A Keeper's Truth (7 page)

Great.
Another drunk.

It takes
all my strength to help the woman up, but when I try to peel her hat from the
floor, I can’t. Her entire overweight frame is located on the rim of her witch
hat. I surrender the hat while the bartender tosses me a stack of napkins to
soak up the sticky liquid running down the left side of my body.

“Thank
you,” I say to bar boy.

I clean
myself, pacing backwards. The woman reeks of alcohol in massive doses. She
stumbles forward, taking in my outfit, matching my steps until my back is
pressed against the bar with no escape.

“Seriously,”
I say, “this is too much.”

“
O’boy
. Sorry, luv, sorry. I’ve had some too many, I’m
thinkin
’,” she says, loud and slurred. She dabs at my arm,
managing only to spill the last of her drink before dropping her glass. Shards
tumble across my feet. “
O’boy
. I’ll make it up. I’ll
fix it, I will. I’ll tell your future—everyone loves a fortune!”

The people
surrounding us sacrifice their conversations to stare.

“No.
Thanks, but no thanks,” I mumble, hoping she’ll take my lead and lower her
voice. I’m embarrassed and slightly nauseated. I’ve no energy for this.

Karen
bounces on her toes, excited at the prospect of hearing my future. “Do it!”

“I’m wet,
tired, and I don’t want to know my future.” Especially from some obnoxious
half-baked witch.

“Oh, come
on, how bad can it be?”

I look at
Karen, deadpan. “I’m going home.”

I try to
push past the witch but she grabs my arm, digs her nails into me, and screams,
“Your life is filled with death! Lots and lots of death!”

Everything
within my vision freezes. My mind flashes images of my mother’s suicide,
Meyer’s funeral, haunting nightmares. This can’t be happening. I search for the
door and spot Bryce, a drink in each hand. Beside him a lady is yanking
stockings gathered around her ankles. His eyes lock with mine, frantic.

“Love
finds—death chases! Past is future. Grave danger follows. A son, a
Keeper’s heir!”

The crowd
releases a collective gasp, and stunned, I stare at the witch still clutching
my arm. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot. Glass shatters on the floor from
Bryce’s direction. Tears threaten to spill, my neck and face hot.

I need to
get out. Now.

I pull
free and run for the exit, a clear line to the front door. Hands try to stop me
but I shake loose, tears blurring my vision, needing only to escape.

It was
that
bad.

Deep core
samples prove our planet has experienced several cataclysms of epic proportion.
One of these close encounters with “the end” wiped the dinosaur from the map.
We know this now. We have proof. But had you told the story of dinosaurs prior
to 1907 you’d have been dubbed imaginative or mad.

Forgotten
History Magazine
: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

S
ince
Meyer’s death, Sunday has become family day, a day to bring what’s left of our
pint-sized brood together. Death will do that, make the living closer. Abby and
I putter around the house in our pajamas all morning. Just after lunch, Grams
saunters in pushing Gramps’s wheelchair, sliding him into his spot by the back
window where he claims he can see everything, from the raindrops gathering on
leaves to his lovely ladies bustling round the house. Like me, Gramps has a
special place in his heart for the woods around us. Grams and Gramps live in a
quaint bungalow the next town over. They settled there long before Meyer was
born, when Meyer’s father Marty was just a boy, his sister Sarah a beating
heart in the womb, and only planned a temporary stay. But this place has a way
of sinking its teeth into your bones, in a good way, a comfortable way, and the
woods took the Morgan’s as their own, embracing them like family.

Today
marks the last of our family days for a while. Tomorrow Grams and Gramps leave
for Florida.

“I don’t
know what I’ll do without you,” I say to Grams, looking away so she doesn’t see
the tears welling in my eyes.

“You’ll do
exactly what you’ve been doing,” she says, “exactly what you must. For you and
Abby.”

I know if
I asked her to stay, told her I couldn’t do it alone, they wouldn’t go to
Florida. Selfish as it is, the thought has crossed my mind, but I can’t bring
myself to say the words, to make them stay when I know its best they take care
of themselves. They were in their late sixties when Meyer moved to Toronto for
university. When most are facing retirement and slowing down, they were busy
raising a little man. My man.

“I’m not
the best mother. I panic when Abby is hurt and suffocate her when she wants
independence. Meyer always knew what to do. He always had the right answer.
What if I raise her wrong? What if I screw up and she ends up
like . . . like . . .?”

Like me
, I want
to say but don’t.

We’re
digging through my closet, looking for clothing with resurrection potential.
The people of Saint Ann’s Cathedral embraced me, designating me chief costume
designer of their Christmas performance. Apparently being an artist qualifies
me to make costumes. Abby begged me to be involved, to do the pageant with her,
and after such a commendation from the committee, as well as Karen’s praise,
how could I refuse? I didn’t mention I’d never touched a sewing machine.

