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Title: The Witch of Belladonna Bay by Suzanne Palmieri
Details: Copyright 2014, St Martin's Press
Synopsis (By Way of Back Cover: "IT'S THE TROUBLE YOU AREN'T EXPECTING THAT GETS YOU. AND IT'S ALL AROUND YOU, BRONWYN, IT'S ALL AROUND YOU LIKE THE AIR...
Bronwyn "BitsyWyn" Whalen hasn't set eyes on the red dirt of Magnolia Creek, Alabama, for fourteen years - not since her mama died. But with her brother, Patrick, imprisoned for the murder of her childhood best friend, and her eccentric father, Jackson, at his wits' end while her eleven-year-old niece, Byrd, runs wild, Bronwyn finds herself once again surrounded by ancient magnolia trees and the troubled family she left behind. She becomes immersed in a whirlwind of mystery and magic as she tries to figure out what really happened that fateful night her friend died. And as her bond with Byrd deepens, Bronwyn must face the demons of her past in order to unravel her family's uncertain future."
Why I Wanted to Read It: The past few years have been big ones for Witch books, both about actual Witches and the fantasy kind.
How I Liked It: Are you having a good time? I mean, I hope you are, but let me explain. While talking to a friend about this project and about books in general, we talked about the fact the most important thing, in this type of reading, was the sum of the book's parts. Are we having a good time reading the book? I've talked about how a book doesn't have to be good to be good and enjoying a book while still seeing its many, many flaws, practically from space. And while I can certainly call out the flaws of a book, it's not nothing for me to enjoy it. So how does this particular book fare on that scale? I'm delighted you asked.
Let's meet Bronwyn "BitsyWyn" Whalen, who fled her rural Southern home after her mother, Naomi, died of a drug overdose (after years of addiction) in Bronwyn's late teens. Bronwyn left her brother to whom she was close, Patrick, a dear best friend, Charlotte, and her best friend's brother, Grant, her first love. She also left her alcoholic father, patriarch Jackson, and her mother's aunt and adoptive mother that came with her from New England to the South, Minny (short for Minerva). She hasn't been back since, not even when her brother married and his wife died, leaving him a single parent to an unpredictable daughter Byrd (named for her aunt Bronwyn, everyone calls her Byrd), now eleven and incredibly strange (more on that later). She's never been back at all, enjoying her life in Manhattan with a jazz musician named Ben.
But then the past comes calling. Charlotte has been murdered and her son Jaime (the same age as Byrd) is missing, and Patrick has been arrested for the crime. Bronwyn must return home and help any way she can.
So it's a long-awaited homecoming, and she's shocked by what she finds. Her aunt Minny has married a mysterious man who serves as a driver for the wealthy Whalen family, her father is still an alcoholic (although a surprisingly functional one), and most of all, she bonds with her niece, the very precocious and strange little girl who sees ghosts and spirits, and otherwise has plenty of the supernatural abilities of Bronwyn's and Patrick's mother.
Bronwyn begins unraveling secrets and trying to solve not only the mystery of who killed Charlotte, but even older mysteries besides, including events from her childhood and why her mother's spirit still haunts the family home. All is slowly, slowly revealed and a conclusion reached, while along the way we have reveals about just about all of the characters. A happy enough, mostly, ending is achieved. The book is told alternatively through Bronwyn and Byrd as well as Naomi (yes, Naomi, the dead mother, after she is dead).
I must say, the South is a plethora of overused tropes unto itself and "wayward daughter returning home from the city to solve a mystery and family secrets" is ripe for too many of them.
And there's unfortunately plenty of missteps that made me surprised this book was written by an actual Southerner. I've said before that the South being translated for non-Southerners can work in the hands of a Rick Bragg, but too often can run to caricature by lesser talents. The book is full of exchanges that are wince-inducing.
"Go on in and get that pop, Byrd," said Jane.
"Jane? Do you think that's a good idea?" I asked, holding Byrd, who was trying to run for the soda shop, by her wrist. "Isn't that like, negative reinforcement for something?"
"Oh, how cute, Wyn! You been readin' up on parentin' in those fancy Yankee books?" asked Jane. (pg 182)
If that wasn't written by an actual Southerner, I think a campaign might rise up against the book since that's... pretty insulting.
But mostly, the book finds trouble with its star, the precocious and mysterious Byrd, all of eleven-years-old and already a town prophetess, feared and respected by the townsfolk for her psychic abilities. In theory, Byrd alternately sounds like she could be fascinating and original, or like a mishmash of several better developed literary characters. In reality, Byrd is an interesting character, to be sure, but she does not sound like a precocious, eccentric eleven-year-old girl. She sounds like someone plugged dialog for a hardened, crusty character into the mouth of a child, and it's weird. Not fun-eccentric-weird, but off-putting,throwing-you-out-of-the-narr
The Old-timers and Towners all think I'm crazy. They say I act too old for my age, and that my strange ways (even though the whole damn town depends on them) curdle up my thoughts. But that's not the thing that bothers me the most. I swear, I'm kept up nights just thinkin' on how anybody could manufacture such an evil thought about a girl. You know what they think?
