The Mothering Coven (7 page)

Dragomir is pleased to study the polynomial rings
.

Dragomir was not pleased to study the polynomial rings. Instead he hammered all day in the room beneath the stairs and built a beautiful red and silver bicycle rickshaw. He left two scratches, one on either side of the hallway, from his wide handlebars, and he rode away through the center of town, up the entrance ramp, onto the highways of the United States of America.

[:]

Hildegard was not pleased to study the polynomial rings either. She was very skilled at listening to headphones. She also worked on an artistic project. Every day she added chewing gum to the enormous ball of chewing gum in the kitchen. Bryce helped by chewing lots of gum. She and Hildegard chewed gum at the dining room table.

Bryce sang and Hildegard bobbed her head, listening to headphones.

Bryce sang “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Of course, she cried, singing. We all cried. Mrs. Borage chewed bubble gum cigarettes, just one a day. Dorcas chewed the straws in her root beer floats. She added them to the enormous ball of chewing gum. Don’t tell Hildegard.

“Could she have gotten into Dragomir’s solvents?” worries Agnes.

“It’s more likely that her walkman ran out of batteries,” says Fiona. Fiona made sure to take all of Dragomir’s solvents.

“There wasn’t a distaff?” asks Agnes.

“There was an arc welder,” says Fiona. “I have it.”

[:]

Mrs. Scattergood looks at the pink arrow on the church. She looks at the pink arrow on the courthouse. She walks around the library. No one has painted anything on the library.

“I would even have to write a grant for vandals,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood.

Another warm day. The kingfisher wind rattles the dry leaves on the trees. Mrs. Scattergood sits down on the empty bench in front of the library. Should she relocate circulation services? It would be nice to sit out on the bench today. Mrs. Scattergood wonders if she is suffering from a deficit of natural light. Probably. She picks up a pinecone. She counts the golden spirals. She glances down the street. Mr. Henderson? No, it is a crooked streetlamp.

Mrs. Scattergood feels goosebumps travel up and down, up and down, all around the helices of her inner ear. Someone is watching her! She glances over her shoulder. She meets the granite eyes of Dorothy Canfield Fisher.

“What’s this?” asks Mrs. Scattergood. She approaches the statue. Dorothy Canfield Fisher seems disapproving. Mrs. Scattergood has always felt intimidated by Dorothy Canfield Fisher. From the look of her, she was an accomplished and disdainful person.

Someone has put a bookmark in Dorothy Canfield Fisher’s book. Mrs. Scattergood takes it out.

The morning star equals the morning star.

The morning star equals the evening star.

Usually, Mrs. Scattergood parses with ease.

“The morning star equals the morning star,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “The morning star equals the evening star.”

“Hmmmm,” says Mrs. Scattergood.

“I am defeated,” she thinks. Dorothy Canfield Fisher remains silent. She is smirking.

“I should take away your book,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “It’s overdue.”

X

Bryce is late to turn in the horoscopes this week. She wrote them in the alphabet of daggers, a magic alphabet. It took a long time. Will the newspaper office have the right typeface? Bryce carves 26 potato stamps. Off she goes down the sidewalk, pulling her wagon of potatoes. She is wearing a green tunic and her favorite green felt shoes. She whistles. She waves to everyone she passes. She forgets and waves with the hairy palm. Oh well.

[:]

Ms. Kidney is lying on her parka playing a purple finger harp. Strong fingers—where would the organ grinder’s monkey be without them?

“A strange horoscope,” says Mr. Henderson. His hands are folded in his lap. He gives his wheel a small shove. The dry clay particles spin into the air and flurry down.

Mr. Henderson takes a lump of clay from his bucket. He supposes he should try again. He will need a little port.

“There must be a bit of port,” says Mr. Henderson.

“A bit?” says Ms. Kidney.

“A drop?” says Mr. Henderson.

“A nip,” says Ms. Kidney. “There is a nip of port, Sebastian.”

“May I have it?” says Mr. Henderson.

“The shoes in the basement belong to the barefoot,” says Ms. Kidney.

It is not her horoscope. It is the thieves’ creed. It does not vary with nativity.

