The Rules of Magic

  “Good luck fighting the power,” he’d say to the girls as he took off.

  “Mother is not the power,” Franny would say.

  “Well, she has power over you,” Vincent remarked, which they all knew was true enough.

  On this particular day, Jet had until four o’clock. They said they were heading to the Museum of Modern Art to do research for term papers, but only Franny would be going. She had brought a camera along and planned to take photographs in the sculpture garden that she could have developed in case their mother demanded proof.

  Levi was waiting at the Bethesda Fountain, beneath the Angel of the Waters statue, their favorite meeting place. The statue referred to the Gospel of St. John, and the angel carried a lily in her left hand, to bless and purify New York’s water. Each time Levi came to the city, he had to sneak away, traveling back and forth by bus in a single day, paying for his ticket with earnings saved from odd jobs. Today he had told his father he had an interview at Columbia University, allowed even though the Reverend disliked New York City and saw it as a place of crime and greed. It was Levi’s first lie and he stuttered when he told it, which made his father question him for nearly half an hour. Reverend Willard was firm in his beliefs and firmer still in his dislikes.

  Jet had brought along The Scarlet Letter as a gift. She had signed it To Levi with great affection. It had taken her half an hour to decide what the dedication should be. Love was too much. In friendship, too little. Affection seemed perfect. At least for now.

  “That’s our copy! Doesn’t he have his own books?” Franny groused.

  “Not really,” Jet said.

  “And doesn’t he have any other clothes?” Franny asked when they spied him.

  “He was raised to be simple and kind.”

  Franny laughed. “Are you sure you’re looking for simple?”

  “Simple means he’s not self-indulgent. Just so you know, Levi happens to be brilliant.”

  He was wearing his black suit and a scarf Jet had knitted for him. It was her first attempt, and quite uneven, but Levi had pronounced it a wonder. He had dark hair and his beautiful gray-green eyes lit up whenever he saw her. “Hey,” he cried. “There’s my girl.”

  “Don’t forget to be at the museum at a quarter to four,” Franny called when Jet took off. “Keep track of time!”

  Franny watched her sister disappear into the park with Levi. It was such a beautiful crisp day she didn’t know why she had a sinking feeling. Lewis had been following along, and now he called out with his harsh cry. He soared above the fountain, the first grand public artwork to be commissioned from a woman artist in the city of New York. Franny shielded her eyes from the thin sunlight to watch the crow perch on the angel’s hand. Below him, sitting on the rim of the fountain, was a man in a black suit paging through The Scarlet Letter, which had been forgotten and left behind. He wore a white shirt and a black tie and shoes so old it was evident that he favored simple things. When he came to the title page and saw the dedication, he didn’t need to read any further. He closed the book.

  After his father’s discovery, Levi was no longer allowed to leave the house unless he was going directly to work or to school. The telephone was cut off, so it was impossible to reach him. Their copy of The Scarlet Letter was mailed back to Jet without a note, and the handwriting on the envelope clearly wasn’t Levi’s. Packed with the book were half a dozen nails.

  “What on earth is this supposed to mean?” Jet said anxiously.

  “It means his father is deranged,” Franny said.

  She quickly gathered the nails and threw them into the trash. She knew from her readings at the library that witch-hunters believed a witch could be caught by nailing her steps to the ground to ensure that she couldn’t run. A witch’s powers were decreased when she was near metal; surround her with it and she would be helpless.

  Luckily, Franny had also grabbed The Scarlet Letter. When it fell open in her hands she saw that someone had scrawled over Jet’s lovely inscription with thick black ink and written their own message.

  Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  Franny recognized the quote from Exodus, for it had been scrawled in the judge’s notes at Maria’s trial. It was the same quote that had been on the title page of The Discovery of Witches, written by Matthew Hopkins, the Witch-Finder General of England, in 1647, the man who was believed to be responsible for the deaths of three hundred women.

  “I think April’s right,” Franny told her sister that night when they were both in bed.