Everyone in this godforsaken town thinks I'm a tomboy.
Damn it. They don't know much about anything. When I grow up and get my woman boobies, they're gonna be surprised. Everyone but Jamie. He's always told me how pretty I am. Well, and Jackson (he's my grandpap). My daddy, too. They tell me I'm beautiful. But they have to because they're related to me, and I'm the only person they got in this whole wide world who loves them. Also, it don't hurt that I look just like the one true love of both their lives, the grandmother I never met-- at least when she was alive and everything-- Naomi. (pg 14)
No amount of "woman boobies" makes that sound like it came from an eleven-year-old. (Also, let us please retire the sexist phrase "tomboy" finally.)
He laughed a little in the tree that day and snuck a kiss on my cheek. I moved from my branch to his and wrapped my arms around him, letting our black hair mingle. Our congruities always made my heart sing. Made me feel less alone, too. Congruity means being' similar, and it's one of my very favorite words. (pg 21)
Again, I know how a precocious eleven-year-old with a big vocabulary speaks, and this isn't it.
Jackson was watchin' us. Waitin' to see if we'd hit it off or not. Either way, it wouldn't a mattered to him. Nothin' life hands that man, good or bad, can hold sway over him. Minerva calls him an "eternal optimist." Hell, if that's what the bourbon gives you, more power to it. (pg 42)
That last line, ouch in particular.
"Don't worry, I knew you wouldn't be able to stay here. I've made other arrangements. Come with me." (pg 76)
ELEVEN.
"You religious, Byrd?"
"No, ma'am, I ain't, but I think it's important to people to have someone to look up to. Someone to make them feel all safe and cozy in their souls."
"Who helps you feel that way?"
"Jamie. But he's lost. And I can't find him."
"He's your best friend, isn't he?"
"Yeah. He's a bunch of other things, too. I suppose Jamie does that for me. Jamie's my own personal Jesus!"
Then she shrieked with laughter, running ahead of me. (pgs 95 and 96)
Byrd can read minds when she first meets someone, and her aunt is thinking about sex with her fiancée Ben before she realizes she shouldn't be, and scolds her niece to get out of her head.
Then she turned back to me. "Sex ain't private. It belongs to everyone, Aunt Wyn. And besides, I think it's romantic. I can't wait till I'm old enough to do those things." (pg 98)
She rolled her eyes at me.
"Let the games begin," she said, then whispered, "Don't tell Minny about our glow, okay? I want to keep it safe here in my heart for a little while." (pg 114)
"I ain't never met a rule I didn't wanna break, Aunt Wyn," she said, a giggle pouring out of her. (pg 118)
"Something like that," I said, and then tagged him so he'd have to chase me. I loved it when he chased me 'cause sometimes I'd let him catch me and then we'd fall down and almost kiss each other, only not really 'cause we're too young. But it's good practice. A girl should be prepared for her first kiss. (pg 205)
If you kissed someone younger than eleven, I promise nothing is wrong with you. Also, what kid doesn't think they're really old enough for anything, let alone something within developmental reach?
Evil comes in all shapes and sizes. Like princesses and princes. Also I was thinkin' that love sure as hell is blind.(pg 300)
It's not even weird little Byrd that sounds like a crusty adult. Her best friend Jamie of the same age sounds about the same as she does:
"Sure are.. by the way they grew up and all, raised like sister and brother. And what's worse? My mama'd loved him her entire life, till it finally took over her whole self. She got him real drunk one night and he fell for it. They both got wound up in the worst kind of weakness, and used it against each other.
"So they did what they did, and my mama got me. Only she didn't get him. Because he felt tricked and sick. Lied to. I'm a living lie, Byrdie. And then he wanted to see me, and my mama was yellin' at him on the phone. That fight I told you about? Well, I was too dang embarrassed to tell you the whole reason why.. me bein' a lie and all... but he wanted to see me. And she was screamin' and cryin' and tellin' him that she wouldn't let him near me unless he'd love her, too. Can you imagine? She was more desperate than a pig on the way to bein' bacon. He'd left me for all my years with that crazy piece of work. I hate him for leaving me. I'll hate him forever. (pgs 260 and 261)
If you hear an eleven-year-old say "crazy piece of work", you should, I don't know, probably ask them for stock tips. Seriously, that is not how kids sound. At all.
So you have a rather flawed star of the show, plenty of Southern caricatures, some not-really-interesting-and-half-baked-be
Wrong!
The book is pretty good with a lush description, of food, of setting, even of a character.
Those were fun days. Laughter layered the walls an clung to the dust mites, making them sparkle like lightening bugs in the daytime. (pg 71)
And the magical realism is done well. The dead being characters (and contributing characters) is interesting, particularly the rules about interacting with the living and the afterlife in general.
