The Adventures of Flash Jackson (22 page)

“Well, hold on now, buttercup,” I said. “I have never in my life felt unattractive. If I walked naked down the street, men would practically sprain their calf muscles trying to jump me.”

“
Haley Bombauer!
” said Mother, scandalized.

“All I'm talking about,” I said calmly, “is that you have been killing me with food.”

I wished I hadn't put it that way, because Mother started to get kind of weepy eyed. She put her napkin to her eyes and leaned her elbows on the table, and sure enough I heard the sounds that when I was younger always used to make me stop whatever I was doing and run to her side, putting an arm around her until she stopped. But I didn't feel like doing that right now. I was sorry she was upset, but I was onto something, and I didn't want to let go of it just yet. There would be time for apologies later. Besides, I wasn't going to say anything that I couldn't unsay. I wasn't mad. I was just telling the truth.

“Ma,” I said, “does this have something to do with Dad?”

“What—what do you mean?” she said, sniffling.

“I mean, after he died—did we start eating more?”

“I—that's the strangest—what on earth are you talking about?”

“I don't remember these kinds of things,” I said. “I was only little. You were the one doing the cooking. Did you—did you keep on cooking for three?”

Mother stared at me, leaning on her hands, as though I was some kind of oddity. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I guess I did.”

“Was this the kind of food he liked?” I asked her. “Like these, for example, these little hot dog bacon thingies. Were these one of his favorites?”

“He liked to eat them when he listened to football or baseball,” she said. “Sports always put him in a good mood. I used to bring him a plate of these on Sundays.”

“But we didn't eat them every day, right?”

She shook her head.

“Not for dinner? People normally don't eat these for dinner, right?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Probably not.”

“I bet they don't,” I said, picking one up. “They're not very good for you.”

Mother sat back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling, dreamy eyed. “Sundays always had a kind of glow to them,” she said. “Your father was always cheery, always a kind man, but when he listened to sports he went into his own little world. And he took you with him. He used to set you on his lap and explain it all to you—home runs and touchdowns and everything. Remember?”

“I sure do,” I said. I was starting to get kind of glimmery eyed myself, remembering the feel of his whiskers on the back of my neck, and the gentle smell of his two Sunday beers coming off him. His big hands wrapped around my middle to keep me from falling off his lap, because I was a wiggle worm. The horsey rides on his knee. Learning to yell with joy when some invisible, far-off player did something good, and imagining what it looked like when he did it. For years,
“home run” meant to me that the guy just ran out of the ballpark all the way to his house. I thought everyone was happy for him because he got to go home, while the rest of them had to stay there.

“He never cared who won,” she said. “He just loved sports. And he loved these little hot dogs with bacon.”

“So you kept making them,” I said.

Mother looked at me again. I didn't know if she knew specifically what I was getting at. I'm not sure I could have put it any more clearly, anyway. Was I accusing her of something, something beyond making me fat? Some kind of betrayal? Oh, she knew I meant something, all right—but in true Mother tradition, she sidestepped that neatly and turned it around, forming it into a question and shooting it right back at me, like a snowball caught in midair. A snowball with a hard center of guilt to it, instead of that deadly little nugget of ice you sneak in there when you really want to nail the person you're aiming at.

“Haley,” she said, “I know I have my faults, but…have I been a good mother?”

I looked right back at her.
There can only really be one answer to that question
, I thought. There was no point in digging into old wounds now.

“Yes, you have,” I lied. “Perfect.”

She smiled.

“Thank you, sweetie,” she said. “It's so good to have you home again.”

 

“Sometimes I even wonder if she's still hitting on all four cylinders,” I said to Miz Powell. “Like, maybe after my dad died she kind of lost it a little bit. And then I left. I shouldn't have gone,” I said, filled suddenly with the conviction that leaving my mother alone in that house had caused her to drop the rest of her marbles. That was it—loneliness had driven her around the bend. I'd never bothered to think of her, had I? I just went and did what I wanted. Despite all my efforts at reformation over the years, I was still a selfish daughter. I was still bad.

