The Charmed Wife

by Olga Grushin

  And I do, after all my years of silence. And the word is “No.”

  “No,” I say, in a loud, clear voice. I feel myself flushing, not with embarrassment but with anger. “No, I do not want any of that.”

  The witch looks startled, and I am startled, too, for I have never spoken to anyone with such force before, not me, not the sweet-natured girl who never argues.

  “No,” I repeat once again, just to prolong the unfamiliar sensation that has awakened in me. This new sensation is heady and large, its edges harsh and defiant, not like any of the plaintive, aggrieved, stealthy sensations I have carried inside me for so long they have grown soft and worn-out with a decade of use, like crumpled old handkerchiefs soggy with old tears. This sensation is one of power—of having him in my power at last, of holding the smiting sword of justice raised above him, not some impersonal fairy-tale justice meting out brides and slugs, but my own, very personal, long-overdue justice, about to crash down upon his handsome curly head.

  “Well, it’s your spell,” the witch says cautiously after a pause. “What do you want, then?”

  I know just what I want.

  “I want him dead.”

  A strike of lightning, perfectly timed, accompanies my words. I do not flinch. I see everything clear and frozen in its purple flash—the witch, her scraggly eyebrows lifted in surprise, the cauldron with its revolting blood-tinged concoction, the wolf winds lying in prone submission at my feet. Then the world winks out again.

  “It’s your spell, madam,” the witch repeats, but a novel note sounds in her words, one I am not accustomed to hearing from anyone. I wonder if it could be respect. “Well, then. If you’re sure.”

  “Do it,” I tell her.

  And the night is black and the fire red and the commencing spell long and extravagant and full of awe-inspiring sound effects, complete with growls and howls and rolls of mighty thunder. A dark, stormy stretch of the heart-pounding eternity passes before the witch throws her arms up and screams the closing words of the incantation. Another impeccably timed bolt of lightning strikes the cauldron, and I am blinded. When I can see again, I look at the old woman with a new appreciation. I am grateful to her for matching the magnificent pitch of her magic to the magnitude of my marital disappointment.

  Anything less might have made me less certain of my intent.

  “Now it’s yours to complete,” says the witch. “Get the lock of his hair. How long have you been married?”

  On any given day, I know the exact duration of my marriage as surely as I know my husband’s collar size (sixteen), the ages of my children (eleven and six, soon to be twelve and seven), and my own age: thirty-five, soon to be thirty-six, then forty, then fifty, then—while he grows only more attractive, a graying lion with his imposing stride, commanding gestures, and the fierce geometry of cheekbones—then just another bent and wrinkled hag, not all that different from this warty old woman.

  “Thirteen years. Thirteen and a half, to be precise.”

  She takes the soaking chestnut curl from me, deftly peels off thirteen single strands, counting under her breath, then breaks another one in half, and tosses away the rest, and drops the thirteen and a half hairs into my readied hand.

  They lie on my open palm, wet and seemingly harmless in their insignificance.

  “Just throw these into the cauldron, one after another, and when the last half goes in, spit after it. Spit with feeling, mind. And then—poof!—you’re a widow.”

  Something seizes within me at the matter-of-factness of her words. My fingers stiff with cold, I separate one hair from the soggy bunch, stretch my hand over the cauldron.

  “Well, go ahead, drop it, drop it!”

  I release it. Together we watch it drown.

  On the surface of the potion, images bubble and flit.

  The Beginning of the Beginning (After the Happy Ending)

