22

I MUST SAY THAT MIA’S ADVICE SEEMED TO WORK. Credit where it is due. My marriage fell into a happier rhythm, if I did not share my feelings with Guy, if I smiled and agreed even when I did not. Having given up, with no little sorrow, my morning walks in order to dance for an hour with the women of the Bohemian Club, I began, as I had our first days in the bungalow, to serve Guy breakfast every morning when I returned with the church bells. I acted as if nothing were wrong between us at all. I dressed heavy, dry slices of the Father M bread with green sweeps of avocado and eggs dripping warm orange yolk. Guy loved this development, naturally, and even more avocados appeared daily in the kitchen. One of the so-called artists in the group was working on some kind of art project with the multitude of pits collected. Aldus maybe. Or Wyatt. I ignored whatever Guy said that unsettled or distressed me, and whispered to the wind my desire for a family and to no longer feel angry with my husband.

Instead of arguing, I let him rail against fluoride in toothpaste and tap water. I ignored his hagiographic descriptions of Aster, for example, something new, but not unexpected after observing Manny . . . after my encounters with him. Instead of basking alone in the cool morning fog in mismatched socks, my college sweatshirt, and shoes, I dressed in the sheer silk gowns that had been glittering and swaying from hangers all along in the bedroom closet, and I gave up shoes altogether.

I did my actual best to be part of the community, showing up for group activities and jaunts to the beach so the men could surf and dive for abalone, while the women could comb one another’s hair and look beautiful cheering to them from the shore. On Sunday evenings, I no longer gritted my teeth alone in the creaking house, but returned to the group’s gatherings in Rose Manor under Manny’s tutelage once more, pitiful philosophy though it was. I sipped once more their fragrant tea and felt my heart swell watching the steam rise in buzzing crystalline prisms. I pretended to sleep and no longer brought up the wails and scrapes of the wind every night. My body flinched and burned, but the promise that I could learn to direct its gusts felt exciting.

I wore every day my necklace of abalone and kept to myself the feeling of something invisible choking me in the cabin on Rose Lane. I cried only when I knew I was alone. I even took to combing my now-long hair with a comb of oiled wood and abalone inlay that appeared in the bedroom. As Mia had suggested, the fewer tangles I carried with me, the smoother everything else in life seemed to go. With soft supplicating smiles, Guy returned to me, too.

I had a perfect marriage for a few weeks at the end of that summer, though seasons matter so little here, where the days are always temperate and perfect. We were into mid-September, when normally I would be anticipating apples and autumn in my collection of cardigans, but I tried to release my expectations and hold on to the vision of my idealized life in Bellinas, what I’d imagined when Guy looked at me like he loved me after all, and whispered into my ear, “Let’s move to Bellinas and have a baby.” Did I perform magic or witness any great sorcery? Mia would say that all of the above was magic. Still, I could not look at Manny’s too-blue eyes without counting through any panic that arose when he came near. Perhaps I was being silly. Guy accused me more than once over our years together of being too sensitive. The other women could endure their supposed leader, having suffered his whispers and unwanted touches. If they thought it not so great a thing for him to claim their bodies, as he claimed the land, then I would try to do the same. Denial, the blackest of magics—I am finally ready to cast you out.

The women, Mia and her coven and now me, too, went to the spot in the woods at dawn to dance in honor of the wind. The Sacred Grove, they called it. I confess to joining their circle, to dancing in what was my Sunday best donned for a daily Sabbath, wearing a halo of orange poppies and the yawning indigo of morning glories—still open well into the afternoon—woven and knotted by my hands for my head. Humble bows at the feet of Mother Nature seemed harmless enough. There was no imploring to Satan, no inviting of furies or spirits to join them. What could Constance the Elder object to? She who gave my mother her first garden of kitchen herbs, whose incantations filled the rooms of her house daily. Only hers began on her knees instead of bare feet, and ended in Amens instead of tumbling giggles into the salt-scented prairie grass. Lying on the grass with these women next to me, I heard that looping bird call that had plagued me. It was unlike any birdsong I knew. I thought the call might even be a fox or some western mammal. It wound upward in narrowing circles, like a bull’s-eye or a cone.

“What’s that sound?” I asked, panting a bit from the dancing. I should have been cold, lying barefoot and braless in a dress with no sleeves.

“Swainson’s thrush,” answered Mia.

She seemed to appreciate the nature in Bellinas, certainly more than her husband did.

