A Hard Witching (12 page)

“People take advantage,” she’d called out to the porch when she heard him come in. She set a plate of ham and boiled potatoes she’d been keeping warm sharply down on the table and
poured a cup of coffee. “You believe any sob story going around. But you wait and see if any of them are there when you need a hand. You wait and see.”

She had peeked around the corner. Mr. Crosie was seated on the darkened stairs leading up from the porch, pulling off a boot in one long, tired motion. He had his back to her, and Edna thought for a moment that he could have been his own father, gone but five years that winter. He looked that old, that hunched, his thin shadow curled on the wall behind him. And for a moment, Edna felt inexplicably sad. She had been about to say,
You’re no spring chicken,
a phrase that always made Mr. Crosie cluck and flap his arms, high-stepping his lanky body in an absurd parody—an action that, against her will, always made her laugh. She’d been about to say it and then caught herself, aware all at once of the evidence of his age written on every bone, every hard curve of his body. Aware that he felt it, too. And for a moment, for the first time in years, she’d wanted to drop right down on her knees and hold him tightly, so tightly he would say, “Easy now, you’ll squeeze the life clean out of me,” just as he used to, and she would know—they’d both know—it was only a joke.

But then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling had gone. What good did all that silly mooning about do anyway? she had wondered. She spooned creamed corn on his plate, shook salt and pepper liberally over everything and sat down, waiting for him to join her. It seemed to take him a long time to remove his other boot. “You don’t give them enough credit,” he said at last, coming stiffly to the table.

“Aren’t you going to wash up?” she demanded as he pulled his chair out.

Mr. Crosie looked slowly down at his hands and forearms, grey and powdery with dust caught between the coarse hairs, looked at them as if he’d never seen them before. “Yes,” he
said, turning his big palms to the light. “Yes, I guess I forgot.”

“I guess you did,” Edna said as Mr. Crosie headed for the bathroom. “You see how tired you get, all this extra work?” And then, “Who?” she called, as if just remembering. “Don’t give who enough credit?”

“Anybody,” he’d said, and closed the door behind him.

It wasn’t so long ago, but it felt like years. Mr. Crosie’d say things like that to her now and then, odd things. Things Edna felt weren’t entirely justified. She was the first to give credit. Where credit was due.

And now there was Monson, stooped down over the box that he’d set on the ground. He untied the cord and opened the lid. Edna craned her neck to see, but Monson had his back to her, blocking her view. In a moment, he rose and turned toward the house. Edna stepped away from the window.

“Mrs. Crosie,” he called shortly.

Edna thought, How rude, can’t even come to the door. She opened the window a few inches.

“I’ll try that low spot west of the barn,” he said, “and over by the shelter belt.”

Well, she thought, what are you waiting for? But she said, “Fine, fine, go right ahead.”

“Can’t make any promises,” he said.

No, of course you can’t, she thought grimly, closing the window. Now, if Mr. Crosie were here, he’d be out there at Monson’s heels, toting that box for him, asking all kinds of silly questions, fascinated by what he would think was some sort of magical gift, a gift from God. Monson himself had said currents. There was no magic in that, just science pure and simple. Or so Monson thought. Edna knew better. It wasn’t God and it wasn’t science.
It wasn’t anything. She should know. She’d often thought she would have made a good scientist, if she’d had the opportunity. She had that kind of a mind. Not Mr. Crosie, though. Maybe, she thought, chuckling to herself, Mr. Crosie had sent Monson her way, just to rile her up. That would be like him, thinking he was having one over on her. Testing her. Seeing if she could be spooked with all this witching business, all this talk of ghosts. She chuckled again and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee.

Yes, indeed, she thought, watching Monson cross the yard and disappear behind the shelter belt, that’s a fine joke. That’s a good one.

When Monson had still not reappeared, by noon, Edna told herself, Enough is enough, and pulled on her rubber boots and the old jacket she used for doing chores. For all she knew, he could be having a nap back there. Or worse. Heaven only knew what he carried around in that box. And he did look like a drinker. Lord, Edna thought, that’s all I need. That was one thing about Mr. Crosie, he was never a drinker. And she was thankful for it every day of their married life. No, he was never a drinker and he never kept things from her. He’d always said, “Edna, I couldn’t keep a thing from you if I tried.” Edna always felt a certain satisfaction listening to other women complain about their husbands in that way. She would just sit back and listen and at the right moment say, “Mine, I can read him like an open book.” And she could, too. Problem was, Mr. Crosie was never really all that interesting; it was like reading the same page over and over.

