The little bell above the shop door dingled as Sophie McDonald, age twenty-two, rushed in and flew across the floor, pushing past her cousin Oliver who was sweeping it, and into the back room where her grandmother lay dying.
Oh, not dying all at once; she’d been at it for some time now, as her earth-shaking maladies advanced a little bit here, a little bit there. She couldn’t get around anymore, given her tragic deterioration, and was thus confined to her bed – which she’d insisted be moved here into the room behind her snacks-and-soda shop on Allerton Road. It was a modest establishment, with its soda fountain, ice cream counter and magazine stand, but it was a happy place. It was close to the Institute, so there was a steady stream of teenagers stopping in for an after-school snack and a few tunes on the jukebox in the corner. A happy place, simple as it was.
Grams treasured that, Sophie knew, as inconsequential as it all sometimes seemed.
The shop was now under Sophie’s control, and she and Oliver ran it pretty well with a part-time staff of three other young people. Even though she wasn’t fixing milkshakes or selling paperbacks anymore, Grams still got a lot of joy from being so close to it all, and that took her mind off her pain. That, and the piles of weed she smoked. Sophie still wasn’t sure where she was getting it. She suspected Oliver, but had been unable to prove anything.
There she sat, propped up in her bed like a grotesque doll, sipping a whiskey. At three in the afternoon.
“All right, Grams, I’m here,” Sophie declared breathlessly. “Now what’s so important?”
Her grandmother set down her whiskey and burst into a smile.
“Oh, Sophiesophiesophiesophie!” she cackled. “I’m so glad you’re here!”
“What’s the problem? What’s wrong?”
“Problem? No problem. I just need your help, dear.”
Sophie flared with impatience. “No problem? But on the phone, you said-” She took a breath. “Fine. I’ll help you. What is it you need?”
The old woman turned to the dinner tray next to her bed. It was on wheels, and she scooted it in front of her.
“Come closer, dear. Sit on the bed. That’s a good girl, right there!”
Several objects were set on the tray. There were three small vials of liquid; a bowl of orange powder; a small dish with some chopped up herbs of some kind; and some broken strings from a violin bow.
“Oh, Christ, Grams,” Sophie moaned. “Don’t tell me...”
“See, I’ve had me an inspiration, I have!” the old woman declared. “And I want to tell you about it, and I want you to help me make it happen.”
Sophie sighed. More of her batty witchy stuff. It had embarrassed her since she was a little girl, and the one good thing about her grandmother getting sick was that she wasn’t out on the shop floor all the time, talking her nonsense to customers.
“Today is eighteen years to the day since your grandfather died in the Blitz,” Grams said, taking a more solemn tone. “It was the darkest day of my life, young missy. I’ll bet you don’t even remember him.” In fact, Sophie vaguely did remember him; but such were the family stories of him, with his vaudevillian history and jolly reputation as one of the most popular entertainers in all of Merseyside, that she’d often wished he could have lived so that she’d known him well.
“The thing is, I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately, and what was special about your grandfather is that he was a joy machine – yes, a joy machine! He was like that jukebox out there: you just pushed his buttons, and happiness came out!
“He always had a joke ready to go; he always had time for his fans! He spread good cheer everywhere he went. He would entertain folks at the drop of a hat, even when he wasn’t being paid. Why, do you know he did more than a hundred charity shows at the Royal Children’s Hospital, and never asked a quid?” Sophie knew that. Grams had told her dozens of times.
“The thing is, dear, we need joy right now! Things are such a mess in the world. The war left everything in such a dreadful state, so many dead – every single family lost somebody! The whole world needs joy. And not just a little – it needs permanent joy! Joy that doesn’t fade away!”
“And what joy doesn’t fade away, Grams?” Sophie asked, confused.
“Well, the path to joy is art, dear,” Grams explained. “Books, music, theater, comedy! The telly! Art is where people turn when they need respite from their cares. So what I’m thinking is this...” She leaned forward conspiratorially.
“I know I’m not long for this world,” she uttered with solemn melodrama, “but I’m one of the magical people, don’t ya know, and so I’m going to leave as my bequest to this good earth a big, big dose of permanent joy!”
Sophie blinked.
“‘Permanent joy’,” she echoed. “Pray tell!”
With great excitement, Grams surveyed her dinner tray.
