Magic in the Mix (5 page)

Molly was standing stock-still, her eyes fixed on the porch. “That's not Flo.” She took off her glasses, rubbed them with her dress, and put them back on.

“What?” Miri squinted through
her
glasses. Her eyesight was worse than Molly's, but she managed to make out a woman who was scrawny and knobby, like Flo. With a long, horsey face, like Flo's. But—

As Molly leaned forward for a better look, she was briefly exposed, resulting in an outraged holler. “I'm getting my shotgun right this minute!”

Miri yanked her sister back into the shadows. “What the heck are you doing?”

“Sorry. I was trying to see her better.”

Once more, Miri squinted with all her might at the stranger's furious, flushed face. It was like
searching for hidden pictures. Flo's long, bony jaw was there, but the pink cheeks were wrong. Something was wrong. “It's definitely her voice,” she whispered. She hadn't seen Molly's aunt Flo very many times, but she had heard her. She had heard her raging at Molly: “Do you have to break everything you touch, you worthless child?” “I'll teach you about clumsy, miss!” Miri remembered the glad sound of Flo's voice, the ring of her slap against Molly's cheek, her quivering excitement as she announced she was planning to send Molly to the county home for orphans.

“I'd just as soon shoot you as look at you!” bleated the figure on the porch.

It was Flo's voice. It's was Flo's rotten temper. But this woman was too young, practically a girl. “Could it be Sissy?” Miri murmured. Sissy, Flo's daughter, was about the age of the porch girl.

Molly shook her head. “Not unless she got a lot uglier in a few months. And Sissy's hair isn't long enough to put up like that.”

This was true. The young lady on the porch had a bun on the back of her head. “Not as pretty as Sissy,” mumbled Miri. “Not as ugly as Flo.”

“Weird.”

As Cookie purred and the two girls stared at the faraway figure in perplexity, an odd idea began to grow in Miri's mind. She turned and looked again from the house to the yard, searching for clues. The backyard was untidy and overgrown, as usual. The barn? Weathered gray, it was just as it had been last time she'd seen it. Nearby, an assortment of chickens made their normal ruckus. 1935. Check and check. From her vantage point in the woods, Miri could see the back of the house, its side, and a hunk of the front yard. She inspected what she could see of it. Lawn, check. Elm tree, check. Wait. Her eyes darted back to the elm tree. In her own time, it stood regally in the middle of the circular lawn, shading the grass and house with its leafy canopy. Now it was shorter and smaller, though still lovely. But that wasn't what had caught her eye. She stared, narrowing and widening her eyes to focus them. In the web of gray branches, she glimpsed something odd. Something square. Something that seemed to be a small structure. It looked like—a tree house? “Mols,” she said quietly. “Look at the elm. Is that a tree house?”

Molly looked. After a moment, she said wonderingly, “Why would Sissy put up a tree house?”

“It's not 1935,” Miri said.

Molly's eyes darted to her face and back to the tree. “Not 1935?”

“It's longer ago,” Miri said. “That's Flo, but—”

“Younger!” cried Molly. “That's it! She's young!” She whirled around. The horsey woman, her long chin in the air, was marching back inside. “Quick! Look at the dress! What year?”

Pink. Halfway between the ankle and the knee. “Well,” said Miri doubtfully, “I guess it's not hoop-skirt time.”

Molly lifted an eyebrow. “Good work, Sherlock. How old do you figure she is?”

Miri wasn't very good at that, either. “Twenty? Maybe twenty-five? I don't know.”

“Yeah, that's what I think, too.” Molly fell silent then, her eyes circling the white house, the red and gold trees, the nearly empty beds of vegetables, the faraway elm.

“What?” asked Miri, watching her.

Molly's gray eyes were shadowy as they turned back to Miri. “Why are we here?”

Miri shook her head. She didn't know.

“You always say that magic doesn't waste its … its strength, or whatever you want to call it, on fun. You say that if magic happens, it's for a reason.”

“That's what your grandma said,” Miri broke in.

“Yeah, I know,” said Molly. “‘Magic is just a way of setting things right.' So what year is it, and what are we supposed to do?”

“I don't know. Maybe—” She broke off as a door slammed.

All of them, Cookie included, tensed to run. Especially, Miri thought, if Flo reappeared with a shotgun in her hands.

