As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection

by Catherine Stovall

  Marie’s proud shoulders slumped and her head bowed on her long, slender neck, “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Whatever was said next, Charice would never know. Filled with anger and disgust at her mother, the busy-body old lady, and herself, she’d stormed out of the little shop and ran. The heels of her shoes clicked on the cobblestone walk and drowned out her sobs as she fled toward the river.

  Those words from any other woman would have been nothing. Charice knew she wasn’t quite the same as other girls, and she had been ignoring mean spirited people all her life. However, her maman was a powerful voodoo priestess; her words were the gospel in the bayou. To hear the woman whisper such a fate about her own daughter, well that was more than Charice could stand.

  Charice wanted a husband more than anything. She dreamed and longed for a man who would love her despite the things that made her different. The desire for babies and a house of her own had been the stuff of her imagination for as long as she remembered. Before, her maman had always nodded and smiled in her patient way whenever Charice had spoken of such things, and it had given her hope.

  Through gritted teeth, she huffed, “All her fault!” Words issued by the nice church going ladies who smiled, patted her head, and bought her sweets flushed her brain.

  They all blamed her mother. One had even whispered, “Pray to God, child. Pray for your mama. Her wicked ways brought this curse on to you. You are her cross to bear.”

  The implications of that phrase had never really settled into Charice’s disturbed mind until that moment, and suddenly, she’d ceased wanting to live on. She was a curse, a punishment, an unloved ward who’d never be able to stand on her own. The river became her only focus, its swift current holding the promise of salvation.

  She turned down St. Francois Drive, still running despite the hitch under her ribs and the hot sun beating down on her head. Determination drove her forward and tears blinded her so she could not see. The knowledge that she’d never know love pounded in her head just as hard as her heart pounded in her chest.

  She never saw the gentleman step out of the bistro until it was too late. Crashing into him, Charice flew backward, her backside painfully landing on the rough stone walk.

  “I’m sorry!” she cried.

  He looked down at her with crystal blue eyes, his dark hair falling on his forehead in a roguish way, and offered his hand. “My dear lady, are you okay?”

  Charice whimpered, cowering away from the handsome young man, tears still falling down her face.

  “Come now, let me help you,” he coaxed. “You’re Mrs. Cablet’s daughter . . . Charice? Right?”

  When she didn’t answer he squatted down, and gently pried her hands from her face, pressing a handkerchief into her palm to dry her tears. “My name is Christophe. Christophe L’ouvre. Are you okay?”

  When he smiled, she managed to grin back, her cheeks flaming a bright red. Men rarely spoke to her, especially if they knew who she was.

  “I’m o-okay,” she stammered as he helped her to her feet. The warmth of his hand made her heart flutter and she ducked her head to hide the emotions that must surely be clear to everyone who had stopped on the street to watch them.

  His hand came up to wipe away a tear, and Charice lost herself in the beauty of his square chin, long Roman nose, piercing eyes, and gentle touch. Her lips parted, the words almost forming, she had to tell him she loved him. She couldn’t imagine anything else making her so lightheaded, so crazy inside.

  “Charice O-dea!” her mother’s voice shattered the moment.

  In an instant, she found herself being whisked into a carriage. Her mother thanking the young man at the same time she scolded her as if she were a very small child. The voices and activity suddenly burst into life as if they had been muted while Christophe had held her hand.

  Overwhelmed, embarrassed, and angry that her mother had interrupted her one chance at true love, Charice curled into the leather seat and cried until they reached home once more. Without a word, she went inside the main house and took to her bed for three days. Determined to starve herself to death, she did not take food or water. Instead, she dreamed of Christophe, until the solution came to her.

  ****

  “My pretty, pretty little poppet,” Charice cooed as her fingers nimbly tied the two sticks together in the form of a cross. “I shall make you, and I shall call you Christophe. You shall be mine, and you shall make him mine. Maman says it’s impossible. She tells me I’ve lost my mind, but maman doesn’t know I’ve been watching her. I know her spirits and her tricks almost as well as she.”