  Jet had been crying for hours, but Franny’s comment stunned her. Franny had never thought April to be right about anything. She sat up in bed. “You do?”

  “You should stay away from Levi.”

  Jet fell back into her pillow. “Oh, Franny.”

  “Did you hear me?” Franny asked.

  “Yes,” Jet said, no longer in tears and more determined than Franny might have imagined. “I heard you. And I wish I hadn’t.”

  She went to Vincent for help. A rebel could only depend on another rebel. She trailed him to the Jester, getting on the Fifth Avenue bus, then walking half a block behind him. She was amused that he didn’t have a clue that he was being followed until she slid into the booth beside him. She had thrown up an invisibility shield that had clearly worked.

  “Good God, Jet,” he said, “what do you think you’re doing? This is not your kind of place.” All the same, he called for two beers. If his sister was going to be here, she might as well drink.

  Jet placed a letter on the table.

  “Let me guess. For Levi?”

  “Just this once,” Jet said.

  “Yeah, I think that’s what you always say. How do you propose I get it to him?”

  Jet took a bus ticket from her purse.

  “Massachusetts.” Vincent nodded. “You seem to have it all covered.” He was actually impressed. “And what do I tell the parents?”

  Jet had a copy of the school newspaper. The Starling Band had been invited to play at a prep school north of Boston.

  “I’ve joined the band?” Vincent said.

  “Yesterday,” Jet told him.

  “I’m very clever,” Vincent said. “Aren’t I?”

  “The music teacher said he’d been trying to get you to join for ages. He’s delighted.”

  “Do I actually have to play?”

  “There’s a concert in the morning. Then you take a taxi and wait for Levi outside of his school at three.”

  “And if his father is there waiting, too? Have you factored in that possibility?”

  Jet took a sip of the beer Vincent had ordered. “Then you use The Magus.”

  He recognized Levi right away. The white shirt, the dark hair, his serious demeanor as he made his way down the steps of the high school. He went right past Vincent, in a hurry. Vincent rose to his feet and took off running to catch up with him.

  “Hey, Levi. Slow down.”

  Levi threw him a puzzled look. “I don’t know you.”

  “Yeah, well I know you. Slow the fuck down.”

  “I have to get to work.” Levi had slowed his pace. “Over at the pharmacy.” He looked at Vincent more closely. “Did you want something?”

  “No. But you do.” Vincent took out the letter. “From my sister.”

  Levi grabbed the letter and tore it open, reading it hungrily.

  Vincent gazed around. “Your father’s not here, is he?”

  “What? No.” Levi went on reading. “You’re supposed to give me twenty dollars.”

  “I am?”

  “Sorry. I wouldn’t ordinarily agree to this, but my father puts all of my earnings into a bank account I can’t access. I need money for the bus to New York.”

  Vincent gave him the twenty. “You don’t think you might be looking for trouble?”

  Levi thanked Vincent for the loan, but laughed at the question. “Life is trouble, brother. You’ve got to fight for what you want.”

  They s
hook hands. Vincent didn’t know what to think. He saw in Levi something he’d never felt himself. This was what love looked like. This was what it could do to you. Vincent found himself walking to Magnolia Street. It had begun to rain, and so he ran. He wondered if he would ever feel that someone was worth fighting for, if there would ever be a person who would make him stand up and take a chance and have the courage to be reckless.

  Isabelle wasn’t surprised to see him. When she gave him tea and a piece of pie, he realized he was starving. He explained that he had been in the school band, but had quit once their performance was over.

  “I take it you’re not staying.” Isabelle had noticed he had nothing with him but a jacket.

  “The school reserved hotel rooms. I only came to deliver a letter for Jet.” It was impossible to tell a lie to their aunt.

  “Levi Willard,” Isabelle said. “I used to see them walking together last summer.”

  “Apparently, his father hates us.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Isabelle gestured for Vincent to lift up his left foot. She took his heavy black boot in her hand and examined the sole. There was a nail through it.