[:]

In the newspaper office, which is really his parents’ garage, Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels has just finished writing the much-anticipated biography of Bathsheba Spooner. He hopes it can be cross-listed as Regional, Rich & Famous, and True Crime. He fears he may be challenged on his style. The long digressions, the extended metaphors, the sprinkling of epic similes—in his newspaper articles these have passed without comment, but the newspaper is not read by book editors. Usually, the newspaper is not read at all. It is burned in the woodstoves and hearths of the townspeople. Only Mr. Lomberg, the retired fire marshall, would even recognize his style.

“By the scent,” thinks Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels.

Someone is knocking on the door of the newspaper office. Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels puts on his fedora. He opens the door. It is mysterious Anaxamandra Pax Britannica, the horoscope writer. She has a wagonload of potatoes.

“I have changed my mind about the alphabet of daggers,” says Anaxamandra Pax Britannica. “This week’s horoscope will be written in the language of love.”

She gives him a handful of paper. Paper? It is dozens of origami crustaceans. Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels recognizes the starfish, but there are other kinds of stars, six-pointed, eight pointed, twelve-pointed stars, and there are spindle tibias and heart cockles and rose harps. There is a helmet vase, a crowned baler, a boat ear moon.

“What does it say?” asks Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels.

“The first part is an invitation,” says Anaxamandra.

And the second part?

She is pulling her wagon across the yard. Her feet are very wet. Wet feet are the danger with felt shoes.

Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels lines up the crustaceans, two columns on the Vandercook. There is an uneven number. One of the crustaceans remains unpartnered.

“Unpartnered,” says Ace Reporter Duncan Michaels. Is that a word in the language of love?

“This will be a difficult print run,” he thinks.

[:]

Bryce decides to drop by the Greece Trap. It is the town’s only diner. Thank goodness it is a perfect diner. The stools at the counter are always empty. The milkshakes pass the straw test. Bryce sits down on a stool at the counter. She eats a spoonful of strawberry milkshake. She orders a bowl of lemon chicken soup and a cup of coffee. The coffee tastes like lemon. Bryce admires the pictures of Lebanon on the walls of the diner. Lebanon is the most beautiful place in the world.

“Is there a sacred bird of Lebanon?” asks Bryce.

“The city walls are made of glass,” says Mr. Hephaistos. “There is a cedar gate.” He is cleaning the same square of counter over and over again. “I don’t know about birds.”

“Chicken,” says Mr. Dykes. He has just set out a tray of cinnamon donuts. Today Bryce doesn’t want cinnamon donuts. She is thinking about Behemoth, who drank the River of Jordan to quench the desert in her chest.

Will Bertrand offer her flesh for the banquet in the sky?

“Now I’m being morbid,” thinks Bryce. She spoons up the last of the milkshake. She puts the green bill in her pocket. Mr. Dykes has nice handwriting.

Of course, Bryce also fills her pockets with straws and sugar packets. She leaves behind the napkins. She has folded them into chickens. Mr. Dykes can’t remember anymore. Is chicken the sacred bird of Lebanon? It might be the sacred bird of the United States. Mr. Dykes has been away from home for many, many years. A lifetime. Mr. Hephaistos is still cleaning the counter.

He is singing a song in the language of love. It goes like this:

            Come with me from Lebanon, my bride, come with me from Lebanon.

            Journey down from the summit of Amana,

            From the summit of Senir and Hermon,

            From the dens of lions,

            From the mountains of leopards.

But there are so many languages of love. It might mean something completely different. It might not mean anything.

[:]

Who has RSVP’d?

Leon Czolgosz.

The Venus of Willendorf.

By Agnes’s count, that makes two. But is this really a party? It is more of a holiday.

“Like Christmas,” says Agnes. “You don’t RSVP for Christmas.”

[:]

Mrs. Borage loves to celebrate Christmas. The star of Bethlehem is her favorite star. Of course, it is a false star. There are many explanations for the Star of Bethlehem. Occultation. Conjunction. Comet. Mrs. Borage believes it was a rocket. From France, why not.

[:]

Mrs. Borage also loves Canada Day. Agnes makes Canadian bacon and Canadian muffins and Mrs. Borage smokes her fragrant pipe. What does she put in her pipe?

Canadian hemlock needles and Canadian maple leaves, Canadian pitcher plants, Canadian trilliums, little white hairs from the nectaries of Canadian Madonna lilies, a nice blend of shade tobaccos.

The pipe makes the whole house smell like the woodlands of Canada.

“A breakfast picnic,” sighs Mrs. Borage, “in the woodlands of Canada.” Everyone she has ever known is eating together.

