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GAIL
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Isabeau had been chattering for the last hour, but I was having a hard time paying attention. Instead, I stared out the train window, watching our city fall away and the colorful countryside emerge.
“Have you heard that there’s going to be an off-Broadway show about a battle between banshees and mermaids? It’s supposed to be some feminist commentary, but I bet they’ll just make it look like a wet T-shirt contest.”
I handed her a book, hoping she wouldn’t notice how distracted I was.
“Is it pronounced Wen-deee-go? Or Wen-dih-go?” She tucked both of her feet underneath her and flipped the pages without reading.
“It depends on the source,” I told her, not looking up from the book I was pretending to read. “Every tribe has its own variation.”
“All based in Algonquin family languages,” she read aloud. “Don’t you think it’s interesting how neighboring communities develop similar folklore traditions?”
Algonquin.
I had dragged Isabeau on this field trip for several professional and private reasons, and it was unfair not to give her my full attention. But that word stuck in my head, and now I was lost.
Algonquin. A beautiful word, when I thought it over. And I had been thinking about that particular word almost every day for the last month. It was the combination that made it so delicious. A nice mix of hard consonant edges and soft, round vowels, ending in that pleasing, sonorous nnnnn. I muttered it to myself again, dragging out that last syllable as long as possible.
“Gail? Are you alive?”
I snapped back to attention. Iz was eyeing me coolly, a knowing quirk in her eyebrow.
“Sorry. Did you ask me something?”
“Tell me, why are we doing this? It seems like two people who just survived an apocalyptic bee attack should be watching over their store.”
I sighed. “Is it weird that I kind of miss the bees?”
Her ebony face creased into a grimace. “Very. Those things could have hurt us if they wanted to.”
“But they didn’t want to,” I said. “They just wanted to live their bee lives and make honey.” I had, in fact, stopped lighting candles and incense when I opened the store, not wanting to diminish the rich honey scent that still lingered in the air.
“So, tell me why this conference is so important?”
“Professor Daanis is one of the preeminent Ojibwa scholars in the world. This talk about Wendigo folklore will educate us. When people come in looking for antlers for their Halloween costume, we can educate them about cultural appropriation and maybe teach them something real.”
“Don’t look at me. Stealing other cultures is white people shit.”
“I know, I know. That’s why I want to learn. But look at all the different lectures we can attend.” I handed her the brochure and she looked through the long list of esteemed speakers.
She was quiet a moment, tapping her long nails—aubergine-colored today—on her phone. “And I suppose the fact that your mother is one of the speakers at this conference has nothing to do with why you invited me along?”
“A university conference on occult history makes perfect sense for us as owners of an occult store.” I stared out the window again. “But we both know she’s nicer to me when you’re around.”
“I like your mom,” Isabeau said. “She has good vibes.”
“I know you do. I love that about you.” I reached across the little table separating us and squeezed her hand. “But you also didn’t grow up with her.”
Darina Sommers would find something to criticize about me the second I stepped off the train, and her criticism would not stop for the remainder of this week; that was one prediction I could make. She would point out that I was wasting my spiritual potential or serving the patriarchy through capitalism or some other nonsense. She’d compliment Isabeau, a woman who had the exact same job I had but who apparently made her life decisions from within her feminine genius. Or something like that. I was already exhausted.
I turned to watch the scenery moving quickly past the train window. The grays of Manhattan were changing to the saturated greens of Connecticut on our way to Rhode Island. This conference was one of my favorite annual excursions, and I was glad to have Isabeau with me this year. Soon we’d spot the vibrant red maples that I loved so much, and that sight alone would be worth the train fare. Just looking at them cheered me up. Every time I saw one, I took pictures and imagined living in a house painted crimson from top to bottom. I’d always wanted to bring a red maple leaf to a paint store and ask for an exact match. Better yet, maybe someday I’d collect thousands of leaves from the trees on my imagined property and glue them to the walls.
“I could live in Rhode Island,” I announced. “If I bought a house here, I’d paint every single room that exact shade of red.”
Isabeau stared at me like fish were growing out of my head. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Those trees,” I pointed out the window. “You know how much I love them. I’ve read that red maple leaf has healing properties. We should stock it at the shop.”
She stared at me for a long time, then crossed her arms. “You slept with him.”
Damn.
Isabeau could straight up read my mind. It was spooky.
“With who?” I tried to use an innocent voice.
“Nope.” She lifted her right index finger in the air, a teacher making a point to a very naughty student. “We aren’t playing that game. That’s why I’ve barely seen you all month, and you can’t concentrate, and you’re talking about crazy houses. You slept with that tall writer guy, didn’t you?”
“His name is Michael.”
We were at a stop, and passengers filed past our seats, oblivious to the war of wills happening in front of them.
“First of all, I don’t see what his height has to do with—”
“I cannot believe I didn’t figure this out,” she interrupted. Now she stared out the window, even though there was nothing much to look at except a dull station.
I knew better than to try to pressure her into talking. Finally, she relented and turned back to me.
“You may as well tell me.”
“What do you want to know?” Again, my voice was overly polite, and she narrowed her eyes. I was being cagey; she wanted to know everything. “Iz, let me just say this: he’s good. He’s good.”
Her eyes hardened. “In bed?”
“No, that’s not what I—well, yes. That too.” I tried to force myself not to blush, but I could tell that it wasn’t working. “What I meant was, he’s a good man. A good person.”
I saw her face soften, just a little bit, but she kept her stern expression. “Tell me.”
