The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (3 page)

She settled us a few yards from the cottage, in those green painted aluminum chairs pulled around a broad tree stump, its satiny surface revealing frequent use as a table. She poured herself wine and me carrot juice. I objected to the juice, but she said obscurely that I ‘needed building up.’

Then we began what was our first real conversation.

I sighed. “There was so much happening that you couldn’t have known.”

Mrs. Risk smiled. “On the contrary, my dear. There was much you didn’t know, yourself. I knew it all.”

In response to gentle prodding, I told her how, a year ago, before too many days had passed in my new marriage, I became conscious of a pattern: no one was allowed into our home except Ike. And I wasn’t allowed out, except to go downstairs to work in the deli. My position resembled Peter’s wife in the Mother Goose rhyme. You know, the wife Peter feared he couldn’t keep very well, so he kept her in the pumpkin shell. Since before meeting Ike, I’d roamed at will, left alone and frankly unnoticed by both parents and school authorities, the one thing I’d always had and treasured was my freedom.

When I accused him of keeping me prisoner, his dismissive response made me wild with rage. He was a huge man, with muscles hardened by decades of rough work, and I soon learned my true powerless state. I hid in our rooms until the outward marks disappeared. Again I approached him, submissively this time. I asked him to let me go home. This inspired another ‘corrective session’ from my loving husband. When I managed to secretly call my parents, they asked what I’d done to make him treat me that way. Openly disgusted at my ‘behavior,’ they hung up.

I may have been unwise and uneducated, but I wasn’t stupid. Quickly I learned to conceal my rebellious nature. And my hatred. And fear.

Ike taught me to cook and I even waited on customers during the busy times. A few villagers Ike was unable to fend off from speaking to me told me things about the village I lived in, never guessing that if I could ever step outside my husband’s shop, I’d have no idea where I was. Except I could see the Bay across the street, and from the higher apartment windows and roof, Long Island Sound beyond the Bay. On a fine day, I could even see across the Sound to Connecticut.

“The customers also talked about you,” I told her. “The local witch,” I added tentatively, but she only smiled, showing no offense.

Eventually, I admitted that desperation gave birth to the idea Mrs. Risk had understood with one glance at my garden. I stopped at that point, too miserable to go on.

We sat in a silence that grew strangely companionable after a while. It was then I vowed silently to myself never to allow weakness to rule my life again. I’d been dependent and trusting. Two big mistakes. Okay. The past was over. Forget it, but never forget its lessons. The future may be unknown, but I was on my own two feet again, so let the future come.

Then Mrs. Risk spoke. I’d nearly forgotten her presence, so deeply had I sunken into my own thoughts. No longer interested in anything Mrs. Risk could tell me, I decided to leave as soon as I could do it politely, eager to start my new life alone.

But Mrs. Risk had a few surprises waiting. “Tell me,” she asked. “Why didn’t you just escape by conventional means? Talk to a divorce lawyer?”

“Ike swore if I left him, I’d be dead within the day. He said I was his, only his, and no one else would ever have me. I believed him.”

She nodded. “You were wise to believe.” Then she explained how, if she hadn’t intervened, I’d have died soon anyway. Something about me, she said, some strength I showed, must have convinced him that he wouldn’t be able to hang on to me for long. So he was slowly poisoning me, putting ever increasing amounts of pesticides, the stuff he’d bought for my garden, into those appalling lunches.

Believe me, the irony did not escape my notice. Sipping my carrot juice with new compliance, I snorted, then suddenly exploded into wild laughter.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Risk. “What a collection of toxins you managed to cultivate in that garden of yours. I hope you realize that I not only saved your life from Ike’s loving stranglehold, but I saved you from throwing your life away by murdering your husband.”

I spluttered, “He was poisoning me? And before I could poison him, you killed Ike with his own poisoned concoctions?”

The witch looked scandalized. “Certainly not. I would never make paella with days-old reheated food. For pity’s sake. How disgusting.”

I wiped tears from my eyes and finally calmed down. “You mean it was all fresh and—and poison free?”

“Every bite. Ike’s not the only fishmonger around. What an idea, making paella with leftovers. Those atrocious lunches. Tcha.” The witch made a face.

“Then how did you kill him?”

“Kill him? I killed nobody. The pathological jealousy that made him want to imprison, then ultimately destroy you, killed him. He knew about the milkman, you see.”

