“Line up from tallest to shortest,” I say. Just in case the “high” and “low” bits also refer to their heights.
They oblige me, amazingly enough.
“Now, together, cross over Grandma’s grave twice,” I instruct.
“And the boom box?”
“I assumed you’d prefer to do this to music,” I say dryly.
“Yes, weweregoing to learn this wonderful new dance Carol discovered in Tampa.” They put on “the Conga.” I shake my head, watching thewitches as they figure out how to arrange their hands on each other’s shoulders and wiggle their feet under the robes in a dance-suggestive manner. “Let’s go, merry ladies!”
“No one saysmerryanymore, Joanna,” chides the tiger-paw witch.
“Shh, shh!”
I rest my hand on Grandma’s headstone.
This is what she wanted, I think. It makes sense. These were her people.
“Goodbye, Grandma,” I say.
Something happens. A breeze picks up, first catching in the bare-branched ash tree beside us, stirring the dead leaves at its roots. Then it moves, carrying over me, drawing with it leaves and black silk flowers and a phantom touch of human warmth.
The wind feels like a frail but wiry hug. Clinging to me with all its strength, just for a moment, as my nostrils fill with that combination of catnip and thorny rose lotion. I feel love—a love I’d forgotten. Not a perfect one, but a real one. It wasthere.
It washer.
The witches dance on, cackling as they trip over each other’s hems. And I don’t need to wipe my eyes or anything as the breeze dies down, and the leaves and flowers settle, and I sense Grandma Rose serenely drift away.
In Salem, Halloween requires forging the rivers of postapocalyptic humanity in order to perform basic survival functions. The downtown has more or less run out of food, same as it’s run out of space. Yet holidaying pilgrims only keep spilling out from trains and buses like sewage. It’s impossible to tell who’s wearing costumes or regular clothes. All is black. All is dire. Gone from the air is the tang of fall and pumpkin spice. The smell of rotten pumpkins, marijuana, tobacco, and dollar-store incense permeates all.
In spite of that, the skipping continues, as I cross block after block ofredbrick roads to Salem Station. My miserable, Grandma Rose–induced sham-life is over. Obviously, I’m happy about it. My inner being isradiant. It doesn’t matter if anyone else here understands how joyful it is to say goodbye to this place. I can lean into it. I’ve earned that much, damn it.
“Good effing bye,” I mutter at every crosswalk, dragging my things behind me one final time. “I hate you, stupid crossing light. You’re never long enough. Oh, and you, tree root. I see you there, trying to trip everyone. Not having that anymore. Nope. Ow. I’ll get you next time, second tree root.”
While I’m lugging my overstuffed suitcase and my sorely abused duffel to the front of the station, I find myself faced with another feature of Salem I dislike: Baldy.
Baldy?!
There’s no question he’s here waiting for me. His throat-clearing is insufferably loud, and among the hordes, his head shines like a beacon. He really missed his calling as a lighthouse.
“Samantha,” he announces, attempting to flag me down. “Samantha Spük!”
“You’re putting it all behind you,” I tell myself. “All behind. Way behind. You’re throwing it from the caboose.”
Though I admit that if it weren’t Baldy but Hanry here—armed with a grand gesture and romantic overtures—I might be willing to stop walking. As it is, Hanry doesn’t want me. So I have to focus on what matters:finallycatching my train.
“Samantha! Would you stop walking?”
“Grandma’s ascended, and I’m out of here,” I gloat as I pass the lawyer by. “Sic a new spell on me, and I will personally attack you with knives.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Baldy says. He strides to meet my gait with unexpected speed, though I guess that’s necessary in order to push through the station’s crowds. “I do not expect you’ll want to return anytime soon.”
“Nope,” I say, my hackles rising. How dare he peg me so well? “Why are you here?”
“If you would allow it, I thought we might take this opportunity to do some final paperwork. For the next court hearing, in which we will be required to apply for the estate debt to be… Ahem, allow me to cut to the chase. I need your permission to make future hearings virtual.”
I squint, amazed at the restraint. The brevity. The fact that behind Baldy crouches a little shadow amid the station’s landscaped pocket garden, its twitchy shoulders ruffling the dead leaves of a browning hedge. A twig is being poked, repeatedly, into the leg of Baldy’s too-tight trouser pants.
