Practical Magic

"It's very simple," he said. "Yes or no?"

"This isn't a yes-or-no kind of thing," Gillian hedged.

"Oh, yes," Ben said with absolute certainty. "It is."

"No," Gillian insisted. Looking at his solemn face, she wished then that she'd known him forever. She wished that he had been the first one to kiss her, and the first to make love to her. She wished she could say yes. "It's more of a thinking-it-over kind of thing."

Gillian knew where this argument would lead. Start living with someone, and before you knew it you were married, and that was a human condition Gillian planned to avoid repeating. In that arena, she was something of a jinx. As soon as she said "I do," she always realized that she didn't at all, and that she never had, and she'd better get out fast.

"Don't you understand?" Gillian told Ben. "If I didn't love you I'd move in today. I wouldn't think twice."

Actually, she's been thinking about it ever since she left him, and she'll keep right on thinking about it, whether she wants to or not. Ben doesn't understand how dangerous love can be, but Gillian certainly does. She's lost at this too many times to sit back and relax. She has to stay on her toes, and she has to stay single. What she really needs is a hot bath and some peace and quiet, but when she sneaks in the back door she finds Antonia and Kylie waiting up for her. They're frantic and ready to call for an ambulance. They're beside themselves with worry. Something has happened to their mother, and they don't know what.

The bedroom is so dark that it takes Gillian a while to realize that the lump beneath the blankets is indeed a human life form. If there's anything Gillian knows, it's self-pity and despair. She can make that particular diagnosis in two seconds flat, since she's been there herself about a thousand times, and she knows what the cure is, too. She ignores the girls' protests and sends them to bed, then she goes to the kitchen and fixes a pitcher of margaritas. She takes the pitcher, along with two glasses dipped in coarse salt, out to the backyard and leaves it all beside the two lawn chairs set up near the little garden where the cucumbers are doing their best to grow.

This time when she goes to stand in Sally's doorway, the jumble of blankets doesn't fool her. There's a person hiding in there.

"Get out of bed," Gillian says.

Sally keeps her eyes shut. She's drifting somewhere quiet and white. She wishes she could shut her ears as well, because she can hear Gillian approaching. Gillian pulls down the sheet and grabs Sally's arm.

"Out," she says.

Sally falls off the bed. She opens her eyes and blinks.

"Go away," she tells her sister. "Don't bother me."

Gillian helps Sally to her feet and guides her out of the room and down the stairs. Leading Sally is like dragging a bundle of sticks; she doesn't resist, but she's dead weight. Gillian pushes the back door open, and once they're outside, the rush of moist air slaps Sally in the face.

"Oh," she says.

She really does feel weak and is relieved to sink into a lawn chair. She leans her head back and is about to close her eyes, but then she notices how many stars are visible tonight. A long time ago, they used to go up to the roof of the aunts' house on summer nights. You could get out through the attic window, if you weren't afraid of heights or easily scared by the little brown bats who came to feast on the clouds of mosquitoes drifting through the air. They both always made certain to wish on the first star, always the same wish, which of course they could never tell.

"Don't worry," Gillian says. "They'll still need you after they're all grown up."

"Yeah, right."

"I still need you."

Sally looks at her sister, who's pouring them both margaritas. "For what?"

"If you hadn't been here for me when all that happened with Jimmy, I'd be in jail right now. I just wanted you to know that I couldn't have done it without you."

"That's because he was heavy," Sally says. "If you'd had a wheelbarrow, you wouldn't have needed me."

"I mean it," Gillian insists. "I owe you forever."

Gillian raises her glass in the direction of Jimmy's grave. "Adios, baby," Gillian says. She shivers and takes a sip of her drink.

"Good-bye and good riddance," Sally tells the damp, humid air.

After being cooped up for so long, it's good to be outside. It's good to be here together on the lawn at this hour, when the crickets have begun their slow, late-summer call.

Gillian has salt on her fingers from her margarita. She has that beautiful smile on her face, and she seems younger tonight. Maybe the New York humidity is good for her skin, or maybe it's the moonlight, but something about her seems brand new. "I never even believed in happiness. I didn't think it existed. Now look at me. I'm ready to believe in just about anything."

