Page 98 of The Witching Hours

Perfect.

If I was a person whose stock and trade wasn’t strange, I might’ve been wary about strange things being left in my condo without my knowledge or permission. But unusual occurrences are as much a part of my life as cable TV.

A parchment paper envelope with an ornate red wax seal dangled by a thin grosgrain ribbon from the bow. I pulled it away and opened it.

Dear Ms. Danann.

I must insist that you accept a token of gratitude for your part in establishing our treaty with the Campbells. This painting of your bridge is by Gerhard Richter. It would bring about six million at auction if you decide to sell it now. But if you hold onto it until he dies, it will be worth many times that. He is 92.

Visitors and commuters are quite happy with our arrangement. Consider this a collective thank you for clearing our throughway and keeping it free of impediment. Should I find myself in future disputes with humans, and believe the trouble might be resolved amicably, I will call upon you to act as intermediary.

-A, Anon

Wow. My intuition had told me not to get too worried about retirement and whoomp. There it is. Procrastination pays off again!!!

I’d never interceded in a scenario as tricky, or frightening, as this one. I’d also never come close to that kind of money. I felt like I’d won the lottery.

I pressed the switch that opened the electric shades to take in the view I loved so much. And there stood my bridge in all its glory. I believed Aeskilas when he said it would be an undertaking to alter the memories of everyone who’d heard about the collapse. I could only conclude that he was even more powerful than I’d imagined. It was the sort of feat that would require godlike skills.

I pulled a ginger ale out of the refrigerator and sat down to take in the simple pleasure of looking at the familiar sight of lights on the water at night. Wolf jumped into my lap, curled up, and began to purr more enthusiastically than ever before.

“Yeah,” I said, stroking his silky fur. “All’s well that ends well. I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.”

Of course, in quiet moments, when I lie in bed awake at night, I wonder what Aeskilas and his friends are up to in our world. I know he doesn’t like politicians or bankers. That means he gets serious cred with me. I know he has an interest in keeping the world intact.Maybe he and his friends are acting in ways that indirectly benefit humans. So, I choose to call them angels and sleep soundly.

JIGGER OF JIN

I’d officially reached that age. THAT age.

I acted good natured about a surprise party with a birthday cake shaped like a freshly dug grave, an economy sized bottle of Geritol, and a light-up button hung around my neck that reads, “HELP. I’VE FALLEN AND I CAN’T GET UP!”

The key word therein was “acted”. On the inside I wasn’t laughing. I was plotting the deaths of my friends and family who were presently guilty of inflicting an artificial confrontation with my mortality.

Oh, yeah. I’m old. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Sigh.

Before being treated to this surprise party, I’d spent an hour at the department store makeup counter learning to look scarier than the clown inIt. The department store makeup experts have a philosophy. If you can no longer look young, then just hide who you are with three pounds of makeup like a drag queen. The unibomber should’ve thought of it as a disguise.

I bought wipes at the convenience store then sat in my car and spent half an hour raking that shit off my face. From there I went to the salon and spent three hours getting highlights. Since my hair is naturally auburn, I couldn’t go blondish. I got streaks of lighter reddish brown. It didn’t make me look younger, but it did make me look highlighted. The stylist adamantly insisted it made my hazel eyes pop. I wasn’t sure I liked the imagery of popping eyes and I’d never understood why some people had thought Popeye was entertaining. But whatever. It relieved me of the funds that would normally be allocated for two weeks’ worth of groceries.

All that may not have restored my youth, but I’d felt like I’d come away a little more glamorous. The effort was wasted on a tone-deaf crowd intent on black balloons and old age jokes.

Men, and I’m talking about the ones who are psychologically healthy, not the ones who buy Lamborghinis and love nests for mistresses half their age. I’m talking about normal guys, the ones who get a boat and call it a day. They can afford to take the dawn of middle age with grace for a list of reasons as long as this page. Women? Not so much.

I’m too old for clubbing and too young for bridge. My bandwidth for patience has probably shrunk to next to nothing during the two years since my divorce. Since I no longer have to put up with crap, I don’t. Usually. Over the hill parties are an exception. Who doesn’t hate the expression, “woman of a certain age”? You have my permission to bitch-slap the next person who says that out loud. You don’t need to explain why. Just walk away and let them figure it out.

Back to my party, I was repeatedly asked if I felt over the hill. Honestly, I felt exactly like I had on my thirty-ninth birthday. Except that one was fun. I’d gone to the beach with friends. We did sun, ridiculous romcoms, and midnight margaritas. Why couldn’t every birthday be like that?

My fortieth birthday? Well, it seemed the hilarity would never end. Just before nine I shocked everyone by announcing last call. “After all,” I said, “I’m too old to stay up later. Sorry.”

Closing the door behind them felt like the best thing that had happened to me all day. I know I should be grateful to have people in my life who know when my birthday is and care enough to recognize it. I’mnotgrateful. I don’t know if that makes me a bad person, but it does make me an ungrateful person. At least for tonight.

I opened the bedroom door for my dog, Paddy, and let him have the run of the house. I put him up when people areover not because he’s dangerous, but because he licks toes when people are wearing sandals. It’s a mystery, but some folks don’t like that.

“It’s just us, Pad,” I said. “And thanks for not making a big deal out of my birthday.” He shook his head and sneezed. Paddy was a forty-five-pound terrier, English sheep dog mix who was allergic to lots of stuff that floats around in the air in the springtime in Houston. “Sorry, boy. The green slime will be over soon.”

Green slime was what we call the heavy green pollen dust that coats every surface for two weeks each year turning pools and bayous Irish green just in time for St. Patrick’s Day like it was divinely ordained.

Paddy was especially special to me because he was a freedom dog. My ex hated dogs and wouldn’t let me have one. So, one of the first things I did when we officially separated was to adopt a rescue. I drove all the way down to the Pasadena Dog Pound to get him. After I’d seen his picture online, I knew we were soulmates. Still, if I’d known the amount of upkeep it takes to keep my house vacuumed and keep him groomed with all that beautiful fur, I would’ve settled for a dog who was merely compatible shorthair. Please don’t tell my dog I said that. He can’t help being high maintenance.

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