VenCo(60)

“You don’t know?” Why in the hell was she even here, then?

“What did you think would happen?”

“I thought I would find you, or maybe you would find me, and then you would tell me where I had to go.” Lucky was frustrated and getting loud.

Ricky slammed her glass down on the table and leaned in a bit. “You really want me to tell you where to go right now?”

Lucky didn’t answer.

The older woman picked up her glass and drank. “You ever fish?”

“Me? No. I live in the city. I mean, I have, once or twice. With my mom.”

“When you fish you need one thing. You know what that is?”

“Let me guess . . . patience.” Lucky rolled her eyes.

“No, dumbass. You can sit around as long as you want, but if you ain’t got bait, you’re not gonna catch anything but cold. You need bait.” Ricky rolled her own eyes in direct mockery. “Lord, no wonder you got sent to me first.”

Lucky had no idea what to say to that, so she chugged some beer, then checked the window for any sign of a wandering old lady.

“I think you’re bait. In a way, anyway.”

Lucky felt a chill start at the backs of her knees, that place you feel pain the hardest, the place where heartache manifests first as a physical sensation.

“But also . . . something else.” Her voice had grown quiet. For some reason, this made it easier for Lucky to hear her, even through the echoey music and an argument that had started at the bar about what happened to the auto industry.

“Let’s head out.” Ricky downed the contents of her glass, pulled a cork out of her front pocket, and slammed it into the top of the bottle. She picked up her wine and stood.

“Wait, go? Where are we going?”

“Outside. We need some privacy.”

“I can’t leave. I have to watch—”

“We’ll stay within eyeshot of your room, but we need to take this outside.” She indicated the two angry men by the bar, who were now standing, hands balled into fists, one stool tipped over on its side. “It’s about to get typical in here, and we have work to do.”

Lucky stuck her beer bottle under her jacket and followed Ricky out the door and around the side of the bar, checking that their room was still in sight.

The grass underfoot was hard, crunchy with gravel and glass. They stood between the splintery wooden wall of the bar and the shell of a semi up on cinder blocks. Ricky put down her bottle and raised her arms. Her eyes closed, she began to whisper a prayer.

“What are you doing?”

“Ninety-first Psalm. The one that begins everything we do. If you know it, speak up.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then shut up.” She continued, speaking the words so fast they hung together like a song, the lines worn into the grooves of a mind that had focused on them for so many years. Coming from this tiny woman, as they stood between a wonky bar and the ghost of a rig, it didn’t even seem strange to hear a Christian prayer. Out here it became something else entirely.

“A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you.”

Lucky waited until Ricky had finished, put her arms down, and opened her eyes. “Are you a minister or something?”

“Not on your life. I’m, ah, I guess what some might call a cunning person. Others might say a powwow man. Or a German magi. Artist, even. Doesn’t matter what the title is. I am connected, is all.” She pulled scraps of paper from her oversized jacket pockets and shuffled through them.

“Connected to what exactly?”

“Well, that’s a larger conversation, and I’m not sure we have that kind of time. Maybe after this is done, we can meet up at this same janky bar and share one of these bottles of mine.” She was dropping paper like snowflakes onto the ground. “Right now, we’ll just say God. That usually makes everyone feel okay.”

Lucky felt a bit embarrassed, though she couldn’t say why.

“It’s weird for you. I can see that. But don’t worry so much about what others might think. As long as you can still think, that’s all that matters.”

“I’m not doing that very clearly these days.” Lucky kicked at the rocks by her feet.

“Hey, listen. I’m sure as fuck no counselor, but here’s what I’ve got to say about it. You always felt something was missing, yeah?”

Lucky nodded.

“And then one day you found a spoon, and then a woman found you, and then you were in Salem at a creepy old house, right?”

She nodded again.

“And this woman, this one who came and snatched you from your regular old life where something was missing—but, dammit, it was still a regular life—she tells you there are witches, and powwow people, and secret keepers, and that she dreamt of you. And that you are, in fact, one of those witches. Next thing you know, you’re meeting some weirdo at a shitty bar, so that weirdo sends you barreling across state lines to meet another weirdo in another shitty bar.” She gestured with her hands, still full of random pages. “How would anyone be able to think clearly?”

Lucky took it all in. “Thanks, Ricky. You’re right—I should give myself a break.”

“Oh, now, I didn’t say that. There’s no time for breaks. Now is the time for full speed ahead.”