“No, Haley,” Miz Powell said firmly. “You did the right thing. The right thing for
yourself
.”

“You don't think I made her lose it?”

“I'm sure she lost
something
,” said Miz Powell, holding her teacup and saucer, as always, three inches above her thigh. “From what you say she loved your father dearly, and his loss must have been a terrible blow. Sometimes an emotional trauma like that can do permanent damage, Haley. It's simply more difficult to be sympathetic in those cases, because it's not the kind of damage you can see.”

“You said it,” I said. I tried holding the teacup and saucer like she did, but it kept rattling in my hands and I started feeling ungenteel, so I set it back down. “I just wish there was some way I could make her feel whole again.”

“You are not responsible for your mother's mental health, my dear,” said Miz Powell. “It's rather important that you remember that.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. I started wondering about how to help Mother, how to make her feel like she didn't have to keep plugging up the big father-shaped hole in our lives with lots of fattening things to eat, and how to help her in other ways, too. I kind of drifted off into my own little world there for a moment. Miz Powell brought me back with a gentle harrumph in her throat.

“It's really not polite to daydream when one is a guest, Haley dear,” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about…things.”

“I understand,” Miz Powell said, with a smile—and all was right again. Funny how much I'd changed in the short time that I'd met her. Used to be she would raise the hackles on my neck just acting the way she did, all prim and proper and making me feel like a horse apple in a bowlful of peaches without even saying a word, just in the way she looked at me. Now, though, she had the opposite effect. I found myself trying to be more like her, right down to the way I held my teacup. That was the thing about Miz Powell—that was the thing about all great leaders.

Because that was how I'd come to think of her. Miz Powell was a leader of people. Never mind that she wasn't in command of a regiment, or president of the country. She made people follow her just by lifting one eyebrow and marching along at her own rapid pace. You couldn't help but march along behind her.

“And how do you find life in the woods?” she inquired, as though we were talking about a loft in London.

“It's…well, it's hard to explain,” I said, and I proceeded to do just that, launching into a half hour description of the more mundane details of life with Grandmother. Even though Miz Powell and I had never talked about that day at the creek, when she and Letty Horgan had done their little magic-ritual skinny-dipping thingie, and even though I had always made a point of keeping the family secret from everyone, I felt suddenly like this was the right time to unburden myself—or at least part of myself. I didn't think I would ever tell anybody the whole story. It didn't seem wise. But I said: “My grandmother has kind of a crazy reputation around here. Maybe you've heard about it. People think she's a witch.”

“I see,” said Miz Powell. “And is she?”

I sat looking at her, blinking and gaping.

“You are not a fish, Haley, so do stop acting like one,” said Miz Powell.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “I, uh—well. Yes. She is a witch. I can't say I care much for that particular word, but that's what she is.”

“I see,” said Miz Powell again. “More tea?”

I pushed my cup toward her, in a bit of a haze all of a sudden. She filled it and pushed it back.

“You seem pretty calm about it,” I said.

“I am indeed,” said Miz Powell. “Tell me something, dear. Is your grandmother…training you?”

Well, no point in hiding it now. I couldn't lie to Miz Powell. “I guess you could say that,” I said.

“And what does she teach you? Don't shrug. It implies ignorance.”

“I can't say precisely,” I said. “I guess she's mostly teaching me how to pay attention to things.”

“I see,” she said. “And do you feel that you are learning well?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Good,” she said.

“Miz Powell,” I said. “You didn't seem very surprised just now when I said my grandmother was a witch.”

“No,” she replied. “That's because I'm not.”

“You mean…you knew?”

“Of course I knew,” she said. “Everyone around here knows.”

“And when you asked if she's training me?”

“That's because we knew she would be choosing an apprentice soon,” said Miz Powell.

