"Soul Mates"
Stepping out onto her porch, Thalia sucks in the cold, fresh air of mountain autumn. She takes two more deep breaths, holding each one in, eyes closed, savoring not only the smell of it but the feel of it, the cold air tingling her nose, then throat and lungs, forcing her whole body to shake off the last vestiges of sleep, forcing it to come alive to the challenge of winter coming on. Opening her eyes, she sweeps them slowly from left to right, across the hills dappled gold to crimson under the sky's pure, chill blue. She thrills to nature's greatest achievement: the commanding visual symphony of dying leaves. She knows this is going to be a special day.
Crossing the porch, Thalia hisses—Sssssss!—and lunges at Agatha, still asleep on the rail. Startled, the yellow cat rears back, falls off the rail, plopping into the wilted remains of this year's herb garden. Laughing, Thalia mocks, "People who talk about how graceful cats are sure don't know them up close and personal." Agatha crouches in the dirt, hissing up at Thalia, her emerald eyes filled with hate. Thalia yowls back—Aaaaaa!—raising her hands even with her face, wriggling her fingers, tipped with black-lacquered, three-inch nails. But the cat stands her ground, then runs off as Thalia stomps the loose board on the top step with a resounding Slap! Yes, a really great day; it's been weeks since she's bested Agatha. Thalia strides regally down the remaining three steps and crosses the yard to start her routine.
George wants to rollover and burrow in, covering his ears with the pillows, but his beer belly won't let him. A woman eight months gone has a better chance of lying on her stomach. He lies on his side, pulls his skinny legs up to his pendulous paunch, and tries to wrap a pillow round his head to cover both ears. No use; Thalia's nasal keening cuts through the thin fabric surrounding the dry layer of crumbling feathers as effortlessly as the mill saw sliced through his bird-bony wrist all those years ago. He exhales explosively, puffing out his cheeks as he rolls back onto his back, resigned to waiting out her shrieking.
He stares at the ceiling. The mirror is still there, though months have passed since it excited them. He stares at the mirror, first glaring, then wistful, remembering the games they used to play, how he watched the tip of her witch's hat make little, flipping figure eights as she rose and fell above him or how she used to make the handcuffs ring on the iron bedstead. Their idea of church bells. Why couldn’t she have stayed happy? he wonders for at least the thousandth time. How’d she end up conning herself? How?
“Shut the fuck up, you old hag!” he says aloud, but just for Himself. "No one's watching." He can feel every note of Thalia's caterwauling plucking the strings of every nerve behind his eyeballs. How much did he drink last night? What did he drink? He sweeps Thalia's stuff off the night stand reaching for his cigarettes. She should know better than to get between a man and his smokes, he thinks with a male swagger. He smiles as he lights the cigarette, sucks in the day's first smoke, but then convulsively hacks it back out, the cigarette arching almost to his feet. He lunges forward, barely able to reach over his belly to grab the smoke before it starts the bed on fire. Flopping back, the cigarette clamped between his lips, he raises his hook above him, shaking it in frustration. He imagines Thalia dangling like a puppet from that hook, one little twist clamping her mouth tight shut. But then, he imagines that every morning.
Out in the yard, Thalia is really into it. After three turns at the center of the pentagon, shouting the single note of daybreak, alternately high and low, as she passes each point of the figure—“Woooo! Weeee! Woooo! Weeee! Woooo!”—she shuffles thirteen steps north, head bowed in respect, wailing her unworthiness. “Aaaa eeee oooo, aaaa eeee oooo!” Then, her act of submission accepted, feeling herself filled with the spirit of the swirling goddess of the north, she raises her head and strides thirteen steps due east. Stopping, she throws her arms wide and flings her head back screaming her greeting to the rising sun. “Kaaa iiii! Kaaa iiii! Kaaa iiii!” Soaking in the sun's rays flashing through the trees, she improvises her dance, twisting, turning, hopping in place, all the while screeching, chirping, barking, yowling, whatever welter of animal sounds she can muster to thank the sun for its return.
Next, thirteen pouncing hops south while flailing her claws, growling and grinding her teeth. There she stops, looking about warily but with a proud smile on her face. Secure, she reaches into the beaded pouch at her waist and pulls out three candy bars, two Snickers and a Hershey's. She rips them open, throwing the wrappers to the wind to taunt Agatha and the other hunters—none her equal—and stuffs the candy in her mouth, enjoying the feel of the nuts shattering between her molars, the warm chocolate squeezing between her lips, coating them before dribbling down her chin.
Sated, fulfilled, she saunters thirteen steps west, back to the center of the pentagon where she turns on the hose, squirting water into her mouth, over her face, running down her neck, sticking the thin blouse to her breasts, the skirt to her thighs. Throwing the hose down, she rhythmically slaps her chest, belly, and thighs, up and down, again and again, seven times, all the while chanting her love of life and death. “Me thee! Me thee! Me thee! Me thee!” Then, the ceremony over, she turns the hose off and heads back to the house. Time to get George's breakfast.
Used to be, she'd race back into the house, ripping off her clothes as she ran to pounce on him naked. Sex in the morning was always the best. But somehow, without them even noticing, they've grown too old for that—anyway, he has. Last time she pounced on him, she almost lost an eye to his hook. For a good six months now—at least!—that's been the only stiff part of the old grouch, no matter what she feeds him. And she's tried everything from toad sweat to peacock penis. How ironic; her own case of "Doctor, heal thyself!"
Crossing the front room, she grabs Timothy, the tabby, before he can jump down from the back of the sofa. Holding him at arm's length by the scruff of the neck, she pirouettes and flips the hissing, twisting cat through the bedroom door.
"Rise and shine, fat boy!" she calls with a laugh, not even pausing to watch the cat land. She's that sure of herself today. Gathering itself in mid-air, the cat makes a four-point landing, claws locked and down, on George's paunch, and in one liquid motion pushes down hard into the blubber then springs back through the doorway.
"Aaaaaaah!" George screams, sweeping his hook futilely after the soaring cat. "You moth-eaten crone! Oh, God, oh, god. I'm a fucking pin cushion." He throws off the thin blanket, pulls up his thinner undershirt, and there they are, four clusters of tiny holes, each topped by a drop of blood. He rubs them with the blanket.
"Time's a wasting, fat boy," Thalia yells from the kitchen. "No breakfast in bed for you, not anymore. You want it, you'd better hop to it before I feed it to the cats."
"They'd arrest you for cruelty to animals," George yells back, but stops rubbing his belly and swings his legs out of bed. He reaches for another cigarette—he'll show her who sets the schedule around here. Then he realizes he doesn't know what happened to the first butt. Had it landed in the bed when the cat attacked him? He pulls up the blanket, looks around, but can't see it. Aw, fuck it. If it burns, it burns, he decides. He takes another long, defiant pull on the new cigarette.
"Last caaaall," Thalia yells.
George quickly gets up and wobbles toward the kitchen.
"Wild thing, but don't you make my heart sing," Thalia mocks, looking at George staggering into the kitchen. His skinny, hairy white legs are topped by dirty boxers stenciled with hot red hearts and separated from his undershirt by a wide swath of pink belly. He carries his head cocked slightly to the left on his scrawny neck, as if balancing it that way might make it hurt less. He hasn't shaved for three days, and the white stubble on his bony face contrasts with his thick black hair matted and spiked from sleep. His baby blue eyes squints through the smoke from the cigarette still clamped between his thin lips as he plops into his chair.
"Fuck you, old woman," he growls.
"Now don't we both wish you could. How about I pack it in a prickly pear plaster, and we see what grows?" Thalia responds, half mocking, half serious.
George can't help squeezing his legs together. Thalia laughs.
"Save it for the suckers," George says, trying to sound derisive but recognizing the undertone of resignation in his voice. "And stop fooling yourself," he adds, his lame refrain these six months past.
Thalia goes to the stove. "You dream about when you were a soldier?" she asks, coming back to the table, slapping a cup of steaming coffee down in front of George.
"Aaaaaaah!" George screams again as several drops of scalding liquid splash onto his bare thighs. He rubs at the burned spots with his good hand. "What'd you say, old woman?"
"I asked if you've been dreaming about when you were a soldier." Thalia repeats, taking the lightweight, wooden chair across the cheap, little table from George.
"What makes you ask such a stupid question?"
"You're looking so patriotic this morning."
"What?"
"Your blue eyes."
"What about 'em?"
"There's still enough white showing through the bloodshot to make it look like you're proudly displaying our country's colors. "
George glares at Thalia, resenting being tricked yet pleased it's not about witchcraft. "Your eyes would be bloodshot, too, if you had to put up with what I have to."
"Meaning me?" Thalia challenges.
George gives her his best Cheshire smile.
"I have to put up with you," Thalia says, leaning over the table, getting in his face, "and my eyes aren't bloodshot, are they?"
George looks into her clear, dark eyes, but only briefly, not liking what he sees there, both revealed and reflected. Dropping his eyes, he growls, "You got food, or what?"
"Butterfly wings and lilac blossoms, stirred in the white of eagle eggs," Thalia responds, her voice bright, sounding excited about what she just said.
"That's your new formula?" George asks, business-like now.
"For clear eyes, clear complexion, and a clear conscience. The perfect potion for the morning after. The women will eat it up."
"What makes you think women will buy one of your concoctions? You're not their favorite neighbor."
"Envy,” Thalia responds without hesitation, with a big smile.
George stares at her for a moment, appreciating her insight, hopeful it's more than just a fleeting brush with reality. "How many bottles have you made?"
"Just one so far. Had to try it out first, y'know, and then it requires quite a ritual."