“How did you come to this, Mia? To magic and witchcraft?”

Sitting cross-legged in the silver coastal grass with her dress hammocked between her knees, she laid down the bracelet she was knotting.

“In my line of work, my old line of work, there’s not a lot of control, darling. The more beautiful the world considers your face, the less your body is yours. What gets counted as beauty is not a stroke of luck for many girls. I’m sure you know from Guy that I’ve been on my own much longer than him. I did what I had to survive. Most girls in my position have. Sex is just a tool, remember?” I felt sorry for her, suddenly. All this time I had been envious of her life. Of her gifts, not really gifts at all.

“I found a book one day, left in the pocket of my airplane seat. The Book of Magic, by Anna Nováková, and it changed everything for me. I began to notice when things I wanted appeared. I started to talk to the wind, though it is hard traveling and in cities. When I met Manny, I knew I could have everything I would ever need. Bellinas is the perfect place for us.”

She looked almost like one of her sculptures. Pale and twisting into the wind. Whispering her own private desires and trusting the breeze to carry them out. That her methods came from my beloved Anna Nováková released any doubts or suspicions I carried.

“I’ve read the set over and over since coming here,” I gushed. “It’s not at all like what I tend to read, but sometimes it feels like her books are the only things that make sense.”

“Yes, I’ve searched far and wide for a complete set, but I’ve not been able to find much about her. I asked Manny to get one of his assistants to search for something, but they’ve also found almost nothing. She was Czech. From somewhere called Silesia, apparently famous for their witches. That’s all I know.”

“What’s in the tea?” I asked, feeling bold at our closeness.

“A little of this. A little of that,” she said, smiling at me. “Henbane, sassafras, kava root, false unicorn, morning glory seeds. I wonder if you’ve had too much. You’re practically glowing, Tansy.”

“Those are good for fertility?”

“That’s what I tell Manny so the men don’t drink it. ‘It’s for strengthening the uterus,’” she said, doing an impression of herself with a laugh. “It’s possible, but I brew it mainly for the euphoria and the mild hallucinogenic properties. The combination makes everything more beautiful, don’t you think? Easier to get through most days with a cup of it. More entertaining, too.”

“Especially Sundays.” It slipped before I could help it, but she laughed for a long time. The first time I’d seen her unguarded.

“And it’s okay for Iris?”

“All perfectly fine for Iris, or any expecting mother. We tried working with mushrooms for a while, but it felt very male, you know. The energy.”

I returned her smile. I could do this, I thought. This time it would be different. Guy would come around to the idea of being a father. We would have a group of friends. I would be supported here, by these women and their magic.

WHEN GUY CLASPED my hand and led me to the Manor for a group movie one evening, I did not refuse him. The wind nudged me forward. Mia ushered us in. As part of the lavish remodel of the house, the town’s old grange hall had been refashioned into a screening room for the Roses. A dozen plush recliners faced a white wall onto which Manny played what he called “the classics”—old Westerns and footage of himself summiting Mt. Everest—and were filled already with the faces I knew and now saw every day. Popcorn coated in nutritional yeast and flecks of rosemary, affixed by a lather of coconut oil, churned in the glass of one of those old-fashioned red-and-white concession stands. A small table had been fashioned from a redwood burl and held an earthenware tea set, its cups and spout never without clouds of steamy haze. A cup appeared in my hands, and I relaxed more with each sip. It was easier to follow Mia’s advice, to let go of expectations and breathe through what might have turned into conflict, when I had a cup of tea in my hands. The induced euphoria did make it easier to bear his touches and to forget them. Is it better to remember or to forget? I must choose memory if only for the sake of this history.

A fizz of silvery murmurs alerted me to the approach of Manny. Thank god for those bells he wore. Their ridiculousness should not discount their usefulness. I wonder if all wives might rather put bells on their husbands instead of rings. His hands, overwarm and slightly sticky, closed around my upper arms, but I managed at least to prepare myself. To expect and swallow any involuntary shudder. Half the battle is not letting the enemy know their effect on you.

“We’re jazzed you’re here with us, Tansy. It’s been the coolest to see you embrace your feminine side. Really dig your necklace. I was admiring your dress too,” he continued, sliding one hand to the small of my back. One. Two. Three. Four. “I’m always saying that women are the most powerful creatures on earth. You create life with your bodies. Can you believe that? I told Mia that I knew you’d come around. You’re too good to leave us hanging.” Amid the familiar chorus, his other hand came to my waist. One. Two. Three. Four. The sound of my swallowing was very loud. I could see the trail of chewed popcorn along his tongue, discolored by nutritional yeast, when he spoke.

