“Who are you?” Simon says.
She laughs, a dry sound, like a match strike, exhales a plume of smoke, blue in the moonlight. “People can turn into trolls, or trolls can shape-shift. They take various forms, such as a hollowed-out tree or a ball of yarn. They hunger for the taste of Christian blood.”
“What about witches?”
“A witch is what we call a woman who is past her child-bearing years. What is the point of these women? people wonder. Why is their visage, wrinkled and sagging, so offensive?”
“That’s—I can’t handle you right now. Comedy routines. You said magic before, and the things you do to me at night when you think I’m asleep. The spells you use.”
“Once you free your mind of the clutter of nonbelief, you start to see what’s hidden. Children know this. They build fairy houses. They know what thunder really is. Superstition is just a dirty word for reality we don’t understand. When the answer is so simple. You have to believe to make it real.”
“Like Santa Claus?”
“You’re mocking me because you’ve already grown up. A big boy with tired eyes. But if you’re so smart, why do you rely on pharmaceuticals to flatten the world? Because you’re afraid of what’s out there.”
“You mean like the shit you’re putting in my arm?”
Another match strike.
“Oh my dear, you think I’m giving you some prescription that ends in ine? What goes into your arm is a potion first recorded in the Malleus Maleficarum, filled with certain herbs and roots and, of course, a set of intentions.”
“Is that what you make in the kitchen?”
“I make soup in the kitchen. What goes into your arm was brewed in the Mojave Desert on a moonless night following the sacrifice of a dozen songbirds and an orgy.”
“An—”
“Don’t look so offended. When you’re my age, all that’s left is eating and fucking.”
Simon starts to cry. “I wanna go home,” he says.
“Good,” she says. “That means you’re ready.”
He wipes his runny nose. “For what?”
“For the restoration.”
*
Rose puts warm water in the tub. She helps Simon peel off his hospital scrubs. The smell his body makes forces soup up from between his teeth.
“That’s okay, dear,” says Rose as he retches. “You express yourself.”
She helps him into the bath, uses a yellow washcloth to scrub his skin. He feels like a newborn, helpless, starved for contact, but the soap burns, and the cloth is abrasive. Rose hums “Nearer, My God to Thee.”
“You have to listen to the missus,” she whispers. “The missus will fix you right up.”
She shampoos his hair. The water turns gray.
“I have a sister in Florida. She marry a man, a not-good man. Criminal man. I tell her this a not-good man, but she love him.”
Rose lathers his arms and chest. “You can’t save people from themselves. Only God can do that.”
She scrubs his stomach, lifts his penis, washes around it.
He grabs her wrist. “Please,” he says, “just open the door and let me go. I won’t tell.”
She pulls her wrist free, smiles without teeth. “Now, now, don’t be a silly bird. Let Auntie Rose finish her work. It’s almost time for your medicine.”
“She’s crazy,” Simon hisses.
Rose stands up, grabs a thin white towel. “Cluck, cluck,” she says. “Don’t go name calling. None of us is any better than the other. Jesus say that.”
She helps him up out of the bath, dries him off. He stands shakily, his leg muscles quivering. How much weight has he lost? Rose lifts a sealed plastic sleeve from the top of the toilet. Inside is a new set of scrubs. She tears the bag, stretching the plastic wide. The pants are scratchy when she puts them on him, stiff. She pulls the shirt over his head, then tosses his hair with her hand.
“As handsome as the president,” she says.
She rolls the wheelchair over, but Simon kicks it away.
“I can walk,” he says, pushing past her out of the bathroom. He wobbles, almost falls, then catches himself on the doorjamb. He shuffles through the living room toward the kitchen.
“Not that way, sweetie,” says Rose.
“I want some water,” Simon mumbles, not slowing.
She tries to get in front of him, but the wheelchair gets caught on the card table. He makes it to the kitchen door, fumbles it open.
The Witch is sitting inside, drinking a cup of tea. Simon stops.
“I wanted a glass of water,” Simon tells her, feeling his courage drain away. The Witch doesn’t answer, just sips her tea. Simon takes a tentative step into the room. The floor creaks. He takes another. There is a cupboard next to the sink, where a glass might live. Simon rattles the handle. Locked.
“I need a glass,” he says.
The Witch sips her tea. Rose appears in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, missus. I bathe the boy.”
Simon rattles the handle. “I want a glass of water,” he demands.
Behind him, he can feel Rose’s hesitation. She needs a command from her mistress, but the Witch says nothing. Rose is forced to decide for herself.
“Go stand there,” she tells Simon, nodding to the stove. He does, putting his body in the gap between the range and the barred window. Rose takes out her keys, shielding them from Simon’s eyes. She looks through them, finds the cupboard key.
Without moving his head, Simon shifts his eyes to the Witch. Her teacup is up at her lips. She is staring at him. Simon looks away, his heart pounding. He feels frozen, rooted in place. She is an iceberg, a white lie, her darkest power hidden below the surface. He shivers.