Halfway Dead (3 page)

Mallory and Pat were waiting tables and making chaos into order, usually by the simple act of refilling coffee cups. Before Pat could hang her ticket in the window, she squawked an order while pouring chocolate milk and refilling a jelly caddy. She was in her late forties, rail thin, and pretty if you ignored a long nose that gave her a faintly sad expression until she smiled. Her dyed-blonde hair was in the requisite net, and she had the hands of a pianist, which she was at her church on Sundays.

“Rasher dasher and a Carlie, you stay here,” Pat said before pinning the ticket to the stainless steel wheel and whirling back to the front. For people other than the fifteen or so who speak Hawthorn Diner, that was a bacon sandwich wrapped in foil and a half stack of waffles. Yes, we stack our waffles; it sort of our thing, and my recipe is stellar because it was a gift from my Gran. Upon retiring from home waffle preparation some years earlier, it was generally known that she was a ninja with anything that required batter. The half stack is in honor of my lack of height; it seems that whoever is the shortest staff member gets the
honor
of having a small portion of waffles named after them. Until we hire someone under five feet tall, three waffles on a plate will forever be known as a Carlie. I can live with that. Waffles are amazing. I looked out to see who ordered it, and met the eyes of a tourist who’d eaten the same thing every day for the past week. I gave him a friendly nod and bent to the griddle; even short timers in Halfway sometimes learn that routine can be beautiful.

Looking out from the diner, I can see the main road in town, and it’s usually clogged with traffic that alternates between cautiously optimistic and the border of open revolt. If a moose or deer comes wandering along the road, which they do almost every day, people love to slow down, take pictures, and generally back traffic up to the border of Pennsylvania. It doesn’t really matter what day of the week it is; tourists are the lifeblood of my little town, and they’re present seven days a week. This morning was no different. I glanced out at the slow procession of family cars and SUVs, wondering if any of the drivers would get off the main road and really see what they were passing by. I hoped so. It was too beautiful to miss.

The honking was what drew my attention, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with scooping ice into a bin that held pats of butter. Outside, a low-level buzz was building as people began to walk off the sidewalks toward a forgettable silver sedan that may as well have been emblazoned with a sign that read
rental car
. The driver, a man of middle years, was slumped over the steering wheel, causing the stoppage of traffic. As I saw this detail, one of our patrons leapt to his feet and ran outside; he had the build and haircut of a firefighter. A woman reached in and put the car into park, then opened the door, and in seconds the crowd was laying the man gently onto the sidewalk mere feet from our door.

He was dead. I could tell at a glance that he was completely, spectacularly dead. Whatever killed him had been instantaneous. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly in concentration, and his brown eyes stared up and beyond the shoulders of the people circling him. We have one police officer who works our town; he’s a sheriff with the county, and I saw his lean frame wedge through the group of onlookers to take control of the situation. He spoke quickly to the man who’d left our diner in such a rush. An older woman who oozed competence knelt by the body, too, placing her fingers expertly to verify that there was no pulse. I saw her give a short, definitive shake of her head, wipe something from the man’s mouth, and then slowly stand. She never took her eyes from the man’s face. The sheriff, Hugh, searched the body and produced a wallet, then flipped it open while speaking into his radio. This all transpired in a matter of moments; the eggs I’d been cooking weren’t even finished when Hugh began waving people along. I looked down at the cheerful yolks and wondered what the man’s name was. It was incredibly sad, and I felt a tear slip down my cheek without permission. I’ve seen death, and I prefer life. I flipped the eggs and plated them on golden toast, marveling at the normality of people returning to their coffee and breakfast. I hope that when I die, people can go on as quickly. The nameless man had just slipped beneath the waves like a mortally-wounded ship, leaving nothing but ripples soon to be consumed by the winds.

The firefighter type returned to his seat after a few more minutes, and I heard his terse, professional report as he told the men sitting around him at the counter. “Aneurysm or something like it. Instantaneous. He’s not a tourist, his ID reads Department of Forestry; he’s a fed of some sort.”

Eventually, the excitement faded and I was caught up in the bustle of my shift. Before I knew it, it was three in the afternoon and I was walking home in the sun, alive but more than a little sad, and not entirely sure why.

“And how does that taste? Can you tell me the back notes?” Gran peered at me over her teacup with an inscrutable half-smile. We were playing our favorite game, in which I attempted to decipher the recipe for each cup of tea we shared. Her endless supplies of herbs and fruit made it a challenge that was as much education as familial bonding. I found myself guessing correctly more often as the years went on. At first, I couldn’t begin to detect the subtle composition of her brews, but my decade as a practicing witch has sharpened my palate considerably.

I inhaled the vapors and let my eyes close, making the tea speak to me. “Well, this one is quite simple,” I declared, causing one of Gran’s silver eyebrows to arch in defense at my dismissal of her skills as an alchemist.