He said all this for his benefit and not for mine, I knew. He liked to be seen as the type of man who had no hang-ups or biases. But I had seen his idea of a perfect community. There was still the mystery of the others. And the women had their place. We were at our most powerful only when embracing the roles he gave us, no matter what Mia and her coven did on their own. To the men, we were goddesses who belonged to everyone except ourselves. Who could populate his community with blue-eyed babies born and raised in Bellinas. It is no coincidence that the fairy-tale prince finds Cinderella’s shoe. A beautiful woman barefoot, with no escape, has the most marriageable of qualities. Helplessness being a tried-and-true aphrodisiac.

No wonder Mia had turned to witchcraft. It made them less perfect, more human, to think of them as witches. I found myself standing there with a new kind of smile creeping at the edges of my lips. The expression of someone whose secret gives them an unspoken edge over another. Who not only knows more, but knows she can use this secret to overpower the other. Suddenly I saw this man, wealthy enough to dress in whatever Bohemian nonconformity he wished, not just for his ridiculousness, but for his smallness. I pitied him and his need for acolytes. Compassion comes easy with power. I felt important for the first time in my life. This was how men must feel all the time. Mia smiled at me, and I knew she understood.

“She’d be a real beauty if she could be softer,” I heard him say to Mia. “If she smiled more,” he continued.

Any nascent inclination—spurred perhaps by the new power and the tea—toward pitying this man for his insignificance evaporated. Any trace of smile slipped from my face, but even that is a mark of growth, I suppose. I felt no need to pander to his pride to ensure my safety. Do not be fooled into thinking a man friendly or well-meaning when he asks for a smile: a request for one is a reminder to submit. I took another sip of tea, the cup as miraculously warm and full as when it appeared in my hand, and felt calmer. I imagined him falling and released a sigh, asking the wind for help. He backed away and fell to the floor.

“Shoelaces must have come untied,” he said, seeming flustered. I watched him from a height so grand I felt I could have been at the top of the neighboring mountain. Like I had grown as large as the room. An effect of the fragrant tea, probably.

Mia looked at me and shook her head slightly, as if warning me, but I didn’t care. It was thrilling to think about this man falling, and then to see him tumble. I sighed again and wished him to fall anew, and farther down he went, this time crying out. I let him stand, and saw that his lip was split. Blood smeared across his teeth like lipstick.

“Tansy, darling, why don’t you come sit next to me,” Mia called, and so I went. If I were chastised, it would be worth it.

“What are we watching tonight?” I asked.

“This flick is one I’ve been super excited about showing. It’s not out in theaters for the public for another couple months, but I pulled some strings. It’s getting good buzz on the festival circuit, and I produced it, you know. Can you believe it? A lot of the guys I came up with in the Valley are movie producers these days. So much free time, looking for something artsy to do, you know.”

It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying. I felt truly powerful. Electric, I could feel the colors of the flowers. I no longer felt ordinary, but actually beautiful. I hardly listened to Manny, but Guy had noticed me, even throwing a wink from his seat with the men. I felt like I was in control of my destiny, just as Mia had said in the woods. I wanted a slice of cake. Was this a pregnancy craving or just happiness? I hadn’t even had a wedding cake . . . What a monster I would be considered for wanting nothing so much as a slice of cake, one with those little chips of rainbow-colored candy in the frosting and food coloring bleeding artificial joy into the moist sugary crumb, served with either a cup of milky sweet coffee or a glass of red wine, while watching this film. I am growing hungry by now, it is true, having eaten the last of the stale graham crackers some time ago.

The mothers of the club, all of them except for me and Mia, rubbed the backs of their babies, strapped to their chests in knots of natural fabrics and curled in their laps. The babies slept as peacefully as they always did, lulled into quiet by some spell or other. I watched the men watch the faces of the women as the movie played. Gifted performers, the witches. Lest we forget, they had all done some modeling, and their perfect skin pulled into frowns and furrows at the words of the on-screen mothers and the former doctors who cautioned against childhood vaccinations.

The screen went dark and the light brightened, and the group began to clap. I knew it was meant for Manny and his minor achievement in the tedious underwriting of such nonsense, but I still felt myself grow irritated, despite my having had no gluten since my treasured loaves of bread disappeared.