Sally wishes she could reach out and touch the moon and see whether it feels as cool as it looks. Lately, she's been wondering if perhaps when the living become the dead they leave an empty space behind, a hollow that no one else can fill. She was lucky once, for a very brief time. Maybe she should just be grateful for that.

"Ben asked me to move in with him," Gillian says. "I pretty much told him no."

"Do it," Sally tells her.

"Just like that?" Gillian says.

Sally nods with certainty.

"I might consider it," Gillian admits. "For a while. As long as there are no commitments."

"You'll move in with him," Sally assures her.

"You're probably just saying all this because you want to get rid of me."

"I wouldn't be getting rid of you. You'd be three blocks away. If I wanted to get rid of you, I'd tell you to go back to Arizona."

A circle of white moths has gathered around the porch light. Their wings are so heavy and damp the moths seem to be flying in slow motion. They're as white as the moon, and when they fly off, suddenly, they leave a powdery white trail in the air.

"East of the Mississippi." Gillian runs her hand through her hair. "Yikes."

Sally stretches out flat in the lawn chair and looks into the sky. "Actually," she says, "I'm glad you're here."

They both always wished for the same thing when they were sitting on the roof of the aunts' house on those hot, lonely nights. Sometime in the future, when they were both all grown up, they wanted to look up at the stars and not be afraid. This is the night they had wished for. This is that future, right now. And they can stay out as long as they want to, they can remain on the lawn until every star has faded, and still be there to watch the perfect blue sky at noon.

Levitation

Always keep mint on your windowsill in August, to ensure that buzzing flies will stay outside, where they belong. Don't think the summer is over, even when roses droop and turn brown and the stars shift position in the sky. Never presume August is a safe or reliable time of the year. It is the season of reversals, when the birds no longer sing in the morning and the evenings are made up of equal parts golden light and black clouds. The rock-solid and the tenuous can easily exchange places until everything you know can be questioned and put into doubt.

On especially hot days, when you'd like to murder whoever crosses you, or at least give him a good slap, drink lemonade instead. Go out and buy a first-rate ceiling fan. Make certain never to step on one of the crickets that may have taken refuge in a dark corner of your living room, or your luck will change for the worse. Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool, fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon.

It is Gideon Barnes's intention to ignore August completely and sleep for four weeks, refusing to wake up until September, when life is settled and school has already begun. But less than a week into this difficult month, his mother informs him that she's getting married, to some guy Gideon has been only dimly aware of.

They'll be moving several miles down the Turnpike, which means that Gideon will be going to a new school, along with the three new siblings he'll meet at a dinner his mother is giving next weekend. Afraid of what her son's reaction might be, Jeannie Barnes has put this announcement off for some time, but now that she's told him, Gideon only nods. He thinks it over while his mother nervously waits for a response, and finally he says, "Great, Mom. I'm happy for you."

Jeannie Barnes can't believe she's heard correctly, but she doesn't have time to ask Gideon to repeat himself, because he ducks into his room and thirty seconds later he's gone. He's out of there, pronto, just as he's going to be in five years, only then it will be for real. Then he'll be at Berkeley or UCLA, instead of racing down the Turnpike, desperate to be gone. He's driven by instinct; there's no need to think, because inside he knows where he wants to be. He arrives at Kylie's house less than ten minutes later, drenched with sweat, and finds her sitting on an old Indian bedspread under the crab apple tree, drinking a glass of iced tea. They haven't seen each other since Kylie's birthday, yet when Gideon looks at her she is unbelievably familiar. The arch of her neck, her shoulders, her lips, the shape of her hands, Gideon sees all this and his throat goes dry. He must be an idiot to feel this way, but there's nothing he can do. He doesn't even know if he can manage to speak.

It is so hot the birds aren't flying, so humid not a single bee can rise into the air. Kylie is startled to see Gideon; the ice cube she's been crunching on drops out of her mouth and slides down her knee. She pays no attention to it. She doesn't notice the plane flying above, or the caterpillar making its way across the bedspread, or the fact that her skin feels even hotter than it did a minute ago.

"Let's see how fast I can put you in check," Gideon says. He has his chessboard with him, the old wooden one his father gave him on his eighth birthday.

