Husband Rehab (6 page)

Dangerous
.
 

She shudders. Her kindred power with the objects of everyday life is something she would never risk losing. The fear she sees in Christine’s eyes makes her realize that the world outside Merrell County could come calling. Josie has to be prepared to justify what she’s doing, when the old witches hear about this, especially High Priestess Lady Dooley.
 

Christine puts her arm around Josie’s shoulders and leads her into the drawing room. “So, tell me, what do you have planned for them?”
 

Josie pushes her fear of Stella Spivey and dark witches from her mind. Lennox is here. He refused to go home with this wife. That’s all she needs. She’ll fight for him, to her last breath. Husband Rehab’s success means Lennox and Josie’s success. At least, that’s what she tells herself to make it all feel right.

* * *

The next morning, Josie sits with Mr. Arney Jenkins over plates of scrambled eggs. Alice has made fresh orange juice and filled two glasses. Josie and Mr. Jenkins sit in the old servants’ kitchen where Lady Birchall’s staff used to make food for a house of twenty. It was converted into a simple place to eat decades ago. Josie used to spend her summer lunches here, playing on the cold white tiles, while her grandmother made fried chicken.
 

The room is dominated by a beat-up, hickory table the help consistently carve initials into. All around the table are sinks, cabinets, pantries, hanging pots and pans—everything you’d expect in a kitchen, instead of a dining room.

Today, she and Mr. Jenkins stare across the large wood table dominating the room. An entire wall of windows allows plenty of morning light to fill the space. He has taken one end, as if he’s the head of the table. Josie sits at the other.

“So, my wife called this morning,” he says, filling his copious mouth with a spoon full of eggs. “She apologized about the Ferrari. But she said I have a problem. She said you’ll let me know what it is …”

Josie sips her juice. Christine instructed her last night how individual therapy should go. The men should be told their wives’ grievances, but Josie shouldn’t do it in an accusing manner. She should simply tell them. This delicate approach is to encourage them to talk. The idea is for them to understand the problem. That way, true emotional and behavioral change can occur.
 
Josie is then to explain their prescribed treatment. Not punishment, no. Treatment
.
If this soft approach doesn’t work, Christine wants to implement something harsher. The fact is, some men will have to be more than encouraged to do what’s best, even if they don’t want to.
 

“Free will be damned,” Christine says, “when it comes to happiness.”
 

Free will …

Josie has heard that phrase a thousand times from her grandmother. Josie never understood the reasons why she harped on the intricacies of human agency, as she called it. Yet, Josie’s grandmother always listened respectfully whenever Christine counter argued that craft should enhance a human being’s ultimate happiness, not freedom. Josie first heard the word ‘act,’ in that context as a little girl, and thought they were talking about TV stars. No, what Josie is doing with these men, and what Christine does every day with her expensive prescriptions filled at the drugstore, alters behavior. As long as it helps someone become more of a person, then great. Still, Josie can’t shake the feeling she’s entering new territory. She wants her brewing to affect someone at a fundamental level … without their consent. This sounds less like her grandmother’s way of doing things, and more like Christine’s.

“You need to remember the things that are important to your wife, Mr. Jenkins.”

“What things?” A bit of egg falls off his spoon. He frowns at it for doing so. “I have an excellent memory.”

“I’m sure you do. But when it comes to the little things, you need to give more thought—”

“Are you kidding? I don’t have time for little things. Do you realize how much money I’m responsible for?”

“I don’t, sorry.”

He swallows another bite, smiling at her as if she can’t understand these things. “My wife wants me to remember day-to-day stuff, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“I have heard her say that before.”

Josie sighs in relief, thinking this might not be difficult at all. “Great. Here’s how this works. You have your laptop, and you’ll probably be making important calls. Work a lot on the weekends?” He nods. “I thought so. That’s fine. But you’re going to have a few simple tasks. Just three or four the entire weekend. Think of it as practice.”

“What kind of tasks?”