  “Think again,” Isabelle said. “He knew you were here. He left out nails.”

  Vincent fiddled with the nail, his face furrowed. “I can’t get it out.”

  “Of course not. This is the sort witch-hunters use.”

  Isabelle took a small vial from a shelf. Rosemary oil infused with holly and hyssop. She dabbed some on the nail and uttered an oath. This cannot harm you on this day. When you walk, you walk away. When you return, all of your enemies will burn.

  “What happened between our families?” Vincent asked.

  “Family,” Isabelle corrected.

  Now he was thoroughly confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what I say.”

  “We’re related?”

  “Charlie is here,” Isabelle said.

  A battered station wagon had pulled up at the gate. None of the local taxi services would come to Magnolia Street, therefore Isabelle had called Charlie Merrill, the handyman, to give Vincent a ride back to the hotel where the band was staying.

  “Is there more to the story?” Vincent asked.

  “There’s more to every story,” his aunt told him.

  On the drive, Charlie was pleasant enough, though he barely spoke. He was even older than Aunt Isabelle and had lived in town all his life.

  “Do you know the Willards?” Vincent asked him.

  “The Willards?”

  “Yeah. The Reverend and his son.”

  “Did your aunt say I knew them?”

  “She didn’t say anything.”

  “Well, then, I don’t know anything.”

  Clearly, the handyman’s loyalty was to Isabelle. He didn’t utter another word, other than Good night when they got to the hotel. Vincent was glad to have a room to himself. Something didn’t feel right. He felt a chill. He wondered if what people said was true, that no one could hate you more than members of your own family.

  He felt an ache, so he propped his foot up on his right knee. The nail was gone. But when he took off his boots and socks, he noticed there was a hole in his left foot. It was a good thing he had gone to his aunt for help. The nail had already drawn blood.

  It began to snow toward the end of December, big flakes that stuck to the pavement. Soon the drifts were knee high, and the streets were difficult to navigate. It was the week before Christmas, and the stores were busy with shoppers. Franny was looking for a microscope at a lab warehouse. It would be an ideal gift for Haylin. She had dragged her brother and sister along.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in presents,” Vincent said.

  “This is different,” Franny said. “It’s practical.”

  Vincent and Jet exchanged a look. Their sister without a heart had spent two hours looking for the perfect microscope. On the way to the warehouse they’d stopped at a coffee shop, and when Franny ordered toast, the pats of butter melted as soon as she reached for them.

  When at last she was done shopping, and the gift had been chosen and boxed, all three wheeled into the street, where the snow was still swirling down, faster now, like a snow globe, with drifts so high many parked cars were buried. It was already twilight and the world had turned an inky blue. They walked arm in arm, mesmerized by the beauty of the blue-white flakes all around them. Anything seemed possible, even to Vincent, who turned out the streetlights as they walked on.

  “Let’s always remember how beautiful tonight is,” Jet said.

  “Of course we will,” Franny agreed.

  But Vincent would be the one to remember this evening when his sisters had long forgotten how they’d tried and failed to get a cab, then took the subway, singing “This Land Is Your Land,” and how the microscope was so heavy they’d had to take turns carrying it. When they got home, Vincent went to his room and closed the door. He sat on his messy, unmade bed. His clairvoyance was becoming more intense. He experienced the future not as a panoramic vista but as bits and pieces, like a living crazy quilt. It was becoming more difficult for him to deny what he saw. A man standing on a hillside in California in a field of yellow grass. A street in Paris. A girl with gray eyes. A cemetery filled with angels. A door he’d have to open in order to walk through.

  One spring day, they knew something out of the ordinary had transpired because their mother had ordered a huge cake, which was set out on the dining room table. She had lit a hundred candles, which shivered with yellow light even though it was no one’s birthday. Fifty candles would have been more than enough. Even more revealing that something was up: their father was putting in an appearance at the dinner table. And what’s more he had actually cooked, fixing Ritz crackers with Brie and red peppers warmed up in a Pyrex dish.

