Poison Fruit

I tried reading aloud at home and quickly discovered that I was drowning in a sea of words while Mogwai stared at me with profound disinterest. And somehow it didn’t seem like the kind of poetry that should be read in the comfort of a living room. A grassy hillock above a babbling brook probably would have been ideal, someplace where I could meditate on what Whitman meant when he said grass was the handkerchief of the Lord, or a uniform hieroglyphic, or the uncut hair of graves . . . okay, actually, I got that last one. But it was too damn cold to sit outside and read poetry.

Instead, I went to the Daily Grind, treated myself to a mocha latte, and plowed doggedly onward.

At least for the first couple of hours, I was able to enjoy relative peace and quiet while I wrestled with Whitman’s endless observations of the world and its glorious multitude of inhabitants, interspersed with ruminations on the nature of self and existence, trying to figure out how on earth this was supposed to help me learn to become invisible. After a while, I gave up and just started skimming the pages, letting the words wash over me.

I was beginning to think it might be easier to start trying to breathe through my eyelids like a Galapagos Islands lava lizard.

Shortly after three o’clock, the coffee shop was hit with an influx of high school students released for the day, bringing the scent of cold air and the sound of myriad competing voices with them.

So much for concentrating. And yet I found myself looking at the scene through different eyes, wondering how good old Walt Whitman would have viewed it. He certainly described the world like an unseen observer, filled with immense tenderness. And words. Lots and lots of words. I thought Whitman would have loved the lanky, broad-shouldered boys in varsity jackets jostling for position at the counter, strong-boned wrists protruding from leather cuffs; the pretty girls snapping chewing gum and flipping their glossy hair; the stoic barista with the tattoos and the pierced nose taking their orders, drawing hissing spouts of espresso into a cup, foaming steamed milk in a pitcher . . .

. . . and something clicked.

Let yourself be of the world and in it, Sandra had said to me. Let yourself be everywhere and nowhere.

“Light pass through me,” I whispered beneath the exuberant jumble of chatter. “Gaze pass over me.”

Taking a deep breath, I let go.

It was a strange sensation, at once exhilarating and unnerving. I felt porous, there and not-there at the same time, the essence of myself diffusing like mist to fill the space contained within the coffee shop.

Everywhere.

Nowhere.

With a solid thump, a heavily laden backpack landed on my table. I startled in my seat, coming back to myself.

“Whoa!” A teenaged boy with floppy bangs and a smattering of acne on his chin blinked at me. “Sorry,” he apologized, sweeping his bangs to one side with a toss of his head. “I didn’t see you sitting there.”

“That’s okay.” I smiled up at him. “More than okay, actually. You can have the table. I was just leaving.”

It’s amazing how one simple breakthrough changes everything. Poetry—who would have thunk it? Well, Sandra Sweddon, I guess. Plus the screenwriter of Bull Durham, and probably every literature professor everywhere, not to mention poets themselves since the dawn of time. And it probably didn’t have to be poetry. It could be anything: a garter, a song, a lamia’s kiss.

Outside, I murmured the invocation again, willing my aura to disperse in the crisp winter air. I circled the block, flowing down the sidewalk. Pedestrians passed by me without seeing me, their absent gazes skating past me. I felt immensely powerful and extremely vulnerable, invisible yet exposed.

Casimir’s shop, the Sisters of Selene, was adjacent to the Daily Grind. Upon completing my circuit of the block, I pushed the door open, closing it gently behind me, letting the chimes sound with a faint tinkle.

Behind the counter, the Fabulous Casimir looked up, an uncertain expression on his face. His gaze hovered over me, then sharpened. He muttered something under his breath and made a banishing gesture with one hand, and I felt myself solidifying beneath his gaze, coming into focus.

“Well, well!” He arched his eyebrows. “Not bad, Miss Daisy.”

I was a little deflated that Casimir had banished my unobtrusibility spell that quickly. “Really?”

“For a neophyte who doesn’t even practice the craft?” he said. “It’s an impressive start.”

“I owe it to Walt Whitman,” I informed him.

The Fabulous Casimir shrugged his shoulders, which were clad in a replica of a quilted Chanel jacket today. “Whatever it takes, dahling.”

      Thirty-seven

Despite my abiding love of the holiday season, even I had to admit that this was a particularly unfestive December in Pemkowet.

The prospect of that damned lawsuit hung over the town like a massive gray cloud, dampening everyone’s spirits. A date—February 10—had been set for the beginning of the trial. In the meantime, there was nothing anyone could do about it, but it was still all anyone could talk about.

Well, there was almost nothing. The lawyers were preparing their case, advised by Lurine’s celebrity hotshot attorney, Robert Diaz. Lurine admitted in private that his confidence had been shaken by the whole hell-spawn angle and the judge’s refusal to replace Dufreyne, but her outlook remained sanguine.

“Even if we’re talking about a worst-case scenario, forty-five million dollars isn’t that much money, cupcake,” she said to me.