“Grimoire,” it says.
I stare at the cage. Her back is still to me.
“Maggie, where is your grimoire?”
In true parrot style, she raises her rump and poops.
“Quit being undignified and answer the question.”
She turns around and sways angrily from side to side. “How should I know? I died. Do you know what that’s like? One minute, you’re driving along in the car, laughing with your friend, and the next minute, everything hurts, and people are shattering your ribs—”
“I don’t knowwould’ve been answer enough,” I say. “Was it in the car that day?”
“Again, I don’t remember. I try not to think about it.”
“So what decision did you make that affected other people and had to do with a grimoire?”
She draws herself up with as much chilly hauteur as a pink parrot can accomplish. “I do not answer to you, child. In our current relationship, you have far more power over me than I would prefer, but even if you restrict my freedom or threaten me, you can’t make me tell you anything. I would suggest you worry more about your own problems than about what happened in the past. What’s done is done.”
I look her directly in the eye and pop the tidbit of bacon in my mouth, followed by a big bite of the biscuit. She watches me chew with great longing. I should’ve known my grandmother would be as stubborn as all the other women of her lineage. She’s right, though. I’m not going to threaten her; even if I don’t like my grandmother right now, I’m not the kind of person who would harm an animal under any circumstances.
“Then maybe we just don’t need to talk as much. You can go back to singing musicals, and I’ll figure things out on my own.” I turn my back to her and pick up my dictionary. “Where is Maggie’s grimoire?”
Flip pages, put down my finger. The word?
Below.
Well, that’s not helpful.
Below what?
I look around the kitchen. The only thing below it is the video store. Still, there are several doors I haven’t opened that I’ve just assumed are closets, so I might as well take stock of my new home. Maybe it’s below the fridge, or below the bed, or below a big pile of broomstick skirts—or brooms—in her closet.
I start by opening all the kitchen cabinets, and I’m surprised at how normal everything is, outside of the tea selection, which is truly disturbing.
“Oh my God, did you rob a British grandmother? How many teas do you have?” I ask, holding up a box of Sleepytime tea—one of dozens of such boxes.
“As many as I wanted,” she snaps. “You know, it’s very rude to go through a person’s belongings.”
“First of all, you’re technically not a person. Secondly, everything in here is legally mine. And third, did you think I would move in and not use your cabinets? You need to make the mental leap, Meemaw.”
“I’m not a Meemaw, goddammit!” she squawks. “If you won’t call me Grammy, just call me Maggie, for Pete’s sake.” She sighs. “This isn’t easy. Dying, being a bird, watching someone take over my life. I’m glad you’re here, honey, I am, but it’s hard.”
“Then help me! Give me the information I need to thrive here. If I had your grimoire, I could do magic. If I knew why people didn’t like you, I could get them to likeme.You’re setting me up for failure. You told me I was a witch, showed me one simple spell, and then zipped your sharp little beak.”
“It’s for your own good, I promise.”
I give an exaggerated shrug. “Then I guess I’ll go back to ransacking.”
I open every drawer and cabinet in the kitchen but don’t find anything that looks like a grimoire. Maggie watches me silently, seething. I open a closet and find cleaning products and boxes and cans of food. There’s a stick vacuum and a broom, but not a cool, witchy broom. It doesn’t even smell like cinnamon. I hold itup.
“Is this a witch thing? Can I ride it and fly around?”
She snorts. “A green plastic broom? No. Why would you want to ride a broom, anyway?”
Finally, we’re on the same page. “Right? Like, wouldn’t it feel like the wedgie you get from a bad thong? If you sat sidesaddle, you’d hurt your back. And in the olden days, with wooden brooms? Splinters for days.”
I move on to the bedroom.