  Strands of ratted, dirty hair hung in front of her dark eyes as she hummed a little tribute to the Loa as she worked. Her bare toes scrunched in the dirt as she sat on the stoop of her little chicken hut far away from the big main house, her supplies in a little whicker basket at her side. For hours she sewed the buckskin with careful stitches, stuffed the little carcass with grass, herbs, and nail clippings, dressed her little doll in clothes made from the real Christophe’s handkerchief, added the little button eyes, and used charcoal to draw a little mouth.

  When at last the poppet was finished, she held it by its arms and danced in the little dirt patch in front of the steps, repeatedly singing, “Pretty little poppet!”

  The neighbors paid no mind, they never did. Everyone knew Marie Cablet’s daughter was stark raving mad. In fact, most felt the voodoo woman and her mentally unstable child were just part of the charm of living on the bayou. While her maman was revered and respected by the southern Louisiana people, Charice was just a sad little thing who couldn’t harm a fly—or so they thought.

  Satisfied she’d celebrated quite enough, Charice opened the door to the hutch and stepped inside. Unbothered by the smell of feces, straw, and rotting things that steamed in the hot summer day, she lit the candles on her alter.

  Lifting a lemon yellow candle she carried it to the door and sat it at the edge. “"Papa Legba open the door for me, Atibon Legba open the door for me. Open the gate for me Papa, so I can

  pass. When I return, I will thank the Lwa."

  Charice returned to her alter and held up her handiwork, the button eyes gleaming in the candle light. Her voice, high and sweetly childlike, though she was well into her twenties, she called out, "I baptize thee Christophe L’ouvre, in the name of the Lwa. In life this is now who I wish it to be. All that is done to this doll happens now to me as I so do command. As days go by and time is infinite, I alone now control the deepest desires, dreams and actions of Christophe. His life is now mine to control, my purpose alone and power over part of their stolen soul. May Christophe know no pleasure or profit see, unless it is now governed, shaped and controlled by me."

  She dipped her dirty hands into a wooden bowl of holy water, and sprinkled it over the poppet, then placed a chase kiss upon the thing’s brow. “I love you.” For a long moment she stood with her eyes closed, dark lashes against her cheeks, and thought of Christophe. A tingling sensation stole into her heart, and Charice knew it was time. With a quick little gesture, she selected a pink tipped straight pin and stuck it deep within the doll’s chest.

  “As this pin pierces your heart, so let it be pierced with love for me. May your mind and heart fill with the knowledge of our union, as will mine be.”

  ****

  “Charice O-Dea, where are you child?” her maman’s voice called Charice back from her dreams of a happy future with Christophe.

  She’d made the poppet and hidden it away in the twisted roots of her favorite tree, and every day since, she’d paid tribute to the voodoo spirits. The Lwa were not easy to please, and she hoped no one would notice more than one of her hens and some of her maman’s liquor had come up missing.

  “Here I am, maman,” Cherice called out to her mother from beneath the arms of the cypress tree.

  Marie Cablet quirked her eyebrow up in disapproval as she took in her daughter’s appearance. “What in the name of the spirits are you doing? You k
new we had to go into town today.”

  Charice looked down at her dirty and torn dress and mud caked shoes as she ran her fingers self-consciously through her hair. “I’m sorry, maman. I forgot.” Before Marie could respond, her daughter fled into the house to change her clothes and brush her hair.

  There was no time to bathe, but she stripped out of her filthy dress and tried to wash away the dirt from her skin as best as she could. Rubbing the wet cloth over her shoulder, Charice felt a twinge of pain, as if a needle had stuck her. Turning her back to the mirror and looking over her shoulder, she gasped. The skin was whelped and puckered, a black thread forming a perfect seam.

  “Oh, oh no!” Her first instinct was to cry out for her maman, but then her lips clamped shut. She couldn’t tell her mother what she’d done.

  Tears building in her eyes, Charice finished dressing and ran a brush through her hair. Her hand kept finding its way to her shoulder, always hoping she’d imagined the whole thing. Unfortunately, each tender probe was a sharp reminder of the stitching marring her skin.

