The Witches Of Denmark (10 page)

So, aside from a history lesson, why is this important now?

That Friday afternoon, Dad and I stopped at the local Kroger on the way home from a visit to nearby Fort Donelson’s battlefield, to pick up a few items that Mom forgot to buy from the local Wal-Mart Superstore. As we entered the grocery store, Valerian and Irina Matei were walking out. We should’ve noticed the Mercedes convertible with the Illinois vanity plates “Matei 1” in the parking lot. Or, at least discerned the cool charge that moves through the air whenever these witches and warlocks are near, like the coldness of an early spring rain about to drop a deluge.

“How nice, Gabriel… Sebastian,” said Valerian, as Irina eyed us coldly. The age reduction mentioned by Grandma and my Mom must’ve progressed further, as the pair looked at worst pushing forty-five—a good ten years younger in physical terms compared to Grandpa and Grandma. “I guess you’ve heard the good news, no? Like you, we are now Denmarkians, I suppose. We certainly can’t be Danes… or are these southern people that ignorant to assume such a thing?”

My father merely nodded, drawing smirks from them both.

“Hmmm… maybe we should call ourselves Danes,” said Valerian, grinning with unbridled malice. “After all, long ago we were Romanians when we first set foot off the ship in New York. We became Americans that very day… remember? Now we can be Danes… some destined to thrive, and some destined to die…. Please give our regards to Georghe and Florin.”

We watched them all the way to when they reached their car. Almost too afraid to move, I thought of the pair’s unquenchable thirst for revenge and slaughter, and the hundreds of victims they had taken life from during the past century alone. Valerian waved at us before driving away, and then my father and I staggered into the grocery store. The locals passed us without noticing much, despite our obvious tenseness. But outside, I caught several people looking up into the cloudless sky as if searching for signs of a coming thunderstorm they sensed in the air.

Chapter Nine

As anyone can surely picture, the mood at the ole Atwater house was pretty glum on Friday night. Despite watching a few movies together as a family and playing Scrabble and Taboo, all of us were sitting on pins and needles. Waiting for a shoe to drop, or some sort of sorcery-based Molotov cocktail to come crashing through one of the front windows from our longstanding enemies.

A ‘Welcome to Denmark’ housewarming gift of an ominous kind seemed likely… just a matter of when it would happen.

With the exception of Grandpa and Dad, we retired earlier than usual. Our patriarch and his son kept watch through the night, spelling each other for catnaps when needed. Honestly, I expected to wake up to the same gloomy atmosphere and outlook the next morning. However, Grandma’s protective spells and infusion of positive vibes to the already warm feeling the house emitted on its own seemed to be working. Other than a brief unpleasant moment where we had to get after Grandpa again for sitting atop the eastern eaves of the Beauregard’s upper roof to watch the sunrise, Saturday truly had an optimistic feel to it. It only got better with an invitation from Julien and Meredith to join them that evening for a last minute, thrown-together, neighborhood barbeque dinner in their backyard.

Sounded like fun, and a great way to meet some of the other neighbors we had heard about—including the ones mentioned by Julien the day before. If nothing else, the distraction from our looming direct confrontation with the Mateis was a welcome event.

It was nice to go outside without the prospect of yard work hanging over our heads, and Alisia and I spent time watching nearly a dozen kids chase each other with their bikes down Chaffin’s Bend. The surly ‘Horseshit’ Harry Turner came out once to shout at them, issuing a belligerent stream of profanity when they rode through the straw-covered front lawn he was apparently still nursing back to health after his infamous mistake from three years past. His surprisingly lucid vernacular shouted in rage made Alisia blush, though she’d likely deny it.

Sadee and a few members of the school board stopped by to deliver the preliminary budget proposal for the fiscal year that would commence August 1
st
. I guess our astute and always inquisitive elderly neighbor noticed the six broomsticks lined up against the hall tree in the foyer, based on the conversation we caught part of as the board members decided to view the flower beds in the courtyard below the back porch where Alisia and I were taking in the local neighborhood action.

