Mabon

Janet E. Sever

“The witch is at it again.” Helen peered out her second story bedroom window into the backyard next door. She rubbed white hyacinth-scented moisturizer into her face.

“Really?” Her husband put his hand on her shoulder, kneading it slightly, and smiling, looked out over her head. A six-foot board fence separated their property from the neighbor’s, but from the second floor it was easy to see into the other yard.

Helen shook off Evan’s hand. “Isn’t that against the association covenants or something?”

“Helen, people can do what they want in their own backyard.” He opened the slats of the blinds to get a better view. A full moon illuminated everything clearly.

“That is just disgusting.” She looked out the window again, watched as a couple carried Tupperware containers through the gate and placed them on a picnic table already overloaded with fruit, bread and cheese.

“What’s so disgusting about people having a party?” He squinted. “Hey, is that Margery Edelman, Heather’s teacher?”

Helen smacked his hand from the blind, and he stepped back. Soft guitar music and laughter drifted up from next door.

“Close the window.”

“C’mon Helen, it’s a nice night.” It was a cool, late September evening, so welcome after the oppressive heat and humidity of a Mississippi summer, and one of the first days they’d been able to have the windows open.

“I don’t care if it is a nice night, we don’t need to hear the goings-on over there, much less watch them.” Helen peered into the magnified mirror and carefully tweezed a stray hair from her left eyebrow. “Besides, why have air-conditioning if you’re not going to use it?”

“I don’t get why it makes you so mad.” He unbuttoned his top shirt-button.

“Don’t get undressed in here. If you’re going to do that, go into the bathroom.”

He sighed, buttoning back up again.

“I just think it’s ridiculous.” Helen soothed lotion on her bare legs. “We pay all of this money for a nice house in the best subdivision in the county, and we’re stuck with that eyesore next door. And degenerate parties to boot.”

“It looks like a potluck supper.”

“Well, it’s pretty damn late in the evening for a potluck supper, and in the middle of the week, yet.” Helen creamed her hands. “Do you have a copy of the Elysian Acres covenants? I bet it’s against the rules for them to be having loud parties in the middle of the week.”

“Doesn’t seem that loud to me.”

“It makes me furious,” she said, savagely stabbing at her nails, pushing back her cuticles. “The understanding was that everyone was going to tear down the old houses and build one of the Elysian designs. We play by the rules. Everyone else plays by the rules, but not little miss, miss . . . witch over there.”

Evan leaned back against the pillows on the bed.

“If you’re going to sit there, move those pillows. They’re not for lounging and I don’t want them all squashed out of shape like the last ones.”

Evan got up and piled the lacy poufs on the chair.

“She blows into town, buys the eyesore and slaps on a coat of paint, instead of tearing it down and building something nice like normal people. She’s got those weed patches all over the place, calls them herb gardens. Hmmmph. You tell Mr. Garcia to just drive right over those weeds.”

“I am not going to tell our yard man to mow down her flowers.”

“They are not flowers, they’re weeds!” Helen fairly spat the words.  “And they violate the Elysian Acres covenants. I looked it up.”

“I know you did, and you contacted the board, and what did they tell you?” Evan looked at her over the tops of his eyeglasses.

“You know damn well what they told me. She’s not subject to the covenants, because she didn’t buy a house from Elysian Acres. The rest of us have nice Neo-Colonial Revival houses and she’s got . . .she’s got . . .”

“. . . a cute little 20’s bungalow on a nice big lot. Give it up, Helen, you’re not going to win this one.”

“Weed patches. Crazy parties. You know, I think she’s from Seattle or Austin, one of those kooky places. Maybe even New York City.” Helen dabbed nighttime repair gel under her eyes. “You know, I ran into her the other day at the market. She had on one of those flowing hippie skirts she wears . . . and she was barefoot! That’s just not sanitary.”

“It’s an outdoor market.”

“I don’t care. And you know what else? She doesn’t shave her legs or her underarms. She raised her hand to wave at Gabby Rojas and I saw hair, plain as day, in her armpit. There is nothing feminine about that.”

“She’s a little thick in the waist . . . but I think she’s pretty.” Evan smiled. “She’s been nothing but nice to me.”

