The Mothering Coven by Joanna Ruocco Page B

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