Page 127 of The Witching Hours

I gave that little speech the weight it deserved. In other words, I ignored it. “You think I shouldn’t have lied to work about being sick.” He looked away as if he was determined to avoid being put in the position of answering honestly. “I guess I could’ve said, I can’t come today because I’m busy with the strange overseer of a charming, but bizarre store that doesn’t exist and I’m being given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to do anything. That’s right.Anything.Until I’m satisfied with the experience. I could be rich. Smart. Talented. Powerful. Famous. No, not famous. Legendary. Furthermore, I could choose to be anything anywhere anytime. Even an NFL linebacker.” Pause. “You think they might have a problem with my excuse for not coming in today?”

Winkleman screwed up his mouth. “Not that I was being judgmental. Because I was not. But you do make a good point.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

“Young lady, sarcasm is beneath you.”

I laughed. “Don’t think you can needle me with the ‘young lady’ thing. I refuse to object to being called either young or lady and refuse to accept that it means diminished status in your eyes. I would aspire to youth, but that’s ridiculous. I do aspire to being a lady. My mother told me that a lady always does the kindest thing in the kindest way. While I may aspire to being a lady, I fall woefully short because the fact is that sarcasm isnotbeneath me. I love sarcasm. I thrive on sarcasm. I don’t know how I would navigate life in the absence of sarcasm. I wouldn’t have survived my sham of a marriage without sarcasm. There’s no doubt I’d be in the looney bin.” The gilded birdcage elevator caught my attention from the corner of my eye and caused me to suck in a little gasp as I looked around. “Uh oh.”

Winkleman chuckled and shook his head. “Delightfully unpredictable.”

For the first time, I was confronting my part in this. “Winkleman. Tell me the truth. Am I hallucinating?”

“Oh, my dear, no. From the depth of my assurance, you are not. Although this,” he held out his arms as if embracing the entire store and its contents, “is only for you, it is also quite real and material. As am I. There is little doubt you’re of sound mind.”

“On the one hand that’s a relief. On the other, wouldn’t I be likely to conjure an hallucinatory companion who’d say just that?”

With a shake of his head, he countered. “No. Such a figment of imagination would be more likely to say there isnodoubt you’re of sound mind, leaving little room for conjecture.”

“Except thatmyhallucination would know to take that into account. My hallucination sawThe Princess Bride.”

“I saw that movie.”

“So did everybody else.”

“Unfortunately, the only way I could persuade you conclusively that you’re in command of your faculties would deprive you of your gift.”

“Meaning what?”

He shrugged. “You’re not under any obligation to believe anything I say or accept anything you see. You could satisfy your skepticism right now by walking out into the rain. In the event you choose to do so, the instant drops begin to pelt yourumbrella, you’ll hear the pop and feel the slight vibration in the handle. You’ll experience the rise in humidity and know for certain you are sane. You’ll turn around to run back inside and inform me that I am real. But alas. What you’d find, when you attempted to return, would be an empty storefront where wonder resided temporarily and closed shop. And you’d have walked away from a prize sought by many and obtained by few. All because the process of maturation has completely robbed you of the little girl who imagined there was a muffin man who lived on Drury Lane.”

I looked toward the door. Was it tempting to do what he said? Just walk out? No. Not really. Without conscious buy in, at some point I’d committed to seeing this through. The thought crossed my mind that insanity might sometimes be fun for the afflicted. But that was neither here nor there. As fantastic as the morning had proved to be, I didn’t really suspect that I’d lost it.

Winkleman was standing with his arms crossed, waiting patiently while I attempted to resolve my own neuroses.

“Was there?” I cocked my head. He looked confused and I realized the question was shorthand. “I mean was there a muffin man who lived on Drury Lane?”

He laughed. “I don’t know. Perhaps. Perhaps not. You carry the underlayment of that experience either way. It’s part of who you are, but consider that it’s been buried too deeply.

“Would you care for a break?” he asked pointing to a soda fountain off to the side that I hadn’t noticed before. “Coke float? Banana split?”

“Winkleman.”

“Hmmm?”

“Has that been here the whole time?”

“The soda fountain? No. It came when called.”

“Who did the calling? You or me?”

“Why you did, my dear. You must’ve had a passing thought about a pleasant experience with a soda fountain.”

To the best of my ability, I rewound the whir of noise that had paraded past my consciousness for the past couple of minutes. I may have recalled a day when my mother took me to my first piano lesson. I didn’t like the teacher and insisted I didn’t want to learn piano.

Mom took me to a small family-owned pharmacy in an older part of town. It had a soda fountain much like the one I was looking at. We had chicken salad sandwiches on toast with lettuce and tomato and I had a chocolate malt to go with it. I’d be hard pressed to name a more memorable lunch. She assured me that she wasn’t going to force me to learn piano. After all, it had been my idea.

“So, the store, um, reconfigures itself?”

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