Husband Rehab Read online

  Mr. Dooley stands in the shade of three white oaks at the head of a promenade with a hedgerow on one side and a colonnade of pollard trees on the other. The three oaks were planted at the time of the original construction. They surround a monument to men who fought and died in the Civil War. It’s nothing more than a piece of granite stone cut slantwise, listing etched names of the men. Josie has always known it to be weathered stained and unreadable.

  Mr. Dooley leans over it as if he can read every word.

  “Having a nice time?” Lady Dooley asks.

  “I am,” he says, glancing up with a sour look. “I knew you’d find me.” He straightens, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. “I’m Oswald Dooley, young lady. Nice to meet you.”

  “Hi,” Josie manages. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

  “Glad you came,” Christine says.

  “Shame what’s happened to this place. I used to enjoy coming here … before it all changed.” He glares at his wife, as if it’s her fault, which much of it is. “So you’re the one running this operation?” He glues his eyes on Josie. “You go ahead and cast your spell. I’m ready for whatever it is. I’ll endure. I always endure.”

  He lifts his chin, standing at attention. His arms stiffen at his side like a cadet’s in training. He huffs and puffs, reading himself for what is to come.

  “Uh … I, uh, don’t have anything ready yet, Mr. Dooley.”

  “That’s fine with me, too,” he says, stepping past them. “If I still have some time as an autonomous human being, I think I’ll see how the water well is doing.”

  Josie is so confused by his demeanor that she can’t identify his problem. He’s brusque, odd, and certainly immune to his wife’s charms. However, there’s a curious quality about him, as if he may warm to Josie if she follows him around a bit and lets him do his thing. She feels a touch of panic that not being married might prove to be a hindrance. Her spells work on some ineffable feeling she gets during the brewing process. She arranges objects and cooks them on instinct, following a method that unfolds like a melody on the tongue. She feels a solution to whatever problem she’s considering. Some spells are simple, some complex. With Mr. Dooley, she fears he may need a few tries to get it right.

  “I think I’ll get to work,” Josie says, “right away.”

  * * *

  At dinner, Josie can’t sit still. Alice has prepared a small table for five. Roxy and Aunt Emma have left. Josie sits between Christine and Lady Dooley. Lennox and Mr. Dooley are on the other side of the table.

  Three against two, she thinks.

  Josie has been aimlessly picking at her fried catfish and boiled dumplings. Everyone has eaten their fill. Josie can’t stop thinking about the problem of Mr. Dooley. She has already searched through her grandmother’s grimoire for hints. Normally, solutions come to Josie in a flash of ingredients and the right cooking temperature, and the unexplainable chemistry bubbles up with ancient alchemical magic. Today, though, she waffled because she senses that Mr. Dooley is more than a cranky, old man.

  Still, Josie did as she was asked and prepared a simple concoction.

  The thimble and cork rest in her pocket. She can’t stop fiddling with it.

  Christine notices and knits her brow.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, Josie thinks, trying to pretend to be interested in Lady Dooley’s lecture on the need for discretion in this modern age.

  “Yes, witchery is accepted,” Lady Dooley says, “but our tireless enemies have never truly been defeated.”

  Right, Josie thinks, monotheistic religion and modern science are such bugbears. Please. Our ‘enemies’ have transformed the world into a globalized neighborhood. And in America, at least, the old magical ways that have been reborn are more accepted than ever. Come on, we can all get along. I want my smartphone and my spell book. Don’t tell me I can’t …

  She sees Mr. Dooley staring at her as if he has something to say.

  Lady Dooley sees it as well and pauses long enough to clear a scratch in her throat. She continues, now declaiming that even though the Church is full of witches and that there could never be another true inquisition, they still must be vigilant.

  “When are we going to get to it?” Mr. Dooley asks. Like a gentlemen, he dabs his cloth napkin at both sides of his mouth, sets it on the table, and rests his fingers on the edge. “I am excited to see what you cooked up for me. Do you know, the last bit of sorcery my wife threw my way gave me gout? What a miserable time. I guess I deserve it for being such a bore.”