  Once upon a time, in a distant land, there lived a merchant who had a wife and a daughter. The wife was soft-spoken, the daughter pretty, and his trade successful, and for a while all went well with him. But then all his deals went sour, his wife took ill and died, and he had nothing left but his little girl. He thought to start fresh and moved with her to a new land, and there married a local woman who seemed kind to him but was not. For in truth, he barely spoke the new language, and he knew the new customs so poorly that he understood very little of what his new wife said and did. Soon the merchant, his spirit broken, sickened and died, and his daughter was left all alone in the world, with nothing to her name but a dried bunch of forget-me-nots from her childhood garden and no one but her stepmother to care for her. The woman had two daughters of her own; like their mother, they had no patience for people different from themselves and disliked the pretty little girl for her heavy accent and her foreign ways. One week had not passed since her father’s funeral when the three of them began to order her about and give her chores around the house. She never complained but worked in stoic silence and, after years of drudgery and obedience, blossomed into a beautiful maiden. And then, as was only proper, came a fairy godmother, and mice that turned into horses, and, at long last, a ball with its handsome prince. The prince fell in love with her, because he had absolutely no reasons not to: she was ornamental, blond and pink, and ever ready with expressions of gaiety, attention, or solicitude, whichever was called for. And so they were married and the envious stepsisters properly chastened, and she came to live in the palace, which looked and smelled like a vanilla cake, white and light, with blue icing.

  (In a quick aside, her originally murine, briefly equine, now permanently murine best friends, Brie and Nibbles, moved to the royal quarters with her. Brie was a dainty she-mouse who swiftly acquired a profusion of refinements, such as a taste for sweet cookie crumbs and a habit of wrapping her whiskers in golden foil. Nibbles was of an earthier nature, a jovial glutton whose simple conversation invariably turned to cheese. Whenever he attempted to discuss the gastronomical superiority of camembert over brie, Brie squeaked in mock indignation, “Oh, you beast!” and slapped him with her tiny perfumed gloves. When Nibbles laughed, his entire stomach wobbled like blancmange, and ever more so as he learned his way around the kitchens. He only hoped that their princess was no less at home in her palace life; he worried about her, they both did, and with good reason, and her happiness was the sole subject of contention between them. At least her new father-in-law had welcomed her gladly.)

  The old king was kind to her, and she liked the mirrored buttons that were always close to popping on his soup-stained vests and the apologetic manner in which he spoke to his grooms. The courtiers, flamboyant in their flounces, ruffles, and ribbons, were overall interchangeable, employed as they were mainly for atmospheric backdrops and humorous relief. And while it was true that the queen was no longer alive, or perhaps she had vanished—well, something or other had happened to her—her passing (or else disappearance) was not, as everyone was quick to assure her, a cause for melancholy, for it had happened quite a while before and was largely a matter of convention. And in any case, deep feelings were not a likely possibility here, for in this kingdom all souls appeared to be more or less one-dimensional, with just the slightest hollow at the center, for fleeting frustrations (not enough sugar in the morning tea!) and exclamatory enthusiasms (new stockings! new kittens!) to perch ever so briefly, splash in the shallows, then take off again, no depths stirred in their passage.

  This was, of course, pleasant and proper, and she felt that she was one of them, that she belonged. During the day she stayed busy being happy, and when she slept, she had no dreams but saw a sheet of solid blue instead, spreading on the underside of her eyelids, flooding her mind with peace. The prince—he was called Roland, though she had not thought to inquire after the name before sliding her little hand in his, looking deep into his cornflower-blue eyes, and whispering, “I do”—was all a prince should be, gorgeous and courteou
s, and he adored her. He threw balls in her honor, serenaded her with the finest musicians, showered her with sweet-voiced songbirds, soft-pawed puppies, and other tokens of princely fondness, whose very uselessness demonstrated the full extent of his devotion. If they did not finish each other’s sentences, it was only because they were not in the habit of holding protracted conversations: true sentiment had no need of verbal expression. Her love for him was all flowers, and waltzes, and a great sense of relief at things having worked out just so. And just so, they lived happily ever after, for one whole year.

  By the end of that year of bliss, she was with child.

  * * *

  • • •

  A sudden white flash rends the night over the crossroads, and I close my eyes, thinking it another bolt of lightning. Then I smell lavender soap, and my spirits sink, for I know just what—just who—it is.

  “Well, look what the cat’s dragged in,” the witch says darkly.

