SPELLBOUND
Halloween was days away, nipping at the heels of October like a naughty puppy. The warm front from three weeks prior had virtually disappeared, leaving behind a chilly breeze that snatched the remaining leaves from their branches, the bare tree limbs reaching into the sky like gnarled, scary fingers. God seemed to have vanished also. None of his incarnations had appeared to Joan since their encounter in the cafeteria. It was eerie, this waiting to see him, and Joan didn't enjoy it. To be honest, she missed him. But there was school to keep her occupied, and choir. And Ruthie.
Joan was spending more time with Ruthie than with her own friends. Luke accused her of having a crush on the music teacher, something he never repeated because he had been slapped so hard against the back of his head that his glasses flew off; Grace decided Joan had joined a cult; Friedman taunted Joan for being a suck-up, teacher's pet, meanwhile bugging her for all the goods on Ruthie. And Adam, well, he didn't say much of anything, and Joan was content to do the same. Helen went back and forth between pleased and slightly jealous of the relationship. Jealous because Joan got Ruthie all to herself more often than Helen did, what with joining the choir, practices after school, preparation for the competition between schools in January, and every other excuse Joan had concocted to be in Ruthie's presence. At first it had been strictly business: Joan had a job to do. But the better she got to know Ruthie, the easier it was to forget there was work to be done. They could talk about things. Anything and everything. Joan had even opened up about her breakup with Adam, when, during a one-on-one singing lesson that she had schemed out, they ditched the lesson and spent nearly three hours discussing whatever topic followed the next.
It was no surprise to anyone when Joan announced that she was tagging along with Ruthie, Charlie and June on trick-or-treat night. Will did raise his eyebrows, but Joan explained that Ruthie, self-proclaimed "directionally challenged loser" that she was, still wasn't familiar with her neighborhood. Which happened to be Grace's neighborhood ("Dude, do I look like I know who my neighbors are?" was the response when Joan wanted to know why that fact had never been disclosed by Grace). It seemed to Joan that Donovan was nothing more than a ghost in the Snow household. A workaholic, Ruthie called him, her eyes turned heavenward. So, naturally, Joan had offered to go along and play tour guide. She kept secret just how much she had missed celebrating Halloween the past few years. And she nixed the desire to dress up, a choice she soon regretted.
"Aww, where's your costume?" Ruthie said, partially clad in black witch's attire when she opened her front door. The plain frock she wore dragged across the ground and she only had one sleeve on, the left side of the outfit drooping to reveal a black hoodie and jeans underneath. She was holding a wig of long hair that matched the frock in color. From the waist down she looked like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark; the waist up, a misclothed Barbie.
"This is it," Joan said. "I'm... I'm God."
Ruthie's laughter summoned June and Charlie into the foyer. When he saw Joan, Charlie abandoned walking and proceeded to hop across the floor like a rabbit, though his compact body was tucked inside a bulky lion costume. June kept her distance, turning the toes of her sparkly red shoes inward as she rocked from side to side, her blue and white gingham skirt twirling, a basket with a stuffed dog inside it on her arm. She fingered one of her pigtails, using that as a cover to raise her hand and wave at Joan.
"Somehow I thought God'd be taller," Ruthie said, ushering Joan in out of the nippy air.
"Well, I wanted you to be able to see my face." Joan smiled mischievously. It was a cheap shot, teasing Ruthie for being short, but it had become an ongoing joke between them. Ruthie dished it out just as well as she took it.
"Ooh, ow. Thought you'd be nicer too."
"I tell Him that all the time."
Before that comment could sink in and make the situation awkward, Charlie saved the day by halting at Joan's feet and emitting a fierce roar.
"Not so loud, Boo," Ruthie said. "You're the Cowardly Lion, remember? What does he do?"
Charlie shot upright, ramrod straight, and scurried to hide behind his sister. He peered at Joan from the space under June's arm and the basket handle; he whimpered. June stuck her pinky in her mouth and sucked on it. "I'm Dorothy," she said.
"This must be Toto then." Joan knelt in front of the girl and stroked the toy dog's head. "He's very well-behaved."
June giggled. "He's not real, silly."
"He's not? Well, bust my buttons!" Joan wasn't sure anyone would catch on to her Emerald Palace Doorman impression, but she gave herself kudos for working it in. Watching The Wizard of Oz on television every Christmas for the past sixteen years had paid off. "Love the shoes, by the way," she said, getting to her feet.