“But the picnic baskets stay full,” remembers Mrs. Borage. “Somehow, there is herring enough.” Mrs. Borage glances around her. She is alone in the kitchen. It smells like glue.

“Herring enough,” she says.

[:]

Agnes is looking at the Petition of Notice and Foreclosure. Are those ladybugs? Agnes picks one off. She licks it.

“Rice,” thinks Agnes. From some sort of paint-and-adhesive based pilaf.

“Bryce should not be allowed in the kitchen,” thinks Agnes. Mrs. Borage is in the kitchen mixing batter. The secret is heavy cream and egg yolk. Mrs. Borage stirs briskly.

“Womlette!” cries Agnes. It is an omelet with a waffle base, popular in Canada.

Did the voice beneath the stairs say “womlette”?

“H” and “W” have a complex history, at least in the field of paleozoology. Agnes recently underlined the following entry:

Hwalebone. The horny laminae of the upper jaw of the hwale.
Hwale. The largest fish in the sea
.

“Hmmmmm,” says Agnes. Has she been contacted by the disembodied voice of paleozoology? It must be so. She is not working hard enough.

“Or was it a hwitch?” thinks Agnes.

[:]

Agnes stares at the Calendar of Drifting Hours. She sees the day of Bernadette, the day of Petronella, the day of Ethelburga, the day of Lucy, the day of Zdislava, the day of Veronica.

“They haven’t RSVP’d either,” frets Agnes.

While on the subject of fretting: Mrs. Borage’s fiddle is broken in two! Agnes feels between the cushions of the sofa. Mrs. Borage’s spectacles! Also, broken. Her rocking chair. Her whale-tooth cane. Her fishing pole. Even her high-heeled boots. Everything Mrs. Borage owns is falling to pieces.

“It is to be expected,” thinks Agnes.

Like most paleozoologists, Agnes believes that the human chrysalis exists. It has taken on the commodity-form.

“The pupal case of worldy possessions will split open and Mrs. Borage will jump nude into the river!” predicts Agnes. “I hope we have enough processional torches.”

Hasn’t Agnes noticed the bottles of gas? Not yet. Bryce has stored them in the bathroom. She moved the bathtub into the kitchen. The bathtub looks natural in the kitchen. It’s the same size as the ball of chewing gum, which she has rolled into the yard.

[:]

Mr. Henderson is knocking on the front door. He has a question. Agnes hopes it is not a question about dog licenses.

Earlier, a tall, despondent man knocked on the door with a question about dog licenses. Ms. Kidney is very liberal with her dogs but as far as Agnes knows licenses are out of the question.

“I can’t say one way or another,” said Agnes. “You’ll have to speak with Ms. Kidney.”

“Does Ms. Kidney have a dog license?” asked the man.

“Ms. Kidney is a person,” said Agnes, gently. The man looked even more despondent. He and Agnes had very little to say to each other once the facts of the matter were established.

“Would you like to have a conversation about ideas?” offered Agnes, but the man did not. He wanted to have a conversation about dog licenses. It was an insoluble situation. Even Agnes began to feel despondent.

Luckily, Mr. Henderson does not want to ask about dog licenses.

“What is Mrs. Borage’s favorite lettuce?” asks Mr. Henderson. Agnes supposes that Mrs. Borage looks on the roughages equally. Don’t most people?

Mr. Henderson can’t help but feel that the woman in the doorway is giving him an uncomfortably shrewd look.

“Maybe her safety goggles magnify to the three power?” thinks Mr. Henderson. He notices that she is holding a broken violin, two pieces, cradled in her arms, in just the same way he holds his broken pots. Mr. Henderson has often thought that luthiers are the cousins of potters. He feels a small bubble of joy in his chest. But is it too presumptuous to assume cousinship with an adult niece of Mrs. Borage?

Mr. Henderson has a favorite lettuce. His favorite lettuce is bronze mignonette.

“Does Mrs. Borage like bronze mignonette?” asks Mr. Henderson.

“Has the late capitalist world system transposed the biological imperative?” asks Agnes.

Mr. Henderson performs a series of mental substitutions.

“Has money replaced death?” he asks. He stares into his cousin’s magnified eyes. What does she mean?

“As a cult?” thinks Mr. Henderson. “As a social hallucination?”

X

Mr. Henderson stands outside the library. Dorothy Canfield Fisher is wearing a Russian hat. He has never noticed the port-wine stain on her cheek or her circular beauty mark.