I don’t know if Bea’s lesson actually put magic in my stomach. But I’m more than sure Jake put a fireball of furious loathing in my heart. I’ve been imagining Mrs. Hamilton poisoning Scottie ever since he planted the idea in my head.

I tried to be fair about it.  I even asked Rod on the ride home (and yes, he was more than ticked off at waiting so long) if he thought the cook who has worked for us for the last two years could be capable of such a thing. He’s never met this one, but he said sure, and that people are always capable of stupid acts of grotesque horror when acting in their own selfish interests. That wasn’t really what I was looking for, but it told me his frame of mind was no more reliable than mine. So I just shut up, petted sweet Scottie, and let the fury grow.

Once home, it took all of three minutes for me to lock Scottie safely in the far back screened-in gazebo, change into the dry clothes I had with me, and make it to my own front door. Which is where I am standing, gathering even more steam.

It is pretty easy to make a grand entrance through the front door, and not only because of the echoing marble foyer.  The door is hugely heavy—nearly double-wide and triple thick. So when you slam it, the whole freakin house shakes, including the chandelier that comes down from the center of the wide, spiraling staircase. It is impossible to slam the door on accident, so if it goes off, you know someone means business. Usually, it’s Dad making the display. I only get away with it when used exceedingly sparingly.

I take a whiff of myself, noting that even with clean clothes, I smell like seaweed and day-old clams. Good. I step inside and give the door the biggest shove I can. It slams so hard it makes even me jump, and I knew it was coming. I then follow it with my very best “DAAAAD!”

“Upstairs,” he yells down. The way he says it, like he’s already only half-listening, only makes me more determined to get what I want—now.

I can tell he’s in the sports room from the blare of the game. The upstairs room is smaller than the theatre downstairs, and has space for only one big screen and two plush chairs. Down stairs has three wide screens and seats 16, so you’d think it would be harder to deal with him in there. In actuality, the small room is worse, because it’s practically impossible to pull his attention from a screen that close to his face.

I storm the steps three at a time, and by the time I reach him, Sydney, a.k.a. Wife Four, has poked her head out of her “office” and started to pad her way down the hallway to see what is up. 

Lovely. Just lovely.

“Dad, you have to fire Mrs. Hamilton!” I insist from the doorway. If that doesn’t get him, I can always step in front of his line of view. But that’s a drastic measure, to be used only in case of an emergency.

“Why?” he says, not looking up.

“Dad!” I stomp on the gleaming hardwood floors.

Now he looks. “What? Why?”

“Mrs. Hamilton is poisoning Scottie. That why she’s been so sick. I want her fired.”

“I hired her,” Sydney interjects, her eyes flown wide and her voice all whiny like it would be if she had said: “I called the front seat first!”

No mention of how terrible for Scottie, mind you.

“Wait, wait,” Dad says, standing as if he is only now realizing what—and who—he’s in the middle of. “That’s a strong accusation, sweetheart.”

It would be a really good time to be smart.  To say; “Yes, father, I am your sweetheart, and I completely understand it is a strong accusation. But you see a witch-like hag across the river told me of this great horror, or rather her great-grandson who is the last in line to learn her magic did, and I feel such a kinship to them and the land they live on I’m sure they are right.”

Actually, that would be really dumb, now that I think it through.  But it doesn’t matter.  Because that magic that took root in my feet and traveled to my gut is has become some kind of raging wildfire, the kind that could do damage to a thousand acres in Colorado.

“Fire her!” I insist.

“Julie!” Dad insists back, his voice a perfect match to my own.

“I mean it. Fire her. She has been trying to kill Scottie. And I will not live in the same house with someone…”

“I want her to stay,” Sydney whines. “She’s the only cook who understands my dietary needs.”

I am speechless as I stare at this woman not even twice my age, but only half Dad’s.  I mean…Diets? Hello? Mrs. Hamilton is killing my cat and all she can say is that she needs a cook that understands her?

“Julie,” Dad says in a calmer tone, the kind that means he’s taking a different tack, “I can sure understand how you’d feel like this IF something like that were true, but…”

“It’s. True.” I spit the words out like two rusty nails.

I can almost see Dad’s mind whirling, thinking that as teens go, I’m usually pretty reasonable to be around. 

“Do you have any proof?” he finally asks.

My answer comes to me quickly, sort of just spilling out: “I can’t reveal my source. But it is a reliable source. And that source got Scottie well. She’s well, Dad. And I don’t want her sick again.”

I’d swear Sydney looks disappointed at the news of Scottie’s recovery. I’m telling you, if she has anything to do with….

And of course, as can always be expected in the most important moments of life, Dad’s cell rings. If he answers, I will know, surely, I am not a loved child.  I am allotted only my portion of his extra-curricular time and a mistake he made sure to never make twice. My heels are nearly rocking in fury as I watch him contemplate.

He takes it. Of course he takes it.

“Dad!” I yell. I mean right at him. This is so not what he is expecting of me.

“Excuse me a moment, Helene,” he says into the phone.

“This is Helene Bayless, Julie, I have to take it,” he says

“Who?” I demand, shaking my head, because something won’t fully compute.

“My silent business partner?” he says, his hand over the mouthpiece. He looks at me like I should know this. But when have I ever paid attention to who he does silent business with?