"You can skip the ritual when nobody's looking, y'know," George snaps back. "It's just a waste. And don't be your own guinea pig. You damn near burned your stupid toes off the last time."
"That was because I listened to you and didn't do the ritual."
"That was because some of this shit is dangerous."
"That's what the ritual's for." As always lately, Thalia refuses to concede any point.
"Oh, hell, here we go again," George exhales in explosive exasperation.
"Just having an unbeliever around raises the risk,” Thalia explains. “You know how hard I have to work to neutralize your vibrations?"
"'Neuter' my vibrations?" George asks, half joking, half worried.
Thalia laughs, "That you're doing yourself. Sure isn't my idea."
"Just do an exorcism for that damn goddess of yours—sweep her out of here on her own broom—and you'll see. ,.
"You don't understand.” Thalia’s voice is thick with resignation, impatience. “The goddess is everywhere."
"Okay, okay,” George says with equal impatience, “I don't want to hear it again. I don't give a damn about the mumbo-jumbo. You just brew it, and I'll sell it. Now, you got some breakfast, or what?"
Thalia sighs, grabs a plate from the pile in the sink, goes back to the stove, slides something out of a pan onto the plate, and slaps it down in front of George. "Or what."
"What?"
"Chinese omelet," Thalia responds mysteriously, smiling down at George.
George stares up at her, then back at the mess on the plate. "Shit."
"No, that's lunch," Thalia responds without missing a beat. Thalia turns, goes back to the stove, pours herself a cup of coffee, then returns to the table and sits back down opposite George.
George flips his cigarette butt into the sink.
"Try it; you'll like it," Thalia says, sounding mysterious again.
"Why Chinese?" George asks, wary.
"It's inscrutable," Thalia pops back with a big smile.
George again stares first at Thalia then at his plate.
"It's real good stuff,” Thalia says, not joking now. “It'll put some lead back in your pencil."
"You put lead in here?"
"No, that'd stiffen up more than your pencil."
George stares blankly at her.
"They call it rigor mortis. It doesn't make for good sex."
George looks around. "No fork."
Thalia reaches over and fishes one out of the sink, hands it to him. "No excuses now."
George pokes at the food, skewers a bit that doesn't look charred, and tentatively slips it into his mouth, all the while staring at Thalia. "I haven’t paid the life insurance yet," he mumbles while chewing carefully.
"Think you've got a life?" Thalia quips.
George swallows. It's good. It's great! It's sharp yet sweet, chewy but melting inside, a melody of opposing but harmonized flavors and sensations. "What did you call this?" he asks, trying to disguise his appreciation but not entirely succeeding.
"Chinese omelet."
"Who cooked it?" George jokes.
“Agatha. Who do you think?”
George doesn't answer. He spears another piece of omelet, eats it without hesitation this time, not trying to hide his appreciation.
"Like it, don't you, fat boy?" Thalia smiles, doesn’t even try to hide her pleasure at his satisfaction.
"I've had better," George grouses, back to his persona.
"Well, if that's the way you feel," Thalia says with mock exasperation, reaches out to snatch the plate away.
George slams his hook into the table between her hand and the plate. Looking hard at her, but unable to keep a little smile from twitching at the corners of his mouth, he spears some more food with his real hand. Thalia sits back, sips her coffee, watches George eat, content. Done, he belches.
"Music to a squaw's ears," Thalia sighs.
George smiles, leans back, content.
"But I'm not one." Thalia gets up, sticks her cup in the sink, starts to leave the kitchen, saying, "I was going to give you the antidote." She continues on her way.
"Wait!" George jumps up, runs after her. He lunges into the bedroom, out of control; she jabs him in the stomach with a broom handle, doubling him over. "Ooooooh" he whooshes.
"You gonna set up my cauldron today?" she asks, keeping the broom handle between them.
"Today?" he croaks, clutching his belly, his eyes tearing.
"Tomorrow's Halloween."
"Then it can wait until tomorrow," George snaps back.
"Can you?"
"Give me the goddamn antidote!" George exclaims, wanting to sound menacing but not moving an inch toward Thalia, who still has her broom handle in hand.
"I need the cauldron to cook it,” Thalia responds sweetly.
"Liar!"
"Willing to bet your life on it?"
George straightens up, glaring at her. "All right, today."
"That's my fat boy." Thalia drops the broom handle, tweaks his cheek, runs a hand through his hair, her claws pulling on the mats.
"Ow!" George slaps at her hand with his.
"How about I chop those mats out, throw them in the brew?"
"How about you leave me be?"
"What would you do without me, fat boy?"
"Live long and peaceful."
"Borrrring."
George snorts, grabs a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt from the pile of his clothes in the corner of the bedroom. "Where are my goddamn shoes? ,.
"Seek and ye shall find—especially if you look on the porch. Agatha was using them, . . . you know."
"Agatha worships the ground I walk on," George says, leaving the bedroom.
Thalia starts to hurl some jibe at George's retreating back but can't come up with anything. She's annoyed at herself for letting George have the last word but determined not to let that darken her day. Silently, she mouths the secret homage to the goddess, reaffirming her commitment to the goddess' omnipotence: “Karam al katar, ratak la marak; karam al katar, ratak la marak.”
Standing in front of the full-length, winged wall mirror, Thalia strips, sucks in her stomach—just a little—squares her shoulders, and checks herself out. “Boob job’s holding steady,” she reassures herself. “Plenty of twenty-year olds would kill for that stomach.” Turning her back to the mirror, she looks over her shoulder. “Gotta get that fanny lift.” She turns again, carefully inspecting her face, which she has had lifted. It's a beautiful face, heart-shaped with a pouty little mouth, flawless, creamy skin, thick lashes and sleek brows, surrounded by luxuriant, lustrous black curls. It's the sweetest, most innocent, most enticing, naughtiest Betty Boop kind of face. But it is her eyes that dazzle people, transfix them, for not only are they large, clear, liquid, and unblinking, the left is dark blue while the right is violet.
After applying flaring black eye shadow and burgundy lip gloss—her only make-up—Thalia pulls on her burgundy 40s frock, the one she's patterned after Joan Crawford in her prime. She loves the big shoulder pads, the way the high bodice cradles her breasts, the tight waist flaring the full, mid-calf skirt over her hips. She straps on high heels, twirls in front of the mirror, smiling at herself, and heads for town. Gunning the jet black, perfectly polished Camaro—George's responsibility—she lays rubber squealing through the gate onto the country road. Agatha is able to leap out of the way one more day. "There's always tomorrow," Thalia calls back at the cat smugly licking a paw.
Sitting on the porch, gingerly probing his stomach, George watches Thalia leave. He doesn't feel anything yet. Was she shitting him? He'd like to throw it back in her face, go off to The Kick Stand and spend the day drinking with the boys. But he doesn't dare. He's sure she wouldn't kill him—where'd she find anyone else willing to put up with her?—but she isn't past
seeing how close to the edge she can take him before pulling him back, just to show she can do it, just to hear what he saw from the edge. And what if she got the formula wrong?
He gropes with his foot, dragging his ratty sneakers closer, starts to slide his foot into one when he remembers what Thalia said. He bends over, picks up the sneakers, and holds them up, upside down, shakes them. Nothing falls out. Liar! He slides on the old shoes, picks up his mug of coffee, and heads for the shed to get the cauldron. “Maybe she put the antidote in the coffee,” he considers. “She knows I always finish the pot.” He swirls the brew in his mouth but can't taste anything unusual.
In the shed, he bangs his hook on the side of the cauldron to scatter whatever might be hiding there. Then he sweeps the hook through the cobwebs tying the cauldron to the shed. In just weeks, since the celebration of the autumnal equinox, the spiders have constructed a silken blanket bejeweled with dead and dying flies, the occasional moth, beetle, and tiny worms. George cuts the blanket's anchors without thinking, not even watching as it plops against the wall, shimmers, then gradually falls, piece by piece, as the tiny threads part, one by one, unable to support the dangling weight. George pokes his hook through one of the handles, grabs the lip of the cauldron with his hand, and drags it over to the pentagon.
George takes a lot of pride in the pentagon. Thalia designed it, of course, but he built it. The edges are made of thick teak planks lacquered black, each seven feet long, set in copper troughs, anchored into a concrete pad buried so the pentagon is just an inch above ground level. Inside the teak border is a circle of black ceramic bricks, the spaces between the pentagon and the circle packed with an epoxy slurry of multi-colored glass beads. Inside the circle is a sunburst figure, but a black sun, the tips of its onyx rays, etched against a background of gold beads, touching the circle. The circular center of the sun is a slurry of burgundy beads, and its center is a polished, black marble pentagon with white veins suggesting an animal face.
Leaving the cauldron by the pentagon, George returns to the shed for the wrought iron frame that fits over the pentagon. He drags the frame to the pentagon, sets it in place, then goes back to the shed for the fire wood, which he arranges on the shelf of the platform before hoisting the cauldron onto the grate above the wood. Finally, he drags out and locks to the side of the frame the platform Thalia stands on while concocting her brew.
George stands back, lights a cigarette, and admires his work. It isn’t that big a cauldron, just three and a half feet in diameter, equally deep, but Thalia isn’t complaining. And the men who come to watch her dance around it, throwing who-knows-what into the boiling water, and howl at the sky while stirring her brew, seem satisfied, too. "Showtime!"
George prods his belly again. Still feeling nothing—no cramps, no nausea—he smiles to himself; she was shitting him. He'd figure some way of getting even with her. Put a snake in the sink, maybe, or let Agatha and Timothy have at her clothes. He'd decide later; right now, he’d grab a couple of bottles of Thalia’s latest brew and haul ass over to The Kick Stand, where he can trade them for beer,
***
In town, Thalia screeches to a halt in the parking spot reserved for the Mayor, barely missing Sheriff Brooks getting out of his cruiser.