"Run get your candy bags," Ruthie said to the kids, then to Joan, "How 'bout helping a witch out, my pretty?" Both sleeves in place, she turned her back to Joan, indicating the hard to reach ties that were meant to fasten the gap in the slippery fabric, and swept her hair into a heap of golden curls at the top of her head.
"Aren't you supposed to be green?" Joan said, starting with the lowest set of strings on the costume, and working up.
"Green isn't my color. Black I can do. But green, no. It makes me look like a leprechaun."
Joan clucked her tongue. Nonsense. With that blond hair and those green eyes, Ruthie would look killer in a deep emerald hue. Or any other color, for that matter. She was even working the Wicked Witch garb, if that was possible. It made Joan chuckle, thinking that, and she finished with an amused sigh, her fingers looping the strings at Ruthie's neck. "Hey, what'd you do," she said suddenly, noticing a harsh red mark on the tender patch of skin there. It bloomed like an August sunburn, the mark, darkening into a burgundy shade before disappearing underneath Ruthie's hoodie.
"Hmm?"
"Your neck." Joan brought her fingertips close to Ruthie's skin but didn't touch it. "It's all red."
Ruthie released her hair, flipping it side to side, a clean, berry aroma wafting from it. She smoothed the front of her costume, pressing out the wrinkles, then faced Joan. "It's dumb, really," she said, her hands fluttering about like busy hummingbirds. She always made good use of them when she talked. "I got a little overzealous with the curling iron. Scorched m'self." She extended her thumb and index finger, the sign language version of the letter L, and positioned them near her forehead. Loser.
Joan couldn't help laughing. "Geez. And I thought I was accident prone."
"At least," Ruthie said, attempting to situate the wig on her head, its coarse black strands reaching to her waist, "I never sprained my ankle in the washing machine." She stood akimbo, resembling a teeny Morticia Addams, and gave Joan a devilish look that lasted about two seconds, before turning sugary sweet.
"Touché," Joan said. She picked Ruthie's pointed hat up from the coffee table and placed it over her hand, creating a whirligig, giving it a quick spin. "I can see I'll have to be more selective with what I tell you from now on."
Forty-five minutes and approximately three pounds of candy later, Joan finally saw him. It had been hard to tell at first with him mingling in the group of children outside the front door of a house someone had gotten carried away decorating. But when he turned, she recognized the kinky auburn hair and oval glasses immediately. Little Girl God. In full Halloween regalia. And of all the things God could have chosen to dress as, he had picked a frog. Two skinny legs clad in bright orange and pink striped leotards poked out from the bulge of green padding that, held up with fuzzy green suspenders, encompassed his body. He waddled instead of walked, his enormous slippers with the buggy-eyed frog faces on them interfering with each step. His bright yellow shirt had a pattern of bejeweled stars that traveled from torso to wrists and he was wearing the headband with the plastic googly eyes that bobbed on springs inches above his head. Joan remembered him wearing that the first time she had met Little Girl God in the park.
God saved Joan the trouble of excusing herself from Ruthie's side; he fell into step with Charlie and June as they charged from stoop to grass, eager to show off the full size Snickers bars they had just received. A surreal, tingly feeling passed through Joan's body and she slid her gaze over to Ruthie, wondering if the woman noticed anything peculiar as the kids approached. If so, there was no indication.
While June and Charlie cried "Mama, look, look!" and danced in circles around Ruthie like haywire carousel animals, Little Girl God stood patiently and nudged at his glasses.
"How's it going, Joan?" he asked when it quieted down.
"Oh, I think you know." Joan shifted, hoping he would get the point and conduct a more private discourse. He didn't. Awfully brazen, this Little Girl God. "Long time, no see. I was beginning to think you forgot about our, uh, arrangement."
"Have I ever." Not a question.
"Unchallenged." Joan felt Ruthie and the little ones watching. She turned to them with a tight-lipped smile. "Guys, this is, umm... uh." Think, Joan, think. "Umm, uh... Amanda." God was looking at her with his Thou-Shalt-Not expression. What else would you have me do? she thought at him.