  Lady Dooley clutches her fork like a weapon. “It wasn’t sorcery and you know it. Don’t bait me.”

  “Distinctions, distinctions. From Gaia or the Devil himself, what do I care?” He waits. “Well?”

  Josie withdraws the thimble, palming it like a found prize. She opens her fingers. “It’s nothing too drastic.”

  “Hand it over the philter, please.”

  Like a man who’s been through this before, he pulls the cork. He eyes it, sniffs, then up ends its contents into his sweet tea.

  “Just a sip or two?” he asks.

  Josie nods. “I think you’ll—”

  He takes a huge gulp, then another. He smiles, wiping the moisture from his lips.

  “There we go,” he says. “What can I expect from my new therapy?”

  Lady Dooley laughs, but the tension remains. “Why don’t we finish our meals, then we can—”

  “I’d like to know.”

  Josie waits, watching. Her spells usually work instantaneously. So far, he hasn’t really been a jerk, or acted mean, or done anything unpleasant at all. He’s just been asserting himself. That’s not a crime. “When you get out of line, you’ll … offer to do something nice for your wife.” She winces at how pedestrian it sounds.

  “Like buy her flowers?” Lennox asks, the slightest hint of a smile.

  “Sort of.”

  “I act like a jerk; then I act like a prince,” Mr. Dooley says. “Is that it?”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay, then, let me think.” Mr. Dooley stands. “I’ve got it. Eleanor, please ask me to go for a walk after dinner.”

  Lady Dooley smiles, obviously happy to play along. “Alright. Why not? Dear husband, would you like to go for a walk with me after dinner?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Everyone holds their breath. Mr. Dooley stands at attention, eyes forward.

  “Hmm,” he says and sits down. “It doesn’t seem to be working.” He picks up his fork to finish off his fish. His head snaps up as if he’s just thought of a cure for cancer. “Do you think Bernard is finished raking those leaves? I saw him before dinner. He’s still out there. We’ve got an hour left of light. I think … I’ll go help.”

  The confusion on his face means something’s off kilter, as if he can’t believe he made the suggestion.

  “Help Bernard?” Lady Dooley says, slowing turning to Josie for clarification. “The grounds keeper? Right now?”

  “That’s exactly … what I must do.”

  He hurries from the kitchen in such a rush he nearly knocks over Alice leaving the pantry.

  “Bernard?” Lady Dooley says. “The grounds keeper?”

  “Uh,” Josie replies, “that’s not what I intended.”

  Lennox grins, chewing away. “I think I’m going to like him.”

  “He may have to stay a little while longer,” Josie says, “while I work out the kinks.”

  “You’d like that?” Lady Dooley says to Lennox. “Form a band of brothers?”

  “Anything to help,” Lennox says.

  “Is that so?” Stella says from the kitchen doorway. She strolls inside, purse in hand, high-heels clicking. “Sorry I’m late. I was hoping to hear good news: that he’s ready to come home, for one.”

  “I don’t think so,” Josie manages.

  “Of course not.”

  “Ladies,” Lennox says, “I think it’s time we … be honest with each other.”

&
nbsp; Josie watches everyone’s eyes lock onto the beautiful man sitting before them. He’s so perfect in every way—at least that’s how he looks to Josie—that she can’t imagine a sharp word ever sent his way. But Stella’s glaring venom-stained daggers, while Lady Dooley looks as convinced as a parole officer listening to a convict’s excuses.

  “Yes, Mr. Cruz,” Lady Dooley says, “let’s be honest with each other.”

  “I, uh, I …”

  Josie can’t stop from shaking her head. She wants to blurt, no, no, no, don’t tell them anything, Lennox. Not about the kiss, she thinks. Oh, god, is he going to confess his love for me? Wait, that’s about the best thing that could happen. No, it’s not. What’s he going to say …?

  “I make most of my money as a healer in Hollywood.”

  Stella and Lady Dooley let a long beat pass between them in which they stare like statues.

  “What?” Lady Dooley asks.

  “Lennox …” Stella says, shaking her head.