“We who?”

“Just a moment, if you don't mind, dear,” she said, getting up. “I need to make a phone call.”

 

We sat in the parlor until our tea grew cold. I didn't ask Miz Powell who she had called, not wanting to be nosy. I just talked—telling her everything I knew about my grandmother, my mother, about me, about that time I lifted the Veil on my own and saw nothing but sunflowers. I didn't hold anything back this time. I told her the whole story. She listened attentively, taking in every word, nodding every so often and sometimes stopping me to ask a question, but mostly just letting me go on. About an hour after she'd made the phone call, Letty Horgan showed up, driving a tiny, ancient Pacer. She tottered to the door in her Sunday best—it occurred to me then that I didn't even know what day it was, that it had been weeks since I bothered to follow the calendar, so it very well might have been Sunday after all—and let herself in without ringing the bell. The two old biddies pecked each other on the cheek and Letty gave me a peck too, and then there we were, the three of us, sitting around with our teacups,
forming what once would have been my worst nightmare—a real tea party, just us dames.

Letty got right to the point.

“Lizzy says you've been chosen as the apprentice, dear,” she said to me. “That's fine news. Isn't that fine, Lizzy?”

“It certainly is,” said Miz Powell, beaming.

“We were wondering how much longer it would be,” said Letty.

“Indeed we were,” said Miz Powell.

“I need to ask something here,” I said. “Because my head is sort of spinning.”

“Go ahead, dear,” said Letty.

“Are…well, are you two witches also?”

The two ladies looked at each other and tittered.

“My goodness, no,” said Miz Powell. “That's not a word one should use lightly, is it, Letty?”

“Got that right,” said Letty.

“But we do have lots of things to talk to you about,” said Miz Powell. “So many things to tell you. Don't we, Letty, dear?”

“We sure do, at that,” said Letty. “Where do you figure we should start?”

“I hardly know myself,” said Miz Powell. “But let me just say, Haley, that we've been awaiting this moment most eagerly. Most eagerly indeed.”

“Oh my, yes,” said Letty. “It's almost as exciting as a birthday party. I have an idea, Lizzy.”

“What's that, if I may?” Miz Powell asked.

“Let's tell her about the creek,” said Letty brightly. “Let's tell her all about it, from beginning to end. That would be a good place to start.”

“I agree completely,” said Miz Powell. She turned to me. “You see, Haley, that creek is an interesting place. It's no coincidence that your grandmother lives at its source, and it's no coincidence either that it happened to be our special place when we were young. Oh, how I
missed it when I was away,” she said. “It was what I longed for most when I was in England….”

 

…meaning, of course, that there was something special about the creek, as I'd always half known, and in fact something special about the whole area—which might have been why I never felt much of an urge to move away, as boring as things were. I was tied to the land by more than history. There was a real, palpable connection to it. I had it, Letty and Miz Powell had it. My grandmother had it. Even my mother had it, though in her case there was a problem—some kind of mental static, some kind of blockage. There was a particular kind of energy around here, one that a few people could recognize—and even fewer people could make use of. Lizzy and Letty called it Zam, but they freely admitted that it had had other names in other times, and would have yet more names sometime in the future. It was eternal, ageless, undying—as old as the land itself.

The two old ladies had always known about it, ever since they could remember. They weren't sure if they'd been told about it by someone else, or if they'd discovered it on their own. Neither of them could remember. All they knew was, from the time they were very young they used to gather at the creek, their numbers much greater in those days—at one point there were more than a dozen girls involved, all tuned in to the same frequency, in a manner of speaking. That was where their secret language came from. Back then they hadn't known exactly what they were doing. They were just playing. The creek was the source of something, they knew. The water was at the root of something wonderful. There was something there, something that had
always
been there—something a few people had always known about for as long as there were people here, from times that no one remembered, except the creek itself and one other person: my grandmother.