Ruthie crinkled her brow like she was fearful Joan might be having a stroke, but she addressed Little Girl God in a soft, friendly voice that clashed with the evil witch image she was sporting. "Hi there, Amanda. That's a very creative costume you have on."
"Thank you, Ruthie," God said, ignoring Joan, who had snorted because she just saw the irony in him showing up as the only version of himself that wouldn't tower over Ruthie.
"I'm sorry, honey, have I met you before?" Ruthie said, truly perplexed. She cocked her head, the witch hat sloping to one side.
"In a way."
Joan decided to intervene there, while she still had the chance to explain with the truth. And not many details. "We've talked about you. I know her. You came up in conversation," she said to Ruthie.
"Oh." Ruthie mulled over that momentarily and seemed to accept it, though a keenness sparked in her eyes and didn't fade for quite a while. "Well, I hope you only told her good things. Otherwise she might think I'm a witch."
Little Girl God surprised Joan by taking Ruthie by the hand, not in the manner of an innocent child who wanted to hold onto someone, who needed that contact and comfort, but with an earnestness almost exclusively reserved for adults. "I know you've got a beautiful soul, Ruthie. Don't ever question that," he said, brown eyes sincere behind oval lenses.
There was a pregnant silence as they stood together, hands clasped, a transfixed look on Ruthie's face, a fathomless one on God's. Joan found it hard to catch her breath and wondered why she had the overwhelming urge to cry. Both she and Ruthie flinched when Charlie reached the limit on his patience and demanded, "More candy, Mama."
"Okay, Boo. Mama's coming," was the weak reply, Ruthie's concentration elsewhere. "Are you alone, Amanda? You could join us."
"I would like that," God said. He released Ruthie, allowing her to tend to her high-spirited son and the ever watchful June, who had been sucking on her pinky and studying Little Girl God with an intensity absent in most five-year-olds.
"What was that about?" Joan hissed, straggling behind with God while the others moved on to the next house.
"She needed to hear it."
"Directly from you? Must be important."
"Jealousy is a waste of your time, and mine, Joan. You should be thankful for what you have. Don't begrudge Ruthie my love. There's plenty to go around and she needs as much as she can get."
"Wouldn't it be easier if you just told me what it is that's supposedly bothering her?" Joan said, verging on whiny.
"It would be easier for you." God nudged his glasses, his little girl voice matter-of-fact. "But I tend to avoid divulging other people's secrets for them. It would kind of negate my whole freewill plan if I took away the choice to keep things private, don't you think?"
"I guess," Joan said without much conviction. Sometimes freewill just plain sucked, in her opinion. "But what's up with disappearing for three weeks?"
"Miss me?"
"Well... yeah," Joan said, almost whispered. "And I wasn't sure if I was making any progress. I don't feel like I am."
"You've become Ruthie's friend. She trusts you now. That's progress."
"So, I keep being her friend. That's it?"
Little Girl God nodded, antennas wobbling. "The rest will work itself out from there." He fished around in his bag of goodies and procured a half-eaten Reese's cup, nibbling at the corner.
"God's got a sweet tooth?" Joan said, eyeing his loot. She spotted a miniature pack of Sour Patch Kids and grabbed it.
"Candy is one of mankind's better inventions. In moderation." God plodded along as if he didn't notice Joan's thievery. "Ruthie's got a sweet tooth too. She's partial to Krispy Kreme Doughnuts."
Joan sorted through the sour candy pieces, hunting red. "Yeah, I know, she already told me. Are you slipping?"
"No. I thought you could use a reminder."
"Anyway. I've yet to see proof. She weighs, like, two pounds," Joan said, chatty and distracted by the sugar working its way into her bloodstream. She reacted to an especially tart Sour Patch Kid, a yellow, deformed-looking one, by screwing up her features, cheeks sucked in, lips puckered like a fish.
"And another thing, Joan. Your costume?" Little Girl God paused on the sidewalk, his colorful getup perfectly blended with the drawing scrawled in a child's chalk on the cement. He scrutinized Joan's baggy jeans, her paisley top and zip-up cardigan, brown track shoes, and the gray knit cap she had worn to hide her uncooperative bangs as much as keep out the cold. "I would never dress like that."
"Hey!" Joan said. She watched God run ahead to Charlie and June, his bag of candy jostling wildly in the air when he waved.
"That little girl is something else," Ruthie said, as Joan strolled up.
"You have no idea."