"Damn, Thalia!" the sheriff says as Thalia eases out of the Camaro,
"Why thank you, Rupert,” Thalia smiles back. “May the goddess smile on you, too."
"I've told you and told you, you can't park there,"
"Aren't these senior moments just the worst?” Thalia responds with a big, warm smile. “Someday, I'll have to brew a cure for them. . . . And how’s that brew I did for little Rupert holding up? Muriel happy? Lois?"
The sheriff reddens, looks around to make sure no one can hear, "Don't be talking about that out here in the open," he whispers.
"Leaves Viagra in the dust, doesn't it?" Thalia says in a normal voice and with another big grin.
"Just go, get out of here," Rupert says, making shooing motions.
Thalia leans close to the sheriff, fixes his eyes. "You want a refill, you tell Muriel to watch her tongue."
"What'd she say now?"
"You know, how I'm crazy as a coot, lowering the morals of fair Waynesborough, and an all-around disgrace—the whole package. She even called me vain. Said I dye my hair,"
Rupert looks at Thalia, trying not to laugh. He finally gets out a "So what?"
"Well, I don't. Never have,"
"Uhhh, yeah, . . . good," Rupert says, thinking, that hasta be the only part she hasn’t renovated.
"So you tell her to stop lying about me,"
"You don't mind the other things? I mean, about the morals and being a disgrace. Calling you crazy."
"I get off on those."
"Uh-huh. Okay, well, I'll talk to her about the hair. Now, you just be on your way."
"Remind her how long the nights were before"
"I said I'd talk to her," Rupert interrupts, again anxious someone might overhear their conversation, anxious to have it over.
"Some people just don't know how to say thanks. . . . But then, you've never told her, have you? None of you guys do. I save marriages up and down this valley, and all the women think I'm some crazy slut because none of you boys give me the credit I'm due," Thalia complains with feeling.
"Thalia"
"One of these days, I'm gonna march right over to that beautiful mountain church of yours and nail a list of clients and services rendered to the door for all to see. Won't that be the day!"
"You can't do that," Rupert insists.
“And why not?”
"Well, ummm, it'd be defacing private property. I'd have to arrest you."
"You'd never do that, Rupert," Thalia shoots back with a sly grin.
"Just don't try me, Thalia," Rupert asserts, standing tall. "The law's the law."
"No, Rupert, you are the law, and you need me . . . for Lois."
Rupert glares at her but starts to sag.
"You just tell Muriel to keep it true," Thalia says, definite but not threatening. She can see she’s won, and she’s not one to kick a man when he’s down.
"I said I would. What do you want, an oath in blood."
"Not a bad idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” Thalia banters back. “No, your word’s good with me—after all, you can’t afford to let it turn bad. . . . Oh, one other thing”
“What now?” the sheriff interrupts in exasperation.
“Bring the cruiser to the brew tomorrow night. The lights and siren fire me up."
“You know I can't take a city vehicle to a Halloween, uhhh, . . .”
“Extravaganza,” Thalia finishes his sentence with enthusiasm.
"Whatever."
"You say that every year."
"Well, this year I mean it. Next week's the election,
y'know."
Thalia leans conspiratorially close to Rupert again. "I've got shark balls this year," Thalia breathes.
The sheriff licks his lips, feels some action down there.
"But just enough for a few bottles," Thalia says, "for a few, special customers, . . . if I get wound up enough to use them, . . . share them."
The sheriff stares hungrily at her. "I want two bottles,” he insists, “or no cruiser.”
“You drive a mean bargain, Rupert,” Thalia purrs, playing to the sheriff’s ego. “You have any idea how much I could sell those bottles for?”
“You want the cruiser?" the sheriff shoots back.
"Damn, Rupert, you’re the man!" Thalia laughs, whirls, and strides off.
Rupert watches her go, enjoying her swinging hips. How does she do that? Ain’t another woman around here can do that. . . . The sheriff snaps out of his reverie, looks around again to make sure no one is watching, catches Tom Wilson, standing in the door to his barber shop, enjoying Thalia’s show from across the street, then straightens his holster belt and struts into the courthouse.
As Thalia comes to Haslett's Store, Mrs. Haslett is leaving.
"Hi, Clara," Thalia says with a smile, "I've come to spend some money with your husband."
Clara glares at her, continues on her way.
"And how's little Willy doing?" Thalia says to Clara's back.
Clara wheels to face her. "What did you say?"
"Oh, not that Little Willy. I meant Willy Junior; you know, your son."
"You stay away from him, you hear me," Clara commands, coming closer, waving her finger in Thalia's face.
"I'm not the one seeks him out," Thalia responds, standing her ground, paying no attention to Clara’s finger.
"You just mind what I say." Clara drops her hand but continues to glare.
“I’m not one of your kindergarten kids. And neither is Junior. He has his own mind now, . . . a young man’s mind. And you know what they say: ‘Enquiring minds want to know!’”
" You bitch! " Clara explodes, clearly on the verge of attacking Thalia.
"Why, thank you, Clara. By the way, Big Willy's gonna be out late Halloween, . . . Little Willy, too." Thalia turns and goes into the store.
Clara wants to run in after her, grab her by that mop of curls, and throw her into the street. But she isn't sure her husband would back her up. Still fuming, but head down, she walks off, hoping no one heard her swear.
***
Back at The Kick Stand, a rundown road bar, George has struck up a conversation with two bikers passing through on their way north to a Hell's Angels jamboree. "You ain't seen nothin’ till you've seen Halloween here," George boasts.
"Halloween's for kids," Les, the older biker, sneers. He looks like a NFL linebacker gone to fat, his gray hair in a ponytail, the stubble on his face almost thick enough to count as a beard, and wearing a denim jacket with a skull on the back from which a tongue-flicking Cobra spirals out.
"And faggots parading in costumes," Carl adds. Slightly smaller than Les—225 instead of 250—he also sports a pony tail—his being dirty blonde—instead of stubble, a wispy, wanna-be Van Dyke on his acne-scarred face, and has a "God Bless America" tattoo on his left arm, "White Power" on the right. Both men sport foot-long Bowie knives tucked into thick, studded leather belts with skull-and-cross-bones buckles.
"No faggots here," George responds, "just the horniest bunch this side of a harem. Thalia sees to that."
"Thalia ?" Les asks.
"Our witch."
“You only got one bitch?” Carl asks.
“’Witch,’ with a ‘W’.”
"Go away," Les says, turning his back on George.
"I kid you not. She's the real thing."
"There're plenty of bitches," Carl says with a smile, "but there ain't no witches."
"Thalia's got the power," George insists. "You ask anyone around here. Hey, Pete," George calls to the bartender, "tell these guys about Thalia."
At the opposite end of the bar, Pete holds up one of the bottles George brought in and smiles.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Les asks, turning back toward George.
"Another satisfied customer," George says.
"The bottle?" Carl asks. "What's in the bottle?"
"Thalia's brew," George answers, proud.
“So?"
"So, when was the last time you kept it up all night?" George gloats.
"Yesterday," Carl shoots back.
"Bullshit," George also shoots back.
"You mean you guys around here, you think this witch has some kind of sex drink? Viagra in a bottle?" Les challenges.
"Better than Viagra," George insists, not the slightest hint of doubt in his voice.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.”
"How?" Carl asks.
"Buy some; you'll see."
“How 'bout you just give us a taste,” Les says menacingly.
"Don't have any here. Traded it all to Pete."
Les and Carl turn to face Pete. Pete pulls his shotgun up from below the bar. "Just beer and booze, boys, that's all you get here," Pete says, sporting a tight, little smile.
Les and Carl look at each other. They're already plotting how they'll bust up Pete and The Kick Stand, but they're also wondering if there could be something to this story. Obviously, Pete thinks he has lightning in a bottle.
Les turns to George. "So where's this . . . witch's brew on sale?"
"Tomorrow midnight. Go west on the first road north of here. You can't miss it."
"Why not now?" Carl asks.
"Ain't Halloween,"
“Fuckin’ retards,” Carl says. “Whole town’s full of ‘em.”
“With guns,” Pete reminds him.
“And hooks,” George says with a smile, holding up his.
“Screw it,” Les says, drains his beer. “C’mon Carl.” He turns and starts to leave.
Carl pours the last of his beer onto the floor, flips the bottle into a corner, where, to his disappointment, it just bounces, doesn’t break. He joins Les in swaggering out. “You haven’t seen the last of us.”
***
Les and Carl steer their hogs side by side down the country road, feeling their way in the dark. The night is moonless, overcast, and there are no lights along the road, but they can hear rustling up ahead and a glow, like from a fire. As they come around a bend, their headlights catch an open gate and beyond it a ring of parked cars and trucks.
"Kill those lights!" someone yells.
Les and Carl do, parking their bikes by a shed, far from the police cruiser. They lean against the shed, wary. No one is milling about; everybody's in their vehicle.
"What kind of crazy is this?" Carl says.
"Inbreeding," Les responds.
Bam! There is a clash of cymbals from what has to be a powerful loudspeaker. Les snaps straight up; Carl grabs the handle of his knife. Bam! Again and again, Bam! No one leaves their vehicle, but at the third clash, everybody flips on their lights, high beam. The cars and trucks are arrayed in a wide semi-circle, all pointing to and now illuminating the center of the circle. The drivers start hitting their horns in unison. Blat, blat! Blat, blat! Blat, blat!