Kylie bites down on her lip, considering. "Ten bucks to the winner," she says.

"Sure." Gideon grins. He has shaved his head again, and his scalp is as smooth as a stone. "I could use the cash."

Gideon flops down on the grass beside Kylie, but he can't quite bring himself to look at her. She may think this is just a game they're about to play, but it's much more. If Kylie doesn't go for the jugular, if she doesn't pull out all her best moves, he'll know they're not friends anymore. He doesn't want it to be that way, but if they can't be their true selves with each other, they might as well walk away now.

This sort of test can make a person nervous, and it's not until Kylie is considering her third move that Gideon has the guts to look at her. Her hair isn't as blond as it was. Maybe she dyed it, or maybe the blond stuff washed out; it's a pretty color now, like honey.

"Looking at something?" Kylie says when she catches him staring.

"Die," Gideon says, and he moves his bishop.

He takes her glass of iced tea and gulps some of it down, the way he used to do when they were friends.

"My sentiments exactly," Kylie says right back.

She has a big smile on her face and her chipped tooth shows. She knows what he's thinking, but then, who wouldn't? He's about as transparent as a piece of glass. He wants it all to be the same and all to have changed. Well, who doesn't? The difference between him and Kylie is that she already knows they can't have it both ways, whereas Gideon still hasn't a clue.

"I missed you." Kylie's voice is offhand.

"Yeah, right." When Gideon looks up he sees that she's staring at him. Quickly, he shifts his gaze to the place where the lilacs used to grow. There are only some twiggy-looking things with black bark. On each twig is a row of tiny thorns so sharp even the ants don't dare to come near.

"What the hell happened to your yard?" Gideon asks.

Kylie looks over at the branches. They're growing so quickly they'll reach the height of a good-sized apple tree before long. But for now they seem harmless, just wispy shoots of brambles. It's so easy to ignore what grows in one's own garden; look away for too long and anything can turn up—a vine, a weed, a hedge of thorns.

"My mom cut the lilacs down. Too much shade." Kylie bites down harder on her lip. "Check."

She's taken Gideon by surprise, moving a pawn he hadn't paid much attention to. She's got him surrounded, allowing him one last turn out of kindness before she moves in for the kill.

"You're going to win," Gideon says.

"That's right," Kylie says. The expression on his face makes her feel like crying, but she's not going to lose on purpose. She just can't do that.

Gideon makes the only move he can—sacrificing his queen—but it's not enough to save him, and when Kylie puts him in checkmate, he salutes her. This is what he wanted, but he's all confused anyway.

"Do you have the ten with you?" Kylie asks, even though she couldn't care less.

"Over at my place," Gideon says.

"We don't want to go there."

On this they both agree. Gideon's mother never leaves them alone, she's constantly asking if they want something to eat or drink; maybe she figures if she leaves them alone for a second they'll find themselves in big trouble.

"You can owe me until tomorrow," Kylie says. "Bring it over then."

"Let's just go for a walk," Gideon suggests. He looks at her then, finally. "Let's get out of here for a while."

Kylie pours the rest of the iced tea on the grass and leaves the old bedspread where it is. She doesn't care if Gideon isn't like anyone else. He has so much energy and so many ideas percolating inside his head that a band of orange light rises off him. There's no point being afraid to see people for who they really are, because every once in a while you see into someone like Gideon. Deception and dishonesty are alien to him; sooner or later he'll have to take a crash course in the ABCs of bullshit to ensure that he won't get eaten alive out in the world he's so anxious to get into.

"My mom's getting married to some guy, and we're moving to the other side of the Turnpike." Gideon coughs once, as if something had stuck in his throat. "I've got to switch schools. Lucky me. I get to matriculate with an entire building full of shit-eating imbeciles."

"School doesn't matter." Kylie scares herself when she gets so sure of things. Right now, for instance, she is absolutely certain Gideon won't find a better friend than the one he's found in her. She'd bet her savings on it, and still be willing to add her clock radio and the bracelet Gillian gave her for her birthday into the bargain.

They've begun to walk down the street, in the direction of the YMCA field.

