Practical Magic by Alice Hoffman Page B

the age of ten or eleven.
    Sally packed their clothes that same night. She loved the aunts and knew they meant well, but what she wanted for her girls was something the aunts could never provide. She wanted a town where no one pointed when her daughters walked down the street. She wanted her own house, where birthday parties could be held in the living room, with streamers and a hired clown and a cake, and a neighborhood where every house was the same and not a single one had a slate roof where squirrels nested, or bats in the garden, or woodwork that never needed polishing.
    In the morning, Sally phoned a real-estate broker in New York, then lugged her suitcases out to the porch. The aunts insisted that, no matter what, the past would follow Sally around. She’d wind up like Gillian, a sorry soul that only grew heavier in each new town. She couldn’t run away, that’s what they told her, but in Sally’s opinion, there was no proof of that. No one had driven the old station wagon for over a year, but it started right up and was sputtering like a kettle as Sally got her girls settled into the backseat. The aunts vowed she’d be miserable and they shook their fingers at her. But as soon as Sally took off, the aunts began to shrink, until they were like little black toadstools waving good-bye at the far end of the street where Sally and Gillian used to play hopscotch on hot August days, when they had only each other for company and the asphalt all around them was melting into black pools.
    Sally got onto Route 95 and went south, and she didn’t stop until Kylie woke, sweaty and confused and extremely overheated beneath the black woolen blanket that smelled of lavender, the scent that always clung to the aunts’ clothes. Kylie had been dreaming that she was being chased by a flock of sheep; she called out “Baa, baa” in a panicky voice, then climbed over the seat to be closer to her mother. Sally soothed her with a hug and the promise of ice cream, but it was not so easy to deal with Antonia.
    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