Enter Three Witches (9 page)

When he reached the landing, however, his mother’s door opened, and there she stood in an old bathrobe, her face white and distraught, the dog trying to push her out of the way. “Where have you been?” she cried. “I’ve been worried out of my mind. The ballet must have been over for hours.”

“I went for a walk,” Bren said.

“For a walk. You went for a walk? How can you just stand there and say you went for a walk when I’ve been wondering whether to call the police?” Miranda ran her hands through her already disordered hair and turned back into the bedroom, where she began to pace the floor.

Bren had little choice but to follow her. He put a restraining hand on Shadow’s head and stared at his mother. She certainly looked much less like a witch and much more like a mother than he was accustomed to. Was it an act? Clearly not, but he was still unwilling to forget the incident that had driven him to walk the streets.

“Mom, I am sixteen years old,” he said. “Suppose I had decided to take my date somewhere after the ballet. So what? You never mentioned that there was a curfew. Next time let me know, and I’ll take it into account. I might even telephone, although I doubt I would have tonight. Not under the circumstances. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Miranda said distractedly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why shouldn’t you telephone? It was the least you could have done.”

Bren studied her in silence. Was it possible she had really forgotten the summons? Not likely, he thought, but she was probably unaware of the effect it had had on the final moments of his evening with Erika.

“You promised not to summon me,” he said finally, “but you couldn’t resist, could you, and it really pissed me off.”

Miranda looked stricken. “Oh, Bren,” she said, “did I really? I didn’t mean to. I must just have been thinking hard about you—hoping you were having a good time, you know, and all that sort of thing.”

She had made a mistake, and Bren found himself angrier than ever. “Sure, Mom. If I’d believe that I’d believe anything. What do you take me for,” he shouted, “some sort of mental defective? I know how much concentration you put into calling me, and you did it tonight at approximately ten minutes after eleven, and it made me so mad I almost didn’t come home at all. I went to see Dad,” he finished vindictively.

“So why didn’t you stay?” Miranda cried. “Why didn’t you stay and let your mother worry all night instead of just an hour or two?”

“Because he had company, that’s why. He had the kind of company you don’t want to be interrupted with, to quote his repellent doorman. Not really wanting to sleep in the park, I decided to come home.” Bren was appalled to see the effect this explanation had on his mother, but it took him a minute to figure out what he had said that would account for it.

Miranda sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew there had to be someone else. Why else would he leave and not want to come back?”

Bren himself had not really confronted his father’s apparent infidelity; he’d had too much else on his mind. Now he was struck dumb in a tangle of conflicting emotions. Worst of all, he was obviously expected to say something manly and comforting to his mother. Nothing whatsoever came to mind.

“So that’s that,” Miranda said in a small, husky voice, which was alarmingly on the verge of tears.

“So that’s what?” Bren asked, playing for time.

“Oh, Bren, don’t be stupid!” his mother cried, jumping up with a startling return to her usual manner. She strode to the window and stared out toward the park and the East Side, where her estranged husband presumably was disporting himself with some showgirl or feeble-minded, long-legged secretary. “Not for long, he won’t,” she muttered. “Just give me time to think, and I’ll fix that romance. I’ll turn her into a toad.”

“Come on, Mom,” Bren said. “You can do better than that. A toad! You must have been reading fairy stories.”

Miranda turned and stared at her son as if she had forgotten he was there. “Well, what do you suggest?” she asked.

“I suggest you forget the whole thing,” Bren said. “I’m really sorry I said anything. You know what a cesspool Smirky Sammy has for a mind, or maybe you don’t, but take my word for it. Dad’s probably working late with someone from the office, whipping up a new campaign or whatever, and besides…” He had been about to add that Bob West was a man living alone, parted from his wife, and not a monk. Just in time, he thought better of it.

“Besides what?” Miranda asked suspiciously.

“Besides you shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Bren improvised. It occurred to him that his mother’s wrath had been redirected and that angry as he still was about her interference with his evening, a tactful withdrawal was now in order. He began to edge toward the door.

“I’ll think of something,” Miranda said. “I’ll take my time and do it right. Maybe you can find out what she’s like, Bren. That’s such a help. I mean, if you want to make someone’s hair fall out, for example, it helps to know what kind of hair it is. It’s not essential, but it helps.”

