Page 5 of Potion Sickness

“Then don’t confirm it,” she says, and lets herself out.

CHAPTER 2

The Community Center is about half transformed.

The building was originally a church, but after decades of disuse, it was converted and expanded into what it is now – a space to host basketball games, blood drives, and the annual Maple Festival pancake breakfast.

At the moment, the gym appears to be smack in the middle of an identity crisis. A few hundred folding chairs face a plywood stage that Hannah built over the free-throw line. Red curtains hang from a pipe rig that also holds up a basketball hoop, which is now cranked up flat against the ceiling because no one could figure out how to take it down.

Stage left is Scotland: a castle wall of painted plywood. If I were to write about the set, I’d call it ‘quaint.’ Hannah, who is halfway up a ladder with a screwdriver in between her teeth, would likely describe it using words her daughters aren’t allowed to repeat.

“Don’t,” she says, when she sees me looking.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You made a face.”

“How’s it coming along?” I ask.

“On the record?”

“Of course.”

“You can quote me as saying the set construction is proceeding on schedule and under budget.”

“And off the record?”

She doesn’t answer.

A woman I don’t recognize intercepts me at the third row of chairs. She manages to offer me a hand, despite the fact that she’s holding a clipboard and a cup of coffee and wearing a roll of gaff tape on one wrist like a bracelet.

“You’re the journalist,” she says. “I’m Dana. Vivian is my wife. I’d say she’s told me all about you, but she’s told me all about everyone. Coffee? It’s terrible.”

“I’m sure I’ve had worse.”

“You haven’t.” Before I can answer, she pours me a cup from the coffee urn on the props table. It sits between a rubber dagger and a bowl labeled:

BLOOD (CORN SYRUP)

LILY — DO NOT EAT

“Some house rules,” Dana says. “Sit anywhere except the front row. Don’t touch the fog machine, it’s temperamental. And if anyone says the name of the play, get clear of the doors, because there’s a whole procedure and it involves spitting.”

“I’ve heard all about the procedure.”

“Everyone has heard all about the procedure. The cat runs a tight ship.”

I like her immediately, which I make sure to write down in my notebook in my own personal shorthand. A journalist who trusts her instincts should always keep a record of when her instincts show up.

I hear Vivian before I see her. She comes out from behind the curtains mid-sentence– “—then we simply move the interval, darling, the audience will forgive anything if you feed them—” –and crosses the gym floor. Wearing a cream cardigan over a black shell with heeled boots and a designer scarf tied around her neck, she looks to be dressed for a whole different building in a different town. Her hair is a silver-streaked bob that has clearly been cut recently, cut well, and certainly not cut in Duskboro. She takes both my hands like we’ve met. As far as I know, we haven’t.

“Vivian Oleander. We spoke on the phone. I cannot tell you how thrilled we are. New England Byways. I’ve been saying since June that this production deserves coverage beyond the town Facebook group.”

“It’s a short piece,” I say. “Between a foliage map and an ad for a maple museum.”

“It’s something,” Vivian says.

“The magazine wants the curse.”