Not In Kansas Anymore by Christine Wicker Read Free Book Online

“signs,” a wish or a brag unwisely spoken. We can toss off a psychic’s promise of good fortune, but let the fortune-teller predict death, and a chill will fall over us. It is as though we’re trapped in a Brothers Grimm fairy tale that is grim indeed.
    Good magic does descend on us in a willy-nilly fashion, in occasional visitations, in blessings that we desperately try to connect with a certain color or pair of socks or food that we’ve eaten, but it can’t be counted upon. It can’t be controlled. It does not rush to our aid when we say certain words. It exists mainly in the world of fantasy, in holiday tales and children’s books. Most of us have lost any hope of being able to summon a force for good. We don’t even try. We’d be afraid to. At least, the celebrities with their red wrist cords to deflect envy and the women wearing evil eye charms have an antidote for the bad magic aimed at them. The rest of us duck and dodge.
    I am about as fearful as a person can be and still get out of bed every morning. You’ve heard of the coward who died a thousand deaths? That’s me and not only me. Everyone I’ve loved, pets included, has also died many times. Died, been buried, and well grieved at least a dozen times a week. It only takes a second or two. I can go right on peeling potatoes, mopping the floor, snipping the heads off withered dahlias. I’ve been doing it so long that I don’t pause for more than a mumble or two.
    My husband says he’s going to the store for milk. He’s dead from a car that crossed the line. He’s taking the dog for a noonday walk. If they’re not back in twenty minutes, heat stroke has killed the Lab. He’s too heavy to carry home, so my husband is sitting on the curb next to the dog’s body wishing I’d think of them and bring the car. I’d like to encourage my friends to visit, but they won’t survive the trip. The only safe people are the ones I don’t like.
    As for myself, staying home cuts the odds in my favor, but anything could get me. Cancer, stroke, toxic tomatoes. The other day I was standing at the top of the stairs with my back to them and I thought, What if I backed up and fell down the stairs. It might kill me . So I didn’t. But I could have. One absentminded moment and I’d be gone. I’ve had some absentminded moments. Who wouldn’t with all the death that’s floating around?
    I can’t easily accept the idea that my thoughts change reality. My thoughts are all too dreary, which only goes to show just how big a lie I told the Philadelphia lawyer. I needed the magical people far more than I wanted to admit. They are the only ones who still have a technology of the sacred that can summon good magic and forestall bad magic. The rest of us don’t even believe it can be done. They not only think it can be done but think it can be done better and better. I quite obviously hadn’t absorbed the lessons of fairy tales well enough to believe myself safe in the world. If I wanted to be free of my irrational fears, maybe some irrational magic, a little of the dog that bit me, would be the solution. I needed some irrational belief in the good, the kind of belief that Bettelheim said healthy adults absorbed from childhood fairy tales. I couldn’t go back to childhood, but I could go forward into magic. Hard-core magical people believe without doubt that the power of magic is available to us and that others can learn to use it. Luckily, they were just the people I was going to see.

3.
America the Magical,
I Sing of Thee
    T hat I should be surprised to find so many Americans talking about magic had something to do with my own background. I was raised Southern Baptist in the days when it was a fairly mild, stripped-down version of Protestantism, long before Christians became millionaires writing about gentle Jesus coming back to napalm unbelievers. If anyone in our