Page 2 of The Bairwick Witches
Unlike Chicago, where he could enjoy some anonymity, people in Bairwick knew him. And they remembered him in far richer times, which made his current K.O by life even more humiliating. He’d already ducked and dodged through the aisles of the supermarket to avoid a few old friends and co-workers, unwilling to be forced to regurgitate the tale of the woes that brought him back.
Schuyler reached Tony’s Pizzeria; the eatery held the vague reminiscence of a former Pizza Hut within its structure, for once upon a time it had been.The place was bustling in the rush of early evening with people grabbing food before catching their ferry out. Schuyler moved toward the hall with the restrooms. A door before the men’s room was marked Janitorial, and Schuyler placed his hand over the locked door’s handle and tapped the stainless steel with his fingers: Pointer, middle, ring, ring pointer, middle. A click followed. He quickly popped through the now-opened door and into—Tony’s Pizzeria.
An exact replica of the Italian eatery he’d just left, the only difference being the lack of witchy spectacle. Tony’s was decorated as any normal Italian eatery would be with fake frescas on the walls, red and white checkered tablecloths,and bottles of Chanti with candles in them.
Sky smiled at Giuseppe, who pointed at two large pizzas on the counter, Schuyler grabbed the pizzas, thanked him, and nodded at a couple he recognized from school who looked like they were moving to engage in conversation. Motioning to the pizzas as if to signal, ‘sorry, no time’, he exited as fast as he could.
On Lavey Avenue his phone buzzed again. Beau was getting beyond antsy.
In fairness, Schuyler was late for the Wednesday Night Check-In. A tradition they’d had in their family since Schuylerhad come to live with Beau and Marshall fulltime after his mother passed. She’d been sick, and before Eleana shuffled off the mortal coil, she felt the need to drop a deathbed confession on Schuyler’s father, admitting he’d been under her spell since the day they met. The one fear he’d always harbored being a non-witch yet married to one, and she’d confirmed it—and then died before he could respond. It was a Croy family trait: never letting anyone else get the last word.
Nicholas left that night. No one heard from him again. Beau and Marshall agreed his leaving was for the best, but Schuyler, only seven at the time, stopped talking. After a couple of weeks, Beau dragged him into their home’s sunroom, filled with his favorite food and snacks, and declared no one was leaving till they’d discussed absolutely everything bothering them and got out what needed to get out.
The idea worked. Soon after, the Wednesday Night Check-In became a mandatory weekly ritual, occurring in person or virtually. They saw Schuyler through some of the roughest times of his life.
The pizzastill warm in his hands, he turned onto Nevergreen Terrace and enjoyed one of the perks of being home:seeing the looming grand Queen Anne Victorian he’d grown up in sitting quietly at the end.
The house lorded over the street on which only two other large houses had residence. But Estelle, as the house had been christened, stood proud with her west-facing circular turret, tallest on the street. From the six gables to the collection of shingled roofs, the wraparound porch, down to the corner boards, Estelle had been bathed in hues of rich black, deep purple, dark navy with pops of goldenrod throughout.
On theEast side of the house boasted a three-story sunroom. A cascade of curved frosted windows reached froma third-floor gable to the ground around which a flower bed had been planted. The space’s interior was filled with greenery; a lush array of large leafy plants secured from the ironwork at the top, in their large pots, hung over them as natural chandeliers. Beautifully full vines clung to iron framework of the stairs and draped from walkways like curtains. On the crowded floor was a collection of miniature versions of trees: Dutch Elms, Redwoods,andOaks, all potted and thriving. Flower beds for every climate, desert to swamp, multiple herb gardens, workstations, everything his potion-making uncles required.
In the center of the luxurious fauna was a circular sunken conversation pit with a couch layered in overly fluffy cushions and the softest pillows. The couch surrounded a table with a mosaic top depicting an abstract expression of the four seasons and phases of the moon in vibrant colors, which now pizzas, drinks, and plates crowded on top of.
Schuyler settled in, watching his uncles; Beau buzzed around the room with a flutter in his step. Whether he was happy and excited or simply anxious was unknown. He swished around looking for a lighter, and Schuyler wasn’t sure how to tell the man who’d raised him that he had slid right into being one of those fussy southern gays he always complained about having to grow up with. The ones who fancied themselves aBlanche; DuboisorDeveraux,take your pick.
Beau set the retrieved lighter down next to the frosted black glass bong on the table.
“Family,” he announced with goofy reverence in his southern twang, “tis time.” They bowed their heads, grateful for their blessings. Beau lifted the bong and wickedly smiled as he hit it and passed it to his husband of over thirty years, Marshall.
Schuyler listened as Marshall talked about his day shopping at the markets and going to the gym. How he was thankfulSchuyler was home to give him a break. Beau’sdaycomprised of making a new batch of their shop’s bestselling potency salve and gossiping on the phone with Clandeen Carlise from across the street.
Schuyler stared as the bong arrived at him. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about it. To relay it all out loud.
“You could start with why you’re late. It’s ritual night. We’re on a time crunch. The moon, she waits for no witch.” Beau said things often in a tone which suggested he forgot Schuyler was forty and was still a kid.
“Are you okay, son?” Marshall asked, hushing his husband.
“I was at the pier,” Schuyler admitted, “determined, to end it all.”
Even though there was no outpouring of sympathy, he continued anyway.
“I found out Zach got remarried—whatever—that’s that, I don’t care, but it does appear my coven, my so-called friends, all chose Zach. They’ve not reached out, no messages, no calls.”
“The cow whores!” Beau shouted.
“I don’t know what I did in that aspect. I thought we all got along, hell, I slept with half of them. We were all friendly until the divorce. And they choose him. They could have said something. My feelings are hurt and my life’s a mess, end of my check-in.”
“I’ll curse them. I’ll curse their mommas!” Beau stood up, hands outstretched, dramatically ready to strangle. “Marshall, find me my swamp magic book, ain’t nothin’ more vicious than swamp magic. They goin’ learn not to mess with a Croy.”
Marshall looked over at his overly excited husband and in his deep baritone voice released a firm “No” and went back to his pizza.
“First, that bastard cheats on you.”
“He didn’t cheat, we were open.”
“He cheatede-mo-tion-ally, darlin’, and that calls for low down dirty swamp justice! Marshall, get me the damn book.”
“No.”