At the center, steam and foaming bubbles rise from the boiling cauldron. Standing next to the cauldron, a figure completely cloaked and hooded in a black robe studded with iridescent autumn leaves begins to undulate, barely moving at first, slowly, then more vigorously, weaving in widening circles but with feet still, head down. Then the figure starts to turn, raising its feet, higher and higher, its knees pushing out the cloak as it turns in place. It steps in rhythm to the horns. Blat, blat! Blat, blat! Blat, blat!
Suddenly, the figure stops, shooting its arms straight up from the shoulder, the sleeves of the cloak falling back to reveal white female arms. The shapely hands tipped with long, black nails shake, and the horns respond, breaking their rhythm as each driver pounds his horn as fast as he can. Then Thalia jerks her head up, throwing the hood back, exposing her mane of lustrous curls, the flaring eye shadow, scarlet now, the beautiful, dramatic, exotically colored eyes, the full mouth, scarlet now, too, smiling triumphantly. The horns stop as one. The sight and sudden silence are breathtaking.
Thalia slowly lowers her arms until they extend straight out to the side, palms up, fingers splayed. She moves her head slowly from left to right, taking in the whole semi-circle, looking directly into the headlights, unblinking, lingering on each vehicle, singling out each man. Then she starts moving her arms up and down, just a few inches, rhythmically, palms down now, like a bird or a bat readying for flight. The horns match her rhythm.
Blat, blat, blat, . . . blat, blat! Blat, blat, blat . . . blat, blat! Blat, blat, blat . . . blat, blat!
Having established the rhythm, Thalia begins dancing around the cauldron, hopping, striding, sliding, turning, prancing, bobbing, weaving, always improvising until she has circled thirteen times. Suddenly, she stops. The horns stop, too. She grabs the cloak at her neck and twirling around pulls the cloak open neck to toe, slipping it off her shoulders in one liquid motion, then twirling it above her head and sending it, a black shadow festooned with autumn colors sailing into the darkness. She is dressed in oriental silk, scarlet with four golden dragons. The forked, flicking tongues of the dragons end at the collar tight around her neck, their golden bodies filling out below, descending the skin-tight sheath, two in front, two in back, the tips of their tails at her feet, the sides of the skirt slit to her waist. She stands shimmering in the headlights, arms raised, smiling, again slowly moving her gaze around the semi-circle, singling out every man, savoring every lust.
Then the howling, yowling, baying, screeching, and screaming begin, blasting forth from the loudspeaker and the men's throats. Pirouetting, Thalia mounts the platform beside the cauldron and reaching into the beaded pouches arrayed there starts pulling out the ingredients for her brew, holding each high, waving it for all to see as she prances up and down and back and forth before flipping it in. Three cat eyes, gray, green, and gold, a raven's wing, an eagle's foot, and a buzzard's beak. A squirming toad, an oozing slug, and a handful of snails. Then Spanish moss she whips about, long blonde curls, a handful of red hair, and one of her own lustrous locks snipped with silver scissors. A trout, two flounder, and three rooster tongues. A ram's horn and a stag's penis. A flurry of autumn leaves, mandrake root, and a string of garlic bulbs. Goat, wolf, and mother's milk. Rock, sea, and desert salt. Seven pudgy pink raspberries followed by seven blood tomatoes. A cucumber and two bananas followed by four carrots and Chinese radish. Then a single golden rose, and at last, waving them high above her as she whirls dervishly round the cauldron, three times clockwise, four times counter, the shark balls. The men scream and pound their horns. Thalia mounts the platform, stops poised over the cauldron staring directly at Rupert. At last, he sets off the cruiser's siren and twirling lights.
Bathed in the light and noise, Thalia glows, seems to float on the excitement. At last, she flings the balls into the cauldron. Plop! Plop! Plop! Then she raises her left hand
high above her head, the black-lacquered nail of her index finger glistening as it points to the black sky, holds there motionless for a count of seven, then swiftly descends and slashes across her crimson-collared throat. The noise stops; the lights go dark. It's over.
Les and Carl blink, startled by the sudden silence, unable to see in the sudden dark. Then they hear the motors start up and as their eyes adjust see the cars and trucks carefully pick their way out onto the road by the light of the dying embers of the cauldron fire. No one speaks, stays, drinks, carouses. Les and Carl can’t believe it.
After the last car has gone, George flips on the porch lights and comes out into the yard to check on the brew. He is licking the last drops of the antidote off his lips. At least, that’s what Thalia said it was. The fire is just about finished. He hops on the platform and peers into the cauldron to make sure all the water hasn’t boiled off. Feeling there should be more—so there will be more to sell—he descends the steps, turns on the hose, and squirts some more in. Startled to hear someone coming up behind him, he turns to see Les and Carl.
"Quite a show," Les says, turning off the water.
"Yeah, that witch is some bitch, all right," Carl adds. : "You ever think of selling her act to Las Vegas?"
George looks from one biker to the other, trying to be casual, clearly nervous. "Glad you boys enjoyed the show, but that’s all there is."
"You said we could buy some witch’s brew here tonight," Les says.
"Ain’t ripe yet. Not even cool. You can see that."
"We got time," Carl drawls.
"It’s gotta do more than cool. Thalia has to cast a spell on it, y’know, add some secret ingredients," George says, clearly nervous, defensive.
"Why don't we go visit with Thalia," Les says, taking George by the arm. Carl grabs the other arm, and they march him across the yard, onto the porch, and through the open door.
The front room is empty.
"Call her," Carl hisses, squeezing George's arm painfully.
But just then, Thalia comes in from the kitchen. She's wearing a silky, saffron wrap. “Hey, let go of him. You're hurting him," she orders the bikers.
"Enjoyed the show," Les says, not easing his grip on George.
"Great, glad you liked it, but it's over now," Thalia responds, sounding secure, hands on hips.
"We want to see more," Carl says, leering.
"Next show's winter solstice. Y'all come back."
"We can't wait," Carl shoots back.
"Well, you're going to have to. Now, let him go and get out of here before I call the sheriff. You saw the cruiser out there tonight—right?”
"Yeah, we saw it leave, too," Les says with a smug laugh.
"It can be back here right quick." Thalia is not backing down.
"Not quick enough," Les says, menacing, no laugh of any kind this time.
"You'll see," Thalia says, turning and running back into the kitchen.
"Get her!" Les orders.
Carl lets go of George and runs after Thalia
George screams, “Ay! Yah,!” and stomps down on Les's instep, just the way they do it in the movies. Except Les doesn't collapse. His biker boots are much harder than George's sneakers.
George screams again, “Yow! Rahl,” bends forward and pushes back sharply, banging Les in the belly with his butt.
Les’s belly being as swollen as George's, he stumbles backward, tries to grab the door frame to steady himself, misses, loses his grip on George, and stumbles backwards through the open door, ending up on his back on the porch. “Whoosh!” the air pops out of him.
Off balance himself, George sits down hard but immediately starts scrambling to his feet.
Carl races into the kitchen just as Thalia whirls around from the sink. Thwang! She smacks him right on the nose with yesterday's skillet. "Coooh!" Carl yells, stopping short, bringing both hands up to his broken nose.
Thwang! Thalia hits him over the head with the skillet, using both hands and all her might. Carl’s eyes roll up and his hands drop as he sinks to the floor.
Back in the front of the house, George has scrambled out onto the porch and is about to kick Les in the kidneys. Les recovers just in time to grab George's ankle, twisting it so that George falls back down. Les turns and, still on the floor, grabs George's other ankle, pinning both of George's legs down as he gets to his knees, rising over him.
George sweeps his hook up at Les's face but succeeds only in wiping the grin off as Les rears back, rolling out of the way.
His leg free, George kicks at Les, delivering a glancing blow where even a glancing blow hurts a lot. "Owwww!" Les exhales, grabbing at his crotch.
George pulls his other leg free, scrambles to his feet, and stands facing Les, holding his hook in front of him. Les glares at George, yanks the Bowie knife from his belt, struggles painfully to his knees, then awkwardly to his feet, never losing eye contact, and makes ready to lunge at George.
The cat hits Les full in the face.
"Yeeooww!" Les yells, dropping his knife, grabbing at the cat. George turns toward the kitchen just in time to catch the skillet sailing toward him. Thwang! George lets Les have it on the left ear as the cat springs away.
This time, Les not only tumbles backward through the front door, he catches his boot on the threshold, falls over backwards, hits his head on the newl post, and collapses down the steps onto the ground.
Thalia runs into the bedroom to get their handcuffs, and they quickly cuff both unconscious bikers’ hands behind their backs. George rouses Les by kicking dirt into his face. With both hook and knife, he makes clear to Les that he is to stay seated.
“Cocksucker!” Les spits out, shaking his head to keep the blood from the cat’s scratches from dripping into his eyes.
“You’re the one on the ground,” George responds.
After splashing him awake with a pot of cold water, Thalia prods Carl up with a quick kick to the back and marches him outside, at the point of his own knife, to await the sheriff.
“You cunt!” Carl says as they cross the porch. “You just wait.”
“Waiting for it is what you’re gonna be doing, . . . for a long time,” Thalia responds. “For now, you just sit down there in the dirt with your big, bad buddy.”
***
After the bikers have been taken away, Thalia turns to George and asks, "You all right, fat boy?"
"You almost hit me with that damn cat."
"So why didn't you stand back?"
"I was going to lay the bastard out."
"Sure you were," Thalia says, her voice as fond as sarcastic.
"Hey, old woman, I can take care of myself,” George insists, straightening his posture and shoulders.
Thalia snorts.
"And my woman, too."
