F. Wilson: Secret Histories

woods; they’d park their pickups at the end of Quakerton Road where it dead-ended at the edge of the Pines and sel their applejack. They transported it

in big jugs and customers had to bring their own bottle—or in Walt’s case, bottles—to be fil ed.

Nearly everybody in Johnson had at least one bottle of applejack in the house, and it was an ongoing argument as to who made the best—Gus Sooy or

Lester Appleton.

Walt must have gone over to get his bottles fil ed and run into Teddy and Joey on the way back. Mrs. Clevenger must have been close behind him.

Wel , wherever she came from, Jack was glad she’d arrived when she did.

He looked back and saw the pair turning the corner onto the block where Walt lived with his sister and brother-in-law.

“There goes an odd couple,” he said.

Weezy nodded. “Way odder than Oscar and Felix. She wears that same scarf day in and day out, and he wears gloves no matter how hot it gets.”

“You believe she’s a witch?” Jack said as they headed back to their bikes, and immediately realized Weezy was probably the wrong person to ask.

“Could be. She’s hard to explain. I mean, how did she know about the box?”

Remembering that caused a trickle of uneasiness to go down Jack’s spine.

“I don’t know, but should we fol ow her advice?”

Weezy looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown a second nose and a third eye. “Are you kidding me? Go back and bury it? No way! Even if she is a

witch.”

Obviously he’d struck a nerve. No surprise, though.

“Wel , I don’t believe in witches, but did you hear her threaten Teddy with a spel ?”

“So? I can threaten you with a spel , Jack. Doesn’t mean I can cast one.”

“Yeah, wel , maybe she just pretends to be a witch. She’s already got the Clevenger name. Maybe letting the more superstitious folks around here think

she’s the Witch of the Pines come back from the dead works for her somehow.”

She and her dog had moved into Old Town a dozen or so years ago. Her mysterious ways—disappearing for months at a time and then suddenly

around every day, wandering through the Pines at night—had started some folks whispering that she was real y Peggy Clevenger, the famous Witch of the

Pines. But how could that be? Everybody knew how the real Peggy Clevenger’s decapitated body had been found in her burned-out cabin back in the

1800s.

Weezy shrugged. “Could be.” She gave Jack a sidelong look. “You know they say Peggy’s body wanders the Barrens at night looking for her head. But

I’m just wondering …”

“Wondering what?”

“What if she found it and put it back on?”

Jack laughed. “Come on! Even you don’t believe that.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But how do you explain Mrs. Clevenger’s

ever-present scarf? Why would she wear it on a hot day like this?” Weezy dropped into her ooh-spooky voice. “Unless she’s hiding the seam where she

reattached her head.”

Jack picked up his bike and waited for Weezy to knock back her kickstand. “You gotta be kidding me.”

She looked at him with those big, dark, black-rimmed eyes. “Okay, fine. Your

turn then: Give me another explanation for the scarf.”

Jack couldn’t come up with one. Not for lack of trying. He real y wanted another

explanation. Because he didn’t like Weezy’s one bit.

6

Jack spent the afternoon at USED.

The best thing about the job was he hardly ever did the same thing two days in

a row. One day he’d spend dusting al the antiques and just plain junk; the next he’d supply a third or fourth hand to help Mr. Rosen fix an old clock;

another he’d wind al the clocks and watches—not too far—and make sure they were set to the right time. Today he was helping Mr. Rosen pretty up some

antique oak furniture he’d just bought—a rol top desk and a round table with cool lion paws at the ends of its legs.

The old man’s fingers weren’t as steady as he’d have liked, so he oversaw Jack

as he used a stain-soaked Q-tip to darken scratches in the old wood.

After the stain dried, Jack would polish the surface.

For his time and effort he was paid $3.50 an hour—not a princely sum, but

fifteen cents above minimum wage. Mr. Rosen had offered him the extra if Jack would save him al the government paperwork by taking cash. Fine with

Jack, because that in turn saved him the trouble of finding his birth certificate and applying for a Social Security number.

He supplemented the USED money by mowing lawns, but that was always

subject to the whims of weather—not enough rain and the grass didn’t grow, which meant no mowing; too much rain and the wet grass clogged the mower.

He liked the reliability of the weekly cash from USED.

Not that he had much in the way of expenses. He’d go to the movies—he

planned on seeing ReturnoftheJedi for a fourth time this weekend—or rent sci-fi or horror films on videocassette. He liked to keep up with certain comics

like Cerebus and Ronin and SwampThing, but he’d lost interest in most of the titles he used to love—especial y ones with characters in tights. Occasional y

he’d buy a record album if he liked it enough. His latest had been

Prince’s 1999; he’d probably buy Synchronicity by the Police next. Dad had insisted he find a part-time job that would, in his words, “al ow you

enough time to enjoy the summer but help you learn the value of a dol ar.” Wel , fine. But Jack would have found one anyway because he wasn’t

comfortable with an al owance —given money didn’t feel like it was real y his. But the money he earned—that belonged to him and him alone.

The phone rang and Jack hustled over to pick it up.

“USED.”

“Yes, hel o,” said an accented voice. “This is Professor Nakamura. May I speak to

Mister Rosen, please?”

He handed over the phone and listened while Mr. Rosen talked about Carnival

Glass, then moved the conversation to the “artifact” he and Weezy had found.

“You say you’l be around tomorrow morning?” he said into the phone, then

pointed to Jack, who nodded vigorously.

Yeah, they could make it.

“Fine. I’l send them over around ten o’clock.”

Yes! Now they’d get some answers.

He hoped.

7

Jack kept a careful watch for his brother as he sat at the kitchen counter and shel ed his pistachios. He had a pile of sixteen. Four to go. No sign of Tom,

but he had this strange sensation of being watched. He looked around and saw no one. Was he getting paranoid?

Mom had MyFairLady playing on the stereo. Of al the soundtracks, that was probably his favorite. He loved the melodies, but the lyrics were

outstanding.

He was thinking about the meeting with this professor tomorrow, and about what he might say, when he knocked half a dozen unshel ed pistachios off

the counter. As he squatted to gather them up he saw a shadow swoop by. Before he could react, Tom had scooped up the shel ed pistachios and tossed

them into his mouth. Without breaking stride or even looking around, he hit the back door and was outside before Jack could get over his shock and

react.

Rage blazed. He looked at the cutlery drawer and imagined himself grabbing one of the Ginsu knives his father had bought from the TV last year and

chasing after Tom. But what would he do when he caught him—cut off his hands?

Nice fantasy, but …

Calming himself, Jack sat and stared at the spot where his pistachios had sat. How’d that expression go? Foolmeonce,shameonyou…foolme