  Before a family meeting could commence, Vincent was called out of his room. He came into the dining room brooding, annoyed to be called away from the world of his bedroom, which reeked of smoke and magic. He had found a hanging wicker chair, with a lattice seat, which he had attached to the ceiling with bolts. He often perched there, bat-like, practicing guitar riffs for hours, in no mood to be disturbed.

  Once they had all gathered, their parents let loose and roared with pride.

  “Congratulations!” James Burke-Owens waved an envelope. “This just arrived from a little college on the banks of the river Charles.” Anyone crossing paths with the doctor would know he went to Harvard, and then Yale, within five minutes of meeting him. He now clasped Franny to him in a bear hug. “You’re a good girl, Frances Owens.”

  Franny, always embarrassed by displays of emotion, slipped out of her father’s embrace. She took the envelope from him, barely able to contain her excitement. Inside was her acceptance to Radcliffe, Harvard’s all-female equivalent, created when higher education for women was scandalous.

  “You’ve joined the club,” her father boasted.

  “We all knew you were the smart one,” Vincent said. “Now don’t screw it up.”

  “Very funny,” Franny responded. She knew Vincent to be the most intelligent among them all, albeit the laziest.

  The admission to Radcliffe was not in the least bit funny to Jet. College catalogs had been arriving in the mail for some time, and Jet had worried that when Franny went off to Cambridge or New Haven she would be forced to deal with her parents on her own. How would she ever be able to see Levi without Franny to cover for her? She simply could not live without him. That very afternoon they had sat on a park bench kissing until they were dizzy. When it came time to part, they were upset, and they continued to embrace in the Port Authority Bus Terminal while Levi missed one bus after another.

  Now, as the family was celebrating Franny’s acceptance to Radcliffe, Jet did something terrible. She wished that Franny wouldn’t be able to leave New York. She knew she was being selfish and she chastised herself for it afterward, but it was too l
ate, the wish had been made. It was bitter and carried the acrid scent of smoke, and when it lodged somewhere inside Jet it made her cough, a hacking rattle that lasted for months.

  “Cheer up,” Vincent said as Jet despondently watched their parents open a bottle of champagne. “It won’t be as bad as you think.”

  “What won’t be?”

  Vincent tousled her black hair. “Your future.”

  It was then she realized that Franny could provide the perfect excuse to see Levi. Every time she said she was going to visit Franny in Cambridge, she could get off the train at New Haven. Levi had gotten into Yale, and he would be there waiting for her. She thought she would bring him a new coat on her very first visit, then he wouldn’t have to keep the old one his father had him wear. She had changed her mind about Franny going off to school. She even drank some champagne. She took back her wish right then and there, but unfortunately such things simply can’t be done.

  Haylin’s letter from Harvard arrived in the mail the following day. He came around to collect Franny so they could celebrate their impending independence from their small-minded parents and their dreadful school and awful childhoods, for which they were already feeling nostalgic. They nestled close together to avoid a pale rain as they walked toward Madison Avenue, pretending to fight over a single umbrella.

  “The only thing I’m taking with me when I leave is the microscope,” Haylin announced. “I’m donating everything else.”

  At the coffee shop on the corner, they ordered waffles and eggs, and because all of Manhattan smelled like bacon that day, a side of Canadian bacon as well. Hay topped it off by wolfing down two jelly doughnuts, which he’d craved ever since his marijuana experiments. They were both starving for food and for freedom. The brilliance of the day made them dizzy and hopeful in ways they had never imagined. In Cambridge anything could happen. The rain was stopping; the air was green. Spring was thick with lilacs and possibility. Everything was delicious, their food and New York City and their futures. Hay was to live in Dunster House, Franny a stone’s throw away, if you had a strong arm, which Haylin did, at South House on the Radcliffe Quad. They toasted to liberty, clinking together their glasses of orange juice. O joy, they crooned to one another. O learning and books and baked beans and the Red Sox and the filthy Charles River.