Enter Three Witches (21 page)

“Oh, God, I suppose I must,” Erika said, and produced a wan smile.

At the announcement following the play of “a small reception for family and friends of the company,” several members of the audience were seen to leave the theater in haste with the comment that what they needed was a good stiff drink. They were unaware that Perkins, a private school, would be attentive to the needs of its parents. There were two punch bowls, one for guests and one for students; and since Jeremy had taken care of the latter with a large bottle of vodka, there was little to choose between them.

Bren found Erika backstage, where cast and crew were scurrying to get into street clothes for the party. She had taken off the worst of her makeup and put on a black leotard and skirt. Her efforts to comb the stiff spikes of pink hair had met with little success. It looked, if anything, more tortured than before, and the lingering smudges of black greasepaint around her eyes gave her a haunted look.

“You were phenomenal,” Bren said, giving her a hug. “Awesome, marvelous, incredible, out of this world.”

Erika clung to him for a moment and then stepped back. “Incredible and out of this world?” she said. “I think I have to agree with you. It was scary, Bren. I felt almost…I don’t know what to say. Almost possessed. It wasn’t a nice feeling, however wonderful the results.”

Bren frowned. “I know what you mean. We felt it too, and things happened with the lights that never happened before—good things like making you vanish so perfectly, but some others we never even thought of, that we wouldn’t even know how to do. I don’t know what to think.”

“It was almost,” Erika said carefully, “as if someone or something was working on the play in a supernatural way. I know this sounds far-fetched. I don’t suppose it’s even the kind of thing she could do, but, well, you know what I’m thinking.”

Bren stared at her. “That’s crazy,” he said. “I’m sure she couldn’t do anything like that. Certainly not without being here, and she couldn’t be here without my knowing it.”

Erika found that her reluctance to tell him what she had seen had evaporated. After all, they were in this together now and had made a pledge of frankness on the still difficult subject of Bren’s witchy relatives. “I saw her, Bren,” she confessed. “I saw all three of them. They were standing in the front of the balcony, and there was a sort of blue fire playing around them. It was just before the last big witch scene.”

“Now she’s gone too far,” said Bren, not for the first time in his life. “This has got to stop.”

“Do you think they’ll come to the party?” Erika asked.

“Can you think of anything that would be likely to stop them?” Bren countered with a cynical smile. “Half the fun would be hearing what people had to say about the special effects.”

Erika peeked through the curtain in back of the stage. “I suppose we’d better put in an appearance,” she said dubiously. “It’s all set up, and people have started to arrive.”

Onstage the towers and battlements had been pushed back, although they still loomed in the corners. The banquet table had been set up again, its flagons and papier-mâché suckling pig replaced with plastic glasses and the two punch bowls. A number of parents had already gathered at one end of the table, and some of the company were dipping enthusiastically into Jeremy’s concoction at the other when Bren and Erika joined them. Miranda and her two colleagues were nowhere to be seen.

Inevitably, as the terrors of the play faded, spectators and cast began to look for an explanation of what they had seen. What could be more obvious than to hold the light crew responsible? Lighting was perceived to be in the realm of science, and everyone knew that science moved in mysterious ways. Aesthetic questions were also being raised, and not everyone was pleased. A tall man with something of Brian’s self-satisfied expression, who turned out to be the theater’s founder and patron, cornered Bren. “You technical people do incredible things,” he said. “Congratulations and all that, but one wonders if you don’t sometimes lose your sense of proportion.”

“Proportion?” Bren said vaguely, burying his nose in his punch. “Oh yes, sometimes. Maybe.”

“After all,” the great actor continued, “the play’s the thing, my boy, don’t you know? There were times tonight when the special effects were quite overwhelming. And other times when they weren’t. It was uneven, if you see what I mean.”

“I do,” Bren said. “I think you’re one hundred percent right. Excuse me.” He had caught sight of his mother, flanked by Louise and Rose, at the far side of the stage. Suspicion, turning rapidly into certainty, flooded his mind as he stared at the radiant figure of his parent.

