Practical Magic (7 page)

Antonia, who loved the aunts and had always been their favorite, refused to be consoled. She was wearing one of the black dresses they’d sewn for her at the dressmaker’s on Peabody, and her red hair stuck out from her head in angry wisps. She gave off a sour, lemony odor, which was a mixture of equal parts rage and despair.

“I despise you,” she informed Sally as they sat in the cabin of the ferry that took them across Long Island Sound. It was one of those odd and surprising spring days that suddenly turn nearly as hot as summer. Sally and her children had been eating sticky slices of tangerine and drinking the Cokes they’d bought at the snack bar, but now that the waves had grown wilder, their stomachs were lurching. Sally had just finished a postcard she planned to send to Gillian, although she wasn’t certain whether her sister was still at her last address.
Have finally done it,
she’d scrawled in handwriting that was looser than anyone would have expected from someone so orderly.
Have tied the sheets together and jumped!

“I will hate you for the rest of my life,” Antonia went on, and her little hands formed into fists.

“That’s your prerogative,” Sally said brightly, though deep down she was hurt. She waved the postcard in front of her face in order to cool off. Antonia could really get to her, but this time Sally wasn’t going to let that happen. “I do think you’ll change your mind.”

“No,” Antonia said. “I won’t. I’ll never forgive you.”

The aunts had adored Antonia because she was beautiful and nasty. They encouraged her to be bossy and self-centered, and during that year when Sally had been too sad and broken to speak to her children, or even take an interest in them, Antonia had been allowed to stay up past midnight and order adults around. She ate Butterfingers for dinner and smacked her baby sister with a rolled-up newspaper for fun. She had been doing just as she pleased for some time, and she was smart enough to know all that had changed as of this very day. She threw her tangerine down on the deck and squashed it beneath her foot, and when that didn’t work she cried and pleaded to be taken home.

“Please,” she begged her mother. “I want the aunts. Take me back there. I’ll be good,” she vowed.

By then, Sally was crying too. When she was a girl, the aunts had been the ones to sit up with her all night whenever she’d had an ear infection or the flu; they’d told her stories and fixed her broth and hot tea. They were the ones who’d rocked Gillian when she couldn’t fall asleep, especially at the start, when the girls first came to live at the house on Magnolia Street, and Gillian couldn’t sleep a wink.

There had been a rainstorm the night that Sally and Gillian were told their parents weren’t coming back, and it was their bad fortune that another storm struck when they were in the plane on their way to Massachusetts. Sally was four, but she remembers the lightning they flew through; she can close her eyes and conjure it with no trouble at all. They were right up in the sky alongside those fierce white lines, with no place to hide. Gillian had vomited several times, and when the plane began to land she started to scream. Sally had to hold her hand over her sister’s mouth and promise her gumballs and licorice sticks if she’d only be quiet for a few minutes more.

Sally had picked out their best party dresses to wear for the trip. Gillian’s was a pale violet, Sally’s pink trimmed with ivory lace. They were holding hands as they walked through the airport terminal, listening to the funny sound their crinolines made every time they took a step, when they saw the aunts waiting for them. The aunts stood on tiptoe, the better to see over the barricades; they had balloons tied to their sleeves, so that the children would recognize them. After they hugged the girls and collected their small leather suitcases, the aunts bundled Sally and Gillian into two black wool coats, then reached into their purses and brought out gumballs and red licorice, as if they knew exactly what little girls needed, or, at any rate, exactly what they might want.

Sally was grateful for all the aunts had done, really she was. Still, she had made up her mind. She would get the key at the realtor’s for the house she would later buy, then get hold of some furniture. She would have to find a job eventually, but she had a little money from Michael’s insurance policy, and frankly she wasn’t going to think about the past or the future. She was thinking about the highway in front of her. She was thinking about road signs and right turns, and she just couldn’t afford to listen when Antonia started to howl, which set Kylie off as well. Instead, she switched on the radio and sang along and told herself that sometimes the right thing felt all wrong until it was over and done with.

