said. “We have more money now than we know what to do with. Sometimes this city feels like an expensive tomb. I want to do something that matters.”
“But you speak with your movies,” Weetzie said. “You are an important influence on people. You open eyes.”
“It hasn’t been enough. I need to think of something strong. When I was a kid I had a lamp shaped like a globe. I had newspaper articles all over my walls, too, like Witch Babyhas—disasters and things. I always wished I could make the world as peaceful and bright as my lamp.”
“Give yourself time,” said Weetzie, and she took off his slouchy fedora, pushed back his dark hair and kissed his temples.
Witch Baby wished that she could go and sit on Weetzie’s lap and whisper an idea for a movie into My Secret Agent Lover Man’s ear. An idea to make him breathe deeply and sleep peacefully so the dark circles would fade from beneath his eyes. She wanted Weetzie and My Secret Agent Lover Man to stroke her hair and take her picture as if they were her real parents. But she did not go to them.
She turned to see Weetzie’s mother, Brandy-Lynn, waltzing alone.
Weetzie had told Witch Baby that Brandy-Lynn had once been a beautiful starlet, and in the soft shadows of night roses, Witch Baby could see it now. Starlet. Starlit, like Weetzie and Cherokee, Witch Baby thought. Brandy-Lynn collapsed in a lawn chair to drink her martini and finger the silver heart locket she always wore around her neck. Inside thelocket was a photograph of Weetzie’s father, Charlie Bat, who had died years before. The white lights shone on the heart, the martini and the tears that slid down Brandy-Lynn’s cheeks. Witch Baby wanted to pat the tears with her fingertip and taste the salt. Even after all this time, Brandy-Lynn cried often about Charlie Bat, but Witch Baby never cried about anything. Sometimes tears gathered, thick and seething salt in her chest, but she kept them there.
As Witch Baby imagined the way Brandy-Lynn’s tears would feel on her own face, she saw Cherokee Bat dancing over to Brandy-Lynn and holding a piece of plantain pie.
“Eat some pie and come dance with me and Raphael, Grandma Brandy,” Cherokee said. “You can show us how you danced when you were a movie star.”
Brandy-Lynn wiped away her mascaratinted tears and shakily held out her arms. Then she and Cherokee waltzed away across the lawn.
No one noticed Witch Baby as she went backinside the cottage, into the room she and Cherokee shared.
Cherokee’s side of the room was filled with feathers, crystals, butterfly wings, rocks, shells and dried flowers. There was a small tepee that Coyote had helped Cherokee make. The walls on Witch Baby’s side of the room were covered with newspaper clippings—nuclear accidents, violence, poverty and disease. Every night, before she went to bed, Witch Baby cut out three articles or pictures with a pair of toenail scissors and taped them to the wall. They made Cherokee cry.
“Why do you want to have those up there?” Weetzie asked. “You’ll both have nightmares.”
If Witch Baby didn’t cut out three articles, she knew she would lie awake, watching the darkness break up into grainy dots around her head like an enlarged newspaper photo.
Tonight, when she came to the third article, Witch Baby held her breath. Some Indians in South America had found a glowing blue ball. They stroked it, peeled off layers to decorate their walls and doorways, faces and bodies.Then one day they began to die. All of them. The blue globe was the radioactive part of an old X-ray machine.
Witch Baby burrowed under her blankets as Brandy-Lynn, Weetzie and Cherokee entered the room with plates of food. In their feathers, flowers and fringe, with their starlit hair, they looked more like three sisters than grandmother, mother and daughter.
“There you are!” Weetzie said. “Have some Love-Rice and come dance with us, my baby witch.”
Witch Baby peeked out at the three
“But you speak with your movies,” Weetzie said. “You are an important influence on people. You open eyes.”
“It hasn’t been enough. I need to think of something strong. When I was a kid I had a lamp shaped like a globe. I had newspaper articles all over my walls, too, like Witch Babyhas—disasters and things. I always wished I could make the world as peaceful and bright as my lamp.”
“Give yourself time,” said Weetzie, and she took off his slouchy fedora, pushed back his dark hair and kissed his temples.
Witch Baby wished that she could go and sit on Weetzie’s lap and whisper an idea for a movie into My Secret Agent Lover Man’s ear. An idea to make him breathe deeply and sleep peacefully so the dark circles would fade from beneath his eyes. She wanted Weetzie and My Secret Agent Lover Man to stroke her hair and take her picture as if they were her real parents. But she did not go to them.
She turned to see Weetzie’s mother, Brandy-Lynn, waltzing alone.
Weetzie had told Witch Baby that Brandy-Lynn had once been a beautiful starlet, and in the soft shadows of night roses, Witch Baby could see it now. Starlet. Starlit, like Weetzie and Cherokee, Witch Baby thought. Brandy-Lynn collapsed in a lawn chair to drink her martini and finger the silver heart locket she always wore around her neck. Inside thelocket was a photograph of Weetzie’s father, Charlie Bat, who had died years before. The white lights shone on the heart, the martini and the tears that slid down Brandy-Lynn’s cheeks. Witch Baby wanted to pat the tears with her fingertip and taste the salt. Even after all this time, Brandy-Lynn cried often about Charlie Bat, but Witch Baby never cried about anything. Sometimes tears gathered, thick and seething salt in her chest, but she kept them there.
As Witch Baby imagined the way Brandy-Lynn’s tears would feel on her own face, she saw Cherokee Bat dancing over to Brandy-Lynn and holding a piece of plantain pie.
“Eat some pie and come dance with me and Raphael, Grandma Brandy,” Cherokee said. “You can show us how you danced when you were a movie star.”
Brandy-Lynn wiped away her mascaratinted tears and shakily held out her arms. Then she and Cherokee waltzed away across the lawn.
No one noticed Witch Baby as she went backinside the cottage, into the room she and Cherokee shared.
Cherokee’s side of the room was filled with feathers, crystals, butterfly wings, rocks, shells and dried flowers. There was a small tepee that Coyote had helped Cherokee make. The walls on Witch Baby’s side of the room were covered with newspaper clippings—nuclear accidents, violence, poverty and disease. Every night, before she went to bed, Witch Baby cut out three articles or pictures with a pair of toenail scissors and taped them to the wall. They made Cherokee cry.
“Why do you want to have those up there?” Weetzie asked. “You’ll both have nightmares.”
If Witch Baby didn’t cut out three articles, she knew she would lie awake, watching the darkness break up into grainy dots around her head like an enlarged newspaper photo.
Tonight, when she came to the third article, Witch Baby held her breath. Some Indians in South America had found a glowing blue ball. They stroked it, peeled off layers to decorate their walls and doorways, faces and bodies.Then one day they began to die. All of them. The blue globe was the radioactive part of an old X-ray machine.
Witch Baby burrowed under her blankets as Brandy-Lynn, Weetzie and Cherokee entered the room with plates of food. In their feathers, flowers and fringe, with their starlit hair, they looked more like three sisters than grandmother, mother and daughter.
“There you are!” Weetzie said. “Have some Love-Rice and come dance with us, my baby witch.”
Witch Baby peeked out at the three
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