“You
know,” Grams says, sitting on my bed, “I’ve never told you this, but you scared
the daylights out of me when Meyer first brought you around.”

“I can
believe it. And I had the bulk of my shit together by then.” I can only imagine
what Grams would have thought of me a few years before I met Meyer, before art
school and my hair grew back. “I actually thought it was Gramps who hated me.”

Grams
guffaws. “Ted was over the moon. His grandson had snagged a looker and it was
all he could do to keep his mouth shut in your presence. He teased that boy
something awful when you weren’t around, slapping Meyer on the back and
hoot’an
and
hollerin
’ like some
silly frat boy. All that fuss over a girl, over you.” She smiles at the memory.

“It was me
who worried you were all wrong for my grandson. It was my job to worry, and you
were this firecracker who had my baby boy in a trance. You were too beautiful
to stay loyal. You had no family to speak of and lived in a bar. Sure, you were
well spoken and polite, but under the tight jeans and belly shirts you were
this wounded bird determined to fly, and I was convinced Meyer would get hurt
wanting to fix you.”

I recall
the fight Meyer and I had the second time he dropped to one knee and I said no.
We’d only been dating a few months, and I thought he was nuts to want to marry
me. I was five years younger than him, in school, working nights, and didn’t
have a clue how to be a family. Hell, I didn’t even have an address. He had a
good job in Toronto and shared a townhouse with some buddies. Why on earth
would he want to marry me?

“Meyer
never wanted to fix me, or change me, or make me into something I wasn’t,
something I’m not. He didn’t want to—”

“Exactly,”
she says, shifting closer to where I’ve joined her on the bed. “Meyer had no
doubt you were the one, that you’d be a loving wife and good mother. He saw a
spark in you, different than the one I saw, and refused to listen to a single
point I made. That boy had faith in you from minute one.” She rests a hand on
mine. “Now you need to believe the same.”

Grams
holds up a pair of baggy jeans that read
hip to be
across the butt. “How
old is this stuff?” she says. “Christ, child, set foot in a mall once in a
while.”

I snatch
the jeans, laughing, grateful for the distraction. “I shop . . .
sometimes.”

That’s a
lie. I’d rather walk on fire than go to a mall. My mother always had nice
clothes when I was little, when we lived in Ottawa, in the attic apartment of a
three story brownstone she dubbed “the Ritz.” By the time I was six, I resented
the silk pantsuit with gold belt, the red dress with the plunging neckline, the
rhinestone stilettos. Friend’s gave her these things, of course, we didn’t have
the money to buy shit with logos, but I never understood why they couldn’t just
buy us something we really needed. Like heat.

Grams
laughs then shakes her head, sighing. She stands and pulls me into a hug.

“I know
you think you have to go it alone,” she says. “And there was a time I thought
the same, when I thought I’d lost Tom. I felt nothing but despair and had no
doubt I’d live out the remainder of my life alone.”

When Meyer
was nine, Gramps fell from a ninth-story balcony rescuing a woman from a
burning apartment building. His fire chief gave the family his condolences. The
doctors didn’t think Gramps would make it past sunrise.

“I know
better now. Tom survived—thank our lucky stars—but had he died in
that hospital, I’d have gone on. I’d have found love, or a companion to share
my life with. Because that’s what people do, that’s how we survive. We give
love and thrive when it’s returned. This is what life is all about, my love.”

I hold
Grams tight. She’s warm, soft, and smells like grapes.

“Grams, I
married an amazing man.”

She stands
back, holding me at arm’s length. “Yep, you did. And yes, he was a good boy, a
wonderful husband and father. Now what? Meyer is no longer here and you are.”

I fiddle
with my wedding ring.

“You are
young. You have needs, to be held and loved and touched.”

“Grams,
Katherine.”

“Well,
it’s natural to—”

“Seriously,
Grams—”

“Fine, but
answer one question. Have you had a date with BOB?”

“Grams!”
I’m mortified.

Grams
shrugs, waiting for an answer. I throw the jeans at her and we double over
laughing, tears streaming from our eyes.

The
doorbell rings, saving me from hell.

“Who could
it
be on this dreary afternoon?” says Grams,
following me down the stairs toward the front door. “Maybe it’s a gentleman
caller.” She dances behind me with a Cheshire grin.

I roll my
eyes. The woman is relentless.

The front
door opens to reveal a huge umbrella sheltering black jeans, a thick dark-gray
wool coat, and the finest scarf I’ve ever seen on a man. The scarf is all my
favorite shades of fall: burnt orange, red, gold, and deep mustard yellow
entwined in three-dimensional thick cotton. My fingers tingle, wanting to
touch.