"Where I go to school doesn't matter?" Gideon is pleased and he doesn't know quite why. Maybe it's just that Kylie doesn't seem to think they'll see each other any less—that's what he hopes she believes. "You're sure about that?"

"Positive," Kylie tells him. "One hundred percent."

When they get to the field they'll find shade and green grass and they'll have time to think things over. For a moment, as they turn the corner, Kylie has the feeling that she should stay in her own yard. She looks back at the house. By morning they'll be gone, on their way to the aunts'. They've tried to talk Gillian into coming along, but she simply refuses.

"You couldn't pay me to go. Well, I'd agree to do it for a million bucks, but nothing less." That's what she's told them. "And even then you'd have to break both my kneecaps so I couldn't leap out of the car and run away. You'd have to anesthetize me, maybe perform a lobotomy, and I'd still recognize the street and jump out the window before you pulled up to the house."

Although the aunts have no idea that Gillian is east of the Rockies, Kylie and Antonia both insist they'll be devastated when they discover how near Gillian is and that she chose not to visit.

"Believe me," Gillian tells the girls, "the aunts won't care if I'm there or not. They didn't then and they certainly wouldn't now. They'll say, 'Gillian who?' if you mention my name. I'll bet they don't remember what I look like. We could probably pass on the street and be nothing more than strangers. Do not worry about the aunts and me. Our relationship is just what we want it to be—absolute and utter zero, and we like it that way."

And so tomorrow they'll be leaving for vacation without Gillian. They'll fix a picnic lunch of cream cheese and olive sandwiches, pita pockets stuffed with salad, Thermoses filled with lemonade and iced tea. They'll pack up the car the way they do every August, and get on the highway before seven, to avoid traffic. Only this year Antonia has vowed she will cry all the way to Massachusetts. She's already confided to Kylie that she doesn't know what she'll do when Scott goes back to Cambridge. She'll probably spend most of her time studying, since she needs to get into a school somewhere in the Boston area, Boston College, maybe, or, if she can get her grades up, Brandeis. On the trip to the aunts' she'll insist on stopping at rest areas to buy postcards, and after they've settled into the aunts' house she plans to spend every morning lying on a scratchy wool blanket set out in the garden. She'll rub sunscreen on her shoulders and legs, then she'll get to work, and when Kylie looks over at the message her sister is writing to Scott she'll see I love you scrawled a dozen different times.

This year, Gillian will wave good-bye to them from the front porch, if she isn't already moved in to Ben Frye's house by then. She's been moving in slowly, afraid that Ben will go into shock when he realizes she has a zillion and one bad habits; it won't take long before he notices that she never rinses out her cereal bowls or bothers to make the bed. Sooner or later he'll discover that the ice cream is always disappearing from the freezer because Gillian is feeding it to Buddy as a special treat. He'll see that Gillian's sweaters often are crumpled into balls of wool and chenille on the floor of a closet or under the bed. And if Ben grows disgusted, if he should decide to kick her out, say good-bye, rethink his options, well, then let him. There's no marriage license and no commitment, and Gillian wants to keep it like that. Options, that's what she's always wanted. A way out.

"I want you to understand one thing," she's told Kylie. "You're still my favorite kid. In fact, if I'd had a daughter I would have wanted her to be you."

Kylie was so stricken by love and admiration that she almost felt guilty enough to admit that she'd been the one who'd had all those anchovy pizzas delivered to Ben's house, back when she'd felt so betrayed; she'd been the one who'd put ashes in Gillian's shoes. But some secrets are best kept to oneself, particularly when they cover up a silly act of childish pique. So Kylie said nothing, not even about how much she would miss Gillian. She hugged her aunt and then helped load up another box of clothes to haul over to Ben's place.

"More clothes!" Ben held a hand to his forehead as though his closets couldn't stand any more additions, but Kylie could see how delighted he was. He reached into the box and pulled out some black lace panty hose, and with three quick knots he turned them into a dachshund. Kylie was so surprised that she applauded.

Gillian had arrived with another box—this one filled with shoes—which she balanced on her hip so she could applaud as well. "You see why I fell for him," she whispered to Kylie. "How many men can do that?"

