The Kind of Women People Are Afraid Of

By Janet Amalia Weinberg

I had a feeling that something bad was going to happen, but everything seemed so pleasant at first. I was at Lorna's place, a cabin in the woods done up in back-to-the-land hippy style: worn Persian rugs, patchouli candles, the works. We were basking in warmth from the fireplace — Lorna lounging on the rug like a Matisse woman, the cat, Isis, purring in her arms, and I, curled up in an old easy chair — when a blast of cold air hit us. Joey, the last member of our get-together, had arrived.

She shut the door on the icy night and yelled from the hall, "Did you hear that horrible thing about the cow?"

I braced myself. Isis crept under the couch.

Joey took her time slapping off snow and getting out of her parka and boots. Finally, she came in and plopped on the couch. She's the only person I know who can keep a straight back in a cloud of cushions. "On the Becker farm," she said. "Hacked to pieces and left to rot."

"How awful," I said.

"Awful? It's evil."

She had a sneering way of correcting you that could make you squirm. Don't get me wrong; Joey's great. She's a travel writer and always game for adventure. But she's also a tank: if you're in her way, watch out! At least, that's how she was with me; she seemed a lot nicer with Lorna.

Lorna got up to make sure Joey had locked the door and returned to her cozy spot before the fire. She's an artist. More laid back than Joey but just as strong — in a gentle way.

"We've got to watch ourselves," I said. "I heard two women in the laundromat talking about some spooky thing that had happened to a cow. I didn't know what they meant, but the next thing they said was that Lorna looked like a witch."

"Me?" Lorna had little to do with folks in town and thought no one noticed her. That's a laugh, I thought. There aren't a lot of women with long, gray braids and gypsy shawls in a farm town. "They actually called me a witch?"

"Not by name. They said, 'that woman who dresses weird.' They also wondered what the three of us do up here."

That got Joey mad. "Who in hell's business is it what we do?! How do they even know we're here?"

"It's a small town," I said, "Everybody knows everything."

"And we're from the city, we write, we paint, we live in the woods," said Joey,
"so of course, we can't be trusted."

Lorna sidestepped the sarcasm. "Who were they?"

"Just some locals."

I glanced at her painting over the mantel — a goddess rising from a phosphorescent haze — and realized we could be in trouble. Serious trouble. "We're the kind of women people are afraid of," I said. "They used to burn women like us."

Lorna, sprawled before the fire, gave my foot a soothing squeeze. "Come on, this isn't the Middle Ages."

"Besides," said Joey, "you always think someone's after you."

Ping! She got me. But she was right. "Maybe it is just a neurotic fear," I said, "but what if it's a premonition of what's really going to happen?"

Lorna sat up. "That's the wrong question," she said, looking deep into me. "What you should ask is, 'What do I choose to have happen?'"

She was always reminding us that we create our own reality with our thoughts. I believed that too — sort of, but it made my head spin. I mean, if our reality reflects what we think, can we make it better just by thinking it's better?... Can we make it worse? And what's "real" anyway?

"Anyone need a massage?"

"Huh?" Lorna's words stopped me in mid-spin.

There was a table by the couch with a tarnished candelabra, a Tarot deck, a can of dried-up cat food and a bottle of massage oil. She reached for the oil.

Joey grinned. "Ooo yummy. My knees are killing me."

Her knees! I could have used a massage myself, but Joey was already stretched out on the rug.

Lorna and I propped Joey's legs up with pillows and kneeled on either side of her. While Lorna worked one knee, I tuned into the other. It felt inflamed, so I imagined sucking heat out with my hands and grounding it into the earth.