Read Online Witches' Bane by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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I stood on the sidewalk in front of Lillie’s. It was nearly eight, and getting dark.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, babe,” I said. “Want me to give you a lift home?”
“Sure,” Ruby said. We walked to my car and Ruby folded her lanky frame into the passenger seat. My Datsun is seven years and 117,000 miles old, but it’s still reliable and cheap to maintain, especially since McQuaid taught me how to change the oil and rotate the tires.
Ruby turned to me as I pulled away from the curb. “So what do you think about Andrew?”
“He’s got a beautiful nose. Where’s he from?”
There was a silence. “Up north somewhere. Tulsa, I think.”
“By way of New Orleans?”
“What?”
“The way he says his r’s.” I turned the corner onto Pecos. “Has he been married before? Does he have any kids?”
“I don’t think so.” Ruby turned to me. “What’s the matter, China? Don’t you like him?”
“Did I say I didn’t like him? I asked if he was married.”
“It’s the way you’re asking questions. I’m not a hostile witness.”
I sighed. “Don’t be defensive, Ruby. Andrew Drake is a charming, elegant man who looks good enough to eat. I’m just wondering how much you know about him, that’s all.”
“Enough.” Ruby leaned forward. “China, what’s that fire?”
I glanced in the direction she was pointing. “A bonfire, I guess. Somebody violating the open burning ordinance.” I looked again. “Isn’t that Judith Cohen’s house?”
“It is.” Ruby’s voice cracked. “And it’s not a bonfire, either. Stop, China! It’s a cross.”
I jammed on the brakes and slid the Datsun into the curb, narrowly missing Judith’s mailbox. Ruby and I piled out and ran across the yard to the flaming cross, which was billowing thick, sooty smoke. Judith was standing on the front porch, paralyzed, disbelieving. I grabbed the garden hose, reached for the spigot, and turned on the water.
The four-foot burlap-wrapped cross burned as if it were soaked with diesel fuel, and it had a head start. The flames had ignited the dry grass and a nearby bush. It took several minutes with the hose full blast before all the sparks were out. Neighbors came running from both sides and across the street, but there wasn’t anything for them to do, so they retreated to their yards where they stared in an embarrassed silence until the fire was out. By that time, Ruby’s sandals were a mess and I’d managed to hook my heel in the hem of my skirt. That’ll teach me to wear a dress.
Judith stood watching impassively, her face shadowed. “Thanks,” she said when the last spark was extinguished.
I coiled the hose. “Who do you suppose did it?”
“Kids,” Ruby said. “Looking for kicks.” She glanced at Judith. “It could have been anybody’s yard.”
“But it was mine.” Judith’s voice was as dead as her face, and her mouth barely moved. “My name’s on the mailbox. Cohen.”
“But people around here don’t give that a thought,” Ruby said. “They might have opinions, but I don’t think they’d—”
Judith cut her off. “They’re boycotting your shop, aren’t they?” She went inside.
Fighting the fire had kept me too busy to think about what it all meant. Now that the excitement was over, I was shaken with anger and fear, far out of proportion to the burning of a couple of four-foot sticks of wood. But when sticks of wood are nailed into a cross, they become symbolic, and symbols hook into feelings. Burning a cross is a terrorist act, pure and simple, born out of suspicion or hatred or a sense of racial supremacy. It implicates us all, no matter whose yard it happens in.
The neighbor on the right, a burly middle-aged man in baggy shorts, was sweeping his walk with a great show of attention to detail. I went over.
“Did you see who did this?” I asked.
The man swept some invisible dirt into a crack. “Nope.”
“How about a car?”
He stepped on a wooly caterpillar and
“Looks like it’s just you and me, babe,” I said. “Want me to give you a lift home?”
“Sure,” Ruby said. We walked to my car and Ruby folded her lanky frame into the passenger seat. My Datsun is seven years and 117,000 miles old, but it’s still reliable and cheap to maintain, especially since McQuaid taught me how to change the oil and rotate the tires.
Ruby turned to me as I pulled away from the curb. “So what do you think about Andrew?”
“He’s got a beautiful nose. Where’s he from?”
There was a silence. “Up north somewhere. Tulsa, I think.”
“By way of New Orleans?”
“What?”
“The way he says his r’s.” I turned the corner onto Pecos. “Has he been married before? Does he have any kids?”
“I don’t think so.” Ruby turned to me. “What’s the matter, China? Don’t you like him?”
“Did I say I didn’t like him? I asked if he was married.”
“It’s the way you’re asking questions. I’m not a hostile witness.”
I sighed. “Don’t be defensive, Ruby. Andrew Drake is a charming, elegant man who looks good enough to eat. I’m just wondering how much you know about him, that’s all.”
“Enough.” Ruby leaned forward. “China, what’s that fire?”
I glanced in the direction she was pointing. “A bonfire, I guess. Somebody violating the open burning ordinance.” I looked again. “Isn’t that Judith Cohen’s house?”
“It is.” Ruby’s voice cracked. “And it’s not a bonfire, either. Stop, China! It’s a cross.”
I jammed on the brakes and slid the Datsun into the curb, narrowly missing Judith’s mailbox. Ruby and I piled out and ran across the yard to the flaming cross, which was billowing thick, sooty smoke. Judith was standing on the front porch, paralyzed, disbelieving. I grabbed the garden hose, reached for the spigot, and turned on the water.
The four-foot burlap-wrapped cross burned as if it were soaked with diesel fuel, and it had a head start. The flames had ignited the dry grass and a nearby bush. It took several minutes with the hose full blast before all the sparks were out. Neighbors came running from both sides and across the street, but there wasn’t anything for them to do, so they retreated to their yards where they stared in an embarrassed silence until the fire was out. By that time, Ruby’s sandals were a mess and I’d managed to hook my heel in the hem of my skirt. That’ll teach me to wear a dress.
Judith stood watching impassively, her face shadowed. “Thanks,” she said when the last spark was extinguished.
I coiled the hose. “Who do you suppose did it?”
“Kids,” Ruby said. “Looking for kicks.” She glanced at Judith. “It could have been anybody’s yard.”
“But it was mine.” Judith’s voice was as dead as her face, and her mouth barely moved. “My name’s on the mailbox. Cohen.”
“But people around here don’t give that a thought,” Ruby said. “They might have opinions, but I don’t think they’d—”
Judith cut her off. “They’re boycotting your shop, aren’t they?” She went inside.
Fighting the fire had kept me too busy to think about what it all meant. Now that the excitement was over, I was shaken with anger and fear, far out of proportion to the burning of a couple of four-foot sticks of wood. But when sticks of wood are nailed into a cross, they become symbolic, and symbols hook into feelings. Burning a cross is a terrorist act, pure and simple, born out of suspicion or hatred or a sense of racial supremacy. It implicates us all, no matter whose yard it happens in.
The neighbor on the right, a burly middle-aged man in baggy shorts, was sweeping his walk with a great show of attention to detail. I went over.
“Did you see who did this?” I asked.
The man swept some invisible dirt into a crack. “Nope.”
“How about a car?”
He stepped on a wooly caterpillar and
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