Witchcraft

This is a true story about love and witchcraft and the craziness one encounters when one mucks about with matters of the heart and tampers with things one cannot possibly hope to comprehend. It is a story that does not reflect particularly well on me, but that's never stopped me in the past.

It all began shortly after my marriage broke up. There was a period when I was unable to find any women to date. Then there was a period when I was able to find a great many women to date. And then there was a period when I settled into continuing relationships with three interesting women.

Two of these women were under the impression that they were my only girlfriend. I saw no reason to disillusion them. I did not mean to deceive them; I had just drifted into regularly seeing all three of them. Sharon (not her real name) knew of the two others because she was being as duplicitous as I—more so, really, because she was living with a fellow in New Jersey (not his real state).

It was not as great a setup as it might sound. It was not The Captain's Paradise except 50 percent better. It was not as though one of the women was a swimsuit model and a flamenco dancer but not a homemaker, the second made her own clothes and had won a Pillsbury Bake-Off but was not an intellectual, and the third was a Fulbright scholar but could neither do a credible box step nor wear a bustier. All three were just pleasant women whose company I enjoyed enough not to stop seeing them, but not enough to see any one exclusively.

My relationships with them consisted of dutiful daily calls to all three, advising on career and family problems, and seeing each of them two or three times a week for dinner or celebrating birthdays, holidays and other special occasions. On Thanksgiving I managed to escort all three to separate meals spaced at two-hour intervals. (Don't even ask.)

Anyway, by and by, Sharon announced to me that she would soon leave her other boyfriend and move to Manhattan.

"Great," I said.

Seeing Sharon would soon be considerably less complicated.

"When I move to Manhattan," she said, "I expect you to end your two other relationships."

"I pretty much like things the way they are," I said.

"Those are my terms," she said. "If you don't like them, then we don't have to continue seeing each other."

"I pretty much like things the way they are," I said.

I was not about to give up the other relationships for Sharon. Sharon may have been attractive, unpredictable and sensual, but she didn't know or care about the arts—she wasn't refined or subtle. She was, frankly, a little trashy.

Sharon moved to Manhattan and found an apartment only five blocks from mine.

"And now," she said, "I want you to give up your two other relationships."

"I told you before," I said, "I like things the way they are."

"Then we're not seeing each other anymore," she replied.

At first I didn't believe her. I tried to jolly her out of it. I didn't think she was serious.

She was absolutely serious. She refused to see me.

A rosy fog then descended over Sharon, obscuring her features. It gradually occurred to me that Sharon might be a good deal better than I had previously noticed. Sharon was not attractive, unpredictable and sensual, she was beautiful, exciting and the sexiest woman I had ever been to bed with. How could I let her go? Clearly, I could not.

I called her and asked to see her.

"You must not have been listening," she said. "I am not seeing you anymore. It's over."

"Uh, what if I were to scale down the two other relationships?" I said.

"It is over," she said.

"OK, what if I were to drop the two other relationships?" I said.

"It is too late for that," she said. "It's over."

I then realized what I had only suspected before: Sharon was better than beautiful, exciting and the sexiest woman alive. Sharon was quite simply the love of my life. Her rejection of me confirmed that. If I couldn't see her again, life was scarcely worth living. (Where do such ideas come from? They come, I believe, from the imaginary and hopeless romances that all little boys have with their mommies.)

I was about to leave town for a long-planned Caribbean vacation with one of the two other women. The night before departure, I worked until three A.M. composing a seven-page, single-spaced letter to Sharon. It suggested that not only was I willing to give up the other women, I was also willing to consider some kind of real commitment, something like, I don't know, cough, cough, a serious future together.

It is painful for me to admit this to you. The only reason I am able to do so is that I happen to know you have done things just as asinine yourself.

After proofing the letter, I went to mail it. As I got to the mailbox I thought, Sometimes letters get lost in the U.S. mail. Wouldn't it be tragically ironic if, for some reason, this particular letter, which was so persuasive that it would surely get Sharon back for me, became lost in the mail and I never got a reply from her? Not because she didn't want me but because she never received it?

I walked over to Sharon's apartment building at four A.M. and somehow managed to stuff the letter into her mailbox.

The next day I went to the Caribbean as planned, and I was less with my traveling companion or with myself than with Sharon.

•

When I returned to New York, there was, predictably, no reply to my letter to Sharon.

I did not know what to do. I was beside myself. I was possessed. So I did what anybody else would do who was beside himself and possessed. I went to see a witch.

