Chapter 15 Werewolves and Grannies and Gnomes! Oh, My. #2
It’s a beautiful fall day, irritatingly sunny and cinematic.
As Halloween approaches, the number of witches in this place is growing more alarming, and more diverse, by the minute.
You’ve got your influencer witches, your gauzy-veil-wearing witches, your brujas, your steampunk-librarian-with-feather-tufted-eyeglasses witches, your pit-bull-terrier witches, and your Japanese schoolgirl non-witches.
Everywhere I look is a feast for Grandma’s eyes. Even the Dunkin’ is spooky.
Why, Grandma. Why did you have to die at the cusp of Salem’s most rabid season? Why couldn’t you have passed away at a more innocuous time, like Christmas?
“Just to check, you said the white blur you saw in the woods was hiding, right?” asks Hanry.
“Hiding or floating. It reminded me of a plastic bag. Can a witch disguise themselves as a plastic bag?”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
I shrug. “Grandma’s friends are retirees. What else do they have to do except cosplay?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’m asking because…
well, it matters whether the source of your sabotage is living or not.
” At my curious expression, he explains, “If you were being sabotaged by a plastic bag or by someone living, a psychic couldn’t help.
For one thing, if your grandmother’s friends were behind this, they wouldn’t appear at a séance. Séances are for the dead.”
Wait. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—
“We could reach out to Grandma Rose,” I say. Why didn’t I think of this before? “She’s been watching me this whole time, right? Forget the weddings. She could tell me what she was trying to get out of me in her will! She’d let me know exactly what the tide thing’s about.”
“I haven’t recommended that for a reason,” says Hanry, his voice kind.
“Sabby, séances can go wrong. They can lead to spirit possession. The longer your grandma lingers in the in-between, the greater the odds of her wanting to hang on to this world. Most legit psychics wouldn’t consider doing it for you, no matter the price. ”
“So visiting a psychic is a last, worst-case, nuclear winter-y scenario.”
“You still have other options. One good option.” Hanry’s voice is painfully encouraging. A pedestrian light changes, stopping us at the curb. I wait as Hanry chews on his lip and sticks his hands into his pockets. He seems unwilling to say what he’s about to say. “Gnomes.”
The pedestrian light flickers on again, musically, obnoxiously. Before Hanry and I can move, before I can ask why Hanry suggested we purchase lawn gnomes for Grandma Rose’s front yard, a random cowboy two-steps between us, breaking apart our clasped hands. “Yeehaw!” he says.
I cover my eyes. Everything in my life has to be a goddamn spectacle, doesn’t it?
Hanry rescues me with a solid push to my back.
“I… don’t know what that was,” he says, guiding me past. “Let’s just go this way.”
In spite of Hanry’s odd reluctance to be up-front about the gnomes, I suspect they were the thrust of his plan all along, because minutes later, we arrive at a Home Depot with a garden center.
I take his hand in mine, squeeze, and release some of my fizzling indignation at the universe.
Yes, I’m still living in Salem the Madhouse.
No, I’m not in New York. But at least I have Hanry, and Hanry is bringing me to a box retail store, a normal place. Because he’s a nice, normal person.
Yet I’m suspicious. And cranky.
“How will redecorating Grandma Rose’s yard help, exactly?
” I ask. I haven’t told him yet about the kidnapped yard flamingos or the earthen craters lingering tragically in their absence.
Already a couple of tourists have started throwing coins into the largest hole in my Grandma’s lawn, thinking it’s some kind of bleak, decorative Halloween-themed wishing well.
Gently disregarding my mood, Hanry points us past the garden center entrance and to the Home Depot’s back wall. He casts a few longing glances down the aisles with drill bits and power tools but perseveres until we near the bathrooms. He stops at an unmarked swing door.
Of course we’ll be going through that door. Of course.
“This way to wonderland,” I mutter.
“Nah,” says Hanry. He gives my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Wonderland is only accessible by tunnels. And with PBI clearance only.”
“Who?”
“The Paranormal Bureau of Investigation.”
Pleased, I say, “I knew that had to be a thing! Can I hire them to help me?”
“Probably not. Their main job is to erase human memories about the paranormal community,” he says, to my disappointment. “Anyway, this room leads to Special Services. They’re the ones who can send out gnomes for you, to do whatever you need.”
On that unsettling note, Hanry pushes the door open.
A single buzzing fluorescent bulb lights a sterile room, featureless but for a long counter with a hanging sign that reads SPECIAL SERVICES.