By the time they turned into the driveway of their new house, it was already late in the day. A band of children was playing kickball in the street, and when Sally got out of the car she waved and the children waved back, each and every one of them. A robin was on the front lawn, pulling at the grass and the weeds, and all up and down the street, lights were being turned on and tables were set for dinner. The scent of pot roast and chicken paprikash and lasagna drifted through the mild air. Sally’s girls had both fallen asleep in the backseat, their faces streaked with dirt and tears. Sally had bought them ice cream cones and lollipops; she’d told stories for hours and stopped at two toy stores. Still, it would take years before they forgave her. They laughed at the little white fence Sally put up at the edge of their lawn. Antonia asked to paint her bedroom walls black and Kylie begged for a black kittycat. Both of these wishes were denied. Antonia’s room was painted yellow, and Kylie was given a goldfish named Sunshine, but that didn’t mean the girls had forgotten where they came from or that they didn’t long for it still.

Every summer, in August, they would visit the aunts. They would draw in their breath as soon as they turned the corner onto Magnolia and could spy the big old house with its black fence and green-tinted windows. The aunts always made a tipsy chocolate cake and gave Antonia and Kylie far too many presents. There were no bedtimes, of course, and no well-balanced meals. No rules were put forth about drawing on the wallpaper or filling the bathtub so high that bubbles and tepid water sloshed over the sides and dripped down through the ceiling of the parlor. Every year the girls were taller when they arrived for their visit—they knew this because the aunts were seeming smaller all the time—and every year they went wild: they danced through the herb garden and played softball on the front lawn and stayed up past midnight. Sometimes they ate nothing but Snickers and Milky Ways for nearly the whole week, until their stomachs began to ache and they finally called for a salad or a glass of milk.

During their August vacations, Sally insisted on getting the girls out of the house, at least in the afternoons. She took them on day trips, to the beach at Plum Island, to the swan boats in Boston, out into the blue bay in Gloucester on rented sailboats. But the girls always begged to return to the aunts’ house. They pouted and made Sally’s life miserable, until she gave in. It wasn’t the girls’ bad temper that convinced Sally to turn back for the house, it was that they were united in something. This was so unusual and so delightful to see that Sally just couldn’t say no.

Sally had expected Antonia to be a big sister in the same manner she herself had been, but that wasn’t Antonia’s style. Antonia felt no responsibility to anyone; she was nobody’s caretaker. From the very start she would tease Kylie without mercy and could bring her little sister to tears with a glance. It was only at the aunts’ house that the girls became allies, perhaps even friends. Here, where everything was worn and frayed, except for the shining woodwork, the girls spent hours together. They collected lavender and had picnics in the shade of the garden. They sat in the cool parlor late in the day, or sprawled out on the second-floor landing where there were thin bands of lemony sunlight, playing Parcheesi and endless rounds of gin rummy.

Their closeness may have been the result of sharing the attic bedroom, or only because the girls had no choice of playmates, since the children in town still crossed over to the other side of the street when they passed the Owens house. Whatever the reason, it brought Sally great joy to see the girls at the kitchen table, heads bent near enough to touch as they worked a puzzle or made a card to send off to Gillian at her new address in Iowa or New Mexico. Soon enough, they’d be at each other’s throats, arguing over petty privileges or some nasty trick of Antonia’s—a daddy longlegs left under Kylie’s baby blanket, which she continued to be attached to at the age of eleven and even at twelve, or dirt and stones slipped into the bottom of her boots. And so Sally allowed the girls to do as they wished, for that one week in August, even though she knew, in the end, it was not to their benefit.

Each year, as their vacation wore on, the girls always slept later and later in the day; black circles appeared around their eyes. They began to complain about the heat, which made them too tired to even walk to the drugstore for ice cream sundaes and cold bottles of Coke, though they found the old woman who worked there fascinating, since she never said a word and could make a banana split in seconds flat, peeling the banana and pouring out the syrups and marshmallow whip before you could blink your eyes. After a while, Kylie and Antonia were spending most of their time in the garden, where belladonna and digitalis have always grown beside the peppermint, and the cats the aunts love so dearly—including two ratty creatures from Sally’s childhood, Magpie and Raven, who have simply refused to die—still dig in the rubbish heap for fish heads and bones.

