Joanna Ruocco - The Mothering Coven

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Agnes is at loose ends. She puts the Crown of Light on her head. The Crown of Light fits strangely. She wanders through the kitchen, out of sorts. Should Ozark tell her that candle wax is dripping on the lenses of her safety goggles? Ozark is too busy eating anchovies. Anchovies are brain food.

Agnes opens the oven door. What’s this? Oh yes. An alarming letter.

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Dear Dr. Agnes Pancake,

Within moments, a French rocket ship will pass through a spore-nebula of Teufelsdreck, enter Earth’s atmosphere, and drop into the sea, contaminating the world’s air and water supplies with innumerable microscopic spores of Teufesldreck. We invite you to imagine the sea roiling, the valley flooding, red waves, kittens on the gambrel roofs, Wedgewood pitchers, bisque Frozen Charlottes, who knows what-all whatnots. Teufelsflotsam. Teufelsjetsam. Horrors.

Here at the National Zoological Society, we have partnered with Greater Friends & Chemicals of Western Rhode Island to develop O-poxy, a heat-reactive compound that will expand in the thermosphere, creating a powerful seal, thereby preventing the rocket ship and its bacterial cargo from a disastrous re-entry. We believe O-poxy provides the only hope for our civilization.

We are asking for your financial contribution. Every dollar pledged helps ward off the imminent exothanatos.

Sincerely,

The NZS Team

We are not sure exactly how alarmed we should feel. Agnes often receives this sort of letter. Agnes is an heiress.

As for the plesiosaurs in Lake Champlain, Agnes believes that they are sovereign creatures, or, at the least, supraterritorial. Neither Burlington nor Montreal can claim them. Lobbyists should expect no response from Dr. Agnes Pancake.

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For the record:

Mrs. Borage is not alarmed at all. Mrs. Borage remembers the burning sky in Siberia. She regards the stuffed clownfish hanging from the branches of the hat stand, better known as “After the Tunguska Fireball.”

Mrs. Borage turns the keys and the jaws of the clownfish start popping.

“Que sera, sera,” sing the clownfish.

“Que sera, sera,” sings Mrs. Borage.

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“My fingers smell like gas,” says Bryce.

“Gas has no odor,” says Mrs. Borage. “You are smelling the odorizing agents.” Mrs. Borage likes the smell of the odorizing agents. They smell like cabbage.

Either way, Bryce decides to eat her cinnamon toast in elbow-length leather gloves.

“Tannins,” warns Mrs. Borage. “Tannins.”

Bryce is uncoupling the gas lines in the elementary school cafeteria. She removes the bottles of gas. All done. She looks around the cafeteria.

What’s on the lunch menu for today? Sloppy Joes, tater tots, and pizza! How wonderful! Bryce takes her tray to a table in the corner. Her smock is a big hit with the children.

“We like the bunnies,” say the children.

“Fertility,” says Bryce, with some horror. She is not used to being surrounded by children. It frightens her. They are sticky and small with big, irregularly blinking eyes. Bryce takes a few bottles of nail polish from her pockets and lets them paint her beret. While they paint, she eats their tater tots. One serving is not enough for someone of Bryce’s age and stature.

Bryce finds more and more to like about the children. A very plump girl has just painted a tolerable portrait of Rutherford B. Hayes right in the middle of the beret. Rutherford B. Hayes would not have been Bryce’s first choice in portraiture, but the very plump girl has given him the eyes that Bryce likes, the ones that follow you all around the room. A very plump boy has just painted a blob. Upon closer inspection, it is Pangaea. The children are fantastically talented.

“To think, not long ago you were sea creatures,” marvels Bryce.

The lunch monitor is approaching. Bryce gathers up the bottles of gas. She puts on her beret. She feels quite full. The nail polish is giving her a headache.

“See you all tomorrow!” says Bryce.

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Have the townspeople noticed that their ovens aren’t working? They have not. The townspeople have many things to eat that do not require ovens. The townspeople are eating Bismarcks and Waldorf Salads and crudités and the many kinds of breakfast cereal available in the supermarket. Bryce likes to go and look at the boxes of breakfast cereal. They are perfect just the way they are.

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Mrs. Scattergood is buying muesli. There is a woman next to her in line who smells like a nail salon. The woman is giving Mrs. Scattergood a thunderous look. Her shopping cart is filled with sliced bread.

“One of those crazy women who feeds the birds,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood. As though the birds did not have plenty to eat in Nature, beechnuts and pinecones and pussy willows and litter, all the ripped opened packets of ketchup. Mrs. Scattergood has been reading the science journals. Avian obesity — entire flocks too fat to fly south, freezing to death in the eaves of the houses. She returns the woman’s thunderous look.

Nearby, an extremely tiny old man is sitting in a shopping cart in footsie pajamas. He is bald with a walrus mustache. He waves at Mrs. Scattergood.

“Hello, Herr Walrossbart,” says Mrs. Scattergood. “Peek-a-

boo.”

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Agnes is the only paleozoologist in the county. It is remarkable that she can’t find steadier work.

“There are very few opportunities in this town,” says Agnes. Very few technical careers, very few high-level executive positions or full professorships, very few objets petit a. Agnes is certain that’s why Bertrand left us.

“Where does it say that?” asked Bryce. Agnes held the note to her chest.

“She’s gone to find her objet petit a,” said Agnes. “It’s what she doesn’t say.”

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Years ago, before Hildegard, we had a foreign student named Dragomir. He was merry and ate many eggs. He arrived with a note written on the stationery of the General Inspectorate of Romanian Police.

Dragomir is pleased to study the polynomial rings .

Dragomir was not pleased to study the polynomial rings. Instead he hammered all day in the room beneath the stairs and built a beautiful red and silver bicycle rickshaw. He left two scratches, one on either side of the hallway, from his wide handlebars, and he rode away through the center of town, up the entrance ramp, onto the highways of the United States of America.

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Hildegard was not pleased to study the polynomial rings either. She was very skilled at listening to headphones. She also worked on an artistic project. Every day she added chewing gum to the enormous ball of chewing gum in the kitchen. Bryce helped by chewing lots of gum. She and Hildegard chewed gum at the dining room table.

Bryce sang and Hildegard bobbed her head, listening to headphones.

Bryce sang “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” Of course, she cried, singing. We all cried. Mrs. Borage chewed bubble gum cigarettes, just one a day. Dorcas chewed the straws in her root beer floats. She added them to the enormous ball of chewing gum. Don’t tell Hildegard.

“Could she have gotten into Dragomir’s solvents?” worries Agnes.

“It’s more likely that her walkman ran out of batteries,” says Fiona. Fiona made sure to take all of Dragomir’s solvents.

“There wasn’t a distaff?” asks Agnes.

“There was an arc welder,” says Fiona. “I have it.”

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Mrs. Scattergood looks at the pink arrow on the church. She looks at the pink arrow on the courthouse. She walks around the library. No one has painted anything on the library.

“I would even have to write a grant for vandals,” thinks Mrs. Scattergood.

Another warm day. The kingfisher wind rattles the dry leaves on the trees. Mrs. Scattergood sits down on the empty bench in front of the library. Should she relocate circulation services? It would be nice to sit out on the bench today. Mrs. Scattergood wonders if she is suffering from a deficit of natural light. Probably. She picks up a pinecone. She counts the golden spirals. She glances down the street. Mr. Henderson? No, it is a crooked streetlamp.