  I open my eyes to find my fairy godmother bearing down upon me, wringing her hands, smothering me in her laundered pink robes and fresh lilac smells, almost knocking me off my feet as she slams into me with the full impact of her unwavering goodness. I have never seen her apple-cheeked, double-chinned face look so distraught.

  “My child, my dearest child,” she wails, “what are you doing here with this villainous wretch? Oh horror, what horror! Thank heavens I’ve arrived in time to save you from making the greatest mistake of your life!”

  The witch spits at the fairy godmother’s feet.

  “You can’t stop her, you know. Rules are rules. It’s her spell, and she is the only one who can end it. Madam, do you wish to continue?”

  “She wishes nothing of the sort!” My godmother shakes me, none too gently. The top of her agitated, bobbing head barely reaches my shoulder. “You don’t know my darling like I do, drastic change will never make her happy. She just needs a good cry, that’s all, a good cry, a lovely cup of tea, a cuddle with her pillow, and things are bound to feel better in the morning. Let’s take you home without delay, my precious child, you’ll catch your death out here, in the cold and the damp, what with your delicate health. Come along now, there’s my girl.” She steps back to give me a sweet, encouraging, anxious smile. “My finest accomplishment.”

  Her slightly protruding eyes are round, white, and moistly gleaming, like two peeled hard-boiled eggs, and I see myself reflected in them, a fragile ornament that has somehow rolled out of the box and needs to be repackaged with care in its soft, padded nest, where it will keep safe and untouched, asleep for a hundred years.

  Anger scalds my insides. I twist away from her.

  “I want him dead,” I say through gritted teeth.

  The witch looks grimly triumphant.

  “And I want him dead now. Do we really have to dole out the hairs one by one, or can I drop the whole bunch in at once and just be done with it?”

  The witch ponders. Both of us pointedly ignore the fairy godmother’s gasps.

  “I don’t see why not,” the witch announces at last. “Of course, traditions are, well, traditional, but allowances can always be made for exceptions. Go right ahead, it will be sprightlier this way.”

  My heart takes off in a gallop—almost there, almost free . . . I step up to the cauldron; the two women follow. As I bend over the brew, I see the shuddering reflections of our three faces in the tumultuous mirror—a hag, a matron, a beautiful girl (who, quite true, is no longer a girl and whose beauty has dimmed, grown saggy here, tight there, yet who can still pass for one in the black of night, in the turmoil of magic, if no one inspects her too closely). I look from the florid double chin on my left to the warty chin sprouting wiry tufts on my right—my future laid out with such cruel clarity before me—and, newly hardened in my resolve, pinch the sorry bundle of my imminently late husband’s hairs in my fingers, and raise my hand.

  And then, just as I am about to let go, the fairy godmother lurches forward with a stifled cry and makes a grab for me, her plump grip unexpectedly strong. The arc of my gesture goes awry. Only two or three hairs flutter, ineffectually, down into the potion, while the rest remain plastered over my fingers.

  “You . . . you meddlesome witch!” cries the witch, as our struggling reflections in the cauldron give way to the vision of the royal palace.

  The End of the Beginning

  She was wan and unwell all through the spring, and the prince was obliged to attend a dozen state balls and dinners by himself. She could not help feeling that she had let him down somehow, but he was full of understanding and begged her not to worry, not even when some urgent matters of foreign diplomacy forced him to travel to a distant southern province without her. To prove that she was ever in his thoughts, he had his fastest courier (the very one, in fact, who had brought the glass slipper to her stepmother’s house the previous year) shuttle between them, delivering immense gift baskets of star-shaped purple fruit ripened by the southern sun. It was lovely of the prince to think of her so often on his grueling travels, and she always rewarded the young courier with a grateful smile.

