The Uses of Enchantment (26 page)

Give me an example of what you’re talking about, I said.

Mary fiddled with her braid. Another habit of Bettina’s. Bettina, who was medicated for a hyperactive disorder as a young girl, still had a tendency to fidget unconsciously as a teenager and even as an adult; she was persistently pulling at the split ends of her hair or turning a spot on her face into a small bloody hole; she’d once, during a particularly tense session, pulled out her eyelashes one by one.

Mary yanked a strand of hair across her lips and into her mouth. Her tongue waggled suggestively as it attempted to tie the hair into a knot.

An example, I reminded her.

I’m thinking, she said. Let’s say that I have a sister who’s a very shitty poet. Let’s say that she values, above all other things, a prize given out by the poetry journal at Semmering. And let’s say that I say to myself, any idiot with a pencil could win that prize. For example: I know that the committee prefers poems that connect school activities—like the pumpkin pie bake sale to raise money for poor people who can’t afford a holiday turkey—to historical events, such as the first Thanksgiving. This poem should furthermore be written in a style reminiscent of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s “Renaissance” since that’s the poem that Ms. Wilkes, who is the only person on the committee, recites each September, by heart, on the first day of class. Let’s say I write a poem called “Bake Sale 1621,” in which I compare the Indians to the high-school girls making pies, and I slip in the school’s motto,
Vox in Deserto
, “A Voice in the Wilderness.” Our ancestors, the pilgrims, are like the poor people receiving the help. I blend the lines between girl and Indian, poor person and ancestor. And then I show, via some very sappy imagery—say, withered kernels of corn being blown by the wind and taking root far and wide over this great and generous land of ours—how this impulse to help those who are less fortunate than us by feeding them locally raised foods is now the inborn duty of every Semmering student, because every Semmering student understands that she is no different from an Indian or a poor person. Let’s say the concluding couplet, which might be something like “And as these golden kernels doth widely blow, no winds abandon the hungry to heartless snow,” are only slightly different from a poem that won the competition ten years earlier, and thus it rings familiar to Ms. Wilkes, who is too daft to remember the poems that win from year to year.

This is a very complicated example, I said. But I still don’t see how you’ve bested your sister without her knowing it.

I’m not finished, Mary said. Let’s say I submit this poem using the name of a girl whose father is an English professor at St. Hugh’s. Let’s say this girl is dyslexic and can barely read a comic book. Let’s say her father spends gazillions of dollars on an after-school tutor because he can’t accept the fact that his daughter isn’t “Yale material.” Let’s say I am confident that, should her poem win the competition, she will never tell anyone that she was not the author of the poem because her father, for the first time in her whole underachieving life, will be proud of her. He’ll call his relatives, he’ll throw her a party, he’ll send copies of the school newspaper article announcing her win to the Yale admissions office. And now, let’s say the poem, “Bake Sale 1621,” wins and my sister takes second place to a dyslexic girl who can barely read a comic book.

Mary replaced the strand of hair in her mouth. Her tongue darted around and around in repeated figure-eight movements outside her mouth as she attempted again to tie the hair into a knot.

I used to be really good at this, she said, referring, I assumed, to her tongue exertions.

Fortunately you have other talents, I said. Like writing poetry under a pseudonym.

Regina’s the only poet in the family.

So your example, I said. It’s just an example.

You asked for “an example.” I gave you an example.

So you didn’t write a poem called “Bake Sale 1621.”

It’s a masterpiece languishing in the ether, she said. But I’ve fantasized about writing it.

Clearly, I said. Your fantasy life is very detailed.

Dad always says I’m “hatching a plan.” Because I don’t talk much at home. Mum will say “she’s so quiet” and Dad will say “she’s hatching a plan.” Of course he doesn’t believe I’m doing anything more than daydreaming.

Which is another “example.”

Example of…

Besting somebody without his or her knowledge. You
are
hatching plans, but you don’t let your father or mother know that you are. You allow them to believe that you’re pointlessly daydreaming.

