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Fiction Short Story

by Joyce Finn

Fertile Rumors

George’s clippers snipped at the bedraggled bush almost as fast as his sister, Geraldine, prattled on about the woman who moved in down the street from him. One Emily Malden.

He caught every twentieth word until Geraldine said, “She’s a witch.”

“Utter nonsense.” George bent down and lopped off a wilted rose. “Witches lug around bells, books, and candles, or ride broomsticks across full moons.”

Geraldine told him all her friends at the Beneficial Righteous Aid Society knew down to their support hose that Emily Malden was a witch. “Have I ever been wrong?” trumpeted Geraldine.

“If you’re so sure, why haven’t you called the cops? A priest?” George was still chuckling long after Geraldine left in a snit. He hadn’t had so much fun with his sister since the time she was ten and he hot-wired the toilet seat. THAT was a memory!

Always a doting older sister, she had dismissed every girl he dated as too stingy, or chubby, or chatty, or glum. A few weeks after their conversation, George again asked Geraldine about Emily Malden. Sure they didn’t mean witch with a B?

“Oh, she’s a witch all right. Has to be,” Geraldine said.

“How ‘bout some specifics?”

“Margaret—you know Margaret.”

He shook his head.

“She’s the one who makes that vegetarian lasagne you like.”

Without waiting for him to nod, she continued, “One night Margaret walks her dog past Emily Malden’s house and sees her jabbing a doll over and over with needles. Margaret ran home.” She shot him a knowing look.

He laughed so long and hard Geraldine clattered the lunch dishes into the sink, slammed the kettle onto the stove and flicked the dishcloth over the already spotless counter. “You needn’t make fun of woman’s intuition, George. We see what you men can’t.”

George felt a twinge in his left leg, a sure sign of disaster. “Well, better the devil you know than a witch down the street,” he said as his sister flounced out. That night his aching leg kept him awake. The second time he hobbled to the kitchen for more aspirin he flipped on the TV and watched a rerun of The Exorcist. The next day, just in case Geraldine was right, he nailed a crucifix to his mailbox and draped a set of rosary beads over his front gate.

Every morning, at 7am, he swept the walkway in front of his house. Every morning for two weeks, at 7:45am, Emily Malden strolled past. Soil dribbled from her backpack, snaking a trail behind her. When she passed, he blessed himself and grabbed the broom. Was this some sort of hex sign? Had she heard, somehow, what Geraldine and the other said?

When he told his sister about the soil, Geraldine harrumphed. “See. I told you—daft and dangerous. Watch out!”

George bought a used bible from the Salvation Army Store.

One Friday morning, as he was chopping a grow-as-you-watch wisteria vine, and sweat slithered down his back and slid into his shoes, he heard a cough behind him. Startled, he dropped the clippers, lunged for them and landed in the hedge.

“Beg pardon,” Emily Malden said.

“Oh!” He tumbled out of the hedge and almost into a plate of raisin-oatmeal cookies she was holding.

“I’m new in the neighborhood.”
 
“Oh?” George dusted off the front of his shirt, pulled three twigs out of his hair, one from his left ear, and hoisted up his belt.

“I’ve bought the Reynolds’ house.”

“Reynolds’ House?” He shuffled from foot to foot counting the cookies. Twelve.

“They’ve moved, have they?” This from the man who hoisted box after box of Simon and Eve Reynolds’ belongings until his back collapsed and he hobbled home. He bent forward, nostrils quivering. A hint of cardamom? Oh, heaven. And nutmeg? His belly rumbled and saliva pooled around his tongue. Yes! Nutmeg.

“I was wondering. Well, I’ve noticed you’re always doing chores, and I thought …”

His back stiffened. Here it was. What bargain with Satan would he be forced to make before nibbling one of those heavenly chunks?

She backed away. “What I meant to say …” She dropped her eyes and thrust the plate toward him before wrenching it away. “What was I thinking? I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sorry?” He lowered the clippers. “Sorry for what?”

She turned away.

“Hey, where are you going?” When she swivelled around, he whipped his clippers open, rotated the blades until they formed a cross, and held them in front of him.

“I heard you had a stroke,” she said. “Or was it diabetes and a massive coronary?” She edged away from him.

“Stroke? Diabetes? Me?” He roared. “Who said that?”

Emily stopped. “Geraldine Foster’s your sister, isn’t she?”

“Yesssss, but ... ”

“She said you were on medication that made you,” she hesitated, “how can I say this politely? A bit not quite, well, a bit strange.” She cringed.

“Me? A bit strange! What else did she say?”

Emily eased the gate open. “Errr ... you bit the mailman. Two months ago you caught a Canadian goose on the town common and tried to barbecue it. That you … ”

“She WHAT?”

Emily slid through the gate before facing him. “She said your medications had to be readjusted.”

“I bit a mailman? I cooked a goose?” He jabbed the air with the clippers.

In a voice used to soothe cantankerous children, she continued, “She said the cops made you wear one of those little electronic ankle thingies. Said you were harmless.”

His jaw dropped.

“Mostly harmless,” she whispered.

“If I’m such a damned threat, why …” He nodded at the plate quivering in her hand. She spun around and bolted.

“Wait! Come back!”

She stopped but held the cookies behind her.

George flung the clippers on the lawn. They bounced. “What the hell’s going on?”

Emily burst into tears. “Nothing’s working. The phone. The furnace. The ceiling fans. Nothing. And you being such a pious man.” She patted the mailbox crucifix. “The way you keep blessing yourself. I thought, I just thought …” She put the plate of cookies on the sidewalk, pulled a wad of tissues from her pocket, and honked. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you. Not someone in your condition.”

“Those cookies fresh?”

She blinked. “Why, yes.”

“Can you cook anything else?”

“I once worked as a chef.”

“So—what’s with the bag of soil?”

“I volunteer at St. Margaret’s. It's compost for the church’s rosebushes.” She jammed the tissues up her sleeve and sniffled.

George looked her up and down. Nutmeg, compost, and no husband—a cook, a gardener AND single? If she were a witch, it was high time for bit of enchantment. He walked over to the gate, swung it open, and bowed her back in.


About the Author
Joyce Finn is a Bostonian who has lived in Australia, South Africa, and most recently Bermuda. Her short stories have been published in Canada, Ireland, U.K., Australia and the U.S. One short story was short-listed by the BBC Drama Department and one play performed in Bermuda. Her travel articles have been published in The Robb Report, The Bermudian, as well as other travel magazines and websites.