  With the advent of summer, her sickness passed, and she began to swell. The prince was more solicitous still upon his return. He had moved his own bed to his study in the west wing to ensure her proper rest, her situation being delicate, but the regular tokens of love that he sent with the servants demonstrated his unfailing devotion. (She did not, in truth, feel especially delicate, but did not dare contradict the royal physician; she felt fortunate to be in his care.) The gifts themselves grew practical in nature, more suitable to an expectant mother: a pair of thick socks to be worn in bed; a book of recipes titled Mommy, Is Dinner Ready Yet? A Guide to Easy and Nutritious Cooking with Children; a set of knitting needles, along with a basket of yarn enchanted to never run out. The knitting needles in particular offered hours of useful distraction, and she felt ever so appreciative as she whiled away her tranquil days making sweaters for old King Roland, chatting with her trusty mouse friends, Brie and Nibbles, and daydreaming of the prince’s next visit.

  (Incidentally, Nibbles was courting Brie now, for Brie’s personal charms had come into much greater clarity once she had ornamented her whiskers with golden foil. Brie, however, felt rather torn, for she had met Falstaff, the pet mouse of the Marquise de Fatouffle. Unlike Nibbles, who was an ordinary brownish gray, Falstaff was perfectly white, and the insides of his ears glowed delicate pink, which Brie admired greatly. Too, Falstaff was exquisitely polite and lived in a beautiful cardboard mansion furnished with the softest little sofas and the loveliest little rugs, which he had inherited from a broken porcelain doll of the marquise’s youngest daughter. On the other hand, Brie had known Nibbles her entire life, and his cheese jokes and tummy rumbles made her giggle. For a time, distraught, she took to wandering alone in the garden, plucking daisies the size of her head, tearing off petals and muttering, “Falstaff—Nibbles—Falstaff—Nibbles,” into the spring breeze. When the gardener’s dog jumped out at her from behind the statue of a one-eyed queen, Brie only just made her escape, with a petal still crumpled between her paws and Falstaff’s name on her lips.

  She was so badly shaken that she saw it as a sign, and that same night she scratched on the door of Falstaff’s mansion and allowed him a great many liberties on the plushest of his sofas. Immediately upon taking the liberties, however, Falstaff kissed the tip of her paw and said theirs was a most pleasant acquaintance and he sincerely hoped that she had not misunderstood his intentions, which were honorable, of course, but had to take into account the regrettable circumstance that he was the Marquise de Fatouffle’s beloved pet, and she, much as his soul protested against it, was only a common gray mouse—even if her whiskers were wrapped in golden foil. “You understand, my sweet,” he said, and set to brushing his immaculate fur.

  She said she did, in a small, small squeak, and, still in the middle of the night, slunk away, and crawled
back to Nibbles. She was relieved to hear her friend’s hearty snores continue uninterrupted as she snuggled up to his warm side and, there and then, through her tears, decided that she would accept his suit in the morning. And when she did so, Nibbles was overjoyed, even though he had only pretended to snore the night before. For he had always known where her heart truly belonged, in spite of her fancy whiskers, which, after her six seconds of misguided passion on the dollhouse sofa, she stopped wrapping in golden foil in any case. And if their first litter of mouselings were born with lighter coats than strictly necessary, Nibbles loved her enough to say nothing about it. There would be many more litters in their happy future, for they were blessed that way, unlike their poor princess, who was still carrying one single baby after all these long, long months.)

  In August, the prince placed his hand on the rise of her belly, and in September, he rubbed her feet. Her love for him was all complacence, and comfort, and embroidered handkerchiefs. In October, pleasantly aflutter, she was in the midst of preparing for another of his monthly appearances and had just greeted her hairdresser when the baby made itself felt. The prince’s visit was speedily canceled, and thirty-seven hours later, Angelina arrived.

  And then her world grew exhausting and warm, and everything smelled of baby formula and laundry detergent, and she was ecstatic, and she was apprehensive, and she was overwhelmed, and she was never alone, which felt oppressive at times, but she was also never, ever lonely. She held the baby close to her heart through vague afternoons and restless nights, for hours and days and weeks. The baby cooed, babbled, and gurgled—mostly—but every so often the baby cried, and then she would tickle its toes, blow soap bubbles, and have Brie and Nibbles dance funny little jigs on the rug. And her diversion tactics worked—mostly—but on occasion they failed, and then she felt as if her world might just split at the seams with the robust wails.