Читать книгу Wherever the Wind Blows Me... - Laurie Jr. Murphy - Страница 8

I am annoyed that Julie has such a spell on me, a witch-like spell that tries to make me like her, but I will not give in. I will not be controlled by witchcraft. She can cast her spells on other people, weaker people, people who will fall for it. Not me. She will never control me.

She just keeps talking. I don’t know what she is saying. I am fighting the spell, forcing myself to disengage. Her mouth keeps moving, words falling out. I say nothing until she finally stops. Silence hangs in the air. I reach for something civil, something superficial, friendly, pleasant, but distant. But instead what I say only proves that she is forcing her will on me. This is what I say. Do you know anything about spoon bending?

I try to suck the words back in, but it’s too late. Maybe it’s the night air or the glow of lights. Maybe it is some past yearning of a Hippie lifestyle, but whatever it is, I actually ask this question to a perfect stranger. A question left over from my bucket list of 1999.

I expect her to be shocked, horrified. I am. I expect her to walk away, shut her blinds, lock her doors, and tell her child never to come near my property. Instead, quiet, she ponders my question, and then says no, she had never been successful at spoon-bending, but she thinks her husband might be, and perhaps one night, we could all give it a try.

Truly, that is what she says to me. Then she turns and walks back to her house. Just like that. Like our conversation is over. Like things are normal. They are anything but normal! Where the hell is she going with my words? To tell her husband about the lunatic who lives next door? How about her, coming out at night with no coat? Coming over to a stranger’s car? Forcing me to say something I don’t want to say? What about that?

I watch her walk into the house. I want to wish her permanently gone. I want to envision a moving van parked in her driveway loading up her belongings, taking her to some faraway place that I have never heard of, or at least can’t locate on the map. Maybe Oregon, or Montana. I want to turn back time, make the house empty once more, and darken the street. That’s what I tell myself. But the truth is I want to follow her. Just leave my car in the middle of the street and follow her. Then I want to beg her to be my friend.

I race into the house to tell my husband about her. I make a conscious effort to leave out the part about the spoon-bending. That’s not his thing. She seems nice, I say. Huh, he says. I wouldn’t get too friendly with the neighbors.