Poison Pen

My father read the daily Births/Deaths/Marriages with more focus on the middle column. Seeing a name he recognized, he would shake the mothballs out of the pocket of his only sports jacket, slick his hair into submission – with the exception of the cowlick that he willfully cultivated - and attend the funeral to pay his respects.

Mostly.

I remember vividly one time he returned home whistling happily, greeting my mother with a beaming smile.

“Did your horse come in?” my mother asked dourly.

“Jim Cruickshank’s funeral,” He poured a bourbon from the bottle on the top shelf that my little brother couldn’t reach. “Dougie and I watched from the hill above the cemetery.” He took a gulp. “Just wanted to be sure the SOB was dead.”

My mother gave me one of her, do not ask me why I married your father, looks and left the room.

“You sound as if you expect congratulations not condolences.”

“Sure do,” he said. “I’ve wished that no good mother dead for twenty years.”

“And pow, he keeled over and you seem to think wishful thinking helped him along,” I said.

If you witnessed his glee you would not consider him a man prone to depression, but there were times he lapsed into the Vietnam Vet PTSD psyche that had been cultivated in an Agent Orange haze in country. Although I felt a pang of sympathy for poor old Jim, I was pleased to see my father happy for once.

“Better than that,” he said. “Stomach cancer. Agonizingly painful and slow.” He downed the last of that bourbon. “Just as I hoped. Writhing in pain.”

I considered asking what this crook Cruikshank had done but decided given some of the gruesome detail I'd heard from Dad’s time in the ‘Nam - usually half way through a bottle of corn liquor - I would not invite him to elaborate.

“You weren’t responsible,” I said mistakenly thinking he may want absolution.

“Au contraire, chere,” he said slipping into pidgin French cultivated in the Louisiana bayou he fought his way out of. “His past finally caught up to him, I say my prayers every night, but I also ask the Universe to mete out overdue justice. I am of the opinion the Almighty appreciates the occasional reminder of sinners he's overlooked. A little bit of hexin’ to save the heavenly father the trouble.”

He sees me smile and he raises an eyebrow. “You know our family name, honey.”

Wickens. The plural of Wicken.

“When did the witchcraft enter into the family tree? You told me you came from a long line of pastry chefs.”

I only had his unreliable word for my heritage. This was back in the days before Ancestry dot com and DNA websites revealed more interlinked lineage than you preferred not to know.

“Multi-talented.” he said and retreated to the porch to watch the fireflies and drink the rest of the bottle.

Pastry and hexing. Similar amount of commitment required to learn the art.

It was many years later beforeI learned why he held a grudge against Jim Cruickshank. He had married my father’s favorite sister, Patty. She was the oldest of the family, ten years older than my father. He was just a boy when Jim Cruickshank swept her off her feet. The honeymoon was barely over when my father began to notice the bruises. There was always a bruise or a new sprained wrist.

When Patty disappeared Jim told everyone she’d run off with one of the carneys that came through town a week or so earlier.

My father didn't believe it. Patty would never have run off without saying goodbye to him. When he discovered she had left behind her pet mynah bird Mr Feather he became even more suspicious. He also knew Jim would not be taking good care Mr Feather. None of the adults seemed concerned so he and his cousin Dougie formed a plan to rescue the bird and perhaps find out what really happened to Patty.

Jim left for the town tavern around supper time each day, only returning when his money ran out. On this hot summer night, he had left the bathroom window open with enough room for a thin boy, expert at wiggling in and out of tight spots to fit through. My father squeezed through while the slightly chubbier Dougie kept watch.

In the week since Patty went missing, Jim had not done any housekeeping. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes,. Dust bunnies hopped into corners and there was a perculiar bad smell rising up from the cellar.

“Bless your heart,” said a familiar voice.

Patty! My fathers heart leapt - but aloud squawk at the end of the sentance gave away that it was Mr Feather. The bird was in a cage with an empty water bowl and no sign of bird seed. My father lifted the bird cage off its hook and the bird let out such a blood curdling scream, he nearly dropped it.

“Stop! Stop! You’re killing me!” The bird said. "Jim stop! Squawk!”

My father threw a blanket over the cage to hush the bird. just as a low whistle sounded from outside. Dougie's warning. This evening Jim’s wallet only contained sufficient funds for the one beer and nobody was inclined to buy him a drink, so he slouched home in a foul mood.

My father realized he would never be able to fit the bird cage through the window As Jim’s steps approached my father opened the bird cage and shouted. "Fly! Be free!"

“You’re killing me,” squawked Mr Feather in what turned out to be a prophetic statement because without pause, Jim grabbed a broom, swatting Mr Feather as he flew past. Then he casually wrung its neck.

“What did you do to Patty?” my father demanded.