There is always a time when Sally knows they have to leave. Each August, a night comes when she wakes from a deep sleep, and when she goes to the window she sees that her daughters are out by themselves in the moonlight. There are toads between the cabbages and the zinnias. There are green caterpillars munching at the leaves, preparing to turn into white moths that will fling themselves at screen windows and at the lights that burn brightly beside back doors. There is the same horse’s skull nailed to the fence, bleached white now and falling to dust, but still more than enough to keep people away.

Sally always waits until her girls come inside the house before she crawls back into bed. The very next morning, she will make her excuses and take off a day or two earlier than scheduled. She will wake her daughters, and though they gripe about the early hour and the heat, and will surely be sullen all day, they’ll pile into the car. Before she leaves, Sally will kiss the aunts and promise to phone often. Sometimes her throat closes up when she notices how the aunts are aging, when she sees all those weeds in the garden and the way the wisteria is drooping, since no one ever thinks to give it water or a bit of mulch. Still, she never feels as though she’s made a mistake after she drives down Magnolia Street; she doesn’t allow herself a single regret, not even when her daughters cry and complain. She knows where she’s going, and what she has to do. She could, after all, find her way to Route 95 South blindfolded. She could do it in the dark, in fair weather or foul; she can do it even when it seems she will run out of gas. It doesn’t matter what people tell you. It doesn’t matter what they might say. Sometimes you have to leave home. Sometimes, running away means you’re headed in the exact right direction.

PREMONITIONS

CROSSED knives set out on the dinner table means there’s bound to be a quarrel, but so do two sisters living under the same roof, particularly when one of them is Antonia Owens. At the age of sixteen, Antonia is so beautiful that it’s impossible for any stranger seeing her for the first time to even begin to guess how miserable she can make those closest to her. She is nastier now than she was as a little girl, but her hair is a more stunning shade of red and her smile is so glorious that the boys in the high school all want to sit next to her in class, although once they do, these boys freeze up completely, simply because they’re so close to her, and they can’t help embarrassing themselves by staring at her, all googly-eyed and moon-faced, infatuated beyond belief.

It makes sense that Antonia’s little sister, Kylie, who will soon be thirteen, spends hours locked in the bathroom, crying over how ugly she is. Kylie is one inch short of six feet, a giant, in her book. She’s as skinny as a stork, with knees that hit against each other when she walks. Her nose and eyes are usually pink as a rabbit’s from all the sobbing she’s been doing lately, and she’s just about given up on her hair, which has frizzed up from the humidity. To have a sister who is perfect, at least from the outside, is bad enough. To have one who can make you feel like a speck of dust with a few well-chosen mean words is almost more than Kylie can take.

Part of the problem is that Kylie can never think of a smart comeback when Antonia sweetly inquires whether she’s considered sleeping with a brick on her head or thought about getting herself a wig. She’s tried, she’s even practiced various mean putdowns with her one and only friend, a thirteen-year-old boy named Gideon Barnes, who is a master at the art of grossing people out, and she still can’t do it. Kylie is the sort of tender spirit who cries when someone steps on a spider; in her universe, hurting another creature is an unnatural act. When Antonia teases her, all Kylie can do is open and close her mouth like a fish that has been thrown onto dry land, before locking herself in the bathroom to cry once more. On quiet nights, she curls up on her bed, clutching her old baby blanket, the black wool one that still does not have a single hole, since it somehow seems to repel moths. All up and down the street the neighbors can hear her weeping. They shake their heads and pity her, and some of the women on the block, especially the ones who grew up with older sisters, bring over homemade brownies and chocolate cookies, forgetting what a plateful of sweets can do to a young girl’s skin, thinking only of their own relief from the sound of crying, which echoes through hedges and over fences.