“We’re going to partner with the main doctor at Father M brands. All proceeds going to health education, to let mothers know,” he said, bowing slightly, to display his modesty.

After another hour of his proselytizing, and several more cups of tea, it was time to walk home with my husband. “Come by tomorrow to help us with preparations for the Harvest Day festival,” called Mia through the wind. I feared for a moment she might be upset with me, but then I didn’t care.

The wind cut against my cheeks and whipped the smooth, wavy rivers of my hair into knots and tangles. The nighttime cold I have never grown used to. Wishing I had borrowed a sheepskin from Mia, I clung to Guy, who wrapped his arm around my shoulder.

“You just have to imagine that you’re warm, Tanse. Manny says the mind is more powerful than the body.” His tone at least was warm, and I let go of any response. Manny would say that. I heard him say that more than once.

We reached the house in step and still embracing. The affection from him felt real, almost as I had always wanted. That Mia’s advice, or her magic, had made me a better wife still astounded me then. Was Guy’s affection real or magic? Was it from me or from Mia? If I continued as the women, the witches, of Bellinas did, our happiness would remain a fantasy. We would appear happy, but have separate realities. I could never be honest with him.

A better wife was not a better marriage, I was starting to understand. Smoke puffed away from the top of the chimney. As I knew the fire that always seemed to tend itself burned safely, I knew the tiles would be warm and the bed freshly made. Just as the daily weather was the same and perfect, everything was perfect within the house—except for me.

“Did you know how dangerous those vaccines are?” Guy said as we entered the cabin. “It’s so crazy what the government will allow. Manny was saying he knows a guy in the state legislature. He might drive up to Sacramento to screen the movie with him.”

“Do you believe all of that stuff?”

“There’s got to be something to it, if it’s in a movie. You act like you know everything. Why don’t you think for yourself, instead of following, like, what the mainstream doles out. Be a little more open for once.”

With no more palliative herbal teas to calm me, I took his advice and opened up to the anger I felt toward him.

“When we have a child, you wouldn’t want to protect them?”

“I thought we agreed that we don’t want any, Constance. And please stop with all the judgment.”

He was shaking his head, his face red. A little bit of spit came from his lips when he spoke, and I could tell he’d had too much to drink. Drunkenness was not disruptive to the male constitution, according to the tenets laid out by Manny, so-called Father M, the ascended master and de facto leader of the good town of Bellinas. The man whose friendship Guy so desperately wanted, and who had thought nothing of claiming the body of his new wife. I am sure that he did not think of it that way. I am sure that consent was assumed by the nakedness of my body. By the very nearness of my husband, permission was implied.

I suddenly wanted to hurt Guy as much as he had hurt me. As I had with Manny, I could summon the wind. I could imagine him falling down a flight of stairs and I knew that he would. None of those things would injure him more than telling him about the pregnancy. That realization hurt me. I felt the wind at my fingertips.

Admittedly, not the best way to deliver news of impending fatherhood, but I was angry. Furious. All the months, the years, ready to come out. Perhaps my stint with the witches was not such a waste. I was feeling more able to express myself, for whatever that is worth. I was about to tell him. My mouth opened and the words were at the back of my throat, but the front door blew open in a screech. A roar of the wind came down the hallway and invaded the house. My shift in disposition must have been considerable. Guy let his own anger go. “What is it?” he asked.

With every gust of wind, I felt the bruises shaped like Manny’s hands on my back. It was no longer mine to summon, but a force to quiet me. Was this Mia telling me to stop? I should have stopped, but if the price of magic was ignoring what happened the night at the hot springs, I couldn’t. Every breath of air was his breath on my neck. The wind watched it happen, and reminded me every night with its howls, with its own cool caresses. I remembered too much to live a perfect life.

“I must be tired,” I said, breathing slowly and doing what I could to push the winds and the energies of the house from my mind and body. One. Two. Three. Four. “Let’s go to bed.”

I listened to the wind scrape and cackle with the quilt and pillows over my head, as I did every night. I counted. One. Two. Three. Four. I pressed my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger until a half moon of blood appeared, as I had on nights when I couldn’t sleep as a child in my room, with Constance the Elder next door. I had imagined then that I would have a family of my own to save me from my orphan loneliness, sucking the salty, coppery blood from my finger. One. Two. Three. Four. Putting the wound to my lips again, I recalled the safety of a future adulthood from my childhood bedroom. How disappointing it had turned out to be, so far.