By Alyssa Beatty

When Ulrich gets drunk, he goes out and preaches to the turkeys at the farm next door. He’s not a preacher, but he was raised by fire-and-brimstone evangelicals, so he has a pretty good sense for the patter. The turkeys cluck and purr, a rolling querulous sound, when Ulrich walks out into their yard. As soon as his deep bass voice starts up, they fall quiet, rapt. When his sermon builds, they match him, until every pause is filled with excited gobbling.

We moved here right after the wedding. Ulrich wanted to leave the city, and the rent on our tiny cottage is laughably low. A starter home, the realtor said. Perfect for a young couple just starting out. He didn’t mention the twenty-minute drive just to get milk. Or the smell from the turkeys next door. It’s not so bad, really, as long as the wind is blowing the right way. A lot of things are like that.

~

I make my way down the stairs to the street, grumbling to myself that I’m getting too old for city life. When I moved in, the six flights barely raised my heart rate, and it was worth it for the view over Tompkins Square Park. Now I feel like I have to stop at base camp and tip my Sherpa every time I leave the house. My daughter keeps telling me to just move to a lower floor. She’s too young to understand what that would entail, after thirty years in the same apartment. It would take me months to pack, and the plants that cover the south-facing window have wound their vines into a curtain of green that would be impossible to untangle.

With delivery it’s easy to limit my trips down to the street, anyway. But some things can only be bought in person. 

~

I used to find the turkey sermons endearing. But lately they’re getting a bit pointed, I think.

“And I say unto you…”

Gobblegobblegobble.

“I say unto you that woman is the most mendacious of all God’s creatures.”

Gobblegobblegobble.

“And should never be forgiven for her sins!”

Yeah. Like that.

Look, it could be worse. He doesn’t hit me when he gets drunk, or even raise his voice. He just goes out and harangues the turkeys about my sins. And it’s not like he doesn’t have a point.

~

My first stop is the witchcraft shop on Ninth Street. I’m too old to go out and harvest my own mandrake by the light of the full moon. Seth, the man who runs it, is scary with power. He’s not good looking, but there’s always a gaggle of pretty young things hanging around the store casting longing glances at him. I wonder if they know it’s his power they’re attracted to, not him.

When the bell tinkles above the door, he looks up and gives me a grin, and even I’m not immune to the pull.

He holds up a small white bag with a symbol of protection inked on it. I’ve been buying those and hiding them in my daughter’s belongings for years. First in lunchboxes, then in backpacks, now in her ridiculously capacious handbags.

“Not today, Seth, thanks. Today I need something a little more specific.”

I could get everything I need here, but it’s best to spread the purchases out. Seth is a little too canny. He could put the ingredients together in his mind and know exactly what I’m doing. You don’t want a man like that knowing your secrets.

~

I spend all day being a good wife, trying to smooth the waters of Ulrich’s anger. I wake up early and make coffee and bring it to him in bed like I used to when we were first married. I chatter and smile and meet his eyes, trying to show him he’s wrong, that I have nothing to hide.

It doesn’t work. By 5:00 p.m. he’s sitting on the front porch, whiskey bottle in hand, and as soon as dark falls, he’s off to the turkey farm. 

I sit at the kitchen table, my hands clenched in front of me. I don’t know if he’s ferreted out the specifics. But he knows enough, and I can feel the rage roiling off him even from here.

~

I stop at the Greenmarket for herbs, then pause to watch the brass band play a joyful rendition of “Superstitious.” That doesn’t have anything to do with the spell. I just really like them. 

It takes me ten minutes to haul myself up the stairs, and by the time I get there, I’m running late. I can’t rush the spell, but I don’t have time to clean up before the buzzer rings. I sweep an old sheet over my worktable. Light footsteps trip up the stairs, then a hesitant knock at my door.

My daughter beams at me. She leans in for a quick hug, whispering, “Is it ready?”

Stomping and annoyed huffing come from two flights down.

I gesture to the milk jug on the worktable. “A tablespoon two days before every full moon. Don’t forget. Don’t show him your teeth.”

She squeezes me, then rushes to stuff the milk jug in her cavernous bag.

She turns, her whole being bright and hopeful, as the man fills my doorway.

“Mom! This is Ulrich!”

He smiles, and I can see why my daughter is smitten. 

~

“A woman who deceives her husband is the vilest of them all!”

Gobblegobblegobble.

I come by it naturally; my mother had lots of secrets. To this day, I don’t know who my father is. But I know what he was.

I’ve let the old milk jug my mother gave me get dusty on the shelf. It’s been two months since my last dose.

I hold my hand up to the moonlight. My claws lengthen. I smile, feeling fangs nip my bottom lip.

Outside, the turkeys go silent. They’re smarter than Ulrich, who doesn’t yet have the sense to be afraid.