This Monson, now, she thought, zipping her jacket and stepping outside, this Monson was another story. He was cut from
a different cloth. Oh, he was easy enough to read in one way, that was clear. He was an opportunist. But he was also the kind you needed to keep your eye on, liable to shift at any second. Edna bent to pet the orange cat that wound itself between her ankles. Yes, she decided, he was a slippery one. Straightening, she noticed the sky had lost the wide open blue of that morning, had greyed over in one long sheet. The bland look of a snow sky. The temperature, too, had dropped. She turned up her collar and headed for the shelter belt, the orange cat darting ahead of her, tail twitching.

“Mr. Monson,” Edna called, not too loudly, as she neared the trees. Her boots cracked across dead branches. “Mr. Monson?” she repeated, poking through to the other side. But he was nowhere to be seen. The yard stretched out into the edge of the nearby stubble field. Everything had that odd flatness that came with a snow sky, like a picture. All depth sucked out.

“Hello?” she called softly. But the air settled around her as still as the landscape. She puffed out a long cloud of breath and turned south along the shelter belt. Maybe Monson had gone around back already, by the barn.

Edna had almost reached the far end of the yard when she noticed the box. She nearly missed it, really, settled as it was there in the trees, the same dull brown as the dirt and leaves, the cord coiled loosely on top of the lid. She stepped toward it across a rotting stump. “Mr. Monson?” she said again. The orange cat minced along ahead of her, sniffing at the edge of the box, then bounding away into the trees as Edna moved closer, hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat. She stopped and looked slowly up and down the shelter belt. There was no sign of Monson anywhere. Maybe I should just take this along with me, Edna thought. He might be needing it wherever he’s got to. Save him the trip back. She looked down the narrow row of trees once more, then bent forward and pushed the cord
to one side. The initials
A.M.
had been carved roughly into the lid. It looked like a homemade job, she thought, probably did it himself. She poked the box with her boot. Really, it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick peek. It was on her property, after all, and if there was something inside she should know about, something that shouldn’t be there … Edna had not really formed any clear notion of what that something might be, only that she wouldn’t abide any ill doings on her property. And with that certainty in mind, she lifted the cord and opened the lid.

She stood a moment, breathing the cold afternoon air, the cord dangling loosely from her fingertips.

“Why,” she said finally, “it’s empty.”

She blinked her eyes a couple of times, just to make sure. Then she straightened, her lips pressed firmly together. Empty. Yes, of course it was. The man was no fool, wouldn’t leave anything lying around. The place she should have looked was his truck. And she’d had the perfect opportunity, too.

Then, just as she let the lid fall shut and was replacing the cord, Monson appeared through the trees. Before he could speak, she said, “I was just thinking I’d bring you your box.” She guessed that he thought he was pretty clever, leaving it sitting there in the open for her to find, to throw her off her guard.

She stared him straight in the face. He looked smaller in the trees, as if the very air was slowly shrinking him. He lifted his hands then, and Edna saw he held a long metal rod in each one. She sucked in her breath and stepped quickly back.

“Brazing rods,” he said, “get pretty cold on the hands. Might have to switch to willow.”

“Willow?” Edna puffed, eager to hide her momentary start at the appearance of the rods. Now that she saw them clearly, they weren’t threatening at all, rather fine and delicate, like kitchen utensils. Almost pretty, really.

“Willow’s more accurate anyway,” he said, opening the box and laying the rods gently inside, “in cold weather.”

Edna stepped forward, “You mean you haven’t found water yet?”

Monson closed the lid and tied it shut with the cord. “Might take a while. Like I said.” He leaned back on his haunches and looked up at her. Edna was reminded, briefly, of those garden gnomes Mr. Crosie had been fond of.

“Mr. Monson,” she said, “you can see for yourself this ground’s going to freeze solid any minute now.”

“What difference does that make?”

“As I’m sure you know,” she snapped, “once the ground freezes, you can’t drill.”

Monson scowled. “Who told you that?”

Edna could not remember. Had it been Eulan?