Thalia cocks her head, studies George's eyes.
He meets hers.
Her eyes tear, go soft; she smiles warmly, melting, runs her fingers gently through his hair, then bumps up against him hip to hip. "C'mon, sweet thing," she says, taking him by the hand, heading for the kitchen, "I really do have shark balls."
Crossing the porch, Thalia hisses—Sssssss!—and lunges at Agatha, still asleep on the rail. Startled, the yellow cat rears back, falls off the rail, plopping into the wilted remains of this year's herb garden. Laughing, Thalia mocks, "People who talk about how graceful cats are sure don't know them up close and personal." Agatha crouches in the dirt, hissing up at Thalia, her emerald eyes filled with hate. Thalia yowls back—Aaaaaa!—raising her hands even with her face, wriggling her fingers, tipped with black-lacquered, three-inch nails. But the cat stands her ground, then runs off as Thalia stomps the loose board on the top step with a resounding Slap! Yes, a really great day; it's been weeks since she's bested Agatha. Thalia strides regally down the remaining three steps and crosses the yard to start her routine.
George wants to rollover and burrow in, covering his ears with the pillows, but his beer belly won't let him. A woman eight months gone has a better chance of lying on her stomach. He lies on his side, pulls his skinny legs up to his pendulous paunch, and tries to wrap a pillow round his head to cover both ears. No use; Thalia's nasal keening cuts through the thin fabric surrounding the dry layer of crumbling feathers as effortlessly as the mill saw sliced through his bird-bony wrist all those years ago. He exhales explosively, puffing out his cheeks as he rolls back onto his back, resigned to waiting out her shrieking.
He stares at the ceiling. The mirror is still there, though months have passed since it excited them. He stares at the mirror, first glaring, then wistful, remembering the games they used to play, how he watched the tip of her witch's hat make little, flipping figure eights as she rose and fell above him or how she used to make the handcuffs ring on the iron bedstead. Their idea of church bells. Why couldn’t she have stayed happy? he wonders for at least the thousandth time. How’d she end up conning herself? How?
“Shut the fuck up, you old hag!” he says aloud, but just for Himself. "No one's watching." He can feel every note of Thalia's caterwauling plucking the strings of every nerve behind his eyeballs. How much did he drink last night? What did he drink? He sweeps Thalia's stuff off the night stand reaching for his cigarettes. She should know better than to get between a man and his smokes, he thinks with a male swagger. He smiles as he lights the cigarette, sucks in the day's first smoke, but then convulsively hacks it back out, the cigarette arching almost to his feet. He lunges forward, barely able to reach over his belly to grab the smoke before it starts the bed on fire. Flopping back, the cigarette clamped between his lips, he raises his hook above him, shaking it in frustration. He imagines Thalia dangling like a puppet from that hook, one little twist clamping her mouth tight shut. But then, he imagines that every morning.
Out in the yard, Thalia is really into it. After three turns at the center of the pentagon, shouting the single note of daybreak, alternately high and low, as she passes each point of the figure—“Woooo! Weeee! Woooo! Weeee! Woooo!”—she shuffles thirteen steps north, head bowed in respect, wailing her unworthiness. “Aaaa eeee oooo, aaaa eeee oooo!” Then, her act of submission accepted, feeling herself filled with the spirit of the swirling goddess of the north, she raises her head and strides thirteen steps due east. Stopping, she throws her arms wide and flings her head back screaming her greeting to the rising sun. “Kaaa iiii! Kaaa iiii! Kaaa iiii!” Soaking in the sun's rays flashing through the trees, she improvises her dance, twisting, turning, hopping in place, all the while screeching, chirping, barking, yowling, whatever welter of animal sounds she can muster to thank the sun for its return.
Next, thirteen pouncing hops south while flailing her claws, growling and grinding her teeth. There she stops, looking about warily but with a proud smile on her face. Secure, she reaches into the beaded pouch at her waist and pulls out three candy bars, two Snickers and a Hershey's. She rips them open, throwing the wrappers to the wind to taunt Agatha and the other hunters—none her equal—and stuffs the candy in her mouth, enjoying the feel of the nuts shattering between her molars, the warm chocolate squeezing between her lips, coating them before dribbling down her chin.
Sated, fulfilled, she saunters thirteen steps west, back to the center of the pentagon where she turns on the hose, squirting water into her mouth, over her face, running down her neck, sticking the thin blouse to her breasts, the skirt to her thighs. Throwing the hose down, she rhythmically slaps her chest, belly, and thighs, up and down, again and again, seven times, all the while chanting her love of life and death. “Me thee! Me thee! Me thee! Me thee!” Then, the ceremony over, she turns the hose off and heads back to the house. Time to get George's breakfast.
Used to be, she'd race back into the house, ripping off her clothes as she ran to pounce on him naked. Sex in the morning was always the best. But somehow, without them even noticing, they've grown too old for that—anyway, he has. Last time she pounced on him, she almost lost an eye to his hook. For a good six months now—at least!—that's been the only stiff part of the old grouch, no matter what she feeds him. And she's tried everything from toad sweat to peacock penis. How ironic; her own case of "Doctor, heal thyself!"
Crossing the front room, she grabs Timothy, the tabby, before he can jump down from the back of the sofa. Holding him at arm's length by the scruff of the neck, she pirouettes and flips the hissing, twisting cat through the bedroom door.
"Rise and shine, fat boy!" she calls with a laugh, not even pausing to watch the cat land. She's that sure of herself today. Gathering itself in mid-air, the cat makes a four-point landing, claws locked and down, on George's paunch, and in one liquid motion pushes down hard into the blubber then springs back through the doorway.
"Aaaaaaah!" George screams, sweeping his hook futilely after the soaring cat. "You moth-eaten crone! Oh, God, oh, god. I'm a fucking pin cushion." He throws off the thin blanket, pulls up his thinner undershirt, and there they are, four clusters of tiny holes, each topped by a drop of blood. He rubs them with the blanket.
"Time's a wasting, fat boy," Thalia yells from the kitchen. "No breakfast in bed for you, not anymore. You want it, you'd better hop to it before I feed it to the cats."
"They'd arrest you for cruelty to animals," George yells back, but stops rubbing his belly and swings his legs out of bed. He reaches for another cigarette—he'll show her who sets the schedule around here. Then he realizes he doesn't know what happened to the first butt. Had it landed in the bed when the cat attacked him? He pulls up the blanket, looks around, but can't see it. Aw, fuck it. If it burns, it burns, he decides. He takes another long, defiant pull on the new cigarette.
"Last caaaall," Thalia yells.
George quickly gets up and wobbles toward the kitchen.
"Wild thing, but don't you make my heart sing," Thalia mocks, looking at George staggering into the kitchen. His skinny, hairy white legs are topped by dirty boxers stenciled with hot red hearts and separated from his undershirt by a wide swath of pink belly. He carries his head cocked slightly to the left on his scrawny neck, as if balancing it that way might make it hurt less. He hasn't shaved for three days, and the white stubble on his bony face contrasts with his thick black hair matted and spiked from sleep. His baby blue eyes squints through the smoke from the cigarette still clamped between his thin lips as he plops into his chair.
"Fuck you, old woman," he growls.
"Now don't we both wish you could. How about I pack it in a prickly pear plaster, and we see what grows?" Thalia responds, half mocking, half serious.
George can't help squeezing his legs together. Thalia laughs.
"Save it for the suckers," George says, trying to sound derisive but recognizing the undertone of resignation in his voice. "And stop fooling yourself," he adds, his lame refrain these six months past.
Thalia goes to the stove. "You dream about when you were a soldier?" she asks, coming back to the table, slapping a cup of steaming coffee down in front of George.
"Aaaaaaah!" George screams again as several drops of scalding liquid splash onto his bare thighs. He rubs at the burned spots with his good hand. "What'd you say, old woman?"
"I asked if you've been dreaming about when you were a soldier." Thalia repeats, taking the lightweight, wooden chair across the cheap, little table from George.
"What makes you ask such a stupid question?"
"You're looking so patriotic this morning."
"What?"
"Your blue eyes."
"What about 'em?"
"There's still enough white showing through the bloodshot to make it look like you're proudly displaying our country's colors. "
George glares at Thalia, resenting being tricked yet pleased it's not about witchcraft. "Your eyes would be bloodshot, too, if you had to put up with what I have to."
"Meaning me?" Thalia challenges.
George gives her his best Cheshire smile.
"I have to put up with you," Thalia says, leaning over the table, getting in his face, "and my eyes aren't bloodshot, are they?"
George looks into her clear, dark eyes, but only briefly, not liking what he sees there, both revealed and reflected. Dropping his eyes, he growls, "You got food, or what?"
"Butterfly wings and lilac blossoms, stirred in the white of eagle eggs," Thalia responds, her voice bright, sounding excited about what she just said.
"That's your new formula?" George asks, business-like now.
"For clear eyes, clear complexion, and a clear conscience. The perfect potion for the morning after. The women will eat it up."
"What makes you think women will buy one of your concoctions? You're not their favorite neighbor."
"Envy,” Thalia responds without hesitation, with a big smile.
George stares at her for a moment, appreciating her insight, hopeful it's more than just a fleeting brush with reality. "How many bottles have you made?"
"Just one so far. Had to try it out first, y'know, and then it requires quite a ritual."
"You can skip the ritual when nobody's looking, y'know," George snaps back. "It's just a waste. And don't be your own guinea pig. You damn near burned your stupid toes off the last time."
"That was because I listened to you and didn't do the ritual."
"That was because some of this shit is dangerous."
"That's what the ritual's for." As always lately, Thalia refuses to concede any point.
