Witch Destiny?

What with all the villain origin stories coming out in the movies, I thought I’d add my two cents to the sudden desire to look into the backstories of evil. This isn’t any particular baddie. Maybe she turns into the witch in the candy house someday. Or Snow White’s stepmother. Who knows!

I also ran into the phrase “fear of hate” in a local newspaper and that got me thinking about the current social trend of labeling all dissenting voices in certain topics as “hate speech.” I’m not denying that people speak hatefully and with horrible results, but it got me thinking about the consequences of living your life terrified that someone might hate you.

When she was six, Mirella’s mother took her chin, tilted her face up, surveyed it and said coolly, “With a face like that, you be careful to keep away from black cats or they’ll burn you for a witch for certain.”

Fifty-two years later, Mirella set her Botox appointment in her calendar, slathered her face in foundation and concealer and blush, shimmied her way into a slimming girdle, grabbed a SlimFast snack bar and paused by the mirror on her way out the door. The woman in the mirror was thin and shapely with high cheekbones and dramatic eyes, all the blemishes of age hid in slimming black slacks and tailored jackets.

Mirella did not see that woman.

She saw a woman, shriveled and wizened, wearing black to make her flaws less visible. She saw the wrinkles on either side of her lips and mouth, deep lines running from her nose to her mouth, claw-like hands, weak arms. She nervously picked at her fingers, her breath short. It terrified her to leave the house, anymore. What if someone saw her like this? She clutched her hands together, trying to stop the trembling. She’d be fine. Fine. She was going to see Daisy, after all, and Daisy had never cared about her own appearance, why would she judge Mirella for hers?

She’d been looking forward to the brunch for weeks; Daisy rarely made it to town but this weekend she was visiting her daughter and Mirella looked forward to quiches and coffee and gabbing for hours about children and grandchildren and the woes of husbands and ex-husbands. When she walked through the door of the restaurant, she spotted her friend sitting in a window booth with a small boy in the seat beside her.

 Daisy waved an enthusiastic arm, and her underarm waved with her. “Yoo hoo! Mirella! Oh, it’s good to see you!” Daisy hustled off the seat and enfolded her in a floral explosion of a hug. She was wearing something like a many layered chiffon mu-mu and flower-pattered Birkenstocks. Beside Daisy, Mirella dared to hope that her own looks approached at least pretty in comparison.

Daisy leaned back, still holding her by the shoulders and surveyed her. “My goodness, Mirella. Don’t you look smart! Your mother would be so pleased!”

Mirella smiled, but was distracted by Daisy’s companion.

“And who’s this?” She said, turning to the little boy and speaking in the bright voice she reserved for small children. She was fairly certain they didn’t respond well to it but she felt nervous talking to children and couldn’t seem to stop herself.

“This is my grandson, Rory!’ Daisy said, beaming with pride and tousling his brown curls. “I hope you don’t mind; my daughter had a bit of a work emergency and asked me to take him this morning. Rory, be nice and say hello to Gramma’s old friend.”

But Rory just looked at Mirella with soulful brown eyes, clamped his lips together, and shook his head no.

Mirella tried to smile wider, to make herself more appealing. “No, it’s fine! What a lovely little boy!” Oh, she thought. Stupid, you might as well be complimenting a new vase she’s purchased.   

Daisy was, thankfully, unperturbed. She let out a peal of laughter. “He is indeed! Come on Rory, just say hi. Tell how old you are!”

Rory said in a small voice: “I just turned four.” And then, after a tense pause, he whispered to his Grandma, “. …She’s scary.”

Mirella recoiled, but Daisy let out another peal of laughter, chuffed her grandson on the head and said “Silly boy, don’t be mean,” and then launched into conversation on all and sundry topics, as if nothing had just happened, as if Mirella’s world were not shrinking around her. Scary?  She could almost feel her mother’s cool fingers gripping her chin. First she felt a tremor of rage; when she’d worked so hard to look nice and to be nice, it wasn’t fair that a little boy should call her that! And then it was swiftly followed by the horrible thought: perhaps he only said what adults were too polite to say. Mirella sat in stunned silence as Daisy happily carried the conversation on her own, unaware of anything amiss.

Eventually Daisy said, “I think I’ll just take a visit the little girl’s room; Rory, you be good for Ms. Mirella.” And she hustled off. Suddenly Mirella found herself sitting across from Rory. Rory stared at her warily from large brown eyes. Mirella tore her napkin into little bits under the table.  

  “I still think you’re scary.” Rory whispered.

Mirella hiked her lips into what she hoped was a friendly smile. “I’m not scary. I’m nice. I’m very, very nice. Why do you think I’m scary?”

For another moment he stared at her and then pronounced: “Your hair is too black. And your teeth are too white. And your face looks funny.”