“Are y’all plannin’ to fly away?” Sadee asked, good-naturedly, as she and the other three board members exited through the foyer door that opened up to the back porch. Dad and Mom were with them, and Sadee offered her warm infectious smile to add further levity to the joke. “I see you’ve got your broomsticks all lined up in there.”

Everyone laughed, including Alisia and me, though our laughter was more subdued than that of the ‘adults’. Humor, it seems, is a generational thing despite my sister’s and my advanced ages in human terms. Repeating high school every year for decades had created a generation gap just as pronounced as the ones normal people dealt with.

“As a matter of fact, all of us are ready to fly away on our broomsticks at a moment’s notice,” said Mom, smiling weakly.

More laughter. But if Sadee had a chance to get to know Mom better, she would likely have seen the hint of worry that had reappeared since breakfast. Meanwhile, Dad’s placid façade was holding up surprisingly well. And, yes, the broomsticks were out and ready, just in case we had to vacate the house and flee Denmark with little or no forewarning. It depended solely on the Mateis’ game plan.

After Sadee and the board guys left, Dad told us he had been officially added as an officer serving the Nathan Bedford Forrest Academy for the Arts, or NBFAA, as the locals affectionately refer to the large three-story building looming above the rear of our property.

“They want me to get familiar with their books, since I’ll be taking over as treasurer,” he said proudly. “I officially start the Monday following the Fourth, in two weeks.”

“Congrats, Dad!” I said, while Alisia gave him a big hug.

Of course, this could all be rendered moot if the Matei threat worsened before he could be sworn in.

“We would be better served to not think like that, Bas,” cautioned Mom, alerting me that her intuitions were on a heightened reconnaissance mission that morning. “In fact, Florin and I decided it would be nice to book one of the bigger pontoon boats at Kentucky Lake, and take a few friends out with us to see the really nice fireworks display they have here each year. Sadee raved about it, and when I called half an hour ago to try and rent a boat for the day, the nicer company we saw in the Yellow Pages told us they had just received a cancellation earlier this morning. Apparently they book up a year in advance for the July Fourth holiday. The fact we now have a reservation for a boat seems like the positive sign we’ve needed, in order to not panic about recent developments. So, let’s all take deep breaths, chill a moment, and live our lives like things will work out for us here in Denmark. If things don’t work out, or we find that the Mateis are especially aggressive this time around, we’ll reevaluate then.”

Very sound advice, actually, and something the three of us nodded to with some enthusiasm. No doubt, Grandma was already in agreement with Mom’s thinking, and Grandpa said last night he had no intentions of leaving Denmark until he was ‘damned good and ready to move on!’”

“So, I guess it’s time to get you two back into the yard and working again,” teased Dad, earning an immediate groan from my sis. “Just kidding… I think we’ll give one of the panhandlers who came by here the other day a shot. Sadee said to beware, since almost all of these guys have prison records.”

“You’re not just assuming that because they’re black, right?”

Count on me to not let a comment like he made just slide by.

“No, Bas, I’m not,” he said, eyeing me as if I had just injured his feelings, though his smile remained mostly intact. “Apparently, Julien and Sadee told me there are white panhandlers out here, too. I would’ve hired whoever came by our house first, and seemed dependable to show up for the job—something that often doesn’t happen around here. But the guy named Andrew, who came by here yesterday, seemed sincere enough.”

“Why not hire the kid named Harris, that Julien told us about?”

“I tried… he’s booked solid through the rest of summer,” Dad advised. “His reputation as a smart, dependable worker has placed him in high demand around here. I just hope I don’t rue the day we hired you kids to tend the gardens. Julien said Harris was available two weeks ago, but has taken on several projects since that time.”