But it wasn't Flo.

A very pretty teenage girl floated across the porch and down the stairs. Miri had always thought that was an authorish way of saying that someone was graceful, because, obviously, nobody floated except in water. But this girl seemed to. She seemed to hover ever so slightly above the surface of the stairs as she descended. How the heck does she do that? wondered Miri, scrutinizing the girl's feet. No, she wasn't floating; she was walking like a regular person. Miri could see the tips of her shoes touch the wood. But
she moved so lightly, her long, dark hair trailing behind her. Miri watched in admiring fascination as the girl skimmed over the stairs that Miri and Molly had so recently stumbled down and then made quickly for the very cluster of trees where they were hiding.

Molly and Miri drew deeper into the shadows, but they didn't run. As the girl came closer, Miri noticed her bright, thick-lashed eyes and her eager smile. She also noticed that the girl was wearing a nightgown. This was the one Flo had been yelling at in the kitchen. Miri relaxed. Any enemy of Flo's was a friend of theirs.

The unknown girl came to a halt and peered uncertainly into the veil of leaves. After a moment, she said softly, “If you're still there, would you please come out? I won't hurt you or tell anyone about you.”

Shifting Cookie into the crook of her arm, Miri nudged Molly. Should we? Molly didn't respond.

“Please?” coaxed the girl.

Without warning, Molly stumbled forward. Miri, startled, followed.

The girl smiled happily. “Well, hello!” she said.
There was a pause. “Are you-all hungry? I can get you some bread and butter. Or something else, anything you'd prefer. I don't know what Gypsies like,” she added.

Miri waited for Molly to answer, but she didn't. “We're not exactly Gypsies,” explained Miri hesitantly, hoping the girl wouldn't ask her who, then, they were.

Her face fell. “Really? Blast!” Then she looked worried again. “Excuse me. I'm sure you're very nice anyway. It's just that I've been searching for Gypsies for years.” Her eyes ran over Miri's and Molly's clothes. “You
sure
you're not Gypsies?”

There was something about her that made Miri want to make her happy. “Well,” she wavered, glancing down at her jeans and T-shirt. “Maybe we are, in a way.”

The girl looked positively thrilled. “That's what I thought! Now, you mustn't fret about me—I won't tell a soul! I'm not like her.” She tipped her head toward the porch. “I just need to learn how to tell fortunes.” She gave Miri and Molly a dazzling smile and leaned forward confidingly. “See, ever since I was little, I wanted to run off and join the
circus. You know, for adventure?” She nodded enthusiastically, and Miri, liking her, nodded back. “Don't you think I'd be a good fortune-teller? I look like one in this nightgown, for sure. But—I don't know how to do it. Tell fortunes, I mean,” she added hurriedly. “Which is a hitch. For a fortune-teller. So”—she smiled hopefully at Miri and Molly—“will you teach me?”

“How old are you?” blurted Molly in an odd, choked voice.

Miri glanced at her sister. It was sort of a rude question, in her opinion. Or maybe not. She couldn't tell if the girl was old enough to make it a rude question.

The girl didn't seem offended. “I'm seven
teen
!” she exclaimed. “I know it's awful old to be running off to the circus, but”—she spread her hands out helplessly—“it's a lifelong dream, and here you are, Gypsies. I don't meet so many Gypsies that I can let you slip through my fingers.” She smiled. “Do you tell the cards?” she asked, turning to Molly. “Or read palms?” She laughed, thrusting out her palm. “What does my future hold?”

Molly recoiled as if the girl had tried to hit
her. “Molly?” asked Miri, alarmed. “What's the matter?”

Molly didn't answer. She backed away fearfully.

The girl looked concerned. “You needn't worry,” she said. “I know I look crazy, but I'm not. Really.” Her chuckle came, warm and bubbling. “I'm only dressed like this to aggravate Flo—that's the one who was hollering at you. She's got a caller coming, and I'm ruining her good impression.” She smiled mischievously and fluffed her long gown. “But it's awful comfortable. I might just keep on wearing them. People already think I'm a little peculiar.”

“It looks good on you,” said Miri.

“Not exactly ladylike.” The girl smiled.

“Well,” said Miri, looking down, “same here.”

