They say brujas can borrow the voices of birds.

They can dress like leaves.

They can burrow into the ground to bite ankles.

I hear whispering in the trees, dark wings lift.

Only one tree has wind.

“Are you here, brujas?” I ask.

My voice shakes.

I grab my Medal of the Sacred Heart.

The path is dark.

The trees lean in, covering the sky.

The way forward is uncertain.

“Felicidades, beautiful brujas.

You are so powerful, so strong.

You can change the weather,

heal the sick.

You are wise and know everything.

I need your help.”

There is only silence,

so I keep talking.

“Mi padre loves another woman.

He doesn’t come home.

Mi madre cries at night.

Please make him love my mother again.”

A flock of parrots flies overhead.

I think they are telling me:

“No, no, no!”

Returning home,

the nail is bare that held his hat.

His shirt and pants gone too.

The house remains,

filled with empty air.

“Hello, my beautiful friend,” I told the crow.

He was shiny and had sparks in his eyes.

Sometimes he visited me

while I sat on the patio reading the news.

We just looked at each other.

Other times, he was only a smear in the sky.

Gifts began to appear at my door.

A scrap of sheet music.

A dried pepper.

A bus ticket.

One perfect walnut shell.

Was he trying to teach me something?

When I found the gold ring,

I understood his message.

It was time to marry Angelina.

Angelina had waited many years,

praying on her rosary, to become a bride.

The next day, at the courthouse,

Don Ramon married us.

Angelina’s wedding dress had grown too tight,

but she wept tears of joy.

El cuervo, my best man,

watched from the fountain outside.

Encourage your new client to stand in the stream,

right where they are.

Encourage them to look around,

to notice the hills sporting new green,

the minnows,

the sparkles on the water,

the birds flying overhead.

What are the smells? The sounds?

Let them tell you.

After they’ve had as much time as they need,

encourage them to take off a coat,

lay it on the water, and watch

as it slides downstream.

Next, encourage them

to take off another coat, then another.

Encourage them to eat a peppermint,

smell the sweet peas,

listen to Shubert or flamenco,

volume loud,

to become acquainted with their own face.

Guide your client to the deep waters upstream

where it’s easier to make good decisions.

Once problems wash downstream

to immediate life,

they are harder to resolve.

Eventually, clients will understand

that paying attention is akin to devotion.

Today, he cut himself shaving.

He put a dab of tissue on his chin and forgot.

He also forgot his wallet,

so stuffed with notes and receipts

he couldn’t sit down with it in his pocket.

Yesterday, he forgot to feed his cat,

had to go home and rush back.

Los Angeles sees him as a famous detective.

I see him as a delinquent seven-year-old

I’ve been appointed to care for.

Why did I, years ago, bring him lunch?

Now you’d think he’d starve

without my daily care packages.

I also have a small ironing board

I can set up on my desk for his suit coat,

which often looks like wrinkled pajamas.

But when his favorite type of client,

blond and crying, flounces in

with tight clothes and a loose budget,

he becomes electrified,

his voice a blade that cuts through her story,

down to the meat, the bone, the marrow.

To watch the spectacle, the pacing,

his cigar rolling from side to side,

watching her love-dumpling eyes

melt like butter under his heat coil,

my pride swells, and I accept my fate

as the sail of his wayward ship.

I do mind,

but my choices in the 1950s were limited.

Become a nurse, people said.

But bedpans and blood were a big No.

A teacher? I don’t like kids.

A housewife: I don’t like men living under my roof.

So working for the famous detective

seemed like a good option.

Exciting, I thought.

Fancy work lunches at Chasen’s and Musso’s.

I could wear suits, look sharp.

I could be the person in charge,

disguised behind the curtain, so to speak.

But the cold hard fact is, my mind is filled

with a collection of sharp No. 2 pencils,

pointed like daggers at his face.

My intercom squeals like a tortured mosquito.

He wants me.

I grab my steno pad and pencil.

“Yes?” I say.

“Take a letter,” he says, chuckling a little.

It’s addressed to his last client, the dumb blond

with the low-cut blouse and the scarf

that grabbed her around the throat.

“It was so nice to meet you,” he dictated,

a touch of color rising on his cheeks.

“Since I will be unable to assist you as a client,

I’m hoping our paths will cross sometime soon.

Maybe the Miramar Lounge over the weekend?”

I closed my pad.

Lifted my head.

Looked at him.

Shook my head.

Stood up.

Grabbed my pencil.

And walked out of his office.