THE WITCHING HOUR by Kelly Sundberg
Red is blood. Red is cherries – sweet, firm. Red is chiles, red is heat. I once stood in rural Belgium at the edge of a field full of strawberries, and while the wind blew through the green leaves of the red berry plants, the clouds cleaved above me, and I felt a cleaving too – a grief that let go, but only for a moment.
The garnet is my home state’s gemstone. I have a star garnet sitting next to me now because it is supposed to enhance creativity and strength. I hold the stone in my palm, stroke it with my thumb and find that it is both smooth and warm.
Red is the witch – burned at the stake. Red is the succubus – killing men with their own desires.
My friend’s father used to call me “Red” because of my hair. He wore red flannel shirts, cut down trees for a living, and killed animals for sport. My cheeks flushed red when he called me that.
Red is an alarm. Red is a stop sign, stoplight, and most other forms of stop.
I married a man who loves redheads. His hair, too, was red. His nose red from alcohol. His fists red from hitting me. His cheeks red from shame.
I was the witch, the succubus. I was also the stop sign, the stoplight. I said, stop. I said please stop. I said, Oh God, please make him stop.
The witching hour arrives at night. Night is when I sit on the couch in the dark, and while my son sleeps quietly in his bedroom, the ghosts get in. Their voices taunt me.
I say, Oh God, please make them stop.
Ghosts:
My ex‑husband, Caleb’s, voice says, “I would not be this way with another woman. It must be you who brings this out in me.”
His friend’s voice says, “I heard that you beat up on each other.”
His mother’s voice says, “Just put your troubles at the foot of the cross.”
My father’s voice says, “Kelly, I just don’t know what to believe.”
I say, I expected better from you. And you. And you.
I say, Father, I needed better from you.
No one hears me because I am too angry. My anger is proving them all right.
* * *
My therapist says, “I’d be worried about you if you weren’t angry.”
My best friend says, “I knew you before. I know this anger is not who you are.”
My mother says, “You are so funny. Why can’t you write something lighthearted for a change? You have all of those funny stories.”
I don’t know how to tell my mother that those stories came from before, and, now, I will only ever be an after.
* * *
I repeat the adage to myself: “Anger is like taking poison, then waiting for the other person to die.” I am still waiting for him to die.
* * *
When I was a little girl, I was often told that I had a “redheaded temper.” A boy on the bus called me “Carrot Top.” He pulled my ponytail – made fun of my body, my shyness, my awkwardness. I was in the third grade, already learning that feeling of hating myself, that pervading sadness. This was the year my mom would say it was as if I went into my bedroom and never came back out. Once I learned what sadness felt like, I never knew how to feel any differently.
That boy on the bus pushed me. Knocked the wind out of me. I had already learned not to push boys back; I already knew what force would come back at me if I did. So I did something else. I got a pitcher from my house, opened the fridge, and I poured as many disgusting things in that pitcher as I could find: orange juice, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, stale Riesling from a forgotten wine bottle in the back. I let the pitcher ferment in my closet for a week, and then, one morning, I hid the pitcher in my backpack and carried my pack in my arms so that it didn’t spill. I left my pack, pitcher inside, on the floor of my classroom all day underneath the hook that had my name on it. When I got off the bus that afternoon, the boy turned to taunt me, but instead of running away from him, I walked towards him. I reached into my backpack, and he must have seen something in
my eyes.
He turned and ran but couldn’t stop looking back at me. I pulled the pitcher out and tossed the liquid in his direction. It missed him entirely and splashed back up on my own arm instead. He pointed at me and laughed but kept running. From then on, whenever he saw me, he’d shout, “She’s crazy. You’d better run!”
But he never picked on me again.
And I got it, I understood. A girl has two options: she can be a victim, or she can be crazy.
* * *
Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife. Caleb’s crazy ex‑wife.
* * *
More Ghosts:
His friend, the rape survivor’s, voice says, “What were your triggers that led you to stay with him when it got so bad?”
My friend, the feminist’s, voice says, “You are hurting ‘the cause’ with your anger.”
Our friend’s voice says, “I can still be friends with both of you. I don’t need to take sides.” I say, What about his triggers that led him to be violent? I say, What are you doing for the cause with your silence? I say, If you care about me, then how can you be friends with the man who hurt me? But I don’t ask these questions out loud. They float away into the darkness.