“Sorry Dad,” I said, wishing very much that Harris had stopped by a month ago. Then again, I’d be missing a valuable reference point regarding ‘Horseshit’ Harry if Alisia and I had been spared the menial task. “How much were you going to pay us, by the way? This is the first I’ve heard of—”

“I didn’t mean it literally,” he said, perhaps unaware he had cut me off. “There’s nothing either of you kids are entitled to that we wouldn’t buy for you. As long as—”

“It fits The Code,” I said, chuckling at the irony that our family and the Mateis had two very different views of the European Charter. I mean, does a law or guidelines have any teeth if it is rarely enforced? “Or, The Code as
not
interpreted by the Mateis.”

Maybe it was unfair. But to Dad’s credit he eyed me thoughtfully without delivering the rebuke I admittedly deserved.

“Well, regardless, you two are still on reprieve from the yard until further notice,” he said, largely ignoring me once Alisia erupted into more exaggerated gratitude.

Maybe that’s what he needed. Maybe it was what we all needed, especially as we shared a good laugh about the silliness of trying to look like the neighborhood kids, when in fact nobody else’s kids living along the streets bordering our property were doing the chores mentioned. Either they were young enough to be chasing one another on their bikes, or old enough to realize selling drugs can make a helluva lot more money than working at Burger King.

Regardless, no one from around there was moving through a normal human being’s geriatric years while impatiently waiting to look old enough to buy a beer at Kroger or a local liquor store.

* * * * *

The barbecue was fun.

The visit from Serghei Matei was not.

Allow me to talk about the barbeque/neighborhood party first, or what started out as a party, and then was interrupted by a punk asshole, and finally restored to a pretty good time amid nervous glances.

Not exactly the ideal way to enjoy a Saturday evening, but it certainly fit my spoken wish to the universe for a little more action and a lot less boredom in my ‘Denmarkian’ life.

We arrived as a family at our new friends’ fabulous Victorian pad across the street just after seven o’clock that evening. Julien met us at the door, once again without us getting to experience the chimes that little Twyla Tidwell had complained about not hearing the previous afternoon.

“Well come on in, my friends!” he enthused. Julien was already pretty lit, holding a tall glass with something stronger than his ‘preferred’ vodka and cranberry juice. Smelled like Jack n’ Coke to me…. His eyes carried the slight glint of an inebriated mind—not to mention a smile pulling painfully upon the sides of his mouth. He might’ve looked like the Joker from Batman, if not for his thick moustache, as he motioned for us to follow him through the kitchen to the back of the house. “Everybody’s outside, and Meredith is finishing up with the burgers… I mean, barbecue.” He laughed.

“Well hello!”

Sadee waved to us from the far corner of a sprawling wooden deck lined with gas lamps and tiki torches. Professionally landscaped, the backyard was a smaller version of our yard, and I recalled skipping over it yesterday in favor of checking out the mantels and other woodwork upstairs. Now, I regretted not seeing the backyard in the daytime. A tall natural stone fountain fed a koi pond in one end of the yard, and a hot tub covered by a gazebo dominated the other end. Flowerbeds that would put ours to shame if Dad hadn’t ‘helped’ Alisia and me eliminate the weeds dominated the middle, beneath the shade of several enormous pin oaks and maples.

“I’ve saved you a spot with me and Dan, along with Jennifer and Harrison,” said Sadee, when we arrived at the wrought iron table big enough to accommodate us and a few more people. “I hope you kids have brought your appetites!”

“We did,” said Alisia. “Something smells great!”

“Why don’t you and Bas grab something, sweetie, and we’ll go through the line in a moment,” Dad suggested, pointing to the line that had about twenty people. I recognized just over half of them, but only knew a handful by name. “I think I could use a drink like Julien’s.”

Dan Dean grinned and raised a glass similar to Julien’s. It appeared that Jack n’ Coke was the preferred alcoholic beverage of the night.

“Gabriel, I think I’ll have one of those, too,” said Grandma to my father, which elicited a playful stern look from Grandpa.

“Well, I’ll be damned, woman—it’s about time you let your hair down!” he teased. “I’ll go get us a couple right now. How about you, Silvia? Would you care to make it a perfect foursome?”