Yet I can almost hear the dominoes clicking in my head as one nugget of understanding topples into another. “Won’t you please pay a little extra attention to Mrs. Bayless?” I recall him saying before I began to take Anna for walks. Something else, too, about her daughter being important to the business….

The next domino crashes as I recall Bea saying Helene can turn lead to gold and that she does so to buy people. I hate to think my dad could be bought, but honestly, I really don’t know.

“Dad!” I say one more time, though he has turned away. Sydney is just looking at me like I got what I deserve.

Without waiting for a reply that won’t not come, I bound down the stairs feeling like my legs are on fire. I go through the main kitchen, down another set of stairs into the pantry kitchen to come face to face with Mrs. Hamilton. I don’t know if it’s my imagination, or some kind of vision like Jake said, but I can see her spooning something from a strange box into Scottie’s canned food. I see it like a movie screen in the front of my forehead, like I saw those lines running up from my feet.

Again I get a metallic taste in my mouth, just like I did when I was contemplating what was wrong with Scottie on the beach, before I even heard Jake’s accusation. Can you taste things, as well as see them, with their magic?

I enter Mrs. Hamilton’s personal space so fast, she doesn’t know what to do with me.  There’s a feeling between us, like I could shove her, just with the power in my stomach.  I’m pretty sure she’s aware of it, and more than a little surprised. Thing is, I don’t know what to do now. I just stare, wishing the magic could do something. Anything.

Out of nowhere, I hear a kind of crack, then a crash.

We both turn to look at a glass bowl on the other side of the room that has—what? Spontaneously combusted? Large hunks of glass are broken off around the bread that had been rising. If not for the towel over it, it might have shot bread bowl daggers at us.

Now Mrs. Hamilton is scared. I am too, but I’m not going to waste this moment. I make my eyes big and lean in to sort of say “Yeah, I did that and you better watch out.”

What I actually say is a little more sly. “Do you know that we have hidden cameras throughout the house?” It’s a lie, at least for the kitchen areas. But she doesn’t know that. “I can see what you feed Scottie.”

Mrs. Hamilton is speechless, backing herself into a corner. Or maybe I’m the one backing her into it, because I will not let up. I look deep into her eyes. Well, there it is, the truth right there. She knows exactly what I’m talking about. Maybe I wasn’t sure before, but this is not my imagination.

“Julie!” Dad bellows from behind me.  Well of course he’d show up now.

I turn to see Sydney has come along for the ride.

“I know what Mrs. Hamilton is doing,” I say to them both. “I know it.”

“Are you on drugs?” Dad asks, looking almost afraid himself, even though he was just a few seconds too late for the magic bowl trick.

My mouth drops open in disbelief, but it doesn’t take me long to get back on track. “No Dad, I’m not on drugs. I don’t even smoke cigarettes. I don’t drink, either, in case you were wondering. And while we are having this ever-so-private heart-to-heart, you will be glad to know I’ve never had sex. Not once. But I am not going to be a good girl and pretend I don’t know something I do when this woman has been hurting my cat!”

“Mrs. Hamilton,” Dad turns, ever the businessman, even though I can see he is getting pretty flustered, “is there anything you can imagine you have fed Scottie that might have led to this misunderstanding?”

I’d love to say Mrs. Hamilton turned to look at Sydney and their locked eyes confirmed a long planned and utterly devious plot.  But they don’t. And with all that energy spent on the bowl and backing her up, not to mention all this standing up to Dad, I’m suddenly and quickly feeling whatever was in my stomach spiraling down and right back out of me.  

“No Sir,” Mrs. Hamilton says, red in the face, “but if you have cameras on me, I’m not sure I want to work here.”

“We don’t have cameras in the kitchen,” Dad assures.

“Because I don’t like being spied on,” she says, glancing at the bowl, then me, then him. She’s trying to play it tough, but she knows I’ve got her in more ways than one.

“Of course not,” Dad says, looking at me like I’m the bad guy here.

So, well, there you have it. This is going to come down and land directly on me. It will be all my fault, and just wait, Dad will even want an apology. A few minutes ago, I could have handled it better.  But now I feel an empty pit in my stomach right where the magic was before it started seeping out all over the floor. My head starts to bang.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I lay out, using the last watts of energy in me. “You are all going to make this my bad, so why don’t we just chalk it up to me being a hormonal teenager? Then everyone can go back to their business like nothing happened and I’ll just be the fool.”

“I think an apology is also in order,” Dad pushes.
 
“But,” I insist, “from here on out nobody feeds, nobody pets, nobody even looks at Scottie but me. Got it?” I look to each of them with hard eyes.

It seems like they are going to take the deal, if only to have the whole incident put behind us. Nobody says anything, but everyone nods just enough to be seen.

I take a deep breath, send a quick squinty glare toward the bowl and Mrs. Hamilton just to make sure she doesn’t forget who she is dealing with, and then leave with a growl. Making my way up the stairs, my legs feel like they are nothing more than burnt charcoal, especially at the ankles.

Tomorrow, when I’ve had a good night sleep with Scottie purring happily next to me, I’ll gather my determination and my questions and go see Anna. If she knows all about dysfunctional families and magic that can break bread bowls with no one even touching them, she will surely know what I’m supposed to do next.