About sex, she said.

You like to be perceived by people as less than who you really are.

What they don’t know won’t hurt them, Mary said.

What they don’t know won’t hurt
you
, I said. Isn’t this a self-protective tendency?

Maybe I’m modest, Mary said. Maybe I’m shy.

Others might interpret your behavior as deceitful.

You mean
you
think it’s deceitful.

I didn’t say that, I said.

Though she had a point. I
was
feeling judgmental toward her; I was feeling ungenerous, and these feelings initiated from a threatened place. The similarities between her case and Bettina’s case made me feel as though I was the one who needed to protect myself against her and the detailed manner in which her mind processed these alternate realities. For in essence, this was what her “example” revealed to me: she was an inhabitor of an alternate reality. She lived in one world, while in her mind she manipulated that world, to a minute and pragmatically detailed degree, to achieve different outcomes. Of course there was nothing unusual about this; there was nothing even pathological about this, if experienced on the level of fantasy and acknowledged by the mind as such. My worry was that Mary, given the level of detailed thought accompanying these fantasies, was no longer able to distinguish between fantasy and life. Or worse—she could no longer discriminate between fantasy and life because, in some way, she had imposed this fantasy onto her life. Her fantasies really were the hatchings of plans, and she did not permit these good ideas to go to waste. Like Bettina, she implemented them.

In that case, Mary said, every thought you have and don’t share is deceitful.

You have a point, I said.

So you take it back. About being deceitful.

I apologize if I sounded as if I were passing judgment on you, I said.

Apology accepted, she said. I like it when you apologize.

So today I had an idea, I said. I’d like to ask you some questions.

A departure from the usual, she said.

Different questions. More free associative kind of questions.

Great, she said. Shoot.

What does K look like?

K? she said.

K, I said.

I’m not sure to whom you’re referring, she said cautiously.

K is the man who abducted you, I said. K is the man you mentioned during our second session. I can replay the tape if you like.

That’s OK, she said.

So you recall mentioning him, I said.

If you say I mentioned him, I guess I mentioned him, she said.

What did he look like? I said.

I told you I don’t remember, she said.

But you remember his name, I said.

K is not exactly a name.

But that’s what you called him.

It’s a nickname, she said. Like Beaton.

How do you feel about undercooked meat, I said.

Gross, she said.

Did K cook for you, I said.

I have no idea, she said.

How long have you been a witch, I said.

Huh?

Answer the question.

I’m not a witch.

Who is the one you chose to be your incubus?

Is this a game? she said.

Answer the question.

Can you remind me what an incubus is?

What about K, I said. Where did K live.

I can’t remember, she said.

Who are the children on whom you have cast a spell?

Mary laughed.

Answer the question, I said.

I didn’t cast any spells on any children, she said.

Interesting, I said.

What’s interesting, she said.

Your mother was right. About your lacking creativity. When K undercooked your meat, did you tell him you’d prefer it better cooked?

He didn’t cook, she said. He preferred takeout.

Where did he live, I asked.

In a cabin in the woods, she said.

What kind of takeout is available in a cabin in the woods, I said.

Mary grew flustered. I don’t know, she said. I’m—trying to be creative.

You’re not doing a very good job, I said. Even creativity must respect the confines of plausibility.

We bought food and made sandwiches.

Where did you buy the food, I said.

At the store, she said. There was a store not too far down the road.

I didn’t respond.

Even in the woods there are stores, she said defensively.

What music was played there, and what dances did you dance.

There was no stereo. We didn’t dance. K wasn’t the dancing type.

What type of a person was he?

He was…sad, she said.

Sad, I said. Do you mean remorseful?

Remorseful? she said.

Did he suffer from feelings of shame and guilt.

Not at first, she said. He hadn’t done anything yet.

No? I said.

She shook her head.

He’d abducted you, I pointed out.