Mrs. Risk held up a palm to forestall my protests. “I know. No relationship existed between you and Charlie. But to Ike, any man’s mere existence on the same planet with you was more threat than he could handle.”

Then she gazed at me, one eyebrow high with interested speculation. “Charlie showed unexpected flair with that kiss. In my opinion.”

I lifted my glass of carrot juice to my lips.

She briskly continued. “And don’t forget: Ike thought he’d just swallowed a few days’ worth of the poison he’d been feeding you. That had to be a shock. I’d had your lunches analyzed, you know. Those last doses were enormous. I wonder what he thought when you stayed so healthy? Well, never mind. He died of rage plus fear, my dear, compounded by a macho stupidity he had of not taking care of his blood pressure properly. He killed himself.”

We gazed out over the water for a while as I considered this last information. Then Mrs. Risk said, “By the way, Mrs. Elias, I think it’s rather deplorable that the only way you could think to get yourself out of trouble was to murder. You need to learn other methods of survival in this world, my dear.”

I smiled and stretched my young, robust, and not visibly depleted body, feeling particularly good at that moment. “Don’t call me Mrs. Elias anymore, if you don’t mind. My name is Rachel.”

“Very well. Rachel Elias.”

“No, just Rachel.”

Mrs. Risk nodded. “My name is Mrs. Risk.”

“What can I call you?”

“You can call me Mrs. Risk. Fetch me that volume by that log, dear. We have a lot to do.”

Then she, who’d wrought my miraculous rescue, surprised me again. The heavy book she opened was a horticultural encyclopedia, believe it or not. She announced we would now begin my education. I dimly got the notion that she thought I needed her.

I was a prickly thing to deal with in those days. Even before Ike, I’d been a jumble of pride and fright. But when she spoke to me, she used such a detached, matter-of-fact air that I didn’t know what to make of it. If she’d taken any other tone, solicitous or demanding, I’d have bolted like a deer fleeing gunfire. Life so far, embodied by Ike and my parents, had taught me that only pain lurked behind attachment. So, unrepelled and unalarmed for the moment, I stayed. I’m still staying.

Call her Mrs. Risk. Everyone does. I’ve never heard anyone use her first name, although she must have one. But since that day I haven’t used Ike’s last name, or my parents’, either, so I can kind of relate to her attitude. When she wants you to use her first name, she’ll let you know. When I find a last name I want, I’ll let you know that, too.

It’s August again, nearly two years later, and I’ve just finished my chores in the back room—that former dungeon where I used to eat Ike’s poisonous lunches, but I rarely think of that now. I hopped off my stool and stretched into a huge, satisfying, end-of-a-profitable day yawn. One of the few things of his I’d kept was the industrial sink, but instead of fish, it held long stemmed roses from today’s shipment. The glass-fronted refrigerated deli cases had come in handy, too. For keeping cut flowers fresh, yet visible to the public in the front of the shop.

My gaze roamed the overflowing shelves. Ceramic bunnies crowded plastic tubes filled with rainbows of glitter. Paper oak leaves in stacks of brilliant gold and orange, candles in twenty colors and sizes, miles of ribbon. All made a cheerful tangled nest. Baskets of every style and shape hung from nails studding the walls, waiting to be filled.

Contentment rose in me like sap in spring as I thought of all the occasions I’d contributed to in the last two years: weddings, births, graduations. Dinner parties, apologies, seductions. I felt linked to the other villagers through the milestones in their lives. Yes, I’m still here.

I even have a logo. A life-sized, full length painting of myself, done for fun by a local artist last summer in Mrs. Risk’s glade. Since I’m fairly tall, the original takes up most of the wall space behind my front shop counter. I’m stretched out on my side in a leisurely manner in the grass, my nude body littered modestly with lush summer flowers. Tiny prints of the painting decorate my stationery, gift boxes, and so on. Yes, I’m definitely here.

August had come in extra hot this year. The air-conditioner began wheezing, so to let it rest, I turned it off. The sun was retiring and the day was cooling anyway. As I propped open the shop door with a potted hibiscus to catch more air, Daniel Cox, my ever-faithful assistant and very cool teenage man-about-Wyndham, exploded into whoops, jolting my euphoria.

“Go, Mrs. Risk!” He pointed his broom handle at the street through the open door.