Jim’s lips curled back into a cruel expression. His dead cold eyes made my father’s question redundant. Jim lunged towards him but in that second a sound like gunfire rang out. When Jim hit the floor, my father darted out the front door.

Dougie had a bent towards pyrotechnics and deep pockets where he kept a stock of M-80 fireworks - just in case there was an opportunity to set them off. The M-80 is a military training device, but local farmers used them as bird scarers. The only bird around was the deceased Mr Feather. But they worked equally well on Jim Cruickshank. Before they were banned from consumer sales, the M-80 contained nearly 4 grams of flash power and would blow your finger off if you were fool enough to forget to let go. The explosion gave my father the chance to run for his life.

When he told my grandmother what he had discovered he was soundly whipped for telling fibs and then marched to Jim Cruickshank’s to apologize. Only Dougie who had been peering through the window and saw the cold-blooded murder of Mr Feather believed him - and later witnessed, with my father, Jim’s funeral after his long, painful and much deserved illness.

In context, I guess there was something to be said for my father’s nightly ritual of saying his prayers and laying a hex on his enemy.

I briefly wondered how many other people in the town had crossed my father and met the ending they richly deserved, then forgot about it. I was about to shake the dust of home from my feet and travel the world. There was no time for pagan ritual and superstition.

Until that is, one night at drinks in the office. By this time I was in London working for a prestigious international finance company in the heady days of the 80s where no expense account was spared.

Hearing muffled sobbing from a cubicle, I persuaded the girl to come out. It was my friend Liz. Her shirt was torn, eyeliner weeping down her cheeks, a fresh bruise under her eye.

She’d been cornered by my boss Mike and one of the traders as she came out of the bathroom. They’d blocked her way, joking and laughing. Her mild discomfort, ratcheted up to blind panic when Mike pushed her into the stairwell and knocked her to the floor whereupon Liz refused to say any more but something terrible and very, very wrong had clearly happened.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s find Dot in HR.”

Liz shook her head. “No, no, no,” she said. Her words were muffled because her lip was swelling up. “Everyone saw me drinking. They’ll say its my fault and everyone will believe them.”

“I believe you,” I said. “Other people will. You can’t let Mike get away with this.”

“Yes I can,” said Liz. “And I’m not the first. This happens all the time …”

She named three women who had left in the past year or so. The general consensus was they had been trouble makers and good riddance. They were very much misjudged.

“I’ll be a witness,” I insisted.

“Then they’ll ruin your career too. If I tell, I’ll never get another job. He’ll make sure of it.”

Liz left a few weeks later. I heard she’d emigrated to Australia because just leaving the company was not far enough from Mike.

I remembered Jim Cruikshank and initially in jest began my nightly ritual of reciting Mike’s name, naming the awful things he’d done and ask for payback. It felt therapeutic especially when I invested in a doll that looked just like him and stuck it multiple times with a large darning needle.

The next day Mike was limping. Odd coincidence I thought, but not exactly where I’d stuck the needle… until I learned it was a groin injury.

Bullseye.

Mike’s career flourished unfairly, and I wondered as my father had, whether the cosmic force babysitting the Universe was preoccupied elsewhere. Given the state of the world, that made sense. So, while the entity neglected to balance Mike’s wrongs with the pain he was owed, I recited Mike’s name each night and wrote long, detailed paragraphs about the kind of ending he deserved.

After a while he began to lose a little weight. Possibly harassing women at the gym, I assumed.

Later, his trim new look became haggard. I ensured that none of the young women in our office ever found themselves alone with him and as my father would have put it, hexed him good. I didn’t expect it to work but on the other hand it was better than doing nothing. I missed Liz and I went to bed angry and woke up angry.

I was about to pack up work late one evening when I heard the distinct sounds of a celebration down the hall in the staff break out room. As I opened the door a champagne cork flew past my ear and several women cheered.

“Is it somebody’s birthday?” I asked.

“Mike’s leaving,” announced Annabel, Mike’s PA. This was followed by whoops and cheers.

“Brain tumor,” announced Lorie the paralegal clinking her glass with Babette the intern.

“Shame,” said Annabel with no conviction whatsoever in her tone

My chest constricted with sledgehammering anxiety. I had willed bad things on the man and I felt responsible – even though nobody else seemed to mind very much.

We were not descended from witches. And my father did not have a direct hand in Jim Cruickshank’s painful death. It was coincidence that Mike was now extremely ill – but still I felt guilty.

“Is it terminal?” I asked, my voice was shaking.

“Hope so,” said Annabel, clearly not as conflicted as I was.

I declined a glass of champagne and made excuses I had work to finish up at home.