My grandmother is neither feeble nor tiny, contrary to what one might expect. She’s still fairly tall, has a regal bearing, and her halo of silver hair frames a face that is only now beginning to show the deep lines of advanced age. Her blue eyes sparkle with intelligent mirth, and she is
never
without jewelry and what she calls proper dress. She resembles an upper-class woman of the eastern seaboard, more than a witch of eighty-one years, save her predilection for gems that are rare and beautiful. Each stone has a purpose, each bit of gold a reason, and she wears her art openly, leaving assumptions of her nature open to interpretation. On rare occasions, people have truly
seen
her, but those are few and far between, and usually only during times when she’s been casting powerful spells. Even the most tone-deaf dullard would recognize her power during those events, and she makes no effort to hide from the world.

But back to the tea. “It’s blackberry, but late season. There’s something else, too.” My stomach growled loudly, and I looked down at the rudely-behaving part of my anatomy. “I had lunch two hours ago, how can I be—ahh, there’s something in the tea to sharpen my appetite?”

Gran smiled over her cup again, less enigmatically. She was pleased at my identification, however tenuous. “White turtlehead. It’s quite the catalyst for hunger pangs. At least, it is when prepared properly.”

“I’ve read of it as fever reducer, but not to instill hunger. Good to know.” I filed that tidbit away in my ever-growing recipe book. Witches aren’t omnipotent; we just learn from people who seem that way. I smiled back at Gran and told her about the man dying, and then added a mournful account of my own inability to regain my natural ebullience.

“Was the man sickly looking?” Gran asked.

I shook my head. “No, he seemed fine. Maybe middle years, well dressed. He was handsome.”

Gran set her cup down with a pointed sort of kindness that told me to pay attention. “Carlie, dear. You’re a white witch. You rid the world of sickness, and you saw a man die inexplicably. Don’t you think it would be unusual for you
not
to feel lingering sadness at this strangers’ passing?”

Put that way, I saw the logic. I didn’t expect the feelings to be so dogged. I can usually rebound from anything in a matter of minutes; it’s one of the reasons my spells are rarely off. I don’t take anything personally, except when someone tells me they hate my cooking.
That
particular iniquity can result in bodily harm. A girl’s gotta have a breaking point, and mine happens to be my skills in the diner. You insult my waffles, and you’ve just launched the first salvo in a war.

Gran tapped my wrist lightly, one shapely brow raising in question. “Have you practiced with any new charms this week?” She constantly urged me to purify and strengthen my magic through imbuing items on my charm bracelet. It’s like a tiny arsenal of magical power that can be cocked and loaded; no witch in our family has ever gone without one. I don’t wear it to the diner for simple practicality. Cleaning cheese from a magically-charged silver bauble just seems disrespectful, so I leave the bracelet out of the kitchen.

“I have, and I like the results.” I pointed my fingers, indicating forward motion. “A wind spell. Quite violent, but extremely focused. It took several tries to get the balance correct, but I think I can deploy it at will.”

“Good. Elemental mastery is particularly suited to charms; the spells are among our most stable. Now”—she adopted the voice of a teacher—“have you followed the line of casting to the next spell in the grimoir?”

My spell book is decades older than me, but still has ample room for new writing. The creamy vellum is charmed to welcome my new spells, and rejects any other attempts to write on the blank pages. I’ve steadily added to the lineage of magic, even though some of my efforts have taken weeks to perfect.

When I shook my head to Gran’s question, she held up a finger and drew it through the air in a slow, even line. “What is the next logical direction for your learning, from the wind spell?”

I thought about it. “Stability?”

Gran smiled, and I knew I was at least partially right. “Of a sense. You’ll want to wed a spell of turmoil, like wind, with something to add balance to your mind. A spell of clarity is critical in the face of such explosive natural energy. Do you see the progression?”

I began to tick the possibilities off on my small fingers. “First, clarity will protect me for my next casting.” When Gran stayed silent, I went on. “Then, I can use the clarity as a sort of shield against any reflective or counterspells, even though my body is subject to the natural laws of the wind.”

“Exactly.” She beamed at me. “But what of your next spell, beyond clarity? Remember, we will not sow wanton discord without a plan to restore that which has been discommoded.”

Our family is serious about keeping the peace. There is some history of violence, but not without a sincere effort to undo that damage. It’s a critical thread in our magical narrative.

I leaned my head into my hands, thinking. I envisioned casting a wind spell—or any offensive magic, for that matter—in a small room, or a closed-in space. What would happen immediately after? What would be needed to assure that no additional damage was done? When I opened my eyes, Gran was regarding me patiently. “Silence. I’d cast silence to remove some of the terror, then I could begin correcting the chaos.”

The smile deepened. “Your instincts do me proud. That’s one of the best possible answers. You could also place a sphere of slowness in the area, but the possibility for continued motion among the affected is still a cause for alarm. Better to quiet the scene first, then begin unravelling the troubles. But tell me, why would you focus on offensive magic, Carlie? Why now?”

“I . . . I’m not sure. It just seems like that’s the weakest area of my magic. I’ve spent these years learning the natural aspects, and then the internal focus. I mean, when I get spell requests, they’re always so polite and tidy. There’s no sense of danger, so I can proceed carefully.”

