The McGregor Curse

1

She watches the gold slip out of the river in bands, as she sways in a rocking chair painted the color of lichens.

Invisible hands weave in stripes of pink that radiate toward her screened porch.

Hues on the far shore flatten to a thalo green wash of trees, bordering the glacier-blue blur of water.

The water pleats slightly near the dock, with a slight push of a breeze.

Activity. A skiff hurtles itself across the water halfway from the other shore; its sound carried over by the change of wind. The boat’s vivacious captain barks an enthusiastic tale upriver. Everything about the craft presses forward as if eager for his story—boat, listeners, black Labrador at the prow. Their ripples slap her rock pier moments later.

The craft disappears behind the cedar stand bordering her lawn. A closer rumble and thrum of the outboard. The motor percolates. Churns. Stills.

The river resumes its sleepy pace, showing no signs of either storytold travelers, or the hurricane that—just yesterday—surged its waters over the retaining wall and five feet onto the grass.

Except for a roll of seaweed and flotsam at the edge of the gray blades, there is very little indication that 75 mile an hour winds ripped through the town.

Ambling to the lawn’s edge, she toes the salted pile. Bristling with hooks, an orange plastic minnow stares up at her. Snaking up from the tangle a small length of purple rope sidles up to a 7-foot-long piling. Once a boat mooring, the salted gray tree stalk bears a loop of rusted iron at one end.

White hydrangea heads—scattered like a thrown bridal bouquet—are strewn over the front lawn. The bride, Irene, had a strong arm, as there are pieces in the back yard too. Or maybe the bouquet was thrown by her grandmother, whose spirit is very palpable at the cabin. For Erin’s “as if” wedding. “As if” Sean’s and her lives were simpler and they could just be like normal people and get married. As if they didn’t have the McGregor curse hanging over their heads.

2

It all started the night Uncle Farley drove his wagon home too fast, after visiting his lady friend Clara in Dingle. Rounding a particularly sharp curve, he was thinking not of the road ahead, but of his fair Clara’s abundant . . . virtues, when his cart collided with the local witch, who was out for an evening stroll.

As Uncle Farley bent over the unfortunate creature, her nose twitched. Peeling open one bloodshot eye, she gasped and said, “You’ve been with that wretched Clara McGuiness! Bane of my existence! In fifth grade, she stole the only love I ever had. So I say . . . five years, no more, will you enjoy her or any woman as your wife. Same goes for the other men in yer family!” With curse uttered, she lowered her head, exhaled deeply, and died.

Uncle Farley felt bad, but married Clara anyway. True to the witch’s curse, however, on the day of their fifth wedding anniversary, Clara mysteriously fell down the well and drowned.

Uncle Farley wasn’t a superstitious man, but after Clara’s untimely, yet predicted demise, he vowed to stay off the bridal path . . . and to remain alert on the bridle path.

Guilt stopped him from telling any other men in the family of the curse. But the following year, when his brother Earl’s wife mysteriously dropped dead into her potato leek soup on their five-year anniversary, he figured it was time to fess up.

Together, the brothers sought the advice of various priests, witches and Little People throughout the Dingle area, but with no luck. It would seem the curse was now the family legacy.

When Earl’s son, Sean turned 16, Earl broke the sorry news to him. Sean laughed and told his Dad to sod off. But when Uncle Marley’s bride of five years died under dubious circumstances, Sean vowed he’d never let this happen to his lady, and swore to remain a forever bachelor. Until he met Erin . . .

3

Erin McPhee wasn’t like the other art students at their university. A fairy-woman—a force of nature—she was dancing like Liquid Amber in an Autumn storm, when he first laid eyes on her. Her long legs describing sensuous lines as she flowed and held dramatic poses. Her red curls whipped as she whirled and swirled in pirouette after pirouette. She wore a white peasant blouse and a black vest, atop red tights. They were freshmen in college and the Art Department was hosting a Breugelfest on the campus lawn, in honor of the painter of peasants.

When Erin stopped to catch her breath, Sean’s knees trembled. This red-haloed angel was standing right beside him.

“My kingdom for a beer,” she panted.

“Would this do, m’lady?” He produced a can of Guinness out of his backpack.

“I’m afraid I lied to you about the kingdom.” Her dazzling smile was making him weak in the knees again, but he rallied.

“No worries, he said. “If you join me at Saturday’s Morris Dance, I’ll consider myself a member of your royal court.”

“Give me your hand.” She wrote her number on his skin, handed him the empty, and spun off; back into the fray.

For once in his life he’d said the right thing.

4

The fog had distance and dimension. That’s why she liked it, Erin decided. No nebulous immersion in the usual gray miasma. Today she wasn’t returning home to the usual desolate urban expanse, but, perhaps to a warmer, kinder city. Her Honda Civic hurtled over the Bay Bridge.

Low on the skyline, playing limbo under the Golden Gate Bridge, the distinctly delineated white cloud kept to itself. Minding its own business for a change. Instead of greeting her with its habitually cold, clammy embrace; like a creepy guy in an alley. She was tired of feeling constantly molested.

Although she wouldn’t mind being molested by Sean, she thought. . . .

A car’s horn blared by her side, and she swerved sharply back into her lane; heart racing like a rabbit’s.

Why did I think of Sean? It’s been years since I moved here with him. Years since he left.

She exited at Treasure Island. Found an abandoned parking lot behind an old military building. And had a good cry.