For a moment Mirella couldn’t breathe. She’d failed. She was old. Everyone was secretly laughing at her, spending time with frumpy old women like Daisy and thinking she’d somehow avoided being a frumpy old woman herself. And again with her panic came rage. He was wrong, he was wrong, he was wrong. He had to be wrong. The spoiled little brat had probably been taught he could say whatever he wanted by permissive parents. That wouldn’t do. Perhaps he needed to learn a lesson. Yes, a disciplinary lesson would do him good.

She smiled at him again, mostly teeth this time. “Your Gramma’s been gone a long time. I bet she left you. Little boys are difficult, you know. She’s probably halfway home by now.”

His lip trembled a little bit. “My Gramma wouldn’t leave me.”

Mirella saw she had hit on something, and pursued it. “She doesn’t visit you much, does she?”

“Mama says she called Daddy a no-count and that’s why she didn’t visit till Daddy went away.”

“You’re just like your Daddy aren’t you?”

He sat up a bit. “Yeah I am, I got a great arm just like Daddy. He can throw way far—like over to there!” He pointed at the far wall, but Mirella sidestepped Rory’s Daddy’s throwing arm.

“Honey, I’m sorry to tell you, but your mama’s just being nice when she says Gramma didn’t visit because of Daddy. She was talking about you. Gramma doesn’t like your daddy, and you’re just like him.”

He just stared at her, his eyes wide.

She leaned forward across the table. “Tell you what, I’ll prove it to you. If you’re gone when she comes back, she won’t even notice. She won’t look for you. If you’re right, she’ll come looking for you.”

Mirella had some inner sense that she was going too far, but she found herself in the grip of a strange, heady thrill. This pathetic little boy thought he could say mean, hateful things and just get away with it? No. He should learn better, and she would teach him.

Rory looked indignant. “She would too! My Gramma loves me!”

“She’s lying. She won’t notice.”

“Oh yeah?” Casting a smug look at her, he scooted off the seat and scampered away through the tables.

Mirella picked up her phone and texted Dasiy, “playing a game with Rory, pretend not to notice he’s gone.”

Then she watched the bathroom door, sharp eyed. Poor Daisy always loved a good joke. She’d never think twice about a game of pretend.

As expected, Daisy was a good sport. She came back to the booth, chuckled conspiratorially and sat down and began chatting. Mirella relaxed for the first time and began enjoying herself. She did not exactly forget about Rory, but she allowed the thought of him to fade to the back of her mind. Daisy was always such fun to be around.

But after a moment (much too short a moment in Mirella’s opinion) she said dramatically, “Why, where can Rory have gotten to? Has he vanished?!”

And she glanced under the table expectantly.

Then she sat up, the smile gone from her face, her expression stern. Mirella suddenly thought that perhaps Daisy might not understand how kind and thoughtful Mirella was being undertaking to discipline Rory. Quickly, she covered for herself. “Is he not under there?” Mirella feigned confusion and peered under the table as well. “Oh no.”

Daisy shot to her feet and hustled off. Mirella stood up too, glancing under other tables to uphold the fiction that she was concerned.

Except when Rory wasn’t to be found anywhere in the restaurant fifteen minutes later it wasn’t a fiction anymore. She began seriously peering under tables, more and more irritated. Where had the stupid boy gone? After Daisy had interrogated Mirella (rather rudely, Mirella thought) and found her friend remarkably reticent about why or where Rory might be, Daisy had roused the entire restaurant. Now she was on the phone with her daughter, tears streaming down her face. The restaurant hostess had called the police. Everyone looked at Mirella like she was pond scum. Mirella tried to look distraught. She did not want Daisy to be angry at her, but she found she thoroughly approved of her actions. Little kids need to learn to be kind, after all. Daisy just wasn’t the woman to teach that kind of lesson.

Only after a half hour of tearing the restaurant apart did Daisy spy a stranger escorting a tearful Rory up the sidewalk. She flew towards him, weeping with joy, but Rory turned away from her and ducked his head, barely submitting to her hug. Mirella, standing half hidden behind the restaurant booths, felt the first hint of dread in her stomach. Daisy would never understand Mirella’s reasoning.

And after the story had been coaxed from Rory, it was clear that Daisy did not understand. She turned on Mirella in a rage, and the restaurant manager coldly asked Mirella to leave his establishment, and Mirella slunk away from the restaurant with Daisy’s final words hanging loudly in the air behind her: “YOU WITCH!”

She wrapped her arms around herself. The afternoon had taken a chilly turn; the breeze kicking up and the sun hiding behind clouds. How could Daisy not have understood how hurtful Rory’s words had been? She’d kept going on and on about him being four, and little, and from a broken home and not understanding—and Mirella didn’t see how that mattered. He’d hurt her. He needed to learn. Why did nobody care that he’d hurt her? Weren’t adults supposed to teach children lessons? She shivered, hunched into her jacket miserably and hurried home, her heels clicking a rhythm: not-fair not-fair on the sidewalk.