"Oh, hell, here we go again," George exhales in explosive exasperation.
"Just having an unbeliever around raises the risk,” Thalia explains. “You know how hard I have to work to neutralize your vibrations?"
"'Neuter' my vibrations?" George asks, half joking, half worried.
Thalia laughs, "That you're doing yourself. Sure isn't my idea."
"Just do an exorcism for that damn goddess of yours—sweep her out of here on her own broom—and you'll see. ,.
"You don't understand.” Thalia’s voice is thick with resignation, impatience. “The goddess is everywhere."
"Okay, okay,” George says with equal impatience, “I don't want to hear it again. I don't give a damn about the mumbo-jumbo. You just brew it, and I'll sell it. Now, you got some breakfast, or what?"
Thalia sighs, grabs a plate from the pile in the sink, goes back to the stove, slides something out of a pan onto the plate, and slaps it down in front of George. "Or what."
"What?"
"Chinese omelet," Thalia responds mysteriously, smiling down at George.
George stares up at her, then back at the mess on the plate. "Shit."
"No, that's lunch," Thalia responds without missing a beat. Thalia turns, goes back to the stove, pours herself a cup of coffee, then returns to the table and sits back down opposite George.
George flips his cigarette butt into the sink.
"Try it; you'll like it," Thalia says, sounding mysterious again.
"Why Chinese?" George asks, wary.
"It's inscrutable," Thalia pops back with a big smile.
George again stares first at Thalia then at his plate.
"It's real good stuff,” Thalia says, not joking now. “It'll put some lead back in your pencil."
"You put lead in here?"
"No, that'd stiffen up more than your pencil."
George stares blankly at her.
"They call it rigor mortis. It doesn't make for good sex."
George looks around. "No fork."
Thalia reaches over and fishes one out of the sink, hands it to him. "No excuses now."
George pokes at the food, skewers a bit that doesn't look charred, and tentatively slips it into his mouth, all the while staring at Thalia. "I haven’t paid the life insurance yet," he mumbles while chewing carefully.
"Think you've got a life?" Thalia quips.
George swallows. It's good. It's great! It's sharp yet sweet, chewy but melting inside, a melody of opposing but harmonized flavors and sensations. "What did you call this?" he asks, trying to disguise his appreciation but not entirely succeeding.
"Chinese omelet."
"Who cooked it?" George jokes.
“Agatha. Who do you think?”
George doesn't answer. He spears another piece of omelet, eats it without hesitation this time, not trying to hide his appreciation.
"Like it, don't you, fat boy?" Thalia smiles, doesn’t even try to hide her pleasure at his satisfaction.
"I've had better," George grouses, back to his persona.
"Well, if that's the way you feel," Thalia says with mock exasperation, reaches out to snatch the plate away.
George slams his hook into the table between her hand and the plate. Looking hard at her, but unable to keep a little smile from twitching at the corners of his mouth, he spears some more food with his real hand. Thalia sits back, sips her coffee, watches George eat, content. Done, he belches.
"Music to a squaw's ears," Thalia sighs.
George smiles, leans back, content.
"But I'm not one." Thalia gets up, sticks her cup in the sink, starts to leave the kitchen, saying, "I was going to give you the antidote." She continues on her way.
"Wait!" George jumps up, runs after her. He lunges into the bedroom, out of control; she jabs him in the stomach with a broom handle, doubling him over. "Ooooooh" he whooshes.
"You gonna set up my cauldron today?" she asks, keeping the broom handle between them.
"Today?" he croaks, clutching his belly, his eyes tearing.
"Tomorrow's Halloween."
"Then it can wait until tomorrow," George snaps back.
"Can you?"
"Give me the goddamn antidote!" George exclaims, wanting to sound menacing but not moving an inch toward Thalia, who still has her broom handle in hand.
"I need the cauldron to cook it,” Thalia responds sweetly.
"Liar!"
"Willing to bet your life on it?"
George straightens up, glaring at her. "All right, today."
"That's my fat boy." Thalia drops the broom handle, tweaks his cheek, runs a hand through his hair, her claws pulling on the mats.
"Ow!" George slaps at her hand with his.
"How about I chop those mats out, throw them in the brew?"
"How about you leave me be?"
"What would you do without me, fat boy?"
"Live long and peaceful."
"Borrrring."
George snorts, grabs a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt from the pile of his clothes in the corner of the bedroom. "Where are my goddamn shoes? ,.
"Seek and ye shall find—especially if you look on the porch. Agatha was using them, . . . you know."
"Agatha worships the ground I walk on," George says, leaving the bedroom.
Thalia starts to hurl some jibe at George's retreating back but can't come up with anything. She's annoyed at herself for letting George have the last word but determined not to let that darken her day. Silently, she mouths the secret homage to the goddess, reaffirming her commitment to the goddess' omnipotence: “Karam al katar, ratak la marak; karam al katar, ratak la marak.”
Standing in front of the full-length, winged wall mirror, Thalia strips, sucks in her stomach—just a little—squares her shoulders, and checks herself out. “Boob job’s holding steady,” she reassures herself. “Plenty of twenty-year olds would kill for that stomach.” Turning her back to the mirror, she looks over her shoulder. “Gotta get that fanny lift.” She turns again, carefully inspecting her face, which she has had lifted. It's a beautiful face, heart-shaped with a pouty little mouth, flawless, creamy skin, thick lashes and sleek brows, surrounded by luxuriant, lustrous black curls. It's the sweetest, most innocent, most enticing, naughtiest Betty Boop kind of face. But it is her eyes that dazzle people, transfix them, for not only are they large, clear, liquid, and unblinking, the left is dark blue while the right is violet.
After applying flaring black eye shadow and burgundy lip gloss—her only make-up—Thalia pulls on her burgundy 40s frock, the one she's patterned after Joan Crawford in her prime. She loves the big shoulder pads, the way the high bodice cradles her breasts, the tight waist flaring the full, mid-calf skirt over her hips. She straps on high heels, twirls in front of the mirror, smiling at herself, and heads for town. Gunning the jet black, perfectly polished Camaro—George's responsibility—she lays rubber squealing through the gate onto the country road. Agatha is able to leap out of the way one more day. "There's always tomorrow," Thalia calls back at the cat smugly licking a paw.
Sitting on the porch, gingerly probing his stomach, George watches Thalia leave. He doesn't feel anything yet. Was she shitting him? He'd like to throw it back in her face, go off to The Kick Stand and spend the day drinking with the boys. But he doesn't dare. He's sure she wouldn't kill him—where'd she find anyone else willing to put up with her?—but she isn't past
seeing how close to the edge she can take him before pulling him back, just to show she can do it, just to hear what he saw from the edge. And what if she got the formula wrong?
He gropes with his foot, dragging his ratty sneakers closer, starts to slide his foot into one when he remembers what Thalia said. He bends over, picks up the sneakers, and holds them up, upside down, shakes them. Nothing falls out. Liar! He slides on the old shoes, picks up his mug of coffee, and heads for the shed to get the cauldron. “Maybe she put the antidote in the coffee,” he considers. “She knows I always finish the pot.” He swirls the brew in his mouth but can't taste anything unusual.
In the shed, he bangs his hook on the side of the cauldron to scatter whatever might be hiding there. Then he sweeps the hook through the cobwebs tying the cauldron to the shed. In just weeks, since the celebration of the autumnal equinox, the spiders have constructed a silken blanket bejeweled with dead and dying flies, the occasional moth, beetle, and tiny worms. George cuts the blanket's anchors without thinking, not even watching as it plops against the wall, shimmers, then gradually falls, piece by piece, as the tiny threads part, one by one, unable to support the dangling weight. George pokes his hook through one of the handles, grabs the lip of the cauldron with his hand, and drags it over to the pentagon.
George takes a lot of pride in the pentagon. Thalia designed it, of course, but he built it. The edges are made of thick teak planks lacquered black, each seven feet long, set in copper troughs, anchored into a concrete pad buried so the pentagon is just an inch above ground level. Inside the teak border is a circle of black ceramic bricks, the spaces between the pentagon and the circle packed with an epoxy slurry of multi-colored glass beads. Inside the circle is a sunburst figure, but a black sun, the tips of its onyx rays, etched against a background of gold beads, touching the circle. The circular center of the sun is a slurry of burgundy beads, and its center is a polished, black marble pentagon with white veins suggesting an animal face.
Leaving the cauldron by the pentagon, George returns to the shed for the wrought iron frame that fits over the pentagon. He drags the frame to the pentagon, sets it in place, then goes back to the shed for the fire wood, which he arranges on the shelf of the platform before hoisting the cauldron onto the grate above the wood. Finally, he drags out and locks to the side of the frame the platform Thalia stands on while concocting her brew.
George stands back, lights a cigarette, and admires his work. It isn’t that big a cauldron, just three and a half feet in diameter, equally deep, but Thalia isn’t complaining. And the men who come to watch her dance around it, throwing who-knows-what into the boiling water, and howl at the sky while stirring her brew, seem satisfied, too. "Showtime!"
George prods his belly again. Still feeling nothing—no cramps, no nausea—he smiles to himself; she was shitting him. He'd figure some way of getting even with her. Put a snake in the sink, maybe, or let Agatha and Timothy have at her clothes. He'd decide later; right now, he’d grab a couple of bottles of Thalia’s latest brew and haul ass over to The Kick Stand, where he can trade them for beer,
***
In town, Thalia screeches to a halt in the parking spot reserved for the Mayor, barely missing Sheriff Brooks getting out of his cruiser.