When they leave in the morning, Gillian will wave until they turn the corner, and then, Kylie is sure, she'll drive over to Ben's. By then they'll be headed for Massachusetts; they'll start to sing along with the radio, just as they always do. There's never any question about how they will spend their summer vacation, so why is it that Kylie suddenly has the notion that they may not even carry their suitcases out to the car?

Walking to the field with Gideon on this clear hot day, Kylie tries to imagine leaving for the aunts', and she can't. Usually she can picture every part of vacation, from packing up to watching rainstorms from the safety of the aunts' porch, but today when she tries to envision their week in Massachusetts, it all comes up blank. And then, when Kylie looks back at her house, she has the strangest feeling. The house seems lost to her in some way, as though she were looking at a memory, a place she used to live in and will never forget but one she can't go back to, not anymore.

Kylie stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, and Gideon automatically reaches out, in case she falls.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Kylie thinks about her mother, cooking in the kitchen, her black hair tied back, so that no one would ever guess how thick and beautiful it is. She thinks about the nights when she was feverish and her mother sat beside her in the dark, with cool hands and cups of water. She thinks of those times when she locked herself in the bathroom because she was too tall, and her mother calmly spoke to her from the other side of the door without once calling her foolish or silly or vain. Most of all, she remembers that day when Antonia was pushed down in the park and the white swans, spooked by the commotion, spread their wings and flew right toward Kylie. She can remember the look on her mother's face as Sally ran across the grass, waving her arms and shouting so fiercely the swans didn't dare to come closer. Instead, they rose into the air, flying so low to the pond that their wings broke the water into ripples, and they never returned, not ever, not once.

If Kylie continues to walk along this leafy street, things will never be the same. She feels this as deeply as she's ever felt anything. She's stepping over a crack in the concrete into her own future, and there won't be any going back. The sky is cloudless and white with heat. Most people are inside, with fans or air conditioners turned to high. Kylie knows that it's hot in the kitchen where her mother is fixing a special dinner for tonight. Vegetarian lasagna and green bean salad with almonds, and cherry cheesecake for dessert, all homemade. Antonia has invited her sweetie pie, Scott, to a farewell meal, since she'll be gone for a whole week, and Ben Frye will be there, and Kylie just may ask Gideon as well. These thoughts make Kylie feel sad—not the dinner, but the image of her mother at the stove. Her mom always purses her lips when she's reading a recipe; she reads it twice, out loud, to ensure that she won't make any mistakes. The sadder Kylie feels, the more convinced she is that she shouldn't turn back. She's been waiting all summer to feel like this, she's been waiting to encounter her future, and she's not going to wait a second longer, no matter whom she has to leave behind.

"Race you," Kylie says, and she takes off running; she's down the block before Gideon comes to his senses and charges after her. Kylie is amazingly fast, she always has been, although now she doesn't seem even to be touching the ground. Following her, Gideon wonders if he'll ever catch up, but of course he will, if only because Kylie wilt throw herself onto the grass at the far end of the field, where the tall, leafy maples cast deep pools of shade.

To Kylie these trees are comforting and familiar, but to anyone accustomed to the desert, to a man who's used to seeing for miles, past the saguaro and the purple dusk, these maples can seem like a mirage, rising above the green field from out of the heat waves and the rich, dark soil. Natives say that more lightning occurs in Tucson, Arizona, than anywhere else on earth; if you've grown up close to the desert you can easily chart a storm by the location of the lightning; you know how long you have before you'd better call in your dog, and see to your horse, and get yourself under a safe, grounded roof.

Lightning, like love, is never ruled by logic. Accidents happen, and they always will. Gary Hallet is personally acquainted with two men who've been hit by lightning and have lived to tell the tale, and that's who he's been thinking about as he navigates the Long Island Expressway at rush hour, then tries to find his way through a maze of suburban streets, passing the Y field when he makes a wrong turn off the Turnpike. Gary went to school with one of these survivors, a boy who was only seventeen at the time he was hit, and it messed up his life from that day on. He walked out of his house, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled out in the driveway, staring up at the indigo sky. The fireball had passed right through him, and his hands were as charred as a grilled steak. He heard a clattering, like keys being jangled or somebody drumming, and it took a while for him to realize that he was shaking so hard the sound he was hearing was being made by his bones as they hit against the asphalt.