  “Char, are you okay?” Marie studied her daughter’s face with concern.

  “Yes, Maman,” she sulked, her hand almost creeping upward before she shoved it back to her lap.

  “What I said the other day, you know it was no prediction. The Lwa did not say it was so. Just a mother’s worry.”

  “Yes, Maman. I know,” she sighed.

  “Darling, I’m inclined to think otherwise if you would take such care of yourself as you did today. Your eyes are positively sparkling. Like two black buttons, they are.” Marie beamed at her daughter with pride, and secretly hoped her harsh words may have been just the ticket to force the girl into attempting to act her age a bit more.

  “They what?” Charice exclaimed, her worst fears blooming inside her head as she snatched for her mother’s purse.

  “Calm down, dear. It was a compliment,” Marie tried to capture Charice’s hands, but to no avail.

  The small silver compact her mother always kept in her purse finally surfaced, and she flipped it open. There was definitely a shine to her eyes, and she thought maybe they looked a little bit rounder, perhaps even resembling two black buttons. The sob caught in her throat as she shut the case and stared back out the window.

  “Do try to settle down, Charice. We are going to have tea with Mrs. L’Ourve and her son, Christophe today. You remember him, the nice young man you nearly trampled on the street the other day.”

  Charice’s heart stammered at the sound of his name. She whispered a prayer to Ezili in hopes that love would conquer whatever curse had befallen her. In her heart of hearts, she believed if her spell had worked, and Christophe fell in love with her, the stitches would fall away and the change would stop. However, she had no more time to worry about such things, because the carriage pulled up to the bistro.

  Running a hand over her dark hair and simple dress, she suddenly wished she’d chosen something prettier for the excursion. “Maman, after lunch, could we go shopping. I think I’d like a new dress.”

  Marie’s startled eyes lit up, “Of course, dear.” A secret smile crossed her lips, and again she wondered if her harsh words had brought about the sudden change in her daughter.

  As they stepped inside the small café, Charice’s eyes searched for Christophe, her stomach doing little flip flops. To her dismay, she found Mrs. L’Ouvre sitting alone at a table, already sipping tea. The dowdy old woman wore her perpetual frown as if it were a badge of honor, and the expression did not change at all when she locked eyes with the approaching women.

  “Mrs. L’Ouvre, it is a pleasure to meet you, at last,” Marie beamed at the woman, but Charice knew that tone—the one that was reserved for those who judged her maman for what she believed and practiced.

  “Mrs. Cladet, I thank you for your invitation. Please, sit,” the old woman’s voice was just as bitter as the scowl. “I regret Christophe was unable to join us today, he was feeling a bit under the weather.”

  “That is a shame. I would have liked to thank him again for his assistance the other day. I’m quite sure he may have saved my poor Charice from serious injury, even if it was quite by accident.”

  Her heart sinking by the minute, Charice sat at the table nibbling cucumber sandwiches and sipping her tea. Her mind had felt so clear for just a few moments, but her despair over not seeing the man she loved brought back the cloud in which she had lived most of her life. As she stared into space, she heard the conversation around her without truly understanding.

  “What is this all about, Marie Cladet?” Christophe’s mother leveled her gaze.

  “There’s no reason to take that tone with me, Blanche L’Ouvre. I’ve only come to say my thanks, not to you, but your child. I know the reputation I have in this community, and I’m not out to tarnish yours. Quite frankly, the only reason you were invited was to protect your son. Lord knows what these buys bodies would be saying if he was seen alone in the company of a witch.” She hissed the last word as if it were painful for her to utter. As a practitioner of true voodoo, it really was.

  Blanche looked at her mother as if she were a snake rather than a woman, but before she could open her mouth to utter a single word, Marie stood up.

  “Come along, Charice,” and then to Christophe’s mother, “I owe a debt to your son, Mrs. L’Ouvre, but not to you.”