* * *
The Assistant Prosecutor dismissed the domestic battery charges against Caleb rather than go to trial on January 24th, 2014. I was in the first year of my PhD program. My eight-year-old son had a snow day from school, so I bundled him up, held his mitten-clad hand in mine, and together, we picked our way across the snowy campus to a mandatory meeting for all of the PhD students. I had no idea that Caleb was in court. No one had even told me there was a hearing scheduled. I received a phone call on my way into the meeting. The victim’s advocate wanted to know if the Assistant Prosecutor could dismiss the charges rather than go to trial. I had not been given any time to prepare, had no idea what to say, so I said yes. It wasn’t what I wanted.
I went into the meeting and sat surrounded by graduate students who knew nothing about the call I had just fielded so naively, who knew nothing about what or where or how I was. My son kicked his legs in the desk next to me, leaned back in his seat, and looked up at the ceiling. My gaze followed his. I stared at a ceiling tile, stained from moisture, and tried not to cry. My eyes watered anyway; the stain on the ceiling darkened in my vision until I saw only red.
* * *
Later, when I fought to get the Assistant Prosecutor to go back and do her job right, she brought up the day that Caleb had been arrested. I had slept without underwear. I was still without it when I woke in the morning and went to the kitchen to confront him about his abuse. I told him that I was leaving him. I turned to walk away, and he yelled, “Don’t turn your butt to me!” I leaned over and gave a little butt wave at him. He threw a ceramic bowl at me that busted my foot and resulted in his arrest.
* * *
Another Ghost:
The Assistant Prosecutor’s voice says, “How was I supposed to convince a jury that he was guilty when you shook your bare butt at him?”
I say, “Are you saying this is my fault? Was I not allowed to be angry at my abusive husband?” But there is another voice in this particular story. I had complained to the Assistant Prosecutor’s boss, the District Prosecutor, about the mishandling of my case. We are on a conference call about this, and the District Prosecutor jumps in. “No one is saying that,” she says. “We would never say that.”
Still, the ghost of the Assistant Prosecutor has already found a home in my own voice: It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault.
* * *
He would not have been like this with another woman. He would not have been like this with another woman. He would have not been like this with another woman. He would not have been like this with another woman.
Another Ghost:
The District Prosecutor’s voice says, “On behalf of the state of West Virginia, I’d like to offer you an apology. I hope this gives you closure.”
I say, “Thank you.” I am crying. There is no closure.
* * *
Later, when I’m driving my son to spend the weekend with his dad, and I cross the bridge over the wide, muddy Ohio River, the sign reads “Welcome to West Virginia! Wild and Wonderful!” and I say, West Virginia, you should be sorry.
When I see Caleb in his car, and he can’t look at me, I say, Caleb, you should be sorry.
When Caleb brings his new girlfriend on one of those drives, and I wave at her out of politeness, but she glares at me as though I am a witch, I say, Someday, he will make you sorry. And I feel sorry for her too, but not so sorry that I’m not angry. In fact, I’m so angry that I’m shaking as I drive home, but then, as I near that bridge across the Ohio River, the clouds cleave again. The sky behind them is not blue. It is red. Stoplight red. Heart-monitor red. My heart hurts. I sob alone into the silence of my car.
* * *
I hope this brings you closure. I hope this brings you closure. I hope this brings you closure. I hope this brings you closure.
* * *
Closure is a myth. Closure is just a different kind of opening.
* * *
Red is the color of my son sliding on to the delivery room table, slick and warm and crying. Red is the color of my chest after Caleb and I would fuck. Red is the color of my neck after his hands had circled it. Red is the color of the chunks of hair that I found on the floor of my shower when he had yanked it out. Red is the color that the bruise on my foot turned before it turned purple, then orange, then yellow, and finally, back to red in the form of a star-shaped scar.
Red is me leaving.
* * *
The witching hour arrives at night. The witching hour is when the ghosts get in. Their voices taunt me. Now I taunt them back.
No more.
* * *
When the witching hour arrives, I run in the darkness until my heart burns, beats red, and obliterates the sound of the voices. I light a candle and stare into the red flame – watch it dim and soften. I soften too. My hardness cracks. I call one of my friends and tell them that I love them.
I lay out a spread in the Tarot. The number nine recurs. Nine is the number of The Hermit. Nine: a period of retreat before completion, before the cycle ends, or is born anew. Nine: I have done all that I can for now. In my deck, The Hermit is a turtle who has retreated into its shell. Resting on top of the shell is an oil lamp, and inside of that lamp, a flame burns bright and red.
I hold my star garnet in my hand and stare into its depth. Its red is deep and dark. It is not the red of stop. It is the red of go.
Kelly Sundberg is the author of Goodbye, Sweet Girl: A Story of Domestic Violence and Survival (HarperCollins Publishers). Her essays have appeared in Guernica, Gulf Coast, The Rumpus, Denver Quarterly, Slice, and The Best American Essays.