“Mom, if there is a person, you know, the kind of person you’re imagining, which I doubt, but if there is, I don’t think I’m likely to meet her. Come on, Shadow, let’s go to bed. I’m beat.” I really am, he thought. What a day.

“You don’t want to help,” Miranda said, and the tears were back in her voice. “First you scare me half out of my mind, and then you refuse to do just a little tiny thing to help me. I can’t believe it.”

Bren, somewhat against his better judgment, crossed the room and gave his mother a hug. “I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. “I didn’t think of it that way, and as for the other thing, if I find anything out, I’ll let you know, okay?”

Miranda returned the hug. She was comforted, if not convinced, and Bren and Shadow made their escape.

Bren slept badly and woke far earlier than was decent on a gray Sunday morning. A great chance to sleep, he told himself sternly, but it was no good. He was awake, and he was thinking about Erika and his mother and his father and his father’s possible girlfriend. None of these subjects was in the least restful. With a growl that startled his still-slumbering dog, he threw back the covers and stumbled out of bed.

The kitchen was nearly dark except for the light over the stove, which revealed an array of dismantled burners and the rear end of Louise, who was either gassing herself or cleaning the oven. The thought of a peaceful and solitary cup of coffee would have to be abandoned. Bren snatched up Shadow’s water bowl, slammed it down on the edge of the sink, and turned the cold water on full.

Louise emerged from the oven. “Hi, babe,” she said. “You sure up at the dawn crack.”

“So are you,” Bren said crossly. “I was hoping for a cup of coffee, but I guess it’s going to be that kind of day.”

Louise sat down and regarded him amiably. “Won’t be long now, babe. I been whacking away at this old monster since six o’clock, and she almost clean or as clean as she ever going to be. Gonna ask your daddy for a new stove one of these days, just see if I don’t. One of those that cleans itself.”

“Lots of luck, Louise,” Bren said. He put the water bowl down and poured some dry dog food into another. “Here, Shadow. Be grateful your breakfast doesn’t have to be cooked.”

“Oh, your daddy’s not so bad. His bark a whole lot worse than his bite.”

Bren perched on the edge of the counter and studied Louise. Even though he had known her all his life, she continued to surprise him. “I thought you couldn’t stand him,” he said.

“As men go, he got a lot to recommend him,” Louise said. “I just put him down to put our lady’s back up, and maybe she see she can get along without him, too—like if she could get the idea he was no great bargain after all.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Bren said. “And I also doubt that foul-tasting mixtures of rhino horn work very well the other way.”

“There’s things you don’t know. There’s a pile of things, and you never will, even if you see it happen right under your nose. You not one of us, Bren babe, and I guess that good, but don’t you doubt what you don’t know nothing about.” Louise took a halfhearted swipe at the oven door but continued to gaze at Bren with her small, dark eyes. “You look peaked,” she finished. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” Bren said, but there was something about Louise that made him want to confide in her almost against his will. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, I know she can do,” he went on reluctantly. “She can still call me when I’m someplace else, and it drives me up the wall.”

Louise nodded. “Mind power. She best at that, and that not even proper witchery.”

“I don’t care what you call it, I don’t like it. I feel like some kind of puppet, Louise.”

“What you got to understand, Bren, is your momma is a
momma
first before she a witch or anything else.” Louise laughed. “How many mommas you think would like to be able to call they babies the way Miranda call you? About a hundred percent, that’s how many. Instead they got to nag and carry on. Maybe you lucky, ever think of that?”

“No,” Bren said. “I didn’t and I’m not about to. It’s a howling nuisance and it’s…embarrassing sometimes. I wish she’d just stick to her spells and potions.”

“For spells you better come to me,” Louise said. “Miranda careless when it come to spells. She cast a fine spell when she concentrate, but you can’t just count on her to do all the little things in the right order. You want to charm a girl and be sure it work, you come to old Louise LaReine.”

Bren jumped off the counter. “Stop that,” he shouted. “I don’t want to charm a girl, and furthermore I never will. Come on, Shadow. We’ll have a walk to the deli and get me some breakfast. It’s too early in the morning for all this garbage.”