  The dress shop was across the street, and Charice’s eyes lingered on the windows as they stormed from the café. Sure her mother would be too furious to remember her request, she nearly whimpered as she turned toward the carriage.

  “Darling, where are you going?” Marie asked with a lighter air to her voice than expected. “I do believe I promised to take you shopping.”

  “Yes, Maman!” her voice was filled with excitement when she answered. Visions of seeing Christophe on another day dancing in her head, she smiled. Yes, much better for him to fall in love with her when she’d dressed more carefully—a day his mother might not look down her nose at their union.

  Inside the small dressing room, Charice struggled out of her dress. New pains had surfaced on the short walk across the street, radiating across both shoulders and hips. She stood with her eyes clenched shut, trying to convince herself that there wouldn’t be more stitches.

  Her eyelids fluttered upward as she heard her mother call her name, and she was forced to bite down on her tongue to keep from screaming. The black threads ran around her joints, just as if her limbs had been sewed on. The skin around them was puckered and red, with bits of dried blood clinging here and there.

  “I’m fine, Maman,” she called out as her hand grabbed for the handle.

  The lock silently slid into place just as Marie jiggled the door. “Char?” the worry in her voice echoed in the small space.

  “Maman, I’m fine!” Charice sank to the floor, but her voice was strong, “I’m too old to need help dressing, you know.”

  Outside the door, Marie and the shop attendant shared a look. “She’s finally coming into her own,” her mother whispered.

  With shaking fingers, Charice gently tugged on the thread at her hip. A sickening feeling moved through her limb as the string unraveled a bit, and dried blades of sweet grass peeked out of the welling blood. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she felt a miserable realization of what she was becoming wash over her.

  Standing up, she wiped the droplets from her eyes and looked at herself in the mirror. “Hello, pretty little poppet,” she whispered, a look of hatred burning in her eyes.

  ****

  Charice had made it through the ordeal at the dress shop by turning her back on the mirror and refusing to look. Her body ached, but she held onto the hope that she would be okay. She’d be just fine once she saw Christophe, he would make everything okay.

  Dressed in her new finery, she walked with her head a little higher, and her step became a little surer—if not a little hitched from her wounds. She smiled and nodded at the people as they walked by, enjoying t
he appreciative glances they cast. Despite the pain each movement caused, her mind cleared once more.

  Deciding to enjoy her moment of glory before it faltered, she asked, “Maman, I wish to promenade by the river. Will you join me?”

  Once more, Marie was elated at the sudden change in her daughter, “It is growing late, my dear, why don’t we do so tomorrow. Your old maman’s bones are aching.”

  Charice smiled, and offered her mother her arm. “But of course.”

  Turning back to the carriage, her eyes fell on Christophe standing outside the bistro. His clothes were badly wrinkled, and his hair was mussed. He wore a look of pure confusion and tears beaded in his bright eyes.

  At seeing her, he waved his hands above his head as if he were a child, and called out, “Charice!”

  Quicker than she could have imagined, he darted into the street, startling the team of horses pulling a large delivery wagon. The lead horses reared up, powerful hooves cutting the air very near his head, but Christophe did not move. Instead, he stared at the danger as if too frightened to budge.

  Darting out into the street, Charice grabbed him by the arm and tugged him out of harm’s way. Together, they crashed into the building, the impact jarring her wounds.

  “Christophe! What is the matter with you!” she screeched.

  For a moment, he only stared at her with a blank look in his eyes, and then he smiled. Something about his expression seemed vacant and unclear, and Charice felt the last of the fog lift from her mind as she stared into his faded eyes.

  His hand reached up, cupping her cheek, and he whispered, “I love you.”

  Her heart soared and then fell, as understanding sank in.

  “Get away from him, you little monster!” Mrs. L’Ouvre screamed as she bustled out of the café door. “Every since you threw yourself at him in the street he has gotten worse and worse. What curse have you put on him, you witch? What have you done?”

  In a tone remarkably calm and clear for a girl who had been considered an imbecile only a day before, she countered, “Mrs. L’Ouvre, you should take him home now. All will be well soon.”