Love Potion

Jamey Baumgardt

The spare third floor apartment stays warm even in January, thanks to a radiator that never shuts off. Decades of sunshine has ghosted the floral wallpaper that peels in places, exposing lath and plaster, the weathered bones and ligaments of a previous era. Black push buttons set hip-height in the walls tell of antiquated knob-and-tube wiring beneath the plaster, old circuits fraying, coming undone like everything else.

Agatha sits in her antique Barcalounger, the TV tray off to one side still holding the remains of that morning’s breakfast — one poached egg and one piece of toast, same as every day. Opposite her, across a small sea of wall-to-wall olive green carpet, the television glows in front of wood paneling that stretches from her front door to the kitchen entry. The television plays her favorite show, Bewitched. Endora, Samantha’s trouble-making mother, has just appeared in her kitchen. “Guess who I ran into in Paris?” she asks.

“Who?”

“Your old beau, Rollo.”

“Oh? How is he?”

“As charming and attractive and debonair as ever. Why you turned him down I’ll never understand.”

“Simple,” Samantha replies. “I met Darren and it was love at first sight.”

“It must have been.” Endora eyes her daughter slyly. “If you’d taken a second look, you’d have run like a frightened deer.”

Agatha chuckles along with the laugh track, watching as Samantha leaves the kitchen. With a scheming look in her eyes, Endora snaps her fingers and Rollo appears. If only that were possible, Agatha thinks. She knows this episode — it’s the one where Endora gets Rollo to seduce Samantha by putting a drop of love potion in her drink at a dinner party she’s hosting for one of Darren’s clients. But Endora accidentally sips from the tainted drink, falling in love with Darren’s client instead.

Love potion, Agatha thinks. What a silly idea. Here she is, 93 years old, still single and never been in love. There’d been a boy once, William, from when she was young, in her early twenties. He’d worked at the same department store as her, selling suits. They saw each other for a year, and she’d been quite fond of him. But had she been in love? She doesn’t think so. Her neighbor Harry pokes fun at her sometimes for never marrying. He’s 87 years old, though she thinks he doesn’t look a day over 80. Thrice married himself, he’s outlived each of his wives, and has seven children and fifteen grandkids. Over tea on Sunday afternoons he tells her all sorts of stories about his family. But last week he’d gotten her to talk instead, and she’d described to him a life she’d never had… the virginal white dress she wore when she married William, church bells announcing their love, and then their honeymoon in Paris, stealing kisses beneath the Eiffel Tower, and then children — two boys and a girl, whom she spoiled to no end — all of them living happily ever after.

She’d looked up at Harry then, to see him smiling, his eyes glistening much like her own. “Oh, listen to me going on,” she’d said, feeling foolish. “Doesn’t that sound like a load of hogwash?”

“No, it sounds lovely, Agatha,” Harry had replied, moving to her, carefully lowering himself to one knee. “Marry me.”

She’d laughed aloud, right in his face, thinking he must be joking. But then she’d seen the ring in his hand. “Stop this nonsense, Harry. You’re being ridiculous. I’ve known you only a year. And we’re too old,” she’d rebuked, blushing.

“It’s never too late.”

“Stop it Harry.”

“Agatha, I — “

“Get out, now!” she’d shrieked, trembling.

Harry had looked at her solemnly a moment more before excusing himself, leaving his tea unfinished. It had taken her the rest of the evening to calm herself. What the hell had he been thinking? Marrying at their age? Honestly.

A knock at the door startles her. She looks up at the clock, it reads 4:05. Laughter sounds from the TV. She wonders if Harry has come for tea after all. She didn’t think he would show, not after last week. I haven’t even got water on to boil yet, she thinks, opening the door. To her surprise the hallway is empty, but at her feet sits a small gift-wrapped box. She slips the bow off and opens it. Inside is a small red vial and a card: ‘LOVE POTION — DRINK ME’. Oh, Harry, she thinks, closing the door.

In her chair she pulls the stopper from the vial, sniffing. It smells nice, like cinnamon or maybe cardamom. On the television, Rollo pours a drop of his love potion into Samantha’s martini. Agatha laughs. Harry, aren’t you clever? She takes a little sip. The flavor is pleasant on her tongue, but fades soon enough, leaving her with nothing, wanting more. Suddenly she feels strange, a dull ache sprouting in her heart. The red vial falls from her hand as she slumps over, weak. She falls face first onto the shag carpet, mouth open, drooling as she draws in ragged breaths of air. What is happening?

“Witchcraft, darling!” Endora exclaims from the television. “When you’re in love, the whole world’s witchcraft!”

Agatha thinks she hears the front door opening and tilts her head toward the sound. Harry?

On TV, Endora asks, “You do want to marry me, don’t you sweetie?”

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