Louise chuckled and put her head back in the oven, but Bren’s exit was foiled by the arrival of Madame Lavatky. Wrapped in an ancient peignoir trimmed with scraps of ermine and peacock feathers, she appeared in the doorway and cut off his escape.

“Stop, thief!” she cried, and pointed an accusing finger at him. He stopped, puzzled at this display of hostility from an admirer. His head was beginning to ache. “I come for my beautiful book which you take and do not return,” continued the singer, seeming to tremble with indignation.

“She come to see what she can snatch from the kitchen before anybody else get up,” Louise said.

“You lie, black fiend,” cried Madame Lavatky. “Never have I been so insulted. What use have I for your decimated tea bags? I who drank tea with the Empress of all the Russias?”

“Tea, was it?” Louise said. “That a damn sight better than lamb chops.”

“I’ll get your book,” Bren said, and fled up the stairs, nearly tripping over Luna, who was stretched completely across one of the top steps.

He came down cautiously with the heavy volume, skipping the tread where the cat still lay. Luna snarled quietly as he went by. “You were such a nice kitten,” Bren said over his shoulder. “What went wrong?”

Madame had retreated from the kitchen and was waiting for him in the hall. “My dear young man,” she said. “There was no need for such rushing. Did I not say keep it forever if you wish? Keep, study, enjoy the so beautiful arts of the Ballet Russe. We who know of the finer things,” and she cast a malevolent glance toward the kitchen, “we must share. Is it not so?”

“Thank you, Madame Lavatky. I’m sure it is, but I’ve finished with your book. Maybe I’ll borrow another one sometime, but now I absolutely have to go out and get some breakfast,” Bren said, and snatching Shadow’s leash from its hook by the door, he escaped from the house.

The day was even more dismal than it had seemed from inside, foggy and dank with a chill that made Bren shiver in his light jacket. He thought of going back when Shadow had had his walk. Maybe Louise would have finished the stove by then, and he could settle down with his breakfast and a book in the kitchen. But maybe she wouldn’t have. It was just as likely that she and Madame Lavatky would go back to their exchange of insults and that the kitchen would be uninhabitable. Bren tugged Shadow toward Broadway. Having the dog with him made breakfast a problem. He knotted the leash around a small tree in front of the deli, bought coffee and a doughnut, and carried them out to eat on the sidewalk.

The Apthorp was directly across the street. Bren leaned against a lamp post, sipping his coffee and contemplating, through the tall iron gates, the scene of last night’s disaster. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. Just the time on a Sunday morning when sensible people were stretching luxuriously between the sheets and turning over for another snooze. Brief though their friendship had been, Bren could easily imagine Erika in the sensuous enjoyment of her last few hours in bed. He thought of her face, with the covers pulled up to her nose, the dark lashes lying against high cheekbones, the incongruous bright hair tousled against the pillow. Then he thought of the rest of Erika, slim and wiry like a little cat, curled contentedly in an oversized bed. What was he going to do with himself until it was a civilized hour to make a phone call? Bren sighed, threw his coffee cup into a litter basket, and untied Shadow’s leash.

“Let’s go down to the river, old boy, and wallow in misery for a while,” he said, and headed for Seventy-ninth Street and the two long blocks sloping down to the Hudson. They crossed Riverside Drive into the park and took the path that went under the highway. Shadow tugged at his leash, impatient for the waterfront with its pigeons and gulls and wonderful smells. They went down the curving steps leading to the great stone rotunda. Here there was a shallow fountain where in summer a circle of bronze turtles spouted thin streams of water. It was a favorite wading pool for dogs and children, but Shadow, recognizing its present uselessness, pressed on toward the river. Bren unsnapped the leash; there were no more streets to cross and probably no policemen to object to a dog’s freedom on this unpromising Sunday morning.

Leaving Shadow to his adventures, he walked to the rail and stared gloomily at the multitude of small craft swaying slightly in some imperceptible current beneath the still, dark surface of the water. The masts of the sailboats were wrapped in fog, and the sleek sides of the speedboats glistened with moisture. Then Bren saw that one touch of color enlivened the scene. An old houseboat was anchored close to the shore, and in its peeling superstructure was a window from which warm yellow light shone through a frill of red curtains. What a way to live, he thought: just me and Shadow and some nice girl (Erika, of course) floating by ourselves on the river.