The Witch's Voice

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  THE WITCH’S voice

  Book Three of the One Part Witch Series

  IRIS KINCAID

  THE WITCH’S VOICE

  Copyright 2017 by Iris Kincaid

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Kerri Knutson

  Editing by Valorie Clifton

  ISBN - 13: 978-1981749386

  ISBN: - 10: 1981749381

  CHAPTER ONE

  Most people’s last words are spoken on their deathbed. Wanda Macomber’s came at a baseball game. But whoever coined the phrase, “famous last words,” undoubtedly had something more profound or ironic in mind than “Could I get extra onions on that?” The “that” in question was a baseball stadium hot dog. And those words were the last words that were to come out of Wanda Macomber’s mouth.

  Some fifteen seconds later, her vocal chords were crushed by a ninety-five mile an hour flyball. A home run for the Red Sox. And the end of Wanda’s hopes for a happy future. That this should have happened due to a freak accident at a baseball game was, in later years, a great source of irritation to her. She didn’t even like baseball.

  She had only gone to keep her boyfriend happy. At the time, she felt lucky to even have a boyfriend at all. How many young men in Wanda’s hometown of Oyster Cove could put up with her shy, insecure ways? Of course, the relationship ended soon after she lost her voice. In all fairness, don’t most relationships that one has at the age of eighteen end at a young age?

  There was also a fair amount of guilt involved in his decision to break up. Her silence was a continual reminder of the baseball incident that would never have happened if he weren’t in her life. Most importantly, he really didn’t want to be prematurely subjected to the long silent meals of an old married couple. It just wasn’t a very cheerful or comfortable forecast.

  A few other young men had not been so picky. Wanda had had three other boyfriends in the following ten years. But whatever hopes she’d had for them, they all wound up with the same disturbing characteristic. They liked having a girlfriend who couldn’t speak. She was unwittingly attracting young men who didn’t like being contradicted, who didn’t like listening to the opinions of others, and who loved to live in the delusion that their girlfriend was in accord with everything that came out of their mouth. Oh, the adulation she would express, if only she could speak. Totally delusional. They were all very short relationships.

  Almost as troubling was Wanda’s work life—her so-called “career.”

  There’s nothing wrong with being a grocery store shelf stocker. It’s honest, necessary work. It’s not glamorous nor especially challenging. Nor is it the dream of a lifetime. But it’s particularly well-suited for someone who has lost her power of speech.

  Holloways was the largest store in the area and almost every adult in Oyster Cove passed through it at least once a week. There was no food that customers couldn’t get there. The inventory ran the gamut from Ding Dongs and SpaghettiOs to quinoa and beet juice.

  The jobs there paid well and Wanda was keenly aware that she was fortunate they were willing to hire someone with her disability. She couldn’t be put on the cash registers, but she could do as good a job as anyone at keeping the shelves stocked.

  It was also just half an hour walking distance from Wanda’s home. That walk to and from work was the best part of her day. Oyster Cove was a town devoted to the beach, fishing, and art. The art-filled town fairly glowed with creativity and had a way of instilling feelings of inspiration and well-being. Whatever her other troubles in life, Wanda felt lucky to live in such a lovely place.

  For the first few years, Wanda was on the night shift, from eleven PM to eight AM. It was the least desirable shift, given to her because of her lack of seniority. But it was a merciful isolation that allowed her to hide from the world and come to grips with her loss of speech and the broken dreams that now had no way of ever coming to pass.

  That was, of course, the downside to spending so much time in quiet solitude—torturing herself about what could have been, what should have been, and the bleakness ahead.

  When Wanda was a very young child, she knew that she was a very important person. She knew that because her father told her so in every smile, every hug, every compliment, every gift. She only had occasion to doubt her father’s judgment after he married his second wife and she acquired a full-blown family, complete with stepmother and two stepsiblings, an older brother and a younger sister. It was an exciting change, particularly since she’d been longing for a mother, never having known her own, and she was equally excited about the thought of having a brother and a sister.

  Her new family did not share her enthusiasm. They saw nothing terribly impressive about her, nothing that merited her father’s intense devotion, and she seemed an annoying drain on both his affection and financial resources. An unavoidable nuisance. Until his death.

  There is no especially easy time to lose a beloved parent. Wanda was seven and a half. Halves are so important to children. So important that her stepsiblings delighted in calling her seven years old, even though they could see that it caused some distress. The support that she needed to deal with her loss was absent from day one.

  But their favorite mind game of all time was invented by the older brother. Wanda came home from school, very excited to share something that she had learned in the third grade.

  “Did you all know that the Earth goes around the sun? And it’s just one planet, and there are a whole bunch of planets around the sun. The sun stays in the same place. But the earth is actually moving. Even though it doesn’t feel like we’re moving.”

