Enter Three Witches by Kate Gilmore Page A

interrupted with,” Sammy said, with one of the knowing grins that had earned him his name.
    “It must be fun to know everybody’s business,” Bren said.
    “That’s what I’m paid for,” said the doorman.
    “I thought you were paid to keep out thieves and poor old bag ladies who might want to sleep in the lobby,” Bren said, “but who cares? I was only passing by. If my father has company, I’ll come another time.”
    Bren turned and stamped out onto Third Avenue. He was very angry and, he now realized, both cold and tired. The long, cheerless walk back to the West Side seemed impossible. But now it occurred to him that it was unnecessary, and he turned toward Seventy-ninth Street and the luxury of a crosstown bus.
    It was nearly midnight by the time he got home. The house was dark and unusually silent. Everyone seemed to have gone to bed, even Shadow, who usually filled the front hall with his overwhelming welcome as soon as the key touched the lock. A dim light filtered down from the landing above, and with its aid Bren climbed the stairs. He was conscious of feeling both relieved and somewhat abused by this lack of reception. I could have stayed out all night, he thought, for all they care.
    When he reached the landing, however, his mother’s door opened, and there she stood in an old bathrobe, her face white and distraught, the dog trying to push her out of the way. “Where have you been?” she cried. “I’ve been worried out of my mind. The ballet must have been over for hours.”
    “I went for a walk,” Bren said.
    “For a walk. You went for a walk? How can you just stand there and say you went for a walk when I’ve been wondering whether to call the police?” Miranda ran her hands through her already disordered hair and turned back into the bedroom, where she began to pace the floor.
    Bren had little choice but to follow her. He put a restraining hand on Shadow’s head and stared at his mother. She certainly looked much less like a witch and much more like a mother than he was accustomed to. Was it an act? Clearly not, but he was still unwilling to forget the incident that had driven him to walk the streets.
    “Mom, I am sixteen years old,” he said. “Suppose I had decided to take my date somewhere after the ballet. So what? You never mentioned that there was a curfew. Next time let me know, and I’ll take it into account. I might even telephone, although I doubt I would have tonight. Not under the circumstances. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
    “I haven’t a clue,” Miranda said distractedly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why shouldn’t you telephone? It was the least you could have done.”
    Bren studied her in silence. Was it possible she had really forgotten the summons? Not likely, he thought, but she was probably unaware of the effect it had had on the final moments of his evening with Erika.
    “You promised not to summon me,” he said finally, “but you couldn’t resist, could you, and it really pissed me off.”
    Miranda looked stricken. “Oh, Bren,” she said, “did I really? I didn’t mean to. I must just have been thinking hard about you—hoping you were having a good time, you know, and all that sort of thing.”
    She had made a mistake, and Bren found himself angrier than ever. “Sure, Mom. If I’d believe that I’d believe anything. What do you take me for,” he shouted, “some sort of mental defective? I know how much concentration you put into calling me, and you did it tonight at approximately ten minutes after eleven, and it made me so mad I almost didn’t come home at all. I went to see Dad,” he finished vindictively.
    “So why didn’t you stay?” Miranda cried. “Why didn’t you stay and let your mother worry all night instead of just an hour or two?”
    “Because he had company, that’s why. He had the kind of company you don’t want to be interrupted with, to quote his repellent doorman. Not really wanting to sleep in