Free Stones by William Bell

looked out across a small patio to where a barbecue stood under a plastic tarp.
    “Nice, eh?” I said to Raphaella from the bedroom.
    She was leaning against the countertop. “Yeah, great.”
    Her face was still a little drawn, her voice edged with uncertainty. “How far away is that church?” she asked.
    “About half a mile. There’s a forest between here and there.”
    “Good.”
    I returned to the van and brought in the four bags of groceries we’d picked up in town.Raphaella was opening windows when I came in.
    We listened to music and talked for a while, arguing good-naturedly about whose CDs to play. Most of mine were either classical or jazz from twenty or thirty years ago. Raphaella had pop and — ugh — show tunes.
    “As long as I don’t have to listen to the
WME,”
I complained, and Raphaella threw a dish towel at me.
    We compromised, alternating hers then mine while we sipped cola (me) or juice (her). By mutual but unstated agreement, we avoided any mention of the church. Mostly, we talked about school, which Raphaella attended “casually,” as she put it, meaning at most two days a week. She knew about the deal I had made with my father.
    “What are you planning to do after graduation?” I asked. “College? University?”
    “Oh, my future was decided before I was born.”
    When she didn’t continue I urged, “Come on. You can’t say something mysterious like that and let it drop. It’s not fair.”
    “I’m supposed to operate a health food store. Like my mother.”
    “You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
    “And she expects me to follow in her footsteps — she’s big on family history and tradition — and become a midwife.”
    That one threw me. “Is that a, um, profession?”
    “Certainly it is. Midwives are recognized almost everywhere. Lots of women won’t have their babies without one. The irritating thing is, I
am
interested in the things Mom wants, but it’s not enough. I want to learn more about people, about psychology. I’m interested in why people act the way they do, and why they believe the things they do. Know what I mean?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Mom’s afraid that if I go to university and I’m away from home for a few years, I’ll abandon her big plans for me. She keeps throwing that whole Park Street thing in my face whenever I talk about it.”
    This time, when Raphaella paused, I kept silent. Without my urging, she went on.
    “You probably heard some things about me,” she said.
    “Just gossip. You know how it is.”
    “What did your hear?”
    “Well, something about witches and stuff.”
    “I might have guessed. It was stupid. I did a seminar on the occult for history class — atleast, some of it. It’s a vast field. I concentrated on Wicca and Voudon, conjuring, spells, exorcism, stuff like that.”
    She said it casually, as if she was discussing different brands of toothpaste.
    “You know what idiots people can be. After the seminar, rumors started to spread. I was a witch. I was a satanist. I’d find notes taped to my locker or hear remarks in the halls — never to my face, of course. Why would anyone think that because I did research on the occult that I buy into it all? It’s not
what
people believe that fascinates me, it’s
why
they believe it.”
    “So you don’t swallow any of it.”
    “I didn’t say that. Anyway, it all got so stupid that I decided to transfer to O. D.”
    “What about your father?” I asked. “Does he go along with your mother?”
    She opened the door a crack, then shut it again. “Don’t have one.”
    “He died?”
    “No.” Her voice tightened, warning me off.
    “Divorce?”
    “No. Hey, didn’t you promise me a gourmet dinner?”
    I let it drop. Maybe Raphaella’s mom had gotten pregnant when she was single and theguy had taken off. That kind of thing wasn’t exactly rare.
    I put water on to boil for pasta and took vegetables from the fridge.
    “I’ll watch,” Raphaella said. “You can teach me how