He held the shop door open for her, and she bustled away, leaving the fickle-hearted Jezebel still at her lunch inside, with Ike.
As she rounded the corner of the market, however, after a swift glance at the baking beach and boardwalk, she stepped off the boardwalk to a concrete path that ran behind the market. After peering through two small windows that flanked a narrow door, she found what she was after — the sight of Mrs. Elias, perspiring heavily and stabbing with a fork into the large plastic container of Ike’s hand-prepared lunch, which she held balanced on her knee. As the witch watched, she drank deeply from a large glass of iced liquid and sighed. She was sitting on a plywood crate as close to the window as possible to pick up the slightest breath of air that might stray into the dark room from outside.
The witch pecked at the screen with a long forefinger. Mrs. Elias jumped. “Yes?”
“Dear, aren’t you terribly hot in there? Why don’t you eat out front, where the air conditioning is?”
Mrs. Elias’s mouth twisted wryly. “Because it’s not good business to eat in front of the customers.”
“Who said?”
Mrs. Elias just shrugged.
“Ah, yes. Well, at the very least, don’t eat that stuff if you don’t want it. It can’t be settling on your poor stomach very well in the heat.”
“I, uh... I have to eat it. Ike gets very angry...” She cast a worried look into the gloom in the direction of the shop.
“What, does he check?”
She shrugged a shoulder, but nodded. The witch looked her over for a few moments, took in her pale drawn face, her bowed shoulders, and the deep circles beneath the large black eyes that used to flame and sparkle with temper. She had to remind herself of Mrs. Elias’s age... or lack of it.
“Look. I’m still going to bring your darling husband something to show my gratitude, but for you, my gift to you is to take something away. Let me have that.” With a swift motion, she pushed aside the screen on its hinge, and before Mrs. Elias could react, the entire contents of the box were dumped into the witch’s basket. “There.” She handed the empty plastic box back to the stunned Mrs. Elias.
“Men can be incredibly impractical at times,” the witch announced. “Now, don’t say anything to him about it, he means well and we must consider his feelings. Agreed?”
Mrs. Elias nodded, too stunned to speak. Her eyes were enormous, and glistened almost feverishly.
The witch looked her over, then said, “You receive your lunch from him every day around now?”
Mrs. Elias nodded.
“And he always inspects to make sure you finished it all?”
Mrs. Elias nodded again, still speechless.
“I’ll be here every day at this time. You wait for me if I’m late. Don’t eat this heavy mess until the heat wears off the summer, and I’m betting you’ll feel excellent for it.”
Mrs. Elias started to say something, but the witch held up her hand and said, “Hup! Never mind. See you here tomorrow. Not a word to Ike, remember.”
For a week this continued, Mrs. Elias meekly handing over the contents of her large plastic container and the witch depositing it inelegantly into her basket, the whole process taking seconds. The witch would return to the boardwalk and continue on her way before anyone had a chance to notice that she’d been standing at the back window of the fish market. And daily, in the early hours, the witch would glance up at the roof of the fishmonger’s house to observe the color gradually returning to Mrs. Elias’s cheeks, and a lessening of the circles beneath her eyes. Always, before passing on, the witch would inquire pointedly about Ike’s blood pressure and how well he was taking his medicine.
One day, as the witch disposed of Ike’s well-intentioned lunch for his wife, Mrs. Elias, after hesitating for a moment, leaned close to the screen and whispered faintly, “I feel I owe you... Ike feeds your cat only because when you come into the shop, it makes him important in the eyes of the other villagers and brings him business. It isn’t... it isn’t...”
“It isn’t because he just loves cats? I know, dear. But don’t you think your loyalty should be to your husband? Like these horrendous lunches, he means well. I know it’s difficult to be a wife, dear.”
Flushing at the rebuke, Mrs. Elias drew away from the window and took her empty container back from the witch with only a faint “thank you.”
Another week passed. Mrs. Elias’s garden bloomed as if in sympathetic delight with the increasing wellbeing of its caretaker. The witch had gone home and consulted a manual of herbal lore the day she’d first disposed of Mrs. Elias’s lunch, and never failed to consider the garden thoughtfully thereafter as she passed it on her walks. As Mrs. Elias’s color, health, and garden continued to flourish, so did the worried look in the witch’s eyes when she was home and unobserved by anybody but Jezebel.
After yet another week had gone by, as the witch observed the milkman again sneaking furtively back to his truck from Mrs. Elias’s house, she signaled to him that she wanted to see him. After making an appointment with him at her home at dusk of that same day, she went on about her business.
That evening the milkman parked in a lane that stopped about a hundred yards from the witch’s house. The air was much more comfortable hero than in the village because of all the surrounding trees He waited as he’d been instructed.
“Hello, Charlie.”
He jumped, nearly falling because of the foot he’d left propped on the running board of his ancient panel truck. “Oh, hi, there, uh, Mrs. Risk. I came like you asked me to.”
She smiled, eyes widening in surprised appreciation. “You remember my name. Few do.” She studied him as he stood there in front of her, and while she did so, he leaned lightly against his truck. He had thick auburn hair and light hazel eyes that crinkled pleasantly in the corners, giving him a good-natured look. His mouth widened into a broad smile now, and his eyes twinkled intelligently at her as he watched her look him over. She admired the restraint he kept on the curiosity he must have felt.
“Well. At least it’s understandable,” the witch finally said. “What is?”
“This attraction you seem to hold for half the village housewives.”
He relaxed a little more. “That might be a compliment. It depends. Unless you mean what I think you mean.”
“Oh, really?” Mrs. Risk studied him with increased interest. “And what do you think that is?”
“Oh, the old cliche. I’ll bet that you, like most of the husbands in this place, think that just because I see their precious better halves in their nighties at the crack of dawn I’m itching to jump their bones while hubby’s at work. How’m I doin’, as a certain ex-mayor used to ask?” He folded his arms across his chest.
“Not bad. Are you implying that the truth of the situation is something different?”
“Truth is, most women look like coyote bait at that hour of the morning. Their husbands are welcome to ’em, with my heartfelt sympathy. Only about two women in this whole burg hold any attraction for me whatsoever, and they both have husbands who could chew new artwork out of Mount Rushmore for breakfast.”
“So I take it you resist temptation.”
“And will continue to do so until I feel suicidal.”
She studied him thoughtfully for some more minutes while he waited patiently. His face betrayed his bafflement, but he seemed in no hurry to push for explanations.
“So all this running from the back door of Mrs. Elias’s house each morning is merely to avoid personal injury at the hands of a husband who really has no reason to worry?”