Josie explains that at two thirty this afternoon, the old horse barn needs to be inspected. All she wants him to do is walk through it and make sure no critters are setting up shop inside (at least that’s what the grounds keeper thinks is important). Simple. Mr. Jenkins will also have to clean up Alice’s dishes after lunch and dinner. Moreover, Mr. Jenkins will do all the dishes Sunday, plus the trash, and the linens. Just a few things. Josie doesn’t want to make it so hard on him he’ll feel taxed. She even wants him to forget. She has to test her spell of course. It’s a simple one that works on the notion of someone asking him a favor. If he agrees and doesn’t do it on time…

“Just to show you how this’ll work,” she says, “let’s run a test.”

“Test?”
 

He finishes his last bite. He leaves his nice-sized porcelain plate empty, except for a few crumbs coated in vegetable oil.
 

“I’m going to ask you to wash that dish after I leave, and you’re going to agree to it.”

“Okay.”

“But you’re not going to do it.”

He grins. “Sure thing.”

“Mr. Jenkins, will you please wash that dish when I leave?”

“Yes, ma’am, I certainly will.”

“Thank you.”

Josie strolls out the doorless exit into a pantry that leads into the kitchen gardens.

Mr. Jenkins remains where he is, as if this is all a big joke. She steps aside so that he can’t see her anymore. Shelves full of baked beans, canned vegetables, potatoes, etc., line the wall. She stands in the corner, waiting. It should only take a few seconds. She placed the potion in his eggs before he came down. All that needs to happen now is for him to …

She hears him stand, most likely leaving his plate on the table. The
tap tap tap
of his feet walking away …

“Hey, wash me!”
 

Josie peeks and sees a round, angry mouth in the center of the plate.

Mr. Jenkins ogles the plate.
 

“Wash me now, buddy. Hurry up. Wash me. Wash me.”

He stares at it uncomprehendingly. A second later, he hurries to it as if washing it is the most important thing in the world.
 

Mr. Jenkins rushes the talking dish to the sink. He scrubs for two minutes. He even checks to make sure the magical mouth is gone.

“Now what?” he manages to say to Josie.

“That’s it,” she says, “except for those other things I need help with.”

“Right,” he replies, clearly shaken.

Josie hopes he forgets, at least once or twice before going home.

He’ll have spiteful objects watching over him for the next three months: plenty of time to right the wrongs he doesn’t even know exist. Still, as she watches him go, Josie wonders if what she is doing is wrong. A talking plate isn’t that different from an alarm clock, or a phone call from a friend. It’s a reminder. Sure, he can’t stop it. That’s why it will work. It’s the best sort of reminder. It’s reliable. Besides, some cases are more pressing than others.

* * *

Josie corners Mr. Ottis Ray Creeley in the winter garden. He’s standing beneath the multifaceted ceiling, each panel of glass the size of a dinner tray. They form a canopy of transparent squares that diffuse the light into a thatch-work pattern. Even better, the ceiling’s copper covered, cast-iron struts have turned verdigris green.

This chamber, of all the rooms in the mansion, is Lady Birchall’s favorite because of the warmth it provides year round. She often spends her mornings in here, when the light shines through, as it does now. Mr. Creeley is standing near the dry fountain in the very place Lady Birchall likes to sit, a shaft of light warming his face. A marble boy riding a dolphin should be squirting water from his mouth. The rest of the conservatory supports a few plants here and there, even four spider orchids that Lardy Birchall personally cares for. It once teamed with tropic vegetation. But, like the rest of the house, it has seen better days.

“Well I’ll be,” Mr. Creeley says when he sees Josie. “I’d heard rumors about this place, but I can’t believe how true they are.”

“Yeah, Birchall Mansion’s quite a sight.”

“Mostly shut up?”

“All but a few rooms on the first floor and the second.”

“Pity.”
 

He has changed into blue denim overalls. They’re clean, which isn’t a surprise, and even pressed. Mr. Creeley is a board member in the local Baptist church, an active leader of the Rotary Club, and one of those country people who like to look both rustic and nice. The pink collared shirt he’s wearing appears to be a Ralph Lauren Polo. He’s clean shaven. His wire-rimmed glasses somehow sparkle in the soft light.

“Mr. Creeley,” Josie says, “you’re a drag, apparently.”