“Oh, please. She never wears makeup, and she brews her own perfumes and teas—supposedly--from her weed patches. She is far too . . . too earthy for Elysian Acres, for this whole town, in fact.”

“She seems to have a lot of friends.”

Helen stood up and motioned for Evan to get off the bed. She flipped the comforter back and sprayed linen spray on the sheets; the room filled with the scent of faux lavender and vanilla and raspberries. “She only seems to have a lot of friends because she’s always bringing stuff for bake sales, volunteering at the school, helping plan the July 4^th parade . . . Of course, she has time for that sort of thing since she doesn’t bother going to work like the rest of us.”

Evan, ousted from his perch on the bed, went back to the window. “Wow. There’s a lot of people over there.”

“There better not be any church-going people over there, that’s for sure.”

“I think she might be a Unitarian.”

“Betty Kilgore told me that the witch ran into Reeva Styles in the grocery store and the witch told her she was pregnant.”

“The witch or Reeva?”

“The witch told Reeva that Reeva was pregnant. Pay attention, Evan! Turns out, she was right, Reeva was pregnant, and had no idea.”

“Pretty neat trick.”

“Trick is right. She tells fortunes, shuffles tarot cards, and even brews up love potions. I bet she’s got a Ouija board over there.  Vince Mulgrew has been sweet on Sally Ann Raeford since we were all in kindergarten together, and he supposedly got the witch to make him up a potion. I saw their engagement announcement in the paper last week.”

“So the magic works, huh?” Evan looked out the window again. “Hey, Sally Ann and Vince are both over there right now. So’s Reeva and her husband.”

“It’s not magic. It’s a trick. Or if it is magic, it’s the bad kind, from the devil himself.”

“Helen, when did you get so religious?”

“When a witch moved in next door, Evan. And you should take this more seriously, mister.” Helen poked him in the chest and went into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door. Evan was left staring into his neighbor’s yard.

When Helen emerged, she wore her flannel nightgown, and her hair, smelling of chemicals, was covered with a net cap. Evan motioned her over to the window. “Look,” he whispered. He tried to put his arm around his wife, but she pushed him away.

Their friends and neighbors were carefully removing their clothes, folding them up neatly and piling it on the benches of the picnic tables. Helen was stuck by how casual they were, how brazen. “My God,” she whispered, “an orgy, right there in her back yard.”

The group grasped hands around the picnic table. Helen was surprised at how many people were there, people she’d known her whole life, and even many of her neighbors here from Elysian Acres, all naked, holding each others’ hands tightly. The prayer was long and solemn, and at the end, everyone lifted their still-clenched hands over their heads and looked up at the moon. They clapped enthusiastically, moved out into the open area, and began to dance.

“It’s beautiful, in its way,” Evan whispered in her ear. His chin was at her shoulder, and he reached around her waist, pulling her against his body.

“Evan, will you let go of me!” He dropped his hands and she took two steps away from him. “Oh, the board is going to hear about this. I think I may have to call the police.”

“The police are there,” Evan said mildly. “That’s Sheriff Watkins, right there, dancing with Eloise McCoy.”

Helen stood at the window, opening and closing her mouth several times, but no sound came.

She looked out again, over the fence and into her neighbor’s big lot, observed the people dancing, naked in the moonlight.

“We’re calling a real estate agent tomorrow,” she finally said.

When there was no reply, she turned around, but Evan was no longer in the room. “Evan,” she called. “Evan!”

She looked back down at the ground below, and saw dark blotches and patches of white, a trail leading from her own yard to her neighbor’s house. Was that a sock? And another? Was that a blue shirt? She couldn’t tell. Yes, that was an undershirt, a pair of khaki pants . . . white boxers, lying in the grass in front of her neighbor’s gate.

And there was Evan, naked under the full golden moon, cavorting with the witch next door.

Janet Sever lives in Irving, Texas. She tries to fit writing into the free moments between working at her insurance company job and caring for her 3 dogs. Janet's work has appeared in The Foliate Oak, Southern Fried Weirdness, Children, Churches and Daddies, and Barbaric Yawp.