Miranda wore a dress of cornflower-blue silk, its high neck and simple lines a perfect setting for a remarkable necklace of rough-cut amethysts. Not every woman would have added the curiously knotted gold cord around her waist, but Miranda had never had any trouble carrying off the accessories that were the tools of her trade. Just as a window washer goes about draped in pails and coils of rope, so did Miranda adorn herself for an evening of mixed business and pleasure. Bren had no need of X-ray eyes to know that under the shimmering blue silk of his mother’s skirt was a red garter embroidered with cabalistic signs, and that on the slender hand now delving into an enormous pocketbook was an intricate gold ring with a high crown and a little knob like the catch to a box.

Intent on composing a suitably scathing speech, Bren failed to see Madame Lavatky until he was enveloped in her arms. She smelled strongly of gardenias mingled with the whiff of an exotic but all too familiar beverage. “Darlink Bren! It is so beautiful I am crying all the time,” Madame exclaimed. She released him with one hand so that she could dab at the corner of a purple-shadowed eye.

“Thanks, Madame Lavatky. I’m glad you could come. What a nice surprise,” Bren said, tugging at his imprisoned arm.

“Never, never in my long life of art do I see such things,” the opera singer continued. “Not at the Met, not at La Scala, not at Bayreuth—never such atmosphere, such evoking of the soul. It is unbelievable.”

“That’s true,” Bren said. “I have to admit I was just a bit surprised myself. Excuse me a minute. I see my mother over there.”

“Yes, yes. Run to your mother. She is crazy with joy and pride.”

“But not in me,” Bren muttered, as he pulled away from Madame Lavatky and began pushing through the crowd.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, drawing up in front of the guilty trio. “Hi, Gram. Hi, Louise. It’s great you all managed to get here. I didn’t see you come in.”

“Congratulations, darling.” Miranda leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips. “We were in the balcony. Such a wonderful view of all those marvelous lighting effects.”

“Nobody was supposed to go onto the balcony,” Bren said. “I’ve got cables running all over the place. Who let you go up?”

“A very nice young man,” his mother said, and Bren groaned. There probably wasn’t an usher alive who could have stopped Miranda from sitting where she chose to sit, much less the wimp he now remembered had been posted at the balcony stairs.

“I see it all,” Bren said. “At least, I hardly see it all. I see where it was done, but as to how and, for God’s sake,
why
, I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.”

“Here comes the first witch,” Miranda commented brightly. “Such a talented girl, Bren. Do you know her?”

“Yes, I know her, and you know I know her,” Bren said, as Erika came to stand beside him. “I don’t think any introductions are called for, so stop playing games with me, Mom, and tell me what you were doing up in the balcony.”

“Hey, Erika, you a fine witch, girl,” said Louise. “Who would have thought it? You miss your calling for sure.”

Erika looked uneasily from one to the other, wondering how far the conversation had progressed. “Thanks, Louise,” she said. “But it’s just dancing, you know, and great makeup and, of course, lights and…and things.”

Rose chuckled. “‘And things,’ she says. Things there were, no doubt about it, but only part of the time. You were a lovely witch, my dear, all things aside, and that makeup was a wonder. Hard to believe three young girls could get to looking a hundred years old with just a little goo smeared on their faces.”

Erika glanced at Bren, who was still glaring at his mother, and wondered if they should be left alone together. “It isn’t exactly a little goo,” she said. “It’s quite an amazing lot, and pieces of hair and soft plastic, and all sorts of stuff. Come on down to the makeup room, and I’ll show you.”

Louise, who had wandered off and was poking at the painted canvas skin of one of the towers, followed Erika and Rose backstage, leaving Bren and Miranda together.

“You didn’t really mind, did you?” Miranda asked. “It was such fun, Bren, and such a terrific test of my powers.”

“What’s the matter with you?” Bren said. “Of course I minded. You threw everything out of whack, and besides, it’s going to be a hard act to follow.”

“Well, maybe we could come to the other performances,” Miranda suggested. “I’ll ask Louise and Rose, though I don’t think they care so much for Shakespeare as I do.”

“You’ve missed the point completely. You always do.” Bren was trying to keep his voice down and control the rising tide of exasperation that always accompanied such discussions with his mother. “The point is…oh, great. Here comes Behrens. Try to act like a seminormal mom, if you can. He’s the director.”

“Mr. Behrens and I have already met,” Miranda said, holding out her hand. “We had such a fascinating talk after the technical rehearsal.”