Daniel had walked into my shop one summer afternoon last year. With just enough humor to keep him on the right side of pompous, he explained he’d decided I needed his help and waited for me to snatch up his offer. I did. But not because of what he said. While he talked (which took some time—Danny’s one of those meticulous people who explains every detail twice) he’d picked up a small vase and filled it with ivy and moss roses. Nervous fiddling or planned? I don’t know. But I admired what he did. We’ve been together ever since. One of my life’s better decisions.

Medium-short, dark, well-upholstered from dedicated hours at the gym, and this year a varsity football running back, he’ll start his junior year at the local high school next month. His mother is short and dark like he is, and just as energetic. His father had elected to drop out of their lives in Daniel’s infancy. His loss.

I looked where he pointed. Black skirts swirling around bare ankles, slim hips in the lead, Mrs. Risk was striding across the street towards us. Daniel and I watched in fascination. Despite looking totally preoccupied, she was somehow threading her way safely through a bristling thicket of handlebars of a herd of revving Harley hogs. They were inching and swerving their thunderous way down our congested Main Street like royalty on slow parade. The hefty sweating leather-clad riders saluted her passing with amused gestures which she returned like afterthoughts. Something was obviously distracting that formidable mind.

She gained the open doorway of my shop and paused, her figure outlined by the crimsoning gold of the setting sun. Since my shop resembled a jungle exhibit, crammed with plants from the rafters down, the doorway was often the roomiest spot in the place. (I conduct business on the sidewalk in cooler weather.)

“Rachel. Remember how I’ve been wanting you to meet Pearl Schrafft? She’s giving herself a birthday party next week and said I could bring you.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. “We took a huge order for that party an hour ago! And you’re invited?” He glanced warily at Rachel before adding, “I could get Mom’s Altima. We could put the flowers in the back and take you two and the flowers in one trip.”

Mrs. Risk laughed. “Don’t tease, Daniel, I might take you up on it.”

“No I mean it! I’m dying to see her house!”

“Okay, if you’d rather go in Daniel’s car, that’s fine,” I said loftily, ignoring the totally undeserved insult. See, Mrs. Risk doesn’t drive. So I’m often drafted for transport, a kind, unselfish service on my part that nevertheless fails to plug a Niagara Falls of ungrateful criticism of both my Vette and my driving skills. “Isn’t Pearl Schrafft retired?”

“Not anymore. This party’s not just for her birthday, it’s also to announce her comeback! And I for one can’t wait to see it!”

… And so began my first real adventure with Mrs. Risk, the one that I think of as The Witch and the Borscht Pearl.

I
T WAS ABOUT FIVE-THIRTY
in the afternoon. The sinking sun had begun to stain the white shingled walls of Pearl Schrafft’s sprawling Cape Cod a blushing gold, an appropriate color, I thought, estimating the money required to support this place. The neighbors on Pearl’s either side had nothing so elaborate. This section of Long Island had a friendly habit of accommodating all incomes willy-nilly, which had always appealed to the non-conformist streak in me and was one of the reasons I liked it here.

Like Mrs. Risk’s cottage, Pearl’s four acre estate edged the Sound, although it lay farther up the road from ‘downport’ Wyndham and on higher ground, topping a cliff that loomed thirty feet over the beach. Thickly wooded even taller hills effectively fenced the sides of the estate, and tall iron gates blocked off the winding drive that looped at Pearl’s front door. Her house contained about fifteen large square-ish rooms (I’d gotten a swift tour), buttressed on the west end by garages. Outbuildings flanked a tennis court near the woods, while closer in, massive cement urns of red geraniums surrounded a pool shaped like a natural pond. Carved marble nymphs peeped coyly through shrubbery at male mythological characters, also marble. From the center of the pool, a fountain sprayed diamonds into the sunlit air through a nautilus shell held aloft by a chubby naked boy. All in all, a baroque scene, fun to look at but dated.

The pool and water view, while spectacular, were wasted on Pearl’s guests, who clustered near the caterer’s tables set in the grass below her stone-flagged patio.

Mrs. Risk and I had spent much of the party’s first two hours milling aimlessly on the manicured carpet of grass behind Pearl’s house, socializing as best we could with Pearl’s show business friends. Among the guests, we knew only Pearl, and incidentally, Pearl’s doctor, who was also ours and a good friend. The rest seemed to have known each other intimately for decades. Admittedly, Mrs. Risk and I don’t often blend into many places. I didn’t care. I mostly listened, entranced by the, to me, exotic conversations.