Witch Water

What am I SUPPOSED to think? he wondered, sitting crouched at an end table of a fussy cafe. De La Gardie’s, the place was called. All the outdoor tables were filled—with patrons a bit too chatty for his liking—except for this minuscule table on the end. He didn’t like being so close to the sidewalk, for those strolling by passed right next to him. One woman—a bit too heavy for the body suit she wore—waltzed by with a small poodle; the hyperactive dog yelped repeatedly at Fanshawe. Was it his imagination or did the woman grimace at him? Fat rolls jiggled when she tugged the dog away without a word, her chin up. Take that mutt to the pound where it belongs, he thought, and take yourself with it.

Last night and this morning’s visions haunted him, and now this business at the museum. When he could think again, his head was throbbing. No doubt about it now, I’m having hallucinations.

He could conceive of no other explanation. The cellphone in his hand could’ve been a talisman; he turned it over repeatedly in his palm. Instinct urged him to call Dr. Tilton immediately, but—

His shoulders slumped at the table. What would I tell her, for God’s sake? I was about to feel up a dummy in a fucking wax museum but it grabbed me and started talking?

He put the phone away.

Relearn my normalcy, relearn my normalcy, the words kept circling in his brain. Tilton had seemed assured that this would soon happen…so why hadn’t it? I’m out of control—it’s even worse than in New York…

Why was this happening now, and here?

Because I HAVEN’T relearned my normalcy. He patted his jacket pocket, felt the narrow bulge of the glass. Was the presence of the glass—a symbol of his sickness—the impediment?

How the hell would I know? The six-dollar coffee tasted like nothing, and that’s what he felt like just then: nothing.

Incognizant, he stared at a bric-a-brac shop across the street, but all he saw were thoughts that seemed pathetic. All too often, Tilton’s words kept slipping back as if to mock him. The best way to relearn your normalcy, she’d said, is to do what normal people do.

Was it that simple?

He hoped so, for all he was worth, because if it wasn’t…

Just as he felt like collapsing, lost, beneath the table, a twinge of something like hope sparked in him.

Down the sidewalk, heading his way with a smile that lit her entire face up, was Abbie.

Fanshawe jerked upright, to gaze wide-eyed at her.

“Hi, Stew!” she said. Her enigmatically colored hair shined like exotic spun tinsel. Up on one shoulder she held a rather large box. The sight of her made Fanshawe feel like a famished person just being offered a banquet, and he knew at once it was not lust that goaded the sensation. He was simply thrilled to see her.

He jumped right up to his feet. “Hi, Abbie. Let me take that box for you—”

She stopped at the ornate rail which marked the cafe’s border. Her eyes beamed with nothing more than a happiness to be alive. “No thanks. It’s just lightbulbs, weighs almost nothing.” She lifted the box with one hand, as proof. “How’s your day been?”

“Fuh”—he stammered at the question he could answer only with a lie. “Fine, fine. Each day, I like this town more. It’s really beautiful.”

A mix of luxurious scents drifted off her curvaceous form. “That’s why I left Nashua after only a year. I know I’ll live here the rest of my life.” Her smile homed in on him. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide to do that too. What’s New York got that we haven’t—besides skyscrapers, off-track betting, and multiple millions of people?”

“I’m not arguing with you there.” Just the bit of small talk felt therapeutic to Fanshawe. Her smile, voice, her overall proximity worked as an antidote to the mental turmoil he’d been wracked by only moments ago. Thank God, thank God…

“Have you been to the wax museum yet?” she asked.

“Yuh”—he stammered again, impacted as if by a shout. “Yeah, it was pretty interesting, pretty realistic,” he replied, trying to block out the rest. If you only knew. “Now I’m just kind of moseying around”—he looked right at her. “I want to work up an appetite for our dinner date.”

Abbie sighed in relief. “I was so afraid you’d forget, or something else would come up.”

“I didn’t, and nothing has.”

“Good.” She beamed at him again. “I gotta go now; my father’ll have a conniption if I don’t get back and change these bulbs.”

“See you at seven, Abbie.”

“Not if I see you first,” and then she laughed and glided away with her box.

Yeah, he thought, watching her cross the street. Just before she’d entered the inn, she glanced once sexily over her shoulder.

That’s my cure, all right. My normalcy. A sudden thought made him think of going after her, to ask if there was any more word from the police about Eldred Karswell but then realized the downer topic might darken her day. However, Fanshawe felt rejuvenated. Just the few minutes of talking to her pushed everything back—even as serious as “everything” seemed to be.

He pushed all of his worries to the back of his mind. He couldn’t wait for seven o’clock.

(III)

Abbie looked stunning; he’d even told her that when she’d met him at seven, and in after-thought he hoped it hadn’t sounded fake or corny. She wore a summery lilac dress with strap shoulders. Her bare arms and shoulders glowed healthily; her labors at the inn had left her sleek and well-toned. She also wore high heels—not too high but just right. With every ticking stride to the restaurant, those long coltish legs flexed in more radiant feminine health. Best of all Fanshawe found he wasn’t tempted to stare at her perfect bosom when she wouldn’t notice.

Was some factor of Abbie allowing Fanshawe to relearn his normalcy?

I can only hope…

In the restaurant, he realized it was impossible for him to focus on anything but her. The waitresses and many female patrons were far above average in looks, but Fanshawe barely took notice of them. Instead, Abbie magnetized him as she leaned slightly over the table to talk. Before Fanshawe knew it, dinner was done and nearly an hour and a half had passed. Much of their conversation was comprised of either Abbie talking about her life in Haver-Towne or Fanshawe reminiscing (not very positively) over New York. It felt so comfortable in this situation, so—

Normal, Fanshawe marveled.

Just going to dinner with someone he liked, and talking the way regular people talked. I can’t remember the last time…

Not once throughout the course of their meal had a lustful thought entered his head. Not once had he thought of peeping.

The waitress’s brows fluttered when Fanshawe paid the check with his black American Express Centurion card. Then he was walking on the cheerily lit street with Abbie.

It seemed that whenever he was in her presence, his sense of observation changed. He felt grateful for all that was around him, and intrigued: the glow of the streetlamps, the brick-paved road, the old-time architecture. It’s so different, he thought. So honest.

Abbie grinned at him as they strolled Back Street. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “You seem very… enchanted by something.”

Yeah. You. He hadn’t even realized that he was holding her hand. “I guess I’m