M Sellars: Harm none

“So Mote It Be,” the members of the circle solemnly chimed.

Devon looked slowly around the circle, resting his cold gaze for a moment upon each member of the coven; finally, leveling it once again on Ariel’s face.

“You’re going to wish you never did this, Ariel,” he said. “Fuck you… Fuck all of you.”

Blue-white wisps curled upward from the lit end of a tight roll of tobacco that was hooked under my index finger. I took a lazy puff and rolled the spicy smoke around on my tongue before blowing it outward into an evenly spreading cloud that wafted about on the warm breeze. Then, with a lazy stretch, I rested my forearm across my knee and contemplated the slowly growing ash on the end of the cigar.

It had been more than six months since my last cigarette, so my wife, Felicity, was none too excited when I decided to revive my old habit of cigar smoking. As I am not one to do things halfway, these weren’t the greenish, dried out logs you pick up at the local stop’n’grab. Not at all. My humidor was filled with rich, Maduro-wrapped symbols of masculinity available only from a good tobacco shop. Inevitably, with such quality there comes a price, and said price served simply to provide Felicity with yet another reason to harbor disdain for the habit.

Of course, with any marriage-well, good ones anyway-there is a generous amount of compromise. The “compromise” that had been reached in ours was something on the order of a matter-of-fact statement from my headstrong wife of, “If you’re going to smoke those things anyway, you’re going to do it outside!” After eight years with this auburn-haired, second generation Irish-American dynamo on a five-foot-four frame, I had learned to cut my losses and run; for as much as she hated to admit it, Felicity fit neatly into the stereotype of the tempestuous, Irish redhead. Though her singsong accent was normally faint-unless she was tired, angry, or had been in close proximity to her relatives, whereupon it became very pronounced-her stubbornness and temper were with her 24/7.

In this particular instance, however, the fact that there was no way she was about to let me in the door with a lit cigar was only one of a trio of reasons I had for being parked on the cement stairs of our modest, suburban Saint Louis home this warm, late summer’s evening. The second and most important reason for smoking outside was that we had only recently discovered that Felicity was six weeks pregnant. The third-I was waiting for someone.

Earlier in the day, I had received a phone call from my long time cohort, Ben Storm, a detective with the Saint Louis City police department. Since he had a tendency to work somewhat bizarre hours, I was pleasantly surprised when he suggested that he drop by this evening for an impromptu drink to congratulate us on our impending family addition. I was more than agreeable to the idea; unfortunately, the tone of his voice told me there was an underlying, less social reason for the visit. His inflection only confirmed a suspicion that had been nagging at me for nearly two days now.

Late Wednesday night I had received a short, cryptic call from a distracted and extremely official sounding version of my friend. He had been seeking information about the meaning of a religious symbol known as a Pentacle. Though I knew he was perfectly aware of my religious practices, I was mildly amazed he had equated me with the emblem. In keeping with his official demeanor that night, as soon as I finished giving him the requested details, he abruptly ended the call with curt politeness.

When we spoke again today, I was sure I had detected a definite note of that same distraction in his voice. I hoped that I was wrong but deep inside felt that I wasn’t. However, on the chance that I might have misinterpreted the tenor of his speech, I had kept the observation to myself, mentioning it neither to him nor Felicity.

“I take it Ben hasn’t gotten here yet.” I heard the half question, half statement from my wife through the screen door behind me.

“Nope,” I replied and took another lazy draw from my cigar. “But you know how Ben is. If he says six in the evening, he really means eight.”

“Ever since his promotion, we’re lucky to see him at all,” she expressed. “Are Allison and Ben Junior coming?”

“I doubt it. He said something about Al taking the little guy out shopping for clothes.”

“Well…” She pushed the screen door open a bit to allow one of our cats to exit the confines of the house. “I’m going to go upstairs and pay some bills. Let me know when he gets here. I don’t want to miss this little celebration. Remember, I’m the one who’s pregnant.”

“I doubt that you’ll let me forget it,” I answered, looking back at her with a grin. “I’ll call you when he shows up.”

She smiled in return and left me to my cigar and quiet contemplation of the tree-lined street, as well as my attempts to dull the secret, foreboding sensation with a tumbler of single malt scotch on the rocks. Ten minutes short of an hour later, not only had I still not managed to shake the feeling, but it grew even stronger as a tired-looking Chevrolet van rolled into my driveway. The engine knocked and complained as the driver switched it off, and then it sputtered into silence. After a moment, the door opened with a labored screech, and the occupant extricated himself from the seat.

Ben Storm was a Native American, six-foot-six with jet-black hair and the finely angular features one associated with the boilerplate portrayal of feather-adorned natives from TV Westerns. He kept himself in excellent physical condition and made a very imposing figure both in and out of uniform. When he had been a street cop, I often joked that he was the last person I would want to see coming down a dark alley at me if I had done something wrong. He always made it a point to bet that he would be the first person I would want to see coming down that alley were I in trouble. I never hesitated to agree.

Just over a year ago, fate dealt him a winning hand. He had been promoted to Detective and was assigned to homicide investigations. This was a radical, though welcome, change from knocking down the doors of crack houses, which had been his previous assignment. Now, at times, his work schedule had become less structured and was often expanded with overtime. However, that time was more often spent interviewing suspects and gathering evidence than dodging bullets sprayed from an illegally modified, Tech Nine machine pistol in the hands of a fifteen-year-old gangbanger.

I knew for a certainty that his wife was happy to have him out of the direct line of fire. Felicity and I had made no secret of the fact that we were just as relieved.

The van door made a loud groan of protest as he pushed it shut, then he turned and strode up my sidewalk with a brown paper bag tucked casually under his arm.

“I can’t believe you’re still driving that old piece of crap,” I called to him and motioned toward the decrepit looking Chevy.

He was halfway up the flagstone walkway when he stopped, looked back at the vehicle for a moment, then turned back to me. “What?” he answered, feigning insult, then with a shrug continued walking. “It still runs.”

He climbed the stairs and parked himself on the edge of the porch then stretched and let out an exhausted sigh.

“Ya’know,” he finally said as he set the paper bag carefully on the first step. “Bein’ a copper is a menial job… It’s kinda like bein’ the secretary for all the chaos out there in the world…But anyway…” He reached into his jacket and pulled out two cigars then handed one to me. “Congrats on the kid ya’ silly ‘effin white man.”