  “The acting roles are good and pay well, but the money’s mostly coming in from high paying customers who need my special touch. I’m good. I’m really good.”

  “A practicing warlock,” Lady Dooley says, “right under our noses.”

  “Oh, lighten up,” Christine says. “In California they’re everywhere.”

  Lady Dooley sets her fork down on her plate and stands. Any sense of joviality has disappeared. Josie sees the cold face of an inquisitor. She can imagine this woman cleansing the world of dangerous male sorcerers, just as prelates once cleared the world of witches. Lady Dooley glares at Stella, as if the insult is her fault. The old grand dame stands on shaky legs. She steadies herself. She even closes her eyes for a second.

  “Are you alright?” Christine asks.

  Josie can’t imagine the political damage this might do. She’s spent most of her time ignoring the hierarchy in witch society because of its byzantine rules, odd religious ceremonies, and insistence on the importance of useless tradition. Certain things, though can send a high priestess to the back of the pack. Harboring a practicing male witch is one of them.

  “I think I’ll lie down,” Lady Dooley says.

  Christine grabs her arm to steady her. “There’s a room down the hall that’s clean and cool.” She walks the high priestess out of the kitchen.

  Stella regards her husband as if he’s just announced he’s a communist, or a leper, or … a warlock.

  “I can’t believe you told her,” Stella says. Josie sees actual tears well in her eyes—as if those will do any good. “Lennox, this isn’t Los Angeles.”

  He crosses his arms like a boy refusing to admit he’s done something wrong. Josie doesn’t want to be here to witness a petulant fight between the two of them.

  “I know, but I don’t care.”

  “Oh, my god,” Stella says. “They could banish me … and you, they could …”

  “Stop it,” he says. “You’d love that. Get to spend all your time somewhere else. Empty our bank accounts in style.”

  Stella’s lip trembles. She rounds on Josie. “Fix him, will you? This isn’t a case of a lazy husband. It’s something more. He’s … intractable.”

  Stella leaves as quickly as she came.

  Lennox grins a big, ear-splitting grin. “Well, I’ve done it now. You still have that camera?”

  Josie nods.

  He reaches over and grabs her hand. “Keep it safe. It may be my only chance.”

  He continues to eat, as if nothing has happened, and Josie finds herself eating with him, both of them silent, like two old partners comfortable with each other’s presence. She ignores the anxiety that swirls around her like a tornado. As long as Lennox is sitting at a table with her, and especially one at Birchall, the world around them can burn. A sliver or rationality perks up enough to reminder her how bad this might go. But her crush feels more than infatuation. It feels right, as if she has been waiting for Lennox all her life ... and he has been waiting for her.

  * * *

  Later that evening, Josie watches Mr. Dooley begrudgingly turn off the TV in the den, even though it’s apparent he wants to watch a documentary on WW2. He appears exhausted from helping the grounds keeper, although she can tell he’s happy about what happened.

  “Wasn’t planning on that, were you?” he says and chuckles.

  He’s sitting with a towel wrapped around his neck. He has stripped to a sweaty V-neck. His pleated pants are stained and dirty. But he’s sitting like a contented man, happy to have done something useful. “My wife’s had a shock. That’s your doing?”

  “Not really,” Josie says.

  “My doing?”

  “No.”

  “Of course not. Lennox’s announcement?” he asks.

  “That’s what did it.”

  Mr. Dooley leans in close. He whispers, “You have a unique opportunity. She’s giving your experiment a chance because I’m a thorn in her side. Now that Lennox has dropped his bomb, if you play your cards right, you might be able to put the old bat on the bench. Make everyone’s life easier.”

  “On the bench?”

  “You want to give life back to Birchall. I get it. You help women with troublesome husbands, and you return this place to its old glory. Right?”

  She nods. “That it.”

  “Bravo to you. I’m all for it. I even told a few friends in need.”

  “In need?”

  He smiles, as if he is the only one in on a joke. “Three buddies of mine, all divorced. All miserable bastards since their wives left them. Well, two are miserable. The other one is interested in coming to see what the fuss is about.”

  “Volunteers?”