"Damn, Thalia!" the sheriff says as Thalia eases out of the Camaro,
"Why thank you, Rupert,” Thalia smiles back. “May the goddess smile on you, too."
"I've told you and told you, you can't park there,"
"Aren't these senior moments just the worst?” Thalia responds with a big, warm smile. “Someday, I'll have to brew a cure for them. . . . And how’s that brew I did for little Rupert holding up? Muriel happy? Lois?"
The sheriff reddens, looks around to make sure no one can hear, "Don't be talking about that out here in the open," he whispers.
"Leaves Viagra in the dust, doesn't it?" Thalia says in a normal voice and with another big grin.
"Just go, get out of here," Rupert says, making shooing motions.
Thalia leans close to the sheriff, fixes his eyes. "You want a refill, you tell Muriel to watch her tongue."
"What'd she say now?"
"You know, how I'm crazy as a coot, lowering the morals of fair Waynesborough, and an all-around disgrace—the whole package. She even called me vain. Said I dye my hair,"
Rupert looks at Thalia, trying not to laugh. He finally gets out a "So what?"
"Well, I don't. Never have,"
"Uhhh, yeah, . . . good," Rupert says, thinking, that hasta be the only part she hasn’t renovated.
"So you tell her to stop lying about me,"
"You don't mind the other things? I mean, about the morals and being a disgrace. Calling you crazy."
"I get off on those."
"Uh-huh. Okay, well, I'll talk to her about the hair. Now, you just be on your way."
"Remind her how long the nights were before"
"I said I'd talk to her," Rupert interrupts, again anxious someone might overhear their conversation, anxious to have it over.
"Some people just don't know how to say thanks. . . . But then, you've never told her, have you? None of you guys do. I save marriages up and down this valley, and all the women think I'm some crazy slut because none of you boys give me the credit I'm due," Thalia complains with feeling.
"Thalia"
"One of these days, I'm gonna march right over to that beautiful mountain church of yours and nail a list of clients and services rendered to the door for all to see. Won't that be the day!"
"You can't do that," Rupert insists.
“And why not?”
"Well, ummm, it'd be defacing private property. I'd have to arrest you."
"You'd never do that, Rupert," Thalia shoots back with a sly grin.
"Just don't try me, Thalia," Rupert asserts, standing tall. "The law's the law."
"No, Rupert, you are the law, and you need me . . . for Lois."
Rupert glares at her but starts to sag.
"You just tell Muriel to keep it true," Thalia says, definite but not threatening. She can see she’s won, and she’s not one to kick a man when he’s down.
"I said I would. What do you want, an oath in blood."
"Not a bad idea. Why didn’t I think of that?” Thalia banters back. “No, your word’s good with me—after all, you can’t afford to let it turn bad. . . . Oh, one other thing”
“What now?” the sheriff interrupts in exasperation.
“Bring the cruiser to the brew tomorrow night. The lights and siren fire me up."
“You know I can't take a city vehicle to a Halloween, uhhh, . . .”
“Extravaganza,” Thalia finishes his sentence with enthusiasm.
"Whatever."
"You say that every year."
"Well, this year I mean it. Next week's the election,
y'know."
Thalia leans conspiratorially close to Rupert again. "I've got shark balls this year," Thalia breathes.
The sheriff licks his lips, feels some action down there.
"But just enough for a few bottles," Thalia says, "for a few, special customers, . . . if I get wound up enough to use them, . . . share them."
The sheriff stares hungrily at her. "I want two bottles,” he insists, “or no cruiser.”
“You drive a mean bargain, Rupert,” Thalia purrs, playing to the sheriff’s ego. “You have any idea how much I could sell those bottles for?”
“You want the cruiser?" the sheriff shoots back.
"Damn, Rupert, you’re the man!" Thalia laughs, whirls, and strides off.
Rupert watches her go, enjoying her swinging hips. How does she do that? Ain’t another woman around here can do that. . . . The sheriff snaps out of his reverie, looks around again to make sure no one is watching, catches Tom Wilson, standing in the door to his barber shop, enjoying Thalia’s show from across the street, then straightens his holster belt and struts into the courthouse.
As Thalia comes to Haslett's Store, Mrs. Haslett is leaving.
"Hi, Clara," Thalia says with a smile, "I've come to spend some money with your husband."
Clara glares at her, continues on her way.
"And how's little Willy doing?" Thalia says to Clara's back.
Clara wheels to face her. "What did you say?"
"Oh, not that Little Willy. I meant Willy Junior; you know, your son."
"You stay away from him, you hear me," Clara commands, coming closer, waving her finger in Thalia's face.
"I'm not the one seeks him out," Thalia responds, standing her ground, paying no attention to Clara’s finger.
"You just mind what I say." Clara drops her hand but continues to glare.
“I’m not one of your kindergarten kids. And neither is Junior. He has his own mind now, . . . a young man’s mind. And you know what they say: ‘Enquiring minds want to know!’”
" You bitch! " Clara explodes, clearly on the verge of attacking Thalia.
"Why, thank you, Clara. By the way, Big Willy's gonna be out late Halloween, . . . Little Willy, too." Thalia turns and goes into the store.
Clara wants to run in after her, grab her by that mop of curls, and throw her into the street. But she isn't sure her husband would back her up. Still fuming, but head down, she walks off, hoping no one heard her swear.
***
Back at The Kick Stand, a rundown road bar, George has struck up a conversation with two bikers passing through on their way north to a Hell's Angels jamboree. "You ain't seen nothin’ till you've seen Halloween here," George boasts.
"Halloween's for kids," Les, the older biker, sneers. He looks like a NFL linebacker gone to fat, his gray hair in a ponytail, the stubble on his face almost thick enough to count as a beard, and wearing a denim jacket with a skull on the back from which a tongue-flicking Cobra spirals out.
"And faggots parading in costumes," Carl adds. Slightly smaller than Les—225 instead of 250—he also sports a pony tail—his being dirty blonde—instead of stubble, a wispy, wanna-be Van Dyke on his acne-scarred face, and has a "God Bless America" tattoo on his left arm, "White Power" on the right. Both men sport foot-long Bowie knives tucked into thick, studded leather belts with skull-and-cross-bones buckles.
"No faggots here," George responds, "just the horniest bunch this side of a harem. Thalia sees to that."
"Thalia ?" Les asks.
"Our witch."
“You only got one bitch?” Carl asks.
“’Witch,’ with a ‘W’.”
"Go away," Les says, turning his back on George.
"I kid you not. She's the real thing."
"There're plenty of bitches," Carl says with a smile, "but there ain't no witches."
"Thalia's got the power," George insists. "You ask anyone around here. Hey, Pete," George calls to the bartender, "tell these guys about Thalia."
At the opposite end of the bar, Pete holds up one of the bottles George brought in and smiles.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Les asks, turning back toward George.
"Another satisfied customer," George says.
"The bottle?" Carl asks. "What's in the bottle?"
"Thalia's brew," George answers, proud.
“So?"
"So, when was the last time you kept it up all night?" George gloats.
"Yesterday," Carl shoots back.
"Bullshit," George also shoots back.
"You mean you guys around here, you think this witch has some kind of sex drink? Viagra in a bottle?" Les challenges.
"Better than Viagra," George insists, not the slightest hint of doubt in his voice.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.”
"How?" Carl asks.
"Buy some; you'll see."
“How 'bout you just give us a taste,” Les says menacingly.
"Don't have any here. Traded it all to Pete."
Les and Carl turn to face Pete. Pete pulls his shotgun up from below the bar. "Just beer and booze, boys, that's all you get here," Pete says, sporting a tight, little smile.
Les and Carl look at each other. They're already plotting how they'll bust up Pete and The Kick Stand, but they're also wondering if there could be something to this story. Obviously, Pete thinks he has lightning in a bottle.
Les turns to George. "So where's this . . . witch's brew on sale?"
"Tomorrow midnight. Go west on the first road north of here. You can't miss it."
"Why not now?" Carl asks.
"Ain't Halloween,"
“Fuckin’ retards,” Carl says. “Whole town’s full of ‘em.”
“With guns,” Pete reminds him.
“And hooks,” George says with a smile, holding up his.
“Screw it,” Les says, drains his beer. “C’mon Carl.” He turns and starts to leave.
Carl pours the last of his beer onto the floor, flips the bottle into a corner, where, to his disappointment, it just bounces, doesn’t break. He joins Les in swaggering out. “You haven’t seen the last of us.”
***
Les and Carl steer their hogs side by side down the country road, feeling their way in the dark. The night is moonless, overcast, and there are no lights along the road, but they can hear rustling up ahead and a glow, like from a fire. As they come around a bend, their headlights catch an open gate and beyond it a ring of parked cars and trucks.
"Kill those lights!" someone yells.
Les and Carl do, parking their bikes by a shed, far from the police cruiser. They lean against the shed, wary. No one is milling about; everybody's in their vehicle.
"What kind of crazy is this?" Carl says.
"Inbreeding," Les responds.
Bam! There is a clash of cymbals from what has to be a powerful loudspeaker. Les snaps straight up; Carl grabs the handle of his knife. Bam! Again and again, Bam! No one leaves their vehicle, but at the third clash, everybody flips on their lights, high beam. The cars and trucks are arrayed in a wide semi-circle, all pointing to and now illuminating the center of the circle. The drivers start hitting their horns in unison. Blat, blat! Blat, blat! Blat, blat!
At the center, steam and foaming bubbles rise from the boiling cauldron. Standing next to the cauldron, a figure completely cloaked and hooded in a black robe studded with iridescent autumn leaves begins to undulate, barely moving at first, slowly, then more vigorously, weaving in widening circles but with feet still, head down. Then the figure starts to turn, raising its feet, higher and higher, its knees pushing out the cloak as it turns in place. It steps in rhythm to the horns. Blat, blat! Blat, blat! Blat, blat!