  This felt like a revelation that was worthy of major discussion. Instead, her older stepbrother’s eyes never left his computer. He wasn’t all that engrossed in his browsing. He was pretending that he didn’t hear her. As if he had gone deaf. Or more likely, as if she weren’t really there. As if she didn’t exist.

  She kept speaking to him, but he wouldn’t respond. She eventually had to back away, puzzled and disturbed. It fast became her stepsiblings’ favorite game—pretending that they couldn’t hear her. What better way to get rid of the pest?

  This game continued for years. Oh, they would speak to her if they had a really good reason to. Where are my skates? Did anyone call for me? Did Mom say what’s for dinner? But unless they had a particular use for her, they really couldn’t see the point of wasting any time on conversation. And besides, she never really had anything all that interesting to say. Which is exactly what they told her one day, when she demanded, at the age of ten, why they wouldn’t answer her.

  “Because you’re boring. You never have anything to say except silly and stupid things. And besides, your voice is so whiny. It’s really irritating. So, we really don’t need to hear it.”

  And so, Wanda Macomber learned to hold her tongue. And when she did speak, it was with hesitation and self-doubt. Her voice developed in a rather small, tentative, nasally fashion, as might be expected, backed by the fear that no one would ever take an interest in what she had to say.

  Thus, when she lost her voice, she did momentarily wonder, “Why me?” as almost everyone does after a traumatic event. But wasn’t the answer right in front
of her? Who better than her to lose a voice that no one had ever wanted to listen to? Perhaps if she had had more to say, perhaps if her words had really mattered, this wouldn’t have happened to her. At least, that was her only way of making sense of this bewildering loss.

  The biggest subsequent forfeits were her plans for education and a career. Wanda had hoped to spend two years at the local community college, transfer to a four-year university, and commence some glorious future for herself, an escape from the family and a past that had made her feel so small. She’d fantasized about a life where she was important and respected and listened to. A college professor or a research scientist, presenting her latest findings at a large conference. Who knows? Perhaps she even had some acting talent. Was it possible that anyone would ever applaud the words coming out of her mouth? It was a heady dream.

  Even after those dreams were dashed, Wanda still thought that education could provide some comfort and direction. She could still read, study, and take tests. She had, in fact, been one of the best students in her class all throughout high school. She enjoyed the feeling of being smart and competent, even if it was confined to a classroom or an essay assignment. At least she could have that again.

  But she and her stepfamily were most definitely not on the same page in regard to her future. Her stepmother set her straight.

  “Your father set aside this money because he thought that you were going to go to college. But what kind of job can you possibly get? There’s no such thing as a good job that doesn’t involve speaking. You can’t go into business. You can’t teach. You can’t go into sales. Everything requires speaking. Everything. You can’t even be a bus driver. There’s no way that we should waste all this money on a degree for you, when you can’t do anything with it.”

  And that was that.

  *****

  Three years later came a life-changing move to the day shift. It was not without some stressful complications. She was now surrounded by people all day long. Unfortunately, a few of them were former classmates who remembered her as being such a strong student and having such great prospects for the future . . . now stocking grocery shelves.

  Everyone had heard about the baseball accident, of course. They knew that her plans had been permanently derailed, owing to no fault of her own. They babbled on cheerfully about how great it would be to catch up.

  “So, here’s my card. And I have your card. So, you should definitely email me, or hit me up on Facebook. There’s so much time to catch up on.”

  But her emails and PMs generally went unanswered. Invitations had been extended out of pity. No one really expected her to pursue normal relationships in her condition. It would have been so difficult and uncomfortable and unsatisfying. After a while, Wanda did her best to turn her back and pretend that she didn’t see any of these former classmates. They could keep their pity and their false invites.

  But in general, people and their conversations became a great source of interest to her. Those who cannot speak become extraordinary listeners. Many times, she was flat-out eavesdropping, and she developed a grand overview of the people and community surrounding her.

  “It’s been three years since we last got a raise,” one teacher complained.

  “Well, don’t hold your breath,” a second teacher replied. “The education budget’s set in stone for another two years. And after that . . . do you really think anything’s going to change?”

  “I just wish I didn’t have to spend a hundred bucks every month out of my own pocket for supplies. But I’d have to skip some of the activities with the kids if I didn’t. Some of the good stuff that I actually enjoy teaching.”

  Financial woes were a common source of discussion. Particularly during the winter months for the fishing families.

  “Lewis was complaining about eating the same soup for four days in a row. I tell him it’s not the same soup. We keep adding a different thing in every day. But the meat in it only lasted for two days, which made him cranky,” one woman said.

  “That’s the way it is every year. I just wish we hadn’t spent so much on Christmas this year—a couple of hundred dollars on presents. What I wouldn’t do to have that money back. Now I’ve gotta try to buy a week’s worth of food for five people with fifty bucks. Every year, it’s the same thing.”