  “Coming tonight. Wait until my wife sees them walk through the door. It may be enough to push her over the edge. I can dream, right?” He looks happy with himself, a man preparing to have a weekend with old friends. “Going to be a regular boy’s club around here before you know it.”

  Vacation away from your wife, Josie thinks, the grand dame herself.

  “Can I give you some advice?” he asks. “This may be the most exciting venture any coven’s started around here in years. Make it work. You’ll benefit. This place will benefit. I promise.”

  The doorbell rings. “There we are.”

  Mr. Dooley hops to his feet and answers it. Josie meets the first volunteer, Buckston Polk, a bear of a man with a loud voice, and spends the next half hour listening to the old friends talk. Soon, a man who looks lost in his own clothes, Hank LaFayette, arrives. Cory Pepper follows. He’s quiet and shy and unable to look Josie in the eye. Alice busies herself bringing the men snacks and beverages. Christine returns for the evening with Aunt Emma, who delivers chocolate-chip cookies. These are eaten right away. The men reluctantly enter the drawing room to speak with Christine.

  Josie remains in the den, although she’s not interested in watching TV. Since the den’s situated on one side of the vestibule, the drawing room on the other, she listens to Christine greet each of them. She hears voices from upstairs, as well. She has a difficult time paying to Christine and the newcomers because Stella is currently castigating Lennox. Every now and then Josie hears a piercing shriek, as if Stella can’t contain herself. Josie wants to sneak up there and eavesdrop, but the new volunteers will be retiring to their rooms soon.

  Better to sit tight, she tells herself, and wait.

  That pays off when she hears Stella storm across the landing. Josie edges down the couch so that she can see. Stella descends the grand stair in a swoosh of movement. It seems she barely touches the stones of the vestibule before she’s out of the house. The door slams behind her.

  Yes!

  Josie waits for the sound of a car leaving.

  She walks upstairs, taking a moment to pause to see if anyone notices. She eases her way to Lennox’s room. She knocks and cracks the door. He’s at the window, watching.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “I told her I want out. I said I’d give her whatev
er she wants. She can have it all as long as she lets me go.”

  “You did?” Josie asks, even stepping into the room as if proximity to him will make it all happen.

  “She won’t go without a fight.”

  A leather-bound manuscript lies on his desk. It’s one of the volumes from the library. The binding is bare, and she can’t read the title. She’s never seen it before.

  He places his hand on it. “I think I have a solution.” He edges past her and shuts the door. “When Stella and I got married I thought we were right for each other. She was ambitious, smart, charming, a witch open to my … talents. I wanted to be an actor. She helped me get started. But we never clicked, especially not when she began to grow in stature in the coven. When I … refused to join myself to her in some religious ceremony, things soured.”

  “Join? You mean in the coven?”

  “It’s all in here.” He tapped the book with his index finger. “It’s a way for a male witch to become one with a female witch, like a super unit of witchery or something. It’s just a bunch of symbolic nonsense. We both knew it. But when I said no, she … pulled away and started making demands of me financially. Our relationship, whatever it had been, was over. She still has me legally, according to the fine state of Georgia, where we married. We’ve been separated three times. But I want it official. I want her to sign the papers. She won’t.”

  “But …?”

  “If I join with another witch, according to the old ways, if I do this, she’ll have to release me. The coven’s rules outweigh the State’s.”

  Josie feels heat on her neck radiate like a sunburn. sweat forms under her arms like a second skin. It seems as if, all at once, the entire world has turned into a sauna. She wants to fan her neck, to sit down, but she continues to smile. He’s telling me how he wants out of his marriage. That’s it, she convinces herself. He’s going to ask me … to join with him. What does that even mean?

  She walks to the closed book, as if she’s interested in its contents.

  “This describes … the process?” He nods. “You want to join with another witch?” Another nod, slower, his eyes on her. “With me?”

  Lennox clasps her hands. He moves his lips inches from hers. Josie feels every bone in her body turn to jelly. Worse, she hasn’t showered since this morning, and when she sweats she always leaves a layer of salt on her skin that lasts for hours.