Penny’s Been Thinking, Gretchen’s Been Drinking

Spring pops in Salem. Our campaign scuttled, the Man of the Year voting period ends with little fanfare and the nuclear fallout does have a half-life. Penny says I can’t come over while her mom’s away. President Carter gets attacked by a swamp rabbit while fishing in Georgia and Howie slowly returns to his old self. We make up like brothers, a couple of hugs and soft punches. The money for the job Papa keeps promising for Howie never comes. And with the work of lobbying voters in the most important election in modern American history behind us, we devote our evenings and weekends to house renovations and trips to the movies. All we can do is wait.

Papa and I sit in the backyard under a new sun that is warm enough for T-shirts. I can almost imagine being in this yard forever, in this place I never wanted to be. Even the bickering and whining of my little brother and sister take on a warmth and comfort that I have never felt before. Family, for all its mayhem, is warm, and it holds me.

The sudden lack of drama on Chestnut Street is as unsettling as it is comforting. For months, each day has been an unexpected adventure. Now, in the quiet aftermath, things feel more orderly. I can’t help but feel the other shoe is about to drop.

Down the street, Glovey Butler approaches, her face determined. “I’d argue that this is more like what a centerfold should be,” she says, marching into our yard with a yellow-framed National Geographic. The cover flutters in the breeze, a deep blue photo of a submerged scuba diver reaching up to pat the underside of a dolphin.

Papa takes the magazine in one hand, offering cheese, crackers, and nuts and a seat under the tortured branches of the bare Seckel tree. Glovey, dressed in black, opens a black umbrella to shield her white hair and whiter skin. I sit quietly reading Doc Savage Magazine #3: Frenzy in a Frozen Hell!

“Hey, take a look at this, Lou,” Papa shifts. “Bird’s-eye view. You’re sitting right … about … here!”

I toss my comic on the chair between me and Glovey and lean over Papa’s shoulder to get a closer look. “Wicked! It’s our street.”

And it is: A full-bleed of Chestnut Street covering pages 578 and 579 of the April issue. A thin strip of white space at the bottom carries this caption:

Tea from China and pepper from Sumatra helped build houses in Salem in the early 1800s. The town ranked among the nation’s leading ports when it sent its sailing ships racing to the Far East for exotic goods. Chestnut Street, above, exhibits many of the handsome Federal-period homes built by sea captains and merchants.

Our house is right there at the center of the spread, six chimneys, my bedroom window, the patchwork slate of the roof, dark where shingles chipped off under my scrambling feet. The bay window of Frank’s living room is half hidden behind the trees, which are full, just beginning to turn. The photo was snapped in autumn, from a helicopter. I search the windows for a sign of my face, staring out to see what was making that sound overhead.

“They did Chestnut Street and Marblehead Harbor,” Papa says proudly, “the two most beautiful spots on the North Shore. They really got it right, those Geographic folks.”

“So they did,” Glovey agrees. “Apart from the grifters there at the end.”

Papa ruffles the matte pages forward to a slightly smaller photo of Laurie Cabot, flanked by Penny and Jody, the three of them surrounded by Laurie’s magic circle—thirteen or fourteen more witches, all in black. Aside from the three Cabots, I don’t recognize the others. They might have worked at Laurie’s magic shop downtown or been at the house on a past visit, but my attentions are always on Penny. Laurie has her hands on the shoulders of a young girl, but Laurie is barely smiling, and neither is the girl. Penny and Jody are also stiff-faced. Most of the other witches are smiling. There is one guy, the tallest, who stands beside Jody, his face nearly covered by his long frizzy hair, who looks especially angry, ready to jump off the page and go all warlock on the unsuspecting reader.

What are the chances that I’d live with a male centerfold, in a house that appears in a centerfold of a national magazine, in which the girl-witch love of my life shows up in the pictorial as well?

I’m thinking: low.

