LITMIR.BIZ

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this i’ve been reading about some alice b. toklas brownies poisoning you guys in plymouth? like i bet you’re up to your eyebrows in this one, am i right? need advice from yr favorite pixie, i’m available. i could, like, catch a ride up there with adam at thanksgiving.

      send full details—inquiring minds need to know!

      stay healthy

      hugs to all the witches. tummy scratches to Scruffy.

      freddie.

      P.S. i’m thinking i might, like, take some college courses, maybe catch a degree one of these days. what do you think?

      The word “pixie” rather leaped out at me, but I decided I was really being silly now. It seemed that Freddie still had her eye on my son, Adam, who was much too old for her. Apparently he’d resisted her wiles so far, and since he’d been transferred to upper management offices in a different building, it would be more difficult for her to practice her spells on him. Hence her offer to drive up with Adam at Thanksgiving. A long ride, usually a sleepover. Oh well, I could hardly say no. Being with Freddie was like opening a window to a fresh breeze from the west, cleaning the cobwebs right out of my brain. Of course, there was that little problem of her amazing talent for psychokinesis. I’d tried to teach her to master her mind-over-matter ability, but from time to time it jumped out in maverick poltergeist activity. Still, it would be great to see her.

      From: Cass [email protected]

       To: Freddie [email protected]

       Subject: Yes!!!

      Love to have you here for Thanksgiving! Didn’t know Adam was planning the trip. A word of warning: do not stop at Atlantic City this time. If you hit that dollar machine big time again, someone may get nosy about you. A low profile is the Wiccan way.

      About your apartment—if you don’t want to have to keep moving, behave yourself with the tenants. You know it’s within your control, even the buzzers. Remember the threefold law—those frizzles could boomerang right back to you!

      Someone is indeed poisoning people in Plymouth. Seems to be indiscriminate. First a church social, then a TV cooking show (Phil’s), and then the senior center. But we think there may be a method in this madness.

      The “Greek dude” (isn’t it time you called him Joe?) and I are still officially on our honeymoon until our first anniversary at Yule.

      See you at turkey time. We’ll have a talk about college, great goal! Meanwhile, keep in touch and I’ll keep you posted, too.

      Love,

       Cass

      Once I got started writing e-mails, I kept on, sending a short note to each of my three children, who were much more liable to answer this impersonal form of communication than some tedious message on their answering machines in their mother’s well-remembered nagging tone.

      In order of age, the oldest first, I began with my Becky, who worked for a firm that specialized in family law. She’d recently separated from her husband, Ron Lowell. I had to tread carefully around this one—she might make up again with that philandering jerk.

      From: Mom [email protected]

       To: Becky [email protected]

       Subject: How are you?

      Hi, Honey.

      Been thinking about you and wondering how things are going. Still loving your job?

      Thanks again for the sweet get-well card and your call. Only one night in the hospital, and no lingering effects. And don’t worry, I’m barely involved—I just happened to be speaking at the church when the incident happened. I don’t have to tell you that the world is full of crazies. You must meet them every day at K & K.

      Have you made any plans for Thanksgiving? Would love to have you here, with or without Ron, up to you! Freddie writes me that she and Adam are driving up, so it will be a real family get-together. Well, it’s a tad early—no rush letting me know.

      Love,

       Mom

      Adam’s metamorphosis from computer nerd to confident, upwardly mobile, highly paid professional had been a matter of joyous amazement to me. Our warm and easy relationship never veered into those muddy waters I sometimes found myself in with my daughters, but he did maintain a certain distance, not entirely due to the mileage. So I was somewhat surprised and pleased that he was planning on a Thanksgiving visit, if that wasn’t a figment of Freddie’s fertile imagination. I decided to proceed on faith.

      From: Your Ma [email protected]

       To: Adam [email protected]

       Subject: Thanksgiving

      Hi, Adam.

      Delighted to learn from Freddie that you’re planning to spend Thanksgiving with Joe and me, and that she’s going to hitch a ride with you.

      Hope the job is going great, and you’re well!

      As Joe explained when you called, I’m not really involved in the poison problem in Plymouth. It was only by a bizarre coincidence that I happened to be giving a talk at the church when the first incident occurred. Not to worry!

      Do send a note to confirm about Thanksgiving!

      Love,

       Ma

      My youngest, a hopeful actress, lived with her partner, Irene, in California. We’d wallowed in some emotional quicksand while she was in therapy, but I felt we’d pulled out of it finally. Recently, the girls had moved from San Francisco to Los Angeles in pursuit of film work.

      From: Mother [email protected]

       To: Cathy [email protected]

       Subject: How are things?

      Hi, Cathy!

      Thinking of you and wondering how things are going in your new place. I’m saying a prayer that you and Irene will each find some great career breaks in L.A. I remember that you planned to change agents, too—hope you found someone who appreciates your talent and works hard for you.

      Also wanted to tell you that Adam and maybe Becky will be in Plymouth for Thanksgiving—just in case you and Irene are coming East around that time. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all get together!

      I hope you’re keeping healthy and haven’t lost any more weight. I know Irene worries, and so do I. Take care of yourself!

      Love,

       Mother.

      All these plaintive e-mails left me feeling rather melancholy, so I welcomed the sound of Joe crashing through the kitchen door with supplies from Home Warehouse. “Want some help, honey?” I called from my snug little office, which in an earlier time had been the borning room, right beside the kitchen.

      “Just open the cellar door for me. I thought I’d rough together a better worktable for you. There’s not enough room on that thing you’ve got in your old storage room, which appears to be on its last gateleg anyway.”

      “I know, but it belonged to Grandma. It’s got a certain sentimental value for me.”

      “Sure, I get that. My idea is to move Grandma’s table to stand against the unshelved wall, and then to build you a new, bigger one under the light. Speaking of which, I got some track lighting, too. What you’ve got down there now is much too feeble for a workroom.”

      “It has a sort of atmosphere,” I ventured. “Spooky and inspiring.”

      “I don’t know how you can even see the labels when you’re putting together your herb mixtures. You ought to think of your workroom as a kind of laboratory, not some alchemist’s cave.”

      Joe’s face shone with do-it-yourselfer enthusiasm. His eyes hoped for praise. What’s a gal to do?

      “You’re wonderful, honey! I’m so excited!” I opened

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