“Makes no difference,” Monson went on. “They use the same drills to dig oil and gas wells. Up north. In Alaska. Around here, ground freezes maybe six feet, that on a bad year. You can wait till January if you want.”

Edna felt the blood rush to her temples as Monson spoke. How dare he lie to her that way? Did he think she was stupid? He was a liar, that’s all. A liar and a drinker.

“You think,” she began, “you can come out here and have one over on me. Because I’m a widow. A farm widow.” Here she paused, as if the significance of this had only just sunk in. And in that second, everything changed. “If Mr. Crosie were here,” she said, “if Mr. Crosie were here …”

But she didn’t know how to finish, and for some reason that she did not understand, tears sprang hotly to her eyes. Mortified, she turned slightly away, looking upward at that grey sheet of sky to keep the tears, oh hateful, from edging down her face. Of all the ridiculous things, she thought, both angry and surprised at herself. And what would this Monson think now?

After a moment, she heard him say quietly, “I’m sorry. Alf Crosie was a good man.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said without turning around. “Did you say you knew my husband?”

“Why, sure,” he said, sounding surprised.

Of all the lowdown, disgusting things, Edna thought. To lie about this, to pretend he’d ever known Mr. Crosie.

“How?” she demanded, turning slowly to face him. “How did you know him? From where? Tell me.”

“I’ve known Alf for years,” he said, “since … I guess since that summer he took me and Eulan over to check out an old test well site, out at the Sand Hills there. That’s the first time I met him, anyways. Through Eulan.”

Edna blinked.

“Alf had a notion there might be more to it. That hole, I mean. Exactly what, he wouldn’t ever say. Geez, that was years ago.”

But Edna was no longer looking at him. She’d turned away again when she felt the tears come.

“I’m sorry,” Monson said quietly behind her. “I’ll just go hunt down some willow.” And he turned and headed back up the shelter belt, toward the house.

When he disappeared through the trees, Edna wiped her eyes and let out an enormous puff of breath. The man was a liar. A liar and a cheat. And a drinker. And Heddy Kretsch had been right after all. “That’s three,” she said, “and it won’t get the best of me.” She’d catch up to him, pay him his money and send him on his way. She imagined what Heddy’s reaction would be when she told the story. Oh, trouble comes in threes all right, Edna would say generously, but it’s the weak who let it stay. And then she would tell how she’d sent this shyster packing. Good riddance to bad rubbish, she’d say. And she wiped her eyes and congratulated herself again as she looked
toward the spot in the trees where Monson had disappeared. And then, thinking of that, thinking of Monson disappearing into the trees, Edna had a terrible thought. She’d left the house unlocked. And everything, her jewellery, her wallet, the new television, oh, it was all there. How could I have been so stupid, she thought as she started to run along the shelter belt, her body heaving against its own weight. How could I have been so stupid? Already she was huffing to catch her breath in the cold. She’d never make it back to the house in time. He’d take it all, he’d take everything, her wedding ring sitting where she always left it by the sink.

Edna ran faster, rubber boots clomping loosely over rocks and twigs. She thought for a moment that she might make it after all, but just as she was nearing the break in the trees, something small and fast darted between her legs. Edna shrieked and stumbled, one boot pulling free as she twisted an ankle across a fallen branch. She hit the ground hard, harder than she thought possible, her hip catching the sharp end of a stone. She lay dazed as the orange cat bounded back toward her, stopping to sniff wetly at her ear. She pushed it away and rolled over, struggling to pull into a sitting position, but she felt a tremendous weight on her chest. And a hard, shooting pain ran from her hip to her ankle. She looked down at her feet, noticing that one of her socks had pulled off with the rubber boot. How white and foolish her foot looked sticking up that way against the dark line of trees. She began to laugh, in short, painful gasps.

Good riddance, Edna thought again as she laid her head back, still puffing to catch her breath. But this time there was no satisfaction in the phrase, no sense of justice. “Good riddance,” she said out loud, testing the words on her tongue. They were flimsy, could have been any words at all. She stared up at the sky, now the dull, hard colour of iron, and noticed the
snow had started, just barely, the flakes so fine they could have been dust. So fine they could have passed over someone else unnoticed, someone who didn’t happen to be looking up. And much to her dismay, Edna felt the tears start again. She opened her eyes wide as the cold, still air settled around her. “What is it, Alf?” she whispered, snowflakes dissolving in the palms of her hands. “What is it?”