Mary reddened.

That’s a crime, I said. Don’t you consider that a crime?

It depends, she said.

Depends on what?

It depends on how hard he had to try.

How hard he had to try…to abduct you, I said. You mean he didn’t take you by force.

Mary gazed toward my bookshelf.

I still can’t believe you have this book, she said, walking to the shelf and removing
Dorcas Hobbs
.

What is it about that book you find so special, I said.

She shrugged. Then:

Did you know Bettina Spencer was obsessed with this book?

Was she, I said.

To some people, Bettina’s a hero.

She destroyed school property. She lied.

Maybe hero’s the wrong word, Mary said. She was fascinating the way witches are fascinating. Bettina was a kind of witch.

Do you mean because she was wrongly accused of something and wrongly punished, I said.

No, I mean like real witches.

There were no real witches, I said.

But if there were real witches. She was like a real witch. She made people do uncharacteristic things. Like her friend Melanie Clark.

Maybe Melanie Clark has a hard time taking responsibility for her own actions, I said.

Mary frowned.

Did I say something wrong, I said.

No, she said. Forget it.

What did I say, I said.

I’m trying to tell you something, she said. I’m trying to describe a feeling that I have, and that a lot of girls have, and you’re resistant to the idea of this feeling.

I apologize, I said. What is this feeling you’re describing.

It’s a feeling of…wanting to be somebody other than yourself, she said. Of looking up to somebody who’s a bad influence, but who’s a good influence too.

How could Bettina be a good influence, I said.

Mary shrugged. I think that’s why Bettina liked
Dorcas Hobbs
. All these girls form a long chain of influence.

Again—to claim an “influence” is often to fail to take responsibility, I said.

Did you know that she stole this book from the library before she burned the library down?

I didn’t know that, I said.

She and I both looked toward my bookshelf.

After the library was rebuilt, the school replaced the book but the book kept disappearing, Mary said.

Girls were stealing the book, I said.

Probably, she said. But the rumor was that Bettina was a witch, and she could make the book disappear. The librarian stopped replacing the book because according to Miss Pym it turned girls into thieves.

It
is
a cautionary tale about how human hysteria can override human rationality.

Books can be evil, Mary said. They can give people ideas.

They stimulate thinking, I said.

Not all thinking is good, Mary said. I know you disagree.

I believe all thinking is worthy of scrutiny, I said.

That sounds tiring, she said. I’m tired. I was up late last night.

You had insomnia, I said.

Dorcas Hobbs
kept me awake, she said. There’s something about that book.

What is it, I said.

Mary shrugged.

Does it have to do with Bettina, I asked.

Now you want to talk about Bettina, she said.

It’s reasonable to ask about Bettina in connection to this book, I said. So what do you see as the connection between Dorcas and Bettina.

Bettina wanted to be Dorcas, Mary said.

She wanted to be abducted by Indians and cause the death of an innocent man, I said.

Mary rolled her eyes.

You’re so literal, Beaton.

So you’ve said. Multiple times.

So open your eyes and look! Mary said. Why do you think Bettina wanted to be like Dorcas?

I’m unable to comment on the wants of Bettina, I said.

Mary pulled on her braid.

Bettina wanted somebody to write a book about her. Look at Anne Frank. Every girl wants to be Anne Frank. I mean, minus the dying part. But how exciting, to be locked in an attic like that. If you didn’t have to die, you know? That’s why it’s such a great read. Because the bad stuff happens outside of the book.

Some pretty bad stuff happens inside the book, I said.

But she doesn’t die. Not in the actual book. Only in the preface.

Yes, I said. But that’s missing the point. To an almost amoral degree, that’s missing the point of her life entirely.

Her life didn’t have a
point
, Mary said. She was just a girl. Girls’ lives don’t have points. That’s why they do what they do.

What do you mean, I said.

That’s why they obsess over books like
Dorcas Hobbs
.