  There were a few financially strapped old ladies who spent hours in the store on Saturdays, because that was the day that the free hot samples were out. They could make a meal out of those cheese samples, meatballs on a stick, and tiny sections of blueberry pie. Wanda’s friendly face and sympathetic air put them at ease. They would often chatter to her about the quality of this particular day’s offerings.

  Not all people were suffering through hard times. The mayor’s wife, Heather Kelton, and her fawning BFF, Misty Chandler, loved nothing more than debating the magnificence of this designer handbag or the merits of one champagne over another.

  “They’ve just opened up the loveliest 5-star hotel in Manhattan,” Misty gushed. “I simply must check it out on my next vacation.” Misty was a sucker for luxury. Meticulously groomed, she viewed even a trip to the grocery store as an opportunity to see and be seen.

  “Another New York vacation? Misty, you simply have got to get over that fear of flying. I can’t imagine not being able to go to the Caribbean, or Europe, or Vegas,” Heather lectured. She was about forty-five years of age, as was Misty. An attractive, petite woman with red hair and delicate blonde highlights, her smile seemed to be the result of conscious practice. The lines from scowling, however, had just barely started to etch onto her features.

  Heather Kelton had quite a well-paying job as supervisor of Accounts Receivable for The Pearce Call Center, Oyster Cove’s largest single employer. But it was her position as the mayor’s wife that put her in a truly exalted position in Oyster Cove society.

  If her husband hadn’t been elected, his job as a CPA wouldn’t have been nearly enough to satisfy her ambitions. But he’d held onto his full-time job, even after being elected eight years ago, and the collective income from their three salaries put the Keltons in a rather comfortable position.

  Her friend Misty was divorced, living on alimony, and her most important role in Heather Kelton’s life was flattering her friend and assuming a gratifying subservience while at the same time providing her with a similarly materialistic chat buddy. Their conversations left Wanda repulsed and intrigued.

  And then the mayor himself stopped by occasionally. He was in his early fifties, a very self-satisfied, confident man whose greatest satisfaction in life was being addressed as Mr. Mayor. The shoppers were aware of his presence but were usually too intimidated to speak to him. They had plenty to say, though, after he was out of earshot.

  “I heard he gave himself a raise. He should’ve taken that money and used it to put a lifeguard on that deserted sector at the beach. When the old man drowned so many years ago . . . Oh, that was so sad. His grandkids were at that City Council meeting, demanding a new lifeguard so that their grandpa’s death wouldn’t be so meaningless. He said there was no money for it. Hmmph.”

  “He’s not the only one to blame. I heard his wife was insistent that he not spend the money on public safety. I think she’s behind most of his official decisions. She knew she wanted that raise for their family.”

  “They really got someone mad. The mayor’s tires were slashed and his window smashed in. You remember that?”

  “Sure. But they never caught anyone.”

  Another customer who was frequently discussed behind her back was Fiona Skretting, formerly the second-most powerful witch in Oyster Cove, before the death of Lilith Hazelwood. She was currently occupying the number one spot. She was creepy, and everyone cut her a pretty wide swath. In fact, she sent some people running quickly out of the store, which tickled her to no end. She loved being feared. And when the very egotistical, self-absorbed Heather Kelton bumped into her and told Fiona to watch where she was going, everyone within earshot gasped, b
racing themselves for some serious fireworks.

  Fiona sized up her puny adversary. “Heather Kelton. The mayor’s wife.”

  “That’s right. Perhaps next time, you could choose someone else to be clumsy around.”

  “Much appreciated. You just provided me with my next . . . project.”

  Heather just shrugged. Everyone else scurried away, and Wanda busied herself and pretended to hear nothing. As always.

  And then there were the sad and sobering exchanges. One young woman came in with a black eye and facial bruises several times a year. Whenever she ran into someone who expressed concern, she would offer the most ridiculous excuses, as battered wives often do.

  “My little Timmy hit me in the face with one of his toy bats. He has no idea what he’s doing. I’m sure he’ll be so mortified when he grows up and finds out that he hit Mommy.”

  Her excuses were typically met with shaken heads and angry grumbles. No one was fooled. But no one could inspire her with the courage to leave. Wanda boiled inside, wanting to wring the neck of this worthless husband.

  Wanda’s speech loss was widely known. It had been a big news story at the time. People would often strike up a conversation with her, very one-sided, of course, and for many of them, comfortingly so. Wanda served a similar function as a bartender or a priest in the confession booth—someone you could spill all of your problems and mistakes and worries to, with no fear of judgment, interruption, or repercussions.

  On her worst days, Wanda felt like she was being treated like the family dog. But more often than not, these unilateral revelations provided her with the drama and movement that her own life was lacking. She developed an expertise in human nature and Oyster Cove’s vast human landscape. There was enough distraction and intrigue to make the days fly. And so, another seven years passed by.

  In all that time, Wanda had one great inescapable regret. Him.

  CHAPTER TWO