She stands under his gaze, waiting for his smile to deteriorate. Any sign of his sour mood, and she’ll set into him right away for having no sense of humor. If he runs, the grounds keeper is down the main hall, which leads from the vestibule through the double doors to the center of the house and the winter garden. He’s repairing some jacaranda wood paneling that’s pried loose over the years. She’ll have to shout, but he’ll hear.

“Am I now?” he asks.

“You are.”

“Says my wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m here so that you can fix that?”

She tenses. “You are, sir.”

“Well I’ll be goddamned if that’s not the sorriest thing I’ve heard all year. Excuse me.”

He walks past her at such a brisk pace she fears he might clip his knee on the stone railing that encircles the garden.

“Mr. Creeley,” she says, before he can leave. “Please listen, so I don’t have to chase you. It’s simple. Stop with all the negativity, or whatever it is. Your wife says she can’t take it anymore.”

He rounds on her, and she sees an agitation in his eyes that Mrs. Creeley probably has seen a thousand times. “What’re you planning to do to me? Go ahead and tell me. It can’t be worse than what’s going on out there. It’s not like global warming will disappear, or the ozone come back. Just yesterday I saw two men walking a dog together, and they were holding hands. Two men! Can you believe that. What’s the world coming to?”

She waits a half second, fearful her spell hasn’t worked. She’s already doused him with a bit of magic dust, the concoction dropped into his sweet tea about an hour ago. She was hoping he’d show a bit of sand, so she could see him in action. Something about Mr. Ottis Ray Creeley makes her guess he’s more bark than bite, but that he likes to bark. She wonders if she’s not changing his core personality. Maybe he’s a grump at heart, has always been one, and will always be one.
 

His eyes widen. He’s frozen. As if every part of him has turned to ice. She knows, though, he’s not really frozen. But he can’t move a muscle. The poor guy is stuck with one arm crooked, the other half way to rubbing his cheek. One leg is straight. The other is canted and holding him upright by his heel. His body will remain in that position for the next hour or so. He can breathe, and he has all his senses. His eyes bulge—something she wasn’t sure would happen. But now that it does, she wonders if his nostrils will flair as well. Nope. He’s as still as a statue. Stop fighting it, Mr. Creeley, and you won’t feel so bad.

Josie can’t help herself from laughing a little at his undignified pose. She approaches him.
 

She can smell aftershave, or something like Stetson cologne, on him. Or is that Brut?

“Any time you’re rude, or spiteful, or just plain mean, Mr. Creeley, you get to be in timeout. This is the sort of thing I was taught when I was four. Never better than the present, wouldn’t you say?”

He can’t nod, of course.

She leaves him, all alone, with his thoughts, hoping he understands he’s been ensorcelled for a reason. She could have made it a lot worse, a lot.

No, she thinks, we’ll start off slowly with Mr. Creeley. Give him a chance.
 

“Impressive,” Josie hears a voice say.

A figure appears in the shadows of the main hall. The sky lights in the roof are shut because most of the house is shuttered. She recognizes Lennox’s tall figure standing in a niche where a full sculpture in the round of Lord Birchall once stood.
 

“Hey, Lennox.”

He approaches. He’s wearing cut-off cargo pants, a tee-shirt with a big wave on the front, and flip flops. Her heart flutters in her chest when she thinks of him tearing off that shirt, maybe at the beach, and running for the water. He’s naturally tan and fit like a lifeguard. She’s seen enough of him in film and TV to know what kind of body is under those clothes …

She pries her eyes away before he notices.

“This place is massive,” he says.

The great hall is a long, wide corridor paneled in the dark wood from Brazil. Its arched ceiling is thirty feet high, with skylight wells providing illumination. The floor is polished granite from the local quarry, but they walk on a thick, burgundy rug that runs down the center. The grounds keeper waves, then steps out.

Lennox glances at the doorways to the right and left of the open portal into the garden. Both the doors are shut.
 

“Where do those lead?” he asks.

“Library and banquet hall.”

He peeks into the winter garden and see Mr. Creeley, still stuck in place. “So, it’s true what they say about you, Josie Bran. You’re a talented witch?”

“I am, you have a problem with that?”