Practical Magic
Page 38
Little things were gone, such as Gillian’s tweezers and her watch, but major items were missing as well. Yesterday, she had gone out the front door still half asleep, and when she went to get into the Oldsmobile, it wasn’t anywhere in sight. She was late for work and figured that some teenage boy had stolen her car and she’d phone the police when she got to the Hamburger Shack. But when she arrived there, her feet killing her since she wasn’t wearing shoes meant for walking, there was the Oldsmobile, parked right out front, as though it were waiting for her, propelled by a mind of its own.
When Gillian questioned Ephraim, who’d been working behind the grill since early that morning, demanding to know whether he’d seen someone drop off her car, she sounded on edge, maybe even hysterical.
“It’s a practical joke,” Ephraim guessed. “Or somebody stole it, then got cold feet.”
Well, cold feet was certainly something Gillian knew about lately. Every time the phone rang, at work or at Sally’s house, Gillian thought it was Ben Frye. She got the shivers just thinking about him; she got them all the way down to her toes. Ben had sent her flowers, red roses, the morning after they’d met at Del Vecchio’s, but when he phoned she told him she couldn’t accept them, or anything else.
“Don’t call me,” she told him. “Don’t even think about me,” she cried.
What on earth was wrong with Ben Frye—didn’t he see her for the loser that she was? Lately, everything she touched fell apart—animal, vegetable, mineral, it didn’t matter in the least. It all fell apart equally beneath her touch. She opened Kylie’s closet and the door came right off its hinges. She put up a can of tomato-rice soup to cook on the back burner and the kitchen curtains caught on fire. She walked out to the patio, to have a cigarette in peace, only to step on a dead crow, which seemed to have fallen directly from the sky into her path.
She was bad luck, ill-fated and unfortunate as the plague. When she dared to glance into the mirror she looked the same—high cheekbones, wide gray eyes, generous mouth—all of it familiar and, many would say, beautiful. Still, once or twice she had caught sight of her image a little too quickly, and then she didn’t like what she found staring back at her. From certain angles, in certain sorts of light, she saw what she imagined Jimmy must have seen, late at night, when he was plastered and she was backing away from him, her hands up, to protect her face. That woman was a silly, vain creature who didn’t stop to think before she opened her mouth. That woman believed she could change Jimmy, or, if worse came to worst, rearrange him somehow. The absolute fool. No wonder she couldn’t work the stove or find her boots. No wonder she’d managed to kill Jimmy, when all she’d really wanted was a little tenderness.
Gillian had been crazy to sit in the booth at Del Vecchio’s with Ben Frye in the first place, but she’d been so upset she’d stayed until midnight. By the end of that evening, they had eaten every bit of the food Sally had ordered and had fallen for each other so hard they didn’t notice they had each consumed an entire pizza. Even then, it wasn’t enough. They ate the way people who’d been hypnotized might have, not bothering to glance at the bits of salad and mushroom they speared with their forks, not wanting to leave the table if that meant leaving each other.
Gillian still can’t quite believe that Ben Frye is for real. He’s unlike any other man she has ever been with. He listens to her, for one thing. He’s so kindhearted that people are drawn to him. People just assume he’s trustworthy; whenever he visits cities he’s never been to before he’s always asked for directions, even by natives. He has a degree in biology from Berkeley, but he also puts on magic shows in the children’s ward of the local hospital every Saturday afternoon. The kids aren’t the only ones who gather around when Ben arrives, with his silk scarves and carton of eggs and his decks of cards. It’s impossible to get the attention of any of the nurses on the floor; some of them swear Ben Frye is the best-looking single man in New York State.
Because of all this, Gillian Owens is definitely not the first to have Ben on her mind. There are women in town who have been after him for so long they’ve memorized his daily schedule and all the facts of his life, and are so obsessed that when asked for their phone number they often recite his instead. There are teachers in the high school who bring him casseroles every Friday evening, and newly divorced neighbors who call him late at night because their fuses have all blown and they insist they’re afraid they’ll electrocute themselves without his scientific know-how.
When Gillian questioned Ephraim, who’d been working behind the grill since early that morning, demanding to know whether he’d seen someone drop off her car, she sounded on edge, maybe even hysterical.
“It’s a practical joke,” Ephraim guessed. “Or somebody stole it, then got cold feet.”
Well, cold feet was certainly something Gillian knew about lately. Every time the phone rang, at work or at Sally’s house, Gillian thought it was Ben Frye. She got the shivers just thinking about him; she got them all the way down to her toes. Ben had sent her flowers, red roses, the morning after they’d met at Del Vecchio’s, but when he phoned she told him she couldn’t accept them, or anything else.
“Don’t call me,” she told him. “Don’t even think about me,” she cried.
What on earth was wrong with Ben Frye—didn’t he see her for the loser that she was? Lately, everything she touched fell apart—animal, vegetable, mineral, it didn’t matter in the least. It all fell apart equally beneath her touch. She opened Kylie’s closet and the door came right off its hinges. She put up a can of tomato-rice soup to cook on the back burner and the kitchen curtains caught on fire. She walked out to the patio, to have a cigarette in peace, only to step on a dead crow, which seemed to have fallen directly from the sky into her path.
She was bad luck, ill-fated and unfortunate as the plague. When she dared to glance into the mirror she looked the same—high cheekbones, wide gray eyes, generous mouth—all of it familiar and, many would say, beautiful. Still, once or twice she had caught sight of her image a little too quickly, and then she didn’t like what she found staring back at her. From certain angles, in certain sorts of light, she saw what she imagined Jimmy must have seen, late at night, when he was plastered and she was backing away from him, her hands up, to protect her face. That woman was a silly, vain creature who didn’t stop to think before she opened her mouth. That woman believed she could change Jimmy, or, if worse came to worst, rearrange him somehow. The absolute fool. No wonder she couldn’t work the stove or find her boots. No wonder she’d managed to kill Jimmy, when all she’d really wanted was a little tenderness.
Gillian had been crazy to sit in the booth at Del Vecchio’s with Ben Frye in the first place, but she’d been so upset she’d stayed until midnight. By the end of that evening, they had eaten every bit of the food Sally had ordered and had fallen for each other so hard they didn’t notice they had each consumed an entire pizza. Even then, it wasn’t enough. They ate the way people who’d been hypnotized might have, not bothering to glance at the bits of salad and mushroom they speared with their forks, not wanting to leave the table if that meant leaving each other.
Gillian still can’t quite believe that Ben Frye is for real. He’s unlike any other man she has ever been with. He listens to her, for one thing. He’s so kindhearted that people are drawn to him. People just assume he’s trustworthy; whenever he visits cities he’s never been to before he’s always asked for directions, even by natives. He has a degree in biology from Berkeley, but he also puts on magic shows in the children’s ward of the local hospital every Saturday afternoon. The kids aren’t the only ones who gather around when Ben arrives, with his silk scarves and carton of eggs and his decks of cards. It’s impossible to get the attention of any of the nurses on the floor; some of them swear Ben Frye is the best-looking single man in New York State.
Because of all this, Gillian Owens is definitely not the first to have Ben on her mind. There are women in town who have been after him for so long they’ve memorized his daily schedule and all the facts of his life, and are so obsessed that when asked for their phone number they often recite his instead. There are teachers in the high school who bring him casseroles every Friday evening, and newly divorced neighbors who call him late at night because their fuses have all blown and they insist they’re afraid they’ll electrocute themselves without his scientific know-how.