“As well you should,” Gran admitted. “But your cognition of needing to affect the outside world is spot on. A good witch can practice magic in a deliberate manner and never make a mistake. A great witch can do the same under extreme duress. The latter is often when success is needed most.”

Grans’ house began to settle with the pops and creaks of the golden hour, so I knew it was time to walk the three blocks to my own home and enjoy the sunset. I kissed her cheek, inhaling deeply to make a memory. She smelled of club moss, and blackberry, and a powder that might have been French.

My boots thumped pleasantly down the street, and I lingered a bit to watch three evening grosbeaks flitter about in a complicated dance of feathers and beaks; it appeared to me that there was a lover’s quarrel, and the plainest of the three birds was going to win.
Attagirl
, I thought to the female as she flicked her tail and flew off, telling the boys to come find her. Sometimes, you have to make them come to you; that’s my general policy about men, customers for potions or spells, and life in general. But it isn’t because I’m aloof; I just happen to love where I am, and see no reason to go over the mountains seeking that which is already underneath my tiny boots. Gus seemed actually happy to see me when I walked in the living room. He was alert and following me with an intensity that would have been awkward if he hadn’t been a cat. That’s true of most things cats do, though—their behaviors verge on stalking no matter how happy they seem to be. It’s in their nature.

“I missed you, too.” I began to undress, sitting on the edge of my red couch. There isn’t anything special about the couch, other than the fact that it is gloriously red, low enough that my legs feel just right, and the perfect length for me to stretch out on. “I saw a man die today.”

“Mrowt?” Gus queried. His eyes glowed with interest.

“He was in a car, and I guess he had a blood vessel burst in his brain. It was very fast.” I slipped my boots off as I reported this to Gus, who leapt down from the mantel and put his paws on my leg. He butted his head against me twice, then gave my hand a gentle lick. He might not understand everything I said, but there were times that I swore he could have been a psychiatrist. Gus understands me. A tear slid down from the corner of my eye, unwelcome, and I decided that maybe Gran was right. I would mourn the stranger quietly, have some wine, and let the subtle suffocation of accrued grief pass from me as I slept. I didn’t know the man’s name, but I had seen his face. That was good enough for me.

I stretched out to my full length on the couch, contemplating a few candles I’d lit. After sips of wine that tasted of dark berries and a faraway place, I found myself watching the moon through the kitchen window. Actually, I was watching a patch of moonlight that shines onto the hardwood of the kitchen floor. It’s my favorite part of the house, and I’ve spent countless hours absorbing the gentle orbit of that heavenly body, using the friendly white light to help me construct spells both simple and Gordian. I felt myself slipping away into sleep, hearing the honking of car horns and watching the people crowd around a dying man, wondering why it was important to me.

I awoke to Gus placing a meaningful paw on my cheek. He doesn’t slap at me; he
leans
into me with one of his giant mitts. It’s a silent means to wake me, and I let my eyes come open to the candles burned low and that particular silence of two hours before dawn. The moon had fled from the kitchen; it had business elsewhere, and I stroked Gus once in thanks, listening for all I was worth.

The brass mail slot in the front door creaked slowly inward, and a light
shush
revealed that an envelope had come through to rest on the rug.
A spell request.
They always seemed to come at this time; it was never during the day, but always when my house was most silent. I don’t advertise—Gran never did, either—so I knew that whatever the envelope might hold, it wasn’t anything harmful. My rules for spells are quite simple. The envelope must be handmade, and plain. The request is written on a sheet of handmade paper, and the ink must be from the forest or natural world. It can be the juice of berries, natural dye, or even the stain from a walnut—those are popular in the fall. All that matters is that whoever asks for my help does so in a way that speaks to their honesty.

My price is neither high nor low. In fact, I rarely accept money; payment for my services is more personal than writing a check or reaching into a wallet. I have no need of money that has no real meaning. Rather, I accept kind acts done for strangers, a promise kept, or a small thing of value from the person who is seeking my craft. These things require some thought, and a degree of existential justification; for that reason, I don’t get many casual requests.

I stood, careful not to dislodge Gus with any great upset, then padded to the oval rug in the hall. The envelope gleamed in the dark. It was rough cut and handmade, just as I demand, and there was no writing on the exterior. I clicked on a lamp and settled in to read the note. The envelope was a heavy, cleverly-folded shape in which the corners were tucked in to hold everything together without glue or tape. Inside, there were three things. A small, flat dog collar that was stiff with age. On it hung a metal tag that read
Cowboy
. There was a picture of a teenage boy on the cusp of manhood. He was stretched across a tattered couch in a basement that had the comfortable trappings of a middle-class home. Across the boy, a large, mixed-breed shepherd with a graying muzzle and kind eyes looked adoringly at him. The boy’s hand was placed casually on the nape of Cowboy’s neck, with a familiarity that could only come from long years together. Tears sprang to my eyes for the second time in one night, and I looked at the third thing, a letter written on linen-colored card stock. In blue ink that was clearly made from berries, the smeared words read, “
Fifteen of my son’s sixteen years were with him; please help him with the pain.
”