“They say witches find a more tolerant reception here in Salem than they did in 1692,” Papa reads. “Louis, you’re certainly a case in point,” he adds, chuckling.

“Perhaps in some quarters.” Glovey sighs.

“But look at this. Did you see the blue lightning bolt across the bottom of the page?” Papa holds the spread up and it’s true: there is an odd, cobalt fracture that runs left to right, at the witches’ knee level, from one side of the photo to the other.

“Is that radiation from Three Mile Island?” I ask.

“No!” Papa seems taken aback by the question. Then he pats my back reassuringly. “But it’s unexplained.”

“Hocus pocus,” Glovey waves a wrinkled claw.

“Really, Glovey? When have you ever seen a photograph in the Geographic that was anything but flawless?”

“Read the sidebar,” she says. “The people at Eastman Kodak say it’s static electricity.”

“Glovey, I hate to take issue with you, but I’ve had thousands of rolls of film developed in my time and I can’t remember ever seeing anything like this, not just on a roll, but even on a single frame. And they say ‘the same phenomenon occurs on every single shot, across multiple rolls’ of the coven. I’ve been a skeptic all along, but this is pretty convincing.”

“Cove,” Glovey fixes on him. “I count on you to be a voice of reason in this otherwise unreasonable city. Please don’t fail me now.”

“They quote Laurie as saying the electricity present in the room forms the perimeter of their magic circle,” Papa says. “Hard to argue with the evidence.”

“I really can’t abide this.”

I surge with pride at my father’s defense of Penny and her mother. He may revere Glovey, but that won’t keep him from speaking his mind. And in his mind, as in mine, the magic is real.

*   *   *

We go inside when it gets cold, eat dinner, and I settle down to watch Fantasy Island—an episode about two kids who send their divorcing parents to the island hoping they’ll fall back in love. Howie plops down beside me a few minutes in.

“I’ll take Fantasy Island over Three Mile Island any day,” I muse.

“A-fucking-men.”

The phone rings. I don’t answer it—I never answer it—but Mama calls from downstairs a minute later and tells me it’s Penny on the line. I jump up and into the hall to talk to her.

“Hey!” I launch into a stupid spiel about seeing her photo in National Geographic. “So wicked.” But she doesn’t want to talk about it. She wants me to know that she’s been thinking. Thinking really hard. About me and our friendship. About what happened in her bed and the kissing and the whole superpower thing. About how she loves me so much, but not the way she thinks I think she does. And she meant what she said, back in the bathroom stall. “Remember when I said boyfriends and girlfriends never last?” she asks. I nod but can’t answer out loud. “I thought a lot about that. About how good a friend you are. And I decided we’re not going to kiss like that again. We can’t. OK?” I shake my head, still unable to make words come out. “OK? Everybody else could just disappear for all I care, as long as we can still be friends. OK?”

I have nothing to say, so I just let the call end awkwardly, my throat tightening with grief. Because it’s not OK. Maybe boyfriends and girlfriends don’t last, but the panic and loss eating my brain will never stop. The gash in my heart won’t heal. What is meant to be will never be. That’s not how stories are supposed to end.

“How do I get her back?” I whisper to Howie when I return, fighting the urge to cry.

“Women just want one thing, gringo. They want to be heard. Listen to what she’s saying. Be true to yourself, but make her feel heard.”

“What if I don’t like what I hear?”

“Then you just check in to Fantasy Island for a bit and hope for the best.” Howie puts an arm around me and we go back to watching the show. A few minutes pass and the phone rings again. I’m up and answering before the second ring can finish.

“Hi,” I say, heart hammering, hoping she’s had a change of heart.

“I need you to come ovah heah.” Gretchen. Ugh.

“Where?” I ask, shoulders sagging, eyes searching the ceiling for help.

“To the Fletchah’s.” Is she crying? “I’m babysitting. But I stepped on a nail. I’m bleedin’ wicked bad.”

