling in the entry, the first floor hall, and the eating area.

As his presence caused the white noise of hundreds of elderly voices to fall silent, it became obvious that somewhere nearby there was an eight-track playing. Donna Summer’s sultry voice crooned out the orgasmic sounds of “Love to Love You Baby” making the
in flagrante delicto
moment even more awkward.

All movement ceased, except for Mr. Longcrier’s mouth, which slowly fell open. He seemed incapable of any sound.

Demeter watched him suffer through his thought process, trying to make sense of the panorama before him and having no clue how to react to the geriatric merrymaking. She could practically read the words going through his mind by the shifting of his expressions. Disbelief to identification and back to disbelief, on to denial, again to disbelief, to over-the-shoulder glancing and concern—probably stemming from legal ramifications should the state inspectors show up now—to irritation that finally settled on anger. His hands clenched at his sides.

Demeter shuffled forward. “It’s my fault,” she said quietly.

Those around her gasped and spun to look at her.

“What?” Mr. Longcrier asked. His voice was a taut rope about to snap.

His anger pissed her off; he wasn’t the only one who was irate. This all started because she was unhappy here. Demeter let her wrath start bubbling up as she lumbered up to him. By the time she reached him, her irritation was a geyser of sarcasm and obscenities. “I said, ‘It’s my fault,’ you horse’s ass. But if you weren’t such a rump-hole none of this bullshit would have happened in the first place.”

“Wh-what did you call me?” Shaking with rage his fingers unclenched. He reached into the breast pocket of his sports coat and produced a small note pad and pen. He began writing.

Demeter watched him scribble and rolled her eyes. “Expletive doesn’t have an
A.
”

Mr. Longcrier’s fingers curled tighter and she heard the plastic casing of his pen crack. “I am the Chief Executive Officer of this facility and as such I deserve your respect, Ms. Alcmedi. I work very hard to—” He paused for the slightest second and took a deep breath to calm himself. He then continued, “—to ensure that this community is rigidly maintained and that the grounds are beautiful. I make sure the best care is offered to each and every resident here, and offered in such a manner that none of you feel your dignity is impugned. My high standards have made this facility the envy of comparable facilities across the nation. My rigid standards have raised the bar, and all of you benefit as I not only produced the beauty in which you reside, but I ensure that the staff all endeavor to maintain it.” By the time his speech was complete, he had made eye contact with many of the residents behind Demeter in the cafeteria. His gaze hardened when it came to rest on her again.

Demeter blinked at his absurd, propaganda laden tirade. “Does it hurt your back to kiss your own ass like that?”

“All of you must disperse,” he said, ignoring her. “According to the fire code only sixty-eight persons may occupy the cafeteria at one time.” At the last he focused on Demeter. “You. Come to my office.”

He turned on his heel, grabbed the nurse’s aides by the shoulders and growled, “Get your wits about you, see these people to their apartments, and I
might
forget what I saw you doing when I walked in.” He stormed off towards the main offices.

Demeter shuffled along at her best pace. Mr. Longcrier’s secretary, a prim middle-aged woman in a high-collar blouse, stood stiffly behind the reception desk. She openly glared at Demeter when she passed.

The CEO waited impatiently at his office door, but before he could shut it, the secretary said, “Mr. Longcrier. You should see this first.”

He stepped to the secretary’s desk as Demeter planted herself in the same seat she’d sat in when she’d been called in for her formal reprimand after being caught smoking on the premises for the fifth time. He’d lectured her about the health risks of smoking and of second-hand smoke, then nattered on and on about the dangers of fires started by smoking—both interior and exterior—before presenting her with an official document stating she was “hereby duly warned” that the next occurrence of smoking on-site would end with her official eviction.

Like a high school principal threatening to expel me.

When Mr. Loudcrier entered, he slammed the door behind him and settled at his desk. Leaning forward, he assumed an interested pose and kept his hands on the blotter, his fingertips touching. “So what did you do that makes the . . . grouping . . . out there your fault?”

She considered admitting she was a witch and that she’d performed spellwork that brought it about. But that would only give him fuel for an anti-witch policy and she didn’t want that.

Still, she had said she was to blame. “I incited them.”

“How?” The corner of his eye twitched.

She picked at the edge of her cabbage rose shirt. “I just . . . riled them up. There are more smokers here than you seem to be aware of.”

“But
how
did you rile and incite them, Ms. Alcmedi?”

The tone he used said more than his actual words. In an instant, Demeter switched from meekly plucking a thread to staring coldly across the desk. He knew. She couldn’t guess how, but she was certain he did. “How do you think I did it?”

His palms pressed together until he was squeezing his own hands white as if he were about to break into the most fervent of prayers. His voice dropped to a vehement whisper. “I know what you did.”

“How?”

“How do you think?” he mocked.

It hit her: video cameras in the hall. The secretary had checked the video and played it for Loudcrier. They had seen her put the candle and saucer in the hall and saying the spell. It wasn’t much of a leap to surmise she was a witch. A broad smile spread across her face. “Good. That saves us both the trouble of dancing around the truth.”

“Sorry. I don’t dance.”

“I’d have smashed your toes anyway.”

“Is that a threat, Ms. Alcmedi?”

She didn’t answer. This was her best shot. “I want an on-site smoking area.”

“That will not be happening.”

“There are obviously enough smokers among us that you should consider it.”

“Woodhaven is a non-smoking community. That is locked into our insurance policy and it keeps our costs down. Changing it would mean higher fees for all residents. No one wants an increase.”

Demeter sat back in her chair. “So you’re saying that what residents want is irrelevant. Some bureaucratic bean-counter rules us by the law of the profit margin?”

“Yes. I am that bean counter.” Smugness claimed his face. “You’re free to live elsewhere.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file, removed a sheet of paper. “I’m evicting you, Ms. Alcmedi.”

“That’s ridiculous. You can’t kick me out because I want a smoking area.”

“You were smoking on premises earlier. I saw you. You had, previously, been formally, duly, and legally warned.”

He was right. Demeter couldn’t deny it.

Mr. Loudcrier snatched a pen from the cup on his desk corner. He did not answer, but simply began filling in the blanks.

Where will I go? How much time do I have to make arrangements? I don’t even have a good suitcase.
“You know . . . someday Mr. Loudcrier you’ll be old and people half your age, determined to make a profit, will have authority over your environment. Maybe then you’ll understand.”