“Oh,” the girl said airily. “Gypsies can get away with anything. Now, won't you please tell my fortune? I can pay you, I certainly can. If you promise not to stir a step, I can just run right inside and get my glove box. That's where I keep my—”

“What year is it?” demanded Molly. Miri goggled at her sister; why was she being so strange? She seemed almost angry. Usually, Molly was the friendly one, the chatty one—she talked to anyone,
including grumpy bus drivers and strict teachers—but now, for some reason, she had turned abrupt and rude.

The girl giggled. “Law, you
must
be Gypsies. 1918.” For the first time, her eyes fell on Cookie, draped snoozily in the crook of Miri's arm. “Ooh, look at that little darling.” She reached to rub the kitten's downy fur, causing an explosion of purring.

“You want to hold her?” asked Miri.

“Can I?”

In answer, Miri transferred Cookie into the girl's arms.

“I just love cats,” the girl confided. “I used to have one named Larimer—don't ask me why—he was just the smartest thing—”

“We have to go!” blurted Molly. “Now.” She whirled around to Miri. “We have to go, right? We're late. Come on.” She turned and walked swiftly away through the trees.

“Molly!” cried Miri, scandalized by her sister's behavior. “Sorry,” she apologized to the girl.

Her eyes, hurt, were on Molly's receding back. “Guess she thinks I'm peculiar, too,” she murmured. “Well. Here.” She returned Cookie to Miri's arm.

Miri tried to make up for Molly's bad manners. “I guess I have to go. Um, maybe we'll see you later.”

The girl nodded sadly. “Yes, of course. Delightful to make your acquaintance.”

Inside the barn, Miri tried again. “Just tell me.”

Molly lifted her face from her hands, shook her head miserably, and dropped her face into her hands once more.

The brief glimpse was not heartening. Miri had never seen Molly so defeated. Molly, the brave, the daring, the confident. Molly, who gritted her teeth and got on with it. Molly, whose nerves of steel Miri envied every day of her life—suddenly, for no reason Miri could see, she was overcome. Horst, the tyrant of her former life, had done everything he could to break her, but the worst Horst could dish up had only made Molly more rebellious and defiant. Never despairing. For the twentieth time, Miri reviewed
the events of the previous hour, trying to find the source of her sister's trouble. 1918. Was there something the matter with it? Nothing came to mind. Was there something bad about fortune-telling …?

As she nosed among empty stalls and pieces of old machinery, Cookie was encountering a variety of exciting odors: hay, rust, cows, soil, and—ah!—the alluring fragrance of mice! Just in time for lunch! Cookie pursued the mousy perfume into a corner, where she crouched, preparing her attack. A low growl rattled in her throat, and she leaped forward ferociously to do battle with a mouse, which turned out to be her own tail. Miri nudged Molly. “Look.”

Molly glanced up and nodded dully.

“It's better if we do stuff together, Mols. Just tell me.”

Molly looked at her.

“How terrible can it be?”

Silence.

“I don't get it!” Miri broke out. “She was just a nice girl. So what?”

Molly's voice was low. “You don't know who she was?”

It was the first thing she'd said in almost an hour, and Miri jumped at it. “How would I know? She could be anyone! She could be a neighbor! She could be a relative! Heck, she could be Flo's sister, for all I know!” Suddenly, she stopped, and her hand flew to her mouth. Flo's sister. Flo's sister was— “Your mother,” she whispered. “She's your mother. Oh gosh. I get it.”

Miri didn't know much about Molly's mother, her first mother. Her name was—Miri hunted through her memory and found it—Maudie. And she was dead. By the time Miri had met Molly in 1935, Maudie had been dead a long time. That's all Miri knew.

Molly nodded, her mouth folded tight and her eyes filled with tears. At the sight of her tears, Miri began to chew on her knuckle. Molly didn't cry very often. Even when she dropped the bathroom scale on her toe, she didn't cry. But now her thick eyelashes were beaded, and Miri felt her own throat grow tight in sympathy. “I guess you haven't seen her in a long time, huh?”

Molly rubbed her eyes with her sleeve. “I've never seen her.”

“Never?” Miri slipped her hand around Molly's. “Were you little when she—um—” She didn't want to say it. Saying it made it real.

“She died when I was born,” said Molly.

“Ohh.” Miri grimaced. That was bad.