“Call 911.”

“I can’t you butt fuckah! I’ll get in trouble. Get ovah heah. NOW!”

*   *   *

I walk down Chestnut to Botts Court, where the Fletchers live, taking my time as I go.

Gretchen opens the door standing on one foot. Blood has soaked the sole of her striped sock and is dribbling small puddles on the floorboards.

“That’s bad,” I say, letting her put her arm around my shoulder as I lead her to the living room couch. It smells like cloves in here.

“No shit, shuhlock,” she tries for edge but only gets to fear. I find a dishtowel in the kitchen and put it under her heel, then pull the sock gently from her foot.

“That’s so gross,” I say, staring at the violent wound, open wide enough that the gelatinous white meat deep within her arch is visible. “I think I’m going to barf.”

“Shut up! Get me a Band-Aid, yuh puss bucket.”

“You’re going to need more than a Band-Aid,” I reply, heading for the bathroom.

“Don’t wake up the kids!” she shushes me. “It took me two ow-ahs to get them to sleep.”

I come back with a roll of gauze, a near-empty bottle of Bactine, and some aluminum butterfly fasteners. Gretchen squeals when I douse the hole in her foot with what’s left of the Bactine and grabs my shoulder, digging in with her stubby excuses for fingernails. “That huhts like a mutha fuckah,” she moans softly.

I tell her about the electricity in all the photos of the witches while I wrap.

“Guess how much I caih?” Gretchen pulls away, finishing the bandage job herself.

“I’m just saying…”

“Whatevah. Do ya see the bottle of schnapps on the table theah? Bring it ovah.” I do as she instructs and watch her chug three or four swallows before she takes another breath. “Now fill it with watah up to heah and come back ovah to the couch.”

“Sure, your highness,” I bow mockingly.

When I come back she sits up and has me put a pillow under her foot. Then she pulls off her sweater, revealing a thin tank-top blouse that I can see her bra through. “I need ta make out,” she says. “Come ovah heah.” She leans forward enough that I can smell the mint bite of schnapps, see the white curve of her breasts, which are bigger than I remember. “Come on!” she urges, pulling me toward her by my shirt and opening her mouth wide. I didn’t brush after dinner and my tongue tastes like cottage cheese and noodles. But Gretchen doesn’t seem to mind. Her tongue swirls around mine, licking it clean and searching around in the farthest corners of my mouth, clearing the dull taste and leaving a bracing alcohol-and-mint sweetness that makes me think of TV ads for fresh, clean feelings.

It’s everything I want, just with the wrong person.

I press into her, trying to imagine Penny beneath me, but it’s Gretchen, in all her fury. I reach beneath her blouse and she arches instead of contracting. I push her bra cup up and over, taking her full and naked breast in my hand, growing braver, squeezing in rhythm with her sharp, husky breath beside my ear. Gretchen jams her hips against mine and I feel a power surging that is new. Fearlessly, I push my hand down into Gretchen’s pants. Instead of buckling up and bolting out, as I worry she might, Gretchen sucks in her silky belly and lets my hand pass, over the front of her panties to the soft drop and into a mysterious slipperiness.

We don’t have enough time to button or compose because the front door opens right into the living room. The Fletchers are home early, staring straight at us. At Gretchen’s bloody foot dangling. At my hand, emerging from her pants, unsure where to go.

I leave Gretchen to be berated by her employers in glaringly unheroic fashion, but even as I turn to watch the front door slam behind me I see the expression on her face, and it is one of affection, not anger.

As much as I am in Penny’s thrall, Gretchen has unexpectedly carved herself a space in my heart, and just in the nick of time. She’s the unforeseen radioactive catalyst in my own Marvel Tale, Issue #13, April 1979. Her mom may not be a witch and she may smell like cigarettes and talk like the late-night drunks at Dunkin’ Donuts, but she believes.

I know what she feels like, and I want to feel it again.