“Bryce,” I
say, tearing my eyes from the scarf.

Grams
looks like she was expecting someone else. Thomas maybe?

Bryce’s
smile is somewhat strained. “I came to apologize,” he says.

“What did
you do that you need to apologize for?” Grams says, giving Bryce the evil eye.

I move
past Grams and open the door wider, welcoming Bryce inside. “Come in out of the
rain.” I say, only slightly embarrassed by my pit bull.

Grams lets
it go. For now.

“I don’t
want to intrude on your family—”

“Intrude
away,” I say, laughing. “You have good timing.”

Bryce
looks confused but steps in anyway, shaking his umbrella free of rain then
leaning it into the hall corner before shrugging off his heavy coat.

“Ma’am,”
he says, taking
Grams’s
hand. He nods then bows. “My
name is Bryce Waters.”

Grams
looks at me, not quite sure what to make of Bryce Waters. I shrug. Her guess is
as good as mine.

“This is
Katherine, my Grams-in-law.” I say, taking Bryce’s coat and hanging it on a
hook. “My daughter Abby is playing in her room and the old guy in the
kitchen . . .” I motion for Bryce to follow us down the hall,
and
Grams’s
feeble attempt at hiding her appreciation
for Bryce’s rear-end doesn’t go unnoticed. She clicks her tongue at me. I point
to the back window, “He’s Gramps.”

Gramps
waves, secures the Game Boy in his lap, and wheels away. He’s been trying to
top Abby’s Tetris score all afternoon. Meyer found the hand-held relic at a garage
sale last year and gave it to Abby for her fifth birthday, claiming she should
learn to respect the classics.

“You two
have a seat,” Grams says. “I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

Bryce
pulls a chair at the kitchen table, studying my face. His cashmere sweater
attempts to hide his physique without success, and my dream scarf sits casually
around his neck, pulling my gaze into its awe-inspiring colors. I sit across
from him as Grams putters around the kitchen, clanging plates and mugs.

“I’m sorry
to come unannounced and on a Sunday,” says Bryce. “I wanted to make sure you
were all right.” He eyes me with a serious expression. “And apologize for my
party guest.”

Grams
knows nothing about the Halloween party, but having heard Bryce isn’t guilty of
harming me directly, she saunters off, mumbling something about checking on
Abby, and I slide my hand under the table, hiding the Band-Aid. Somewhere
between Bryce’s living room and home I broke a heel and sliced a finger. It
wasn’t the only scar of the evening. Events of the Halloween party sway through
my internal vision, ending with the drunken lady and crying in my driveway.

“I’ve
survived worse,” I say, trying to make light of it.

I touch
the raised contours of the tiny scar on the peak of my left cheek. When I was
fifteen, my mother caught me sneaking out with cigarettes and tequila. She’d
crashed the week before, when depression’s darkness swallowed her whole, and
hadn’t left her room until she heard me in the liquor cabinet at two a.m. She
set the pack of cigarettes on fire and smashed the tequila on the kitchen
counter, the broken bottle slicing my face.

“You
have,” Bryce says, glancing at my wedding ring. “I am sorry
Angitia
upset you. She tries to keep herself contained, but I’m afraid alcohol got the
better of her.”

“
Angitia
was the—”

“Witch.”
He attempts a smile. “She hasn’t been the same since the witch hunt.”

I stifle a
chuckle. Then notice he’s not kidding.

“Weren’t
witch hunts in the sixteen-hundreds, in Salem?”

Bryce
shakes his head, deadpan. “Salem is known for their witch trials, not witch
hunts,” he says. “The hunting of witches, or those suspected of having magical
powers, goes back thousands of years. Ancient texts from Egypt and Babylonia
speak of sorcerers capable of influencing the mind and prophesying. The
Japanese fox witch, for example, could change shape and create powerful
illusions. Most were slaughtered across central and southern Europe in the
fourteen and fifteenth century. Hundreds of thousands of people, the majority
women, were imprisoned, tortured, and executed.”

A shiver
runs through me.

“Sadly,
witch hunts still take place. Saudi Arabia continues to use the death penalty
for sorcery, even executing a man in 2007. In 2008, more than fifty people
accused of practicing witchcraft were killed in New Guinea. Every year,
hundreds of people in the Central African Republic are convicted of sorcery.
Angitia
hasn’t been back to India since 2003, when her
sisters were lynched in a witch hunt that killed over seven-hundred and fifty
people.”

I had no
idea. “So the inebriated woman with the shrill voice is seriously a witch? In
real life?”