The deep chuckle of my father echoed as I made my way to the tube. The people I passed were miserable Londoners on a rainy night with delays on the Picadilly line, so it had to be in my imagination. Still I had the oddest feeling I was being watched, but when I looked behind me there was only leaves swirling on the wind. A can rolling down the road. All the same I ran the rest of the way to my apartment on the second floor of a mansion block.

“In a hurry to write those poison pen letters?” My neighbor Lance was in the hallway near the trash disposal. Over a bottle of red wine a few weeks earlier I had confessed to my nightly ritual of naming Mike and writing his story. It had seemed amusing when I told it.

“I don’t need to,” I cleared my throat. “It seems I’ve willed him into a state of serious ill health.” I blinked back tears. “I feel responsible and I know its stupid but…”

“Oh dear,” said Lance. “That is not good. Interfere with karma, bad mojo rebounds on you.”

This was not how our conversation had gone over the red wine. He had laughed and told me he would be careful to ensure I never had reason to write him into a story.

But, there. Look I’ve just gone and done it.

My locked apartment door swung open without touching it

“After you,” said Lance smiling. It struck me I had never noticed before how sharp his teeth were in a dim light.

I tip toed into the front room where a man in a very well tailored suit was sitting, waiting.

“I'll get some drinks” Lance said immediately making himself at home. “Charlotte, this is my boss. He has been following your endeavors with great interest.”

My visitor had a pale complexion and death black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was tall and stylish, well over six feet. I knew I should have been frightened but he had a very strong jawline and rather beautiful brown eyes which distracted me.

“Please allow me to introduce myself,” he said and his voice was deep and rich.

“He’s a man of wealth and taste,” piped up Lance.

He was met with a scathing look. “Do make yourself useful. She looks like she could use that drink. Go fix us a tray, will you.” The stranger shooed Lance into the hallway and then turned back to me.

He had still not introduced himself and in a trembling voice I asked if he was there because of what I had done to Mike.

“Oh, sweet thing, you didn’t do anything to Mike,” he laughed a booming laugh. “You did however draw my attention in his direction.”

“If it makes a difference, I feel terrible. I mean he must have family….”

“Well yes, a daughter he’s molested this past year and a wife he’s been gaslighting. Nobody will miss Mike.” He shrugged to emphasise just how inconsequential Mike was. “All the same you should not be meddling in things you don’t really understand.”

I nodded fearfully. “I didn’t think it would work. It was …” I paused. “Therapy.”

“Was it?” He held my eyes so intently with his. They glowed unnaturally like two white lights for just a brief moment. It should have been scary but I confess I found it kind of sexy. “I think you rather hoped that Mike would get what he deserved. Once Lance drew my attention to your very vigorous efforts, I stepped in.” He assumed a modest expression. “Mike’s bad karma is on me. Not you. But not through lack of trying.”

Lance returned with a tray of drinks. I glared at him. “You narced me out to God?” I hissed.

“If it makes you feel better to consider me God or a God,” said the entity who had still not introduced himself and was not offering any hints. “By all means. But I prefer to think of myself as a fixer on a cosmic scale. Retribution applied where needed.”

“Well,” I said knocking back my wine in one. “Thank you for the warning.”

“It is a very serious warning,” my cosmic guest continued. “Although I am inclined to be lenient. Business is booming and I’m getting old…”

“… He’s an ancient one in fact,” interrupted Lance.

“Not a compliment,”snapped my guest and Lance flinched. “As I was saying it has been a long time since I have sought assistance,” Lance cleared his throat. “Lets just say the intern here is a slow learner and perhaps if you joined our endeavor you might be answering a calling.”

“You’re head hunting me to deal out cosmic justice on your behalf?” I asked.

“Very succinct,” he said happily. “I knew we would get along.”

“There are some fantastic employee benefits,” interrupted Lance. “Immortality. Pay’s pretty bad but you can work from home.”

“Am I selling my soul?” I asked.

“I’m not sure I would describe it as that. Your old life would end but your new life, Charlotte, I think you would find rewarding.”

Perhaps I was entering a pact with Lucifer.

On the other hand I had worked for Lehman brothers, the internal revenue - and more recently carved a niche in an office where sexual predators were ignored.

It wasn’t such a leap.

“You would be my envoy across the four corners of the earth, seeking out the situations where the scales need to be balanced. I have read some of your writing and I have to say some of it was quite inspirational, I would ask you to seek out transgressions and conjure up the kind of scenario needed to right the wrongs. Balance the books so to speak.”

“A cosmic avenger,” interrupted Lance.

That did sound way sexier than Financial Admin.

Perhaps the man with the handsome bone structure and commanding presence was raised from hell – but when he smiled he had dimples. And all things considered, surely he would be an improvement on Mike as a manager.

“Thank you for the opportunity,” I said. “I’ll take it.”