Suddenly, the figure stops, shooting its arms straight up from the shoulder, the sleeves of the cloak falling back to reveal white female arms. The shapely hands tipped with long, black nails shake, and the horns respond, breaking their rhythm as each driver pounds his horn as fast as he can. Then Thalia jerks her head up, throwing the hood back, exposing her mane of lustrous curls, the flaring eye shadow, scarlet now, the beautiful, dramatic, exotically colored eyes, the full mouth, scarlet now, too, smiling triumphantly. The horns stop as one. The sight and sudden silence are breathtaking.
Thalia slowly lowers her arms until they extend straight out to the side, palms up, fingers splayed. She moves her head slowly from left to right, taking in the whole semi-circle, looking directly into the headlights, unblinking, lingering on each vehicle, singling out each man. Then she starts moving her arms up and down, just a few inches, rhythmically, palms down now, like a bird or a bat readying for flight. The horns match her rhythm.
Blat, blat, blat, . . . blat, blat! Blat, blat, blat . . . blat, blat! Blat, blat, blat . . . blat, blat!
Having established the rhythm, Thalia begins dancing around the cauldron, hopping, striding, sliding, turning, prancing, bobbing, weaving, always improvising until she has circled thirteen times. Suddenly, she stops. The horns stop, too. She grabs the cloak at her neck and twirling around pulls the cloak open neck to toe, slipping it off her shoulders in one liquid motion, then twirling it above her head and sending it, a black shadow festooned with autumn colors sailing into the darkness. She is dressed in oriental silk, scarlet with four golden dragons. The forked, flicking tongues of the dragons end at the collar tight around her neck, their golden bodies filling out below, descending the skin-tight sheath, two in front, two in back, the tips of their tails at her feet, the sides of the skirt slit to her waist. She stands shimmering in the headlights, arms raised, smiling, again slowly moving her gaze around the semi-circle, singling out every man, savoring every lust.
Then the howling, yowling, baying, screeching, and screaming begin, blasting forth from the loudspeaker and the men's throats. Pirouetting, Thalia mounts the platform beside the cauldron and reaching into the beaded pouches arrayed there starts pulling out the ingredients for her brew, holding each high, waving it for all to see as she prances up and down and back and forth before flipping it in. Three cat eyes, gray, green, and gold, a raven's wing, an eagle's foot, and a buzzard's beak. A squirming toad, an oozing slug, and a handful of snails. Then Spanish moss she whips about, long blonde curls, a handful of red hair, and one of her own lustrous locks snipped with silver scissors. A trout, two flounder, and three rooster tongues. A ram's horn and a stag's penis. A flurry of autumn leaves, mandrake root, and a string of garlic bulbs. Goat, wolf, and mother's milk. Rock, sea, and desert salt. Seven pudgy pink raspberries followed by seven blood tomatoes. A cucumber and two bananas followed by four carrots and Chinese radish. Then a single golden rose, and at last, waving them high above her as she whirls dervishly round the cauldron, three times clockwise, four times counter, the shark balls. The men scream and pound their horns. Thalia mounts the platform, stops poised over the cauldron staring directly at Rupert. At last, he sets off the cruiser's siren and twirling lights.
Bathed in the light and noise, Thalia glows, seems to float on the excitement. At last, she flings the balls into the cauldron. Plop! Plop! Plop! Then she raises her left hand
high above her head, the black-lacquered nail of her index finger glistening as it points to the black sky, holds there motionless for a count of seven, then swiftly descends and slashes across her crimson-collared throat. The noise stops; the lights go dark. It's over.
Les and Carl blink, startled by the sudden silence, unable to see in the sudden dark. Then they hear the motors start up and as their eyes adjust see the cars and trucks carefully pick their way out onto the road by the light of the dying embers of the cauldron fire. No one speaks, stays, drinks, carouses. Les and Carl can’t believe it.
After the last car has gone, George flips on the porch lights and comes out into the yard to check on the brew. He is licking the last drops of the antidote off his lips. At least, that’s what Thalia said it was. The fire is just about finished. He hops on the platform and peers into the cauldron to make sure all the water hasn’t boiled off. Feeling there should be more—so there will be more to sell—he descends the steps, turns on the hose, and squirts some more in. Startled to hear someone coming up behind him, he turns to see Les and Carl.
"Quite a show," Les says, turning off the water.
"Yeah, that witch is some bitch, all right," Carl adds. : "You ever think of selling her act to Las Vegas?"
George looks from one biker to the other, trying to be casual, clearly nervous. "Glad you boys enjoyed the show, but that’s all there is."
"You said we could buy some witch’s brew here tonight," Les says.
"Ain’t ripe yet. Not even cool. You can see that."
"We got time," Carl drawls.
"It’s gotta do more than cool. Thalia has to cast a spell on it, y’know, add some secret ingredients," George says, clearly nervous, defensive.
"Why don't we go visit with Thalia," Les says, taking George by the arm. Carl grabs the other arm, and they march him across the yard, onto the porch, and through the open door.
The front room is empty.
"Call her," Carl hisses, squeezing George's arm painfully.
But just then, Thalia comes in from the kitchen. She's wearing a silky, saffron wrap. “Hey, let go of him. You're hurting him," she orders the bikers.
"Enjoyed the show," Les says, not easing his grip on George.
"Great, glad you liked it, but it's over now," Thalia responds, sounding secure, hands on hips.
"We want to see more," Carl says, leering.
"Next show's winter solstice. Y'all come back."
"We can't wait," Carl shoots back.
"Well, you're going to have to. Now, let him go and get out of here before I call the sheriff. You saw the cruiser out there tonight—right?”
"Yeah, we saw it leave, too," Les says with a smug laugh.
"It can be back here right quick." Thalia is not backing down.
"Not quick enough," Les says, menacing, no laugh of any kind this time.
"You'll see," Thalia says, turning and running back into the kitchen.
"Get her!" Les orders.
Carl lets go of George and runs after Thalia
George screams, “Ay! Yah,!” and stomps down on Les's instep, just the way they do it in the movies. Except Les doesn't collapse. His biker boots are much harder than George's sneakers.
George screams again, “Yow! Rahl,” bends forward and pushes back sharply, banging Les in the belly with his butt.
Les’s belly being as swollen as George's, he stumbles backward, tries to grab the door frame to steady himself, misses, loses his grip on George, and stumbles backwards through the open door, ending up on his back on the porch. “Whoosh!” the air pops out of him.
Off balance himself, George sits down hard but immediately starts scrambling to his feet.
Carl races into the kitchen just as Thalia whirls around from the sink. Thwang! She smacks him right on the nose with yesterday's skillet. "Coooh!" Carl yells, stopping short, bringing both hands up to his broken nose.
Thwang! Thalia hits him over the head with the skillet, using both hands and all her might. Carl’s eyes roll up and his hands drop as he sinks to the floor.
Back in the front of the house, George has scrambled out onto the porch and is about to kick Les in the kidneys. Les recovers just in time to grab George's ankle, twisting it so that George falls back down. Les turns and, still on the floor, grabs George's other ankle, pinning both of George's legs down as he gets to his knees, rising over him.
George sweeps his hook up at Les's face but succeeds only in wiping the grin off as Les rears back, rolling out of the way.
His leg free, George kicks at Les, delivering a glancing blow where even a glancing blow hurts a lot. "Owwww!" Les exhales, grabbing at his crotch.
George pulls his other leg free, scrambles to his feet, and stands facing Les, holding his hook in front of him. Les glares at George, yanks the Bowie knife from his belt, struggles painfully to his knees, then awkwardly to his feet, never losing eye contact, and makes ready to lunge at George.
The cat hits Les full in the face.
"Yeeooww!" Les yells, dropping his knife, grabbing at the cat. George turns toward the kitchen just in time to catch the skillet sailing toward him. Thwang! George lets Les have it on the left ear as the cat springs away.
This time, Les not only tumbles backward through the front door, he catches his boot on the threshold, falls over backwards, hits his head on the newl post, and collapses down the steps onto the ground.
Thalia runs into the bedroom to get their handcuffs, and they quickly cuff both unconscious bikers’ hands behind their backs. George rouses Les by kicking dirt into his face. With both hook and knife, he makes clear to Les that he is to stay seated.
“Cocksucker!” Les spits out, shaking his head to keep the blood from the cat’s scratches from dripping into his eyes.
“You’re the one on the ground,” George responds.
After splashing him awake with a pot of cold water, Thalia prods Carl up with a quick kick to the back and marches him outside, at the point of his own knife, to await the sheriff.
“You cunt!” Carl says as they cross the porch. “You just wait.”
“Waiting for it is what you’re gonna be doing, . . . for a long time,” Thalia responds. “For now, you just sit down there in the dirt with your big, bad buddy.”
***
After the bikers have been taken away, Thalia turns to George and asks, "You all right, fat boy?"
"You almost hit me with that damn cat."
"So why didn't you stand back?"
"I was going to lay the bastard out."
"Sure you were," Thalia says, her voice as fond as sarcastic.
"Hey, old woman, I can take care of myself,” George insists, straightening his posture and shoulders.
Thalia snorts.
"And my woman, too."
Thalia cocks her head, studies George's eyes.
He meets hers.
Her eyes tear, go soft; she smiles warmly, melting, runs her fingers gently through his hair, then bumps up against him hip to hip. "C'mon, sweet thing," she says, taking him by the hand, heading for the kitchen, "I really do have shark balls."