“At the tech!” Bren cried, then stopped and stared as his mother and his director greeted each other like old friends.

“It’s the mysterious lady,” Behrens said. “Mother of the lighting genius and major prophetess. I never would have believed it could go so well. You must have done a job of praying because I totally forgot to avoid saying the name of the play.”

“I knew you would,” Miranda said, “and you see it didn’t matter after all. There’s always more than one way around a minor curse. I told you it would go well.”

“You told me maybe Bren and Erika would start doing their jobs with their usual competence. You didn’t tell me they were going to take off into the realm of the supernatural.”

“And did they?” Miranda asked with a provocative smile.

“Well, not literally, I suppose,” Behrens said uneasily. “I keep telling myself that I didn’t see what I thought I saw.”

“Always a futile undertaking,” said Miranda.

Bren, who had been listening to this conversation with growing comprehension and alarm, now noticed his father standing by the punch bowl—a solid and comforting sight. “Hey, Dad!” he called, abandoning Behrens to his mother’s wiles. “Am I glad you came. What did you think?”

“Great, Bren, really great.” Bob put his arm around his son’s shoulders for a brief, fatherly squeeze. “Looks as though you’ve found a career outside of dog walking. No kidding. The lights were wonderful.”

“Thanks,” Bren said, “but I’m a little sick of them at the moment.”

“That’ll pass. You’ve got a real talent there. I see your mother has found a friend. Who the hell is he?”

“Oh, that’s just the director, Mr. Behrens,” Bren said. “I mean, he’s really great, but I don’t think they know each other very well. They only met the other night at the rehearsal.”

Bob stared at his wife, who was gazing into her companion’s eyes and gently stroking the amethyst necklace that glowed on her shimmering blue dress.

“He’d better watch out, whoever he is,” Bob said. “He could be in more than one kind of bad, bad trouble.”

He’s jealous, Bren thought happily, and she’s only teasing poor Bear. The party began to seem like more fun. He helped himself to another cup of punch and began to wonder how Erika could stay so long backstage.

“Don’t go away,” he said. “I want to find somebody you’ve got to meet.”

“I am rooted to the spot,” Bob answered, his eyes still fixed on his flirting wife. “How could I tear myself away?”

“Don’t be a dingbat,” Bren said. “I’ll be right back.”

Bren’s search for Erika, however, was brief and abortive. He had barely turned away from the refreshment table when he saw a sight that froze him in his tracks—a new arrival at the party and, from his point of view, the last straw.

Alia’s fiery hair fell to her shoulders, where tiny straps held up a skin-tight sheath of acid green, and she was dripping with witch jewels. Her recovery was obviously complete; her dark eyes glowed, and her tall figure radiated seductive energy. Possibly Miranda, in her newfound preoccupation with the theater, had allowed her malevolent hold on Alia’s health to slip. Perhaps Alia was a better witch than anyone had given her credit for. Whatever the cause, her presence promised nothing but a hideously embarrassing scene.

“Dad’s really going to love this,” Bren muttered, and hurried back to his father. “Don’t look now, but a certain sickly redhead is alive and well and coming up fast on our starboard bow,” he said.

Bob looked, as people always do when told not to. He turned an interesting shade of plum under his tan. “My God, she looks terrific, doesn’t she?” was the first thing he managed to say.

“No,” Bren said.

“I think, on the other hand, I’ll just fade out, old son, if you don’t mind too much. She’s going to string me up by my toes for not inviting her tonight.”

“Too late,” said Bren, as Alia engulfed them both in a wave of Mediterranean charm.

“Ben!” she cried, landing a kiss on his ear when he tried to duck. “It is so long since I see you, and Bobby, too, you wicked man. Why do you not invite me to this wonderful play?”

“Hi, Alia,” Bob said. “I thought you were sick.”

“Ah, I was so sick you cannot imagine,” Alia said enthusiastically. “The pain in every part of my body—my head, my back, my—how do you say,
fegato?”

“How should I know?” Bob asked crossly.

Alia clutched the lower right side of her abdomen. “Her liver, I think,” Bren contributed.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to hear about it,” Bob said, casting a desperate glance in Miranda’s direction.