Richard Chizmar - Gwendy's Magic Feather

“Did you see Old Man Henderson’s face?” Patsy asks as she and Gwendy enter the hallway. “I thought he was going to blow a gasket right there at the podium.”

“I never saw anyone get so red—”

Someone bumps Gwendy hard from behind, knocking her aside, and keeps on hustling past. It’s their chatty friend from this morning, Milton Jackson.

“Hey, nice manners, asshole,” Patsy calls after him.

Gwendy tucks the manila folders under her arm and rubs her shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says. “You shouldn’t have yelled at him like that.”

“Why not? The guy deserved it.” She gives Gwendy a look. “You’re not very good at losing your temper, are you?”

Gwendy shrugs. “I guess not.”

“You should try it sometime. Might make you feel better.”

“Fine. Next time that happens I’ll call him… a walking example of why we need term limits.”

“Sshhh,” Patsy says, as they file into the elevator. “You’re one of us now.”

Gwendy laughs and presses the button for their floor.

“Any movement with the pharmaceutical people?” Patsy asks.

Gwendy shakes her head and lowers her voice. “Ever since Columbine everyone has shifted to gun control and mental health. And how can I blame folks for that? I just wish people around here had longer attention spans than kindergarteners. Three months ago, I almost had the votes. Today, it’s not even close.”

The elevator door slides open and they walk out into a mostly empty lobby. “Welcome to the grind, girlfriend. It’ll circle back around. It always does.”

“How long have you been doing this, Patsy?”

“I’ve represented the second district of the honorable state of South Carolina for sixteen years now.”

Gwendy whistles. “How…?” She pauses.

“How do I do it?”

Gwendy nods shyly.

Patsy puts a hand on the young congresswoman’s shoulder. “Listen, honey, I know what you’re thinking. How did you get yourself into this mess? It’s not even been a year and you’re frustrated and overwhelmed and looking for a way out.”

Gwendy looks at her, saucer-eyed. “That’s not what I—”

Patsy waves her off. “Trust me, we all went through it. It’ll pass. You’ll find your groove. And if you don’t and you find your head slipping under water, give me a call. We’ll find a way to fix it together.”

Gwendy leans over and hugs her friend. It’s a little like embracing a child, she thinks. “Thank you, Patsy. I swear you’re an angel.”

“I’m really not. I’m old and fussy and don’t much care for most of humanity, but you’re different, Gwennie. You’re special.”

“I don’t feel very special these days, but thank you again. So much.”

Patsy starts to walk away, but Gwendy calls after her. “You really meant it? You’ve felt like this before?”

Patsy turns and puts her hands on her hips. “Honey, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve felt the way you’re feeling, I still wouldn’t have change for a quarter.”

Gwendy bursts out laughing. “What does that even mean?”

Patsy shrugs her shoulders. “Beats me. My late husband used to say it whenever he wanted to sound clever and it’s stuck with me ever since.”

GWENDY WALKS INTO HER outer office feeling better than she has in days. It’s almost as if a weight has been lifted from her chest and she can breathe again.

A gray-haired receptionist stops typing and looks up from her computer screen. “I left two messages on your desk and lunch should be here soon. Turkey club and chips okay?”

If Gwendy sometimes envisions (secretly, of course; she would never say these things out loud, not in a million years) Representative Patsy Follett as Tinkerbell, the wand-waving, miniature flying guardian angel of her childhood, then she most certainly imagines her receptionist, Bea Whiteley, as Sheriff Taylor’s beloved Aunt Bea from the iconic television series, The Andy Griffith Show .

Although there’s very little physical resemblance (for starters, Gwendy’s Bea is African-American), there are a multitude of other similarities. First, there’s the name, of course. How many women do you know named Bea or even Beatrice? And then there’re the indisputable facts: Mrs. Whiteley is a natural caregiver, an outstanding cook, a person of devoted faith, and the sweetest, most good-natured woman Gwendy has ever known. Wrap all that up into a single human being and who do you have? Aunt Bea, that’s who.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Gwendy says. “Thank you.”

Bea picks up a sheet of paper from the corner of her desk. “I also printed your schedule for tomorrow.” She gets up and hands it to Gwendy.

The congresswoman scans it with a frown. “Why does this feel like the last day of school before Christmas break?”

“Pretty sure the last day of school was a lot more fun than this.” Bea sits down at her desk again. “How’s your mom feeling?”

“Still good as of last night. Six weeks out from chemo. Markers in the normal range.”

The older lady clasps her hands together. “God is good.”

“Dad’s driving her crazy, though. Want to hear the latest?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “He wants to withdraw all their savings and bury it in the back yard. He’s convinced the bank’s computer system’s going to crash because of Y2K. Mom can’t wait for him to start back at work again.”

“All the more reason for you to get home. You flying out tomorrow night?” Bea asks.

Gwendy shakes her head. “Bumped my flight until Saturday morning. I need to wrap up a couple things before I go. How about you? When are you and Tim headed out?”

“We leave Monday to visit my sister in Colorado, and from there we go to see the kids on Wednesday. Speaking of the kids… would it be too much trouble to ask you to sign a couple of books for them? I’m happy to pay. I’m not asking for them for free or—”

Gwendy puts her hand out. “Will you please hush? I’d be happy to, Bea. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Peterson. I’m very grateful.” And she looks it, too, not to mention, relieved.

“Just go relax and enjoy that family of yours.”

“All of us under the same roof for an entire week? It should be… interesting.”

“It’ll be a blast,” Gwendy says.

Bea rolls her eyes. “If you say so.”

“I say so.” She walks into her office, laughing, and closes the door behind her.

GWENDY TOSSES THE REPORTS back onto the stack and sits at her desk. She reaches for her day-planner, but her hand freezes in mid-air before it gets there.

There’s a shiny silver coin sitting next to the keyboard.

Her outstretched hand begins to tremble. Her heart thumps in her chest, and it suddenly feels as if all the air has been sucked out of the room.

She knows before she looks that it’s an 1891 Morgan silver dollar. She’s seen them before.

A familiar voice, a man’s voice, whispers in her ear: “Almost half an ounce of pure silver. Created by Mr. George Morgan, who was just thirty years old when he engraved the likeness of Anna Willess Williams, a Philadelphia matron, to go on what you’d call the ‘heads’ side of the coin…”

Gwendy whips her head around, but no one is there. She glances about her office, waiting for the voice to return, feeling as if she’s just seen a ghost—and maybe she has. Nothing else in the room appears out of place. Reaching out with her other hand, she lets the tip of her index finger brush against the surface of the coin. It’s cool to the touch, and it’s real. She’s not imagining it. She’s not suffering some kind of stress-induced mental breakdown.