Behind the counter, a bored woman with a pierced nose and a buzz haircut flicks to the next page in her book.
Hanry places a forearm casually on the countertop, smiling.
This behavior should come off as unbearably gross, but his smile is somehow un-smarmy and un-creepy.
I cross my arms so he knows how little I appreciate his display of effortless charm.
Hanry doesn’t pay attention. He is a man on a mission.
“Socks,” he says.
“One moment.”
The woman dog-ears a yellowed page in her paperback. She places it face down and leaves. Which is odd, because I note that this room has no windows. Or doors. Or air vents.
I look around. Where the hell did she go? Where did the door we entered through go? And what’s with the secret password?
“Did you know,” Hanry says out of the blue, “that you can fix your phone by turning it off and on again? No matter what’s going wrong?”
I shoot him a disbelieving look.
“Really. You can,” he says, misinterpreting me entirely. “I visited an Apple store recently. Have you been to their Genius Bar? They’ve got some great tips.”
“Hanry,” I say, “they aren’t geniuses. They’re dweebs with peak TikTok keyword skills.”
The representative returns with an off-brand iPad. Hanry has it turned upside down as he passes it to me. He nearly drops it.
“Sorry. I, uh, forgot where the buttons are.”
I know that Hanry more or less called himself a Luddite, but this enters anachronistic time-traveler territory. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was raised by a lost Amazonian tribe. But then again, he’s from New Hampshire.
“Tablets don’t have buttons,” I say as I take over, tapping through the single icon on the main screen. When the app loads, I scroll down a list of services. “What am I looking for?”
Somewhat distressed at the speed of my window-opening and swiping, Hanry points to the bulleted option between TALK TO CATS and RAPSCALLIONERY that reads GNOMES.
Interdimensional Buzz-Cut Lady chimes in from her book. “Suggest the specific mayhem you prefer. Then fill in the address of where you’d like a visit.”
“Thanks,” says Hanry. “What she said. Petty linen theft is the lowest tier, but it gets all the way up to lawn and sod trampling, persistent plumbing issues, pest infestations, and ‘other.’ Gnomes thrive under creativity.”
“Wow,” I say. “Gnomes are like, the jack-of-all-jacking-up-trades.”
“The MVPs. Especially when it comes to subtle, hard-to-trace chaos. You can’t get any better.
” Hanry rubs his one-inch-shy-of-bearded chin.
It looks very scruffy and scratchable from here.
“The first time I used the gnomes’ services, I was ten.
I had some cousins visiting for the first time, and they started bullying me the moment our parents left the room. ”
“Ah. Classic. It’s hard to imagine you getting bullied, though. How badly were you outnumbered?”
“By four,” says Hanry. “They were older and stronger than me. I didn’t know how to get back at them and needed extra help.”
“You could’ve told your parents.” Not that this would’ve worked for me, but I remembered that James’s parents would do anything for him.
Same for the parents of my high school friends, who had strong opinions about fighting houselessness in Portland and let me sleep on their springy mid-century sofas.
“My mom knew I was getting bullied,” Hanry says. “She wanted me to toughen up, I think.”
“Yikes,” I say, returning to the present. “That’s brutal.”
“Yeah. My dad might’ve intervened, but he was away on a business trip.”
“Now I see why you moved away. Plus, the head damage from bullying explains your weird hobbies.”
“Touché,” laughs Hanry. “I love my parents, but yeah. Getting away is nice.”
“No kidding. With the way you talk about your family, I’m amazed you turned out so decent. It must’ve come about in spite of their best efforts. Happens sometimes.”
This drops me into unwelcome thoughts of my own parentage—the similarity between Hanry and me doesn’t escape me—and I’m so deep in thoughts of Baja California, I almost miss it when Hanry says, “Well, that’s, uh… the funny thing. I’m adopted.”
I look up from the iPad screen. Hanry is pressing his lips together, like he’s wishing he hadn’t spoken. He’s tensing his jaw too. Maybe setting it against the hurt shadowing his words.
“Really?” I ask. “So on our date, when you told me things were complicated…”
“Yeah,” Hanry says. “My parents—my adopted parents—aren’t perfect. But they do their best. I want to make them proud of me, and happy with me, if I can. It’s the least I can do. They’re better than my, uh, birth parents.”
“You don’t have to tell me about them,” I say, sensing we’re entering private territory. But Hanry keeps going.