This fellow graduated from high school the same year Gary did, but only because the teachers let him pass through his courses out of kindness. He'd been a terrific shortstop and was hoping for a try at the minors, but now he was too nervous for that. He would no longer play baseball out on the field. Too much open space. Too much of a chance he'd be the tallest thing around if lightning should decide to strike twice. That was the end for him; he wound up working in a movie theater, selling tickets and sweeping up popcorn and refusing to give any patrons their money back if they didn't like the film they'd paid to see.

The other guy who was hit was even more affected; lightning changed his life and every single thing about it. It lifted him up, right off his feet, and spun him around, and by the time it set him back on the ground, he was ready for just about anything. This man was Gary's grandfather, Sonny, and he spoke about being struck by what he called "the white snake" every single day until the day he died, two years ago, at the age of ninety-three. Long before Gary had ever come to live with him, Sonny had been out in the yard where the cottonwoods grew, and he'd been so drunk he didn't notice the oncoming storm. Being drunk was his natural state at that point. He couldn't recall what it felt like to be sober, and that alone was enough of a reason for him to figure he'd better go on avoiding it, at least until they put him in his grave. Maybe then he'd consider abstinence; but only if a good foot of dirt had been shoveled on top of him, to keep him in the ground and out of the package store over on Speedway.

"There I was," he told Gary, "minding my own business, when the sky came down and slapped me."

It slapped him and tossed him into the clouds, and for a second he felt he might never come back to earth. He got hit with enough voltage for his clothes to be burned to ashes as he wore them, and if he hadn't had the presence of mind to jump into the scummy green pond where he kept two pet ducks, he'd have burned up alive. His eyebrows never grew back, and he never again had to shave, but after that day he never had a drink again. Not a single shot of whiskey. Not one short, cold beer. Sonny Hallet stuck to coffee, never less than two pots of thick, black stuff a day, and because of this he was ready, willing, and able to take Gary in when his parents couldn't care for him any longer.

Gary's parents were well intentioned, but young and addicted to trouble and alcohol; they both ended up dead long before they should have. Gary's mother had been gone for a year when the news came through about his father, and that very day Sonny walked into the courthouse downtown and announced to the county clerk that his son and daughter-in-law had killed themselves—which was more or less the truth, if you consider a drinking-related death a suicide—and that he wished to become Gary's legal guardian.

As Gary drives through this suburban neighborhood, he's thinking that his grandfather wouldn't have liked this area of New York much. Lightning could come up and surprise you here. There are too many buildings, they're endless, they block out what you ought to see which, in Sonny's opinion, and in Gary's as well, should always be the sky.

Gary is working on a preliminary inquiry begun by the attorney general's office, where he's been an investigator for seven years. Before that he had a background of wrong choices. He was tall and lanky and could have considered basketball as a possibility, but although he was dogged enough, he didn't have the raw aggression needed for professional sports. In the end, he went back to college, thought about law school, then decided against spending all those years studying in closed rooms. The result is that he's doing what he's best at anyway, which is figuring things out. What sets him apart from most of his colleagues is that he likes murder. He likes it so well that his friends rib him and call him the Mexican Turkey Vulture, a carrion creature that hunts by scent. Gary doesn't mind the kidding and he doesn't mind that most people have an easy answer that allows them to believe they've gotten a fix on the reason why he's so interested in homicide. They point straight to his family history—his mother died of liver failure, and his father probably would have done so as well, if he hadn't been murdered first, over in New Mexico. The fellow who did it never was found, and, frankly, nobody seemed to look very hard for him. But the circumstances of Gary's past aren't what drives him, no matter what his friends think. It's figuring out the why of things; the final factor that makes a person act can be so damn elusive, but you can always find some motivation, if you look hard enough. The wrong word said at the wrong time, a gun in the wrong hand, the wrong woman who kisses you just right. Money, love, or fury—those are the causes for most everything. You can usually uncover the truth, or a version of it at any rate, if you ask enough questions; if you close your eyes and imagine the way it might have been, how you might have reacted if you'd had enough, if you just couldn't find it in you to care anymore.