“I have here, dear, the makings of a spell,” she explained, as if it weren’t obvious. (Grams’s spells had been a constant, excruciating theme throughout her young life.) “And it’s a hum-dinger, I’m here to tell you! I worked really hard on it.”
“This here,” Sophie said, waving at the tray, “is a Permanent Joy Spell...”
“It is, oh, it is!” Grams nodded. “When this spell falls on someone, they will become a source of permanent joy! They will be given endless inspiration, and the ability to spread happiness that will never fade!”
“This isn’t weed, is it?” Sophie asked, pointing at the bowl of herbs.
“Of course not, dear. It’s dried pennyroyal.”
“And what form will this permanent joy take?” Sophie asked. “Are you going to create a new Michelangelo? A new Shakespeare? A new Spike Milligan?”
“Oh, well, we have no way of knowing!” Grams confessed. “We’re going to cast the spell right here in the shop in the next few minutes, and we’ll see who walks in!”
“Oh, cripes,” Sophie grimaced, “You’re going to cast a spell on one of our customers.”
“Well, not directly,” Grams said. “We’ll cast the spell first, and then the next person through the door will be the one it falls on!”
Sophie heaved a sigh of relief.
“As long as we don’t poison anyone or set them on fire,” Sophie muttered.
“Oh, it is they who will set the world on fire, dear,” Grams assured her. “We’re about to unleash endless joy, and whoever does the unleashing is going to change the world!”
Grams mixed her potions. She counted slowly at certain points, timing the mixing. She folded in the herbs.
Finally she was ready.
“Now it’s your turn, dear,” she said to Sophie.
“Wut?”
“Well, you knew I needed you for something,” Grams explained. “This spell needs to be cast out there, on the shop floor, so it can fall upon some lucky soul selected by Fate!”
“You want me to cast your spell?” Sophie asked, incredulous.
“Well, yes, isn’t that obvious?” answered Grams. “I’m trapped in this parody of extended life! I’m imprisoned in this awkward and ironic human crockpot!
“You must take my morsels out into the shop! You must cast the spell for me, given my delicate condition!”
Sophie closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“All I have to do it set it on fire?”
“That’s all!”
“I myself don’t need to chant or recite any silly bullshit? I torch it and it’s done?”
“You’re a torch! A human torch!”
“I’m so glad you don’t get what you just said,” she sighed.
“Sophie dearie,” Grams patiently lobbied, “push the tray out into the main room beyond.” She issued a few more instructions and explanations, then drifted off to sleep.
“What exactly is this?” Oliver asked as Sophie centered the tray on the shop floor.
“It’s another one of her loony spells,” Sophie replied. “Let’s just get it over with. Otherwise we’ll just have to go through the whole thing again when she wakes up.” She picked up the matchbook.
“I suppose you’d better stand back,” Sophie suggested, lighting a match. “God knows what this is going to-”
The bizarre concoction exploded with a bright blue flash and a loud bang, and the air was filled with a faint, glowing mist.
Sophie was flat on her ass, wiped out by the magnitude of the reaction. There was far more mist in the air than the ingredients before her could account for. The mist was everywhere.
“What the hell?” Oliver said, rising from behind a display table. “Why did she make you do that?”
“You’re not going to believe this,” she said, “but the crazy old bat thinks it’s a spell that will inspire some poor sod who wanders in here to bring endless joy to the world.”
“But... we’re breathing this nasty shit right now,” Oliver pointed out. “Doesn’t that make us be the poor sods?”
“No, she said that since we were all in the shop before the spell was cast, it won’t affect us,” Sophie explained. “It’s whoever walks in next.”
On cue, the bell over the shop door dingled. Two schoolboys entered – one dark-haired, one not, both handsome. Each swatted momentarily at imaginary glowing flies in the air.
“Can I help you?” Sophie offered.
“Just looking for some ciggies, mum,” said the dark-haired one with an amiable grin. He pointed to a particular brand behind the counter. Sophie took down two packs and laid them down in front of him.
“Been in before?” Sophie asked.
“A time or two, I think,” said the other young man. “You’ve got Carl Perkins over there on the jukie, if I recall.”
“We do,” Sophie nodded, bemused. These two seemed friendly enough, but didn't exactly come across as world-beaters. “You all go to the Institute?”
“We do,” said the first fellow.
“Well, I’m Sophie,” she said, extending a hand. He took it and shook it.
“Great to meet you, Sophie!” he replied. “I’m Paul, and this is my mate, John...”
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