“Okay, you know how I hate the smell of roses? Jonathan bought me roses all the time. At first, I thought he was a really chivalrous guy—he likes to act like a Hallmark hero who shows up to a date with a bouquet. And it’s cute, and women are supposed to love getting flowers and all that shit. But after the sixth or seventh time I told him they make me sick to my stomach, I realized he was the opposite of chivalrous. He was just a guy with more dick in his personality than his pants.”
“The writer is a good guy because Jonathan brought you the wrong flowers?”
“Don’t be obtuse. And his name is Michael. I know you know that. You think he’s like every other guy I’ve dated because he’s tall. I’m telling you how he’s different. A couple of nights ago, we were out for dinner, and I ordered a bowl of minestrone soup, and he said, ‘Hang on, I think this place puts mushrooms in the minestrone soup.’ I had mentioned that I don’t like mushrooms once, just in passing, a few weeks ago, and he remembered. He lets me sleep in his T-shirts because they’re softer than mine. He keeps the wine that I like in his fridge, even though he doesn’t care for it. He asks me what I think of the books I’m reading and actually listens when I answer.”
“And he’s good in bed,” she said. “I can tell by the way you won’t share details. If he wasn’t, I’d be hearing all about it.”
I took a deep, slow breath and worked hard to steady my voice. “Yeah. That’s pretty good.”
“Oh, lordy.” She groaned. “You are in trouble.”
“That’s what I’m saying—for once, I don’t think I am.”
“A few days away in Rhode Island seems like the perfect new boyfriend kind of getaway. So where is this Superman right now?”
“He thinks Superman is overrated. There’s nothing interesting about a hero with superpowers. He’s a big Spider-Man fan because the notion of a regular guy taking care of his neighborhood is the truest form of heroism.” Her face hardened again, but I put up a hand before she could level me with one of her infamous zingers. “I know, I know. Not the point. He has a work thing.”
“A work thing?”
“Yes, a work thing. Just like us.”
“What, he can’t sharpen his pencils in Rhode Island? There’s not a thesaurus in the entire state?”
Now I was starting to get pissed off too. “He has an event. He speaks at things, appears on shows, does publicity. He’s a very successful writer.”
We sat in silence for the next half hour, and I itched in the misery of it. Iz and I rarely argued, but when we did, I felt like I was missing a lung. Finally, we heard the announcement that our stop was coming up, and we started gathering our things.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she said quietly. “I know it’s not about me, but try to put yourself in my place. Imagine watching your best friend’s heart get broken over and over again. I feel so helpless.”
“Maybe this one won’t hurt,” I said. “For once, I’m in it just for a good time. Pretty soon he’ll finish his research, and we’ll go our separate ways.”
“My parents eloped after a month,” she said. “My mom told me she thought they were just having a good time. They’ve been married thirty-five years.”
“So I should marry him? That sounds like an extreme reaction to Jonathan cheating on me, but I trust your advice...”
She ignored me and continued her story.
“They both went to a Wham! concert with other dates. My dad had these glow sticks, and he broke them open and spread them all over his white shirt. My mom thought that was totally bitchen, so she asked for one and did the same. They got to talking, and they had the same favorite song. It was their wedding song.”
“Iz, that is legit my dream love story. Imagine knowing he’s the right one based on a song.”
“Imagine marrying someone after knowing them a month,” she said.
“Even weirder—imagine it lasting this long.”
“How did your parents meet?”
“I have no idea. Uncle Albert was the only father figure I’ve ever had, and we’re not even technically blood related. Mother has never once talked about my birth father.” I lowered my voice to a dramatic whisper. “I suspect I’m a virgin birth.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you dare try to copy my parents. They were stupid kids who got very lucky. You have a life.”
I reached both of my hands across the little table. Iz looked at them for a brief moment and then put her palms on mine. “I do have a life,” I said. “A really good one. And I’m just enjoying this guy while I can. If it turns into something, great. If not, I’ll still be glad for my time with him. Really glad. Last night we were,” I glanced around at the other passengers and whispered, “you know. And it’s been good from the start, but last night it was so intense, I think I actually blacked out for a few seconds.”
Her eyebrows went up a fraction. “Well, you know I’m going to need more details. But I see your mom standing there on the platform, so I guess I’ll have to wait until we’re alone in the hotel room?”
I looked out the window and saw my mother standing there, her salt-and-pepper hair spilling down to her waist, her skirts so voluminous that they rustled every time a passenger walked by. Despite the flowing madness of her crazy clothes, she held her head as erect as a ballet dancer, and her steely black eyes had already locked on me. I smiled and waved, but she only nodded in return. I wished I had the kind of mom I could talk to about my new boyfriend. Not that he was a boyfriend. I wished she was the type of mom who would ask to see pictures of him and agree that he was very handsome. She’d never been all that interested in my love life, and the few that she’d met, she’d nearly reduced to tears. Fortunately, I had Iz, who would gossip with me for hours.
“I promise I’ll give you all the details you want. I have big details. Huge.” I held my hands out, palms facing each other, and waggled my eyebrows lasciviously. That finally got her to laugh. “But first, we get to go learn about ancient cannibals.”
“Wait—what? Wendigos are cannibals?”
“I wasn’t talking about Wendigos,” I said, darting a glance at my mother. “But yes. We’ll learn about them too.”
I took a deep breath and ran my hand over my hair, trying to smooth it to a decent style before her critical gaze, and I forced a smile so phony I could practically taste blood on my lips.