winced as he turned to me and said, “My ears can’t take it as easily as Grandmother’s.”
“Believe me, I’m with you,” I said.
“Don’t ever let any of the residents know, but I prefer classical.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
At that moment, the front door burst open with such fury it bounced off the wall and almost closed again on the thin young woman who entered the room. She marched past me, pausing long enough to give me an angry look before heading back into the women’s wing. She was pale, dressed totally in black, and had long hair dyed to a dark, raven color. This spidery young lady had to be Sammy.
Quite a few of the other residents I had seen earlier were wearing black, and some had that same look of bravado over pain as well, but something about the creature who had just flown past me made her a better candidate for a witches’ coven. I had just figured out that part of this impression came from a cloying fragrance that still hung in the air — she had smelled strongly of some kind of incense or spice oil — when the door opened a second time, more gently.
Jacob looked at me and blushed to the roots of his hair. “Sorry, Miss Kelly. I told you she was dramatic.”
“Yes, you did. That was quite an entrance. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”
“Oh yeah. Are you kidding? She loves the idea of being interviewed by the newspaper. I think if we just wait outside, she’ll come out again.”
He spoke with the easy assurance of one childhood friend discussing another. He knew Sammy. I wondered if she deserved such loyalty. I shrugged and followed him out to the deck. We sat on some patio chairs surrounding a table. From the recreation room we could hear a game of Ping-Pong in progress.
Jacob chattered excitedly about his afternoon at school. He had gone in to see the journalism teacher — Michael Corbin, an old friend who had gone to college with me, and who was, as Jacob said, “way cool.” Michael had told him that he could add the class, which was about four days in progress for the winter quarter, and wrote a note to that effect for Jacob’s counselor. The counselor had been obliging as well. I smiled at Jacob’s enthusiasm — a day of conquering potential hurdles of adult permission-giving had his spirits soaring. A different kid from the one I had seen in the morning. I wondered if Michael and the counselor had seen that, too. I’d have to give Michael a call.
Jacob had predicted Sammy’s mood swings well. As he reached the end of his tale about the class, she appeared at the back door, and made her way over to us as if nothing had happened fifteen minutes before. She sat next to Jacob and favored me with a long glowering stare. A summer as a camp counselor had taught me all I needed to know about the likes of Sammy.
“Well, Jacob,” I said starting to rise from my chair, “I guess I’d better go. Sorry about your dad’s campaign and all that. I know it means a lot to you.” It was a mean thing to do to Jacob. I hated myself when I saw the look of hurt on his face. But it worked like a charm on Sammy.
“Hey, wait a minute,” she said. “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”
I took my turn staring, then said, “You haven’t indicated to me that you’re really up for that, and I don’t have time to sit around and coax you.”
I started to turn again, and she fairly shouted, “Wait!”
I faced her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, shocking me — I hadn’t expected an apology. She turned to Jacob, but kept speaking to me. “I’ll talk to you. Jacob says you’re okay.”
I sat back down again, and tried to give Jacob a quick reassuring look. “Okay, Sammy — want to tell me the story of this witches’ coven?”
She looked around nervously. I wondered if it was real nervousness or more drama. “Will my name be in the paper?”
“This whole thing may never actually reach print. I’m just trying to be ready in case something breaks. And for that matter, I don’t even know your last name. What is it?”
“You won’t contact my parents?”
“Not my business.”
“Garden.”
Holy Mary. No wonder the kid had problems. Anyone who had been given a handle like Gethsemane Garden had an uphill battle. I tried not to let my face reveal that I knew what Sammy stood for.
“Okay, Miss Garden, why don’t you tell me about the coven?”
“Don’t call me Miss Garden. I hate my name. I’m going to change it. Anyway — call me Sammy, okay?”
“If you’d prefer that, sure. Look, Sammy, I’m not here to cause you problems. Tell me about this group you’re in.”
“Well, last Friday night our coven gathered, and I went and Jacob came by and tried to get me to leave. End of story.”
“Not quite. What kind of group is this? Satanist?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. Satanism is a different thing altogether. We’re not Satanists, no matter what that moron Montgomery says.”
“So what are you?”
She sighed, and looked at Jacob. He just watched her silently, but his eyes were willing her to keep talking. She turned back to me.
“We’re into what you would probably call paganism. It’s a very old religion. It’s a religion of the earth. That’s what we worship — the earth and her creatures are holy to us. It’s a very female thing. Satanism is a very male