I happen to know this really wonderful witch, Harriet Mandelbaum (not her real name, either, but it's a name like that and she really does exist). How I happen to know a witch at all is that I once spent three years researching a book, Something's There: My Adventures in the Occult.

I told Harriet my problem. She seemed sympathetic. I told her I wanted a magical spell to get Sharon back.

"I cannot give you a magical spell to get her back," said Harriet.

"Why not?" I said. "Don't you know any?"

"On the contrary," she said, "I know many. But I cannot give you one."

"Why can't you?" I asked.

"Because," she replied, "if I give you magic to get Sharon back, you'll get her back, and it might not be right for her, or it might not be right for you. And it will interfere with her free will."

"Then what can you do for me?" I asked plaintively.

"I can give you an incantation that is used to attract true love," she replied. "If Sharon is your true love, it will attract her. If she isn't, it won't. But you must promise not to use her name in any device I might give you."

"OK," I said.

"Do you promise?" she said.

"I promise, I promise," I said.

And so Harriet gave me an elaborate incantation to use. She said I was to say it before bedtime in a dark room with no distractions. If I liked, she said, I could use a candle as a focus during the incantation and blow it out when I was done.

"Will the candle make the magic stronger?" I asked.

"It will be a good focus for you," she replied.

That night, I began my witchcraft. I turned off the telephone, turned off the lights and lit a candle. I did the incantation. Doing witchy incantations in the dark in your bedroom makes you feel pretty stupid, though not half so stupid as doing unrequited love.

The next morning, nothing happened. I don't know what I had expected to happen, but nothing did.

The next night, I did the incantation again. With the candle, and without Sharon's name.

Next morning, still nothing. Same deal the next night. Still nothing the following morning. At this point, my desperation was crystallizing into despair. (You can see where this is going by now, can't you?)

So I said the hell with it. That night, I did the incantation with the candle as a focus and, though I had promised Harriet I wouldn't, I used Sharon's name. I did the incantation with Sharon's name not once but three times. The third time, to better focus, I threw in a couple things of Sharon's that I found she'd left behind in a drawer: a recent photo of her, a cheap necklace and an article of lingerie.

Mystics claim that recent photos and intimate possessions that are worn close to the body, such as jewelry and underwear, retain one's vibrations for a long time and are extensions of oneself that can be manipulated by others. It is for this reason that primitive people in some cultures are terrified to have their photos taken.

Early next morning, while I was still sound asleep, the phone rang. I jolted into consciousness and picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" I said groggily.

"Hello," she said in a strange voice, "it's Sharon."

My heart began hammering in my ears. My rib cage constricted, making breathing all but impossible.

(concluded on page 171)Witchcraft(continued from page 86)

"Hi, Sharon," I croaked.

"I don't know why I'm calling you," she said.

I don't know why I'm calling you. The words sent tingly sensations across my scalp and down the back of my neck. Well, Sharon, maybe you don't know why you're calling, but I might have some idea.

We spoke for more than an hour, Sharon and I, and a curious thing happened. During our conversation, the rosy fog that had obscured the real Sharon since the moment she announced she wouldn't see me again began to dissipate, revealing her as I'd seen her before: as somebody who wasn't refined or subtle, as somebody who was, frankly, a little trashy.

At the end of the conversation I found I had no desire to commit to a serious future with Sharon, or even to see her again. I was miraculously cured of my obsession.

I owed it all to Harriet the witch, whose trust I had so callously compromised in the throes of my obsession. I needed to thank her, but I was afraid to confess my faithlessness. Finally summoning the courage, I picked up the phone and dialed her number.

"Harriet," I said when she answered, "I have good news. I am completely cured of my obsession with Sharon."

"Excellent," she said.

"Unfortunately," I added, "in the process of getting cured I'm afraid I, uh, violated your trust a tiny bit."

"How did you violate my trust?" she asked.

"Well," I said, "the fourth time I did the incantation, I think I may have used Sharon's name."

"You think you used Sharon's name," she said.

"I almost certainly used Sharon's name," I said.

"I see," she said.

"I, uh, also may have used her photograph. And a piece of her jewelry. And an article of her lingerie."

"Anything else?" she said.

"No," I said, "that's about all she left behind. Are you mad at me?"

"Would you like me to be mad at you?" she asked.

"Harriet," I said, "you're not my shrink, you're my witch. Are you mad at me for using the other stuff in the incantation or aren't you?"

"Dan," she said, "do you honestly think I believed you wouldn't use her name and other stuff in the incantation?"

"You knew I'd use it?"

She chuckled softly.

"It probably wouldn't have worked if you hadn't," she replied.