I get tired, flitting in and out of reality like this. It's not a bone tired (ghosts don't have bones), just tired like a wind that dies down suddenly. Out of breath. (pg 84)
The book has an interesting history of the Whalen family (not just Brownwyn's parents, but their ancestors) that's been fleshed out (and about which Byrd is only too happy to attend school briefly to lecture). Also, other magical realism aspects of the book, like the protectors and the special jewellery is an interesting touch of worldbuilding.
As far as the Witchcraft, it's mostly the fantasy kind (although real Witches can talk to the dead, sense ghosts, and have other psychic abilities). Witches' and midwives' books of shadows are mentioned, but that term ("book of shadows") has been borrowed by fantasy for awhile now. Both Byrd's mother and grandmother were said to have abilities, but again, it leans more towards the fantasy realm.
The book has plenty of clunky moments and aspects to it, but it's also a fun and entertaining read. To put it bluntly, will you laugh at unintentionally funny parts? Possibly. Will you roll your eyes? Probably. Will you see some glaring flaws? Probably! But will you have a largely good time anyway? I know I did.
Notable: The book has some unfortunate issues with race. I feel like this is another situation that badly needed a sensitivity reader for racial issues, because there's some big missteps.
Are you familiar with the term "cracker"? If you thought it was a term for white people, you're partially correct, but the history is more complex. While it has multiple points of meaning, in a Southern context, "cracker" historically refers to a particularly bad white person, and the term comes from US chattel slavery where the person holding the slave whip or "cracking it" was a "cracker". While some Southern whites use this term to describe themselves, it's one of those things that really needs to be put down already and is totally unnecessary, especially when words like "redneck" get the point across without a reference to slavery.
And as my daddy once said: "You may be half Eye-talian girl. But never forget, you're also half redneck cracker." I think that about sums it up. (Acknowledgments, pg XI)
"Half Southern redneck" gets the point across fine. And the author doesn't just chose that word for herself, she includes it in the text:
"Congratulations on your marriage." I said, trying to sound light and airy. "Carter seems like a fine man."
That's when I noticed he'd slipped away at some point... quietly, like a cat.
"He's a good egg," said Minerva. "And he's been a godsend for Patrick. I guess you could say he's 'fine'... for an old man, and a Southern cracker."
"Oh hell, Minerva, you still fancy yourself a Yankee?"
"Sure I do. Nothing will ever change that. I'm too ornery to be one of these frolicky people." (pg 57)
And then there's the whole matter of Bronwyn's fiancée Ben, who is Black. He's from New England and they are living in Manhattan. When Bronwyn's family calls and she must depart for the deep South, he wants to accompany her. Fearful of her past ruining her present and future, she doesn't want him to come, and falsely cites racism as the reason.
But, easy mark or not, Ben couldn't come. He didn't know my people. He didn't know BitsyWyn.
"Oh, no. Nope. You will not come," I said.
"Why not, Bronwyn?" he asked with the frustration of many years boiling up and out inside the question. Ben was serious. He wanted to know.
"Because it's not safe for you down there. Especially not coupled with me."
"What do you mean?"
Dammit. He was going to make me say it. "Jesus, Ben! You and me? Here we're a kind of fascinating, open-minded progressive couple. Down there? Down there it's still called miscegenation and you could get yourself killed."
He laughed at me, put his mug down, and then looked me straight in the eyes. "I know you, Bronwyn. You're lying. And I can't understand it, but I'll play. It's silly; we've already had a black president. Hell, I bet you any money it's more racist up here in the backs of people's minds than down there where at least it's out in the open."
He was right, I was playing the race card to push him away. But knowing that didn't make me back down. It's funny how mouths keep on running even when there's nothing else to say.
"This is no time to be idealistic, Ben. I won't lose you over some kind of Northern amnesia about the way the world really works. I've lived here long enough to get complacent, not stupid." I said those words and felt smart. But Ben was right. I was making up a good excuse for a feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on.
"You've never let on that your family was racist, Bronwyn. Are they?" he asked hesitantly.
"It's not my family I'm worried about. And besides... my family is now reduced to my drunken, eccentric father, a little girl named Byrd, and a great-aunt who thinks she's the maid. I'm worried about the rest of Magnolia Creek. The Old-timers and the Towners."
"Why? Do they still lynch black folks, these Towners of yours?"
"Well, Ben, I don't rightly know." My voice eased back into its comfortable Southern slur whenever I even mentioned Alabama. "And the reason I don't know for sure is because there ain't no black people for miles and miles."
I let him turn over al the information in his head.
"This racist shit you're pulling is bull, and we both know it, so I won't play. But you do seem serious about wanting to go alone, for whatever reason."
"I'm dead serious, Ben." (pgs 27 and 28)
Yeah, that's a Black person written by a white author. Surprised by racism in the deep South, completely unaware that her family is absolutely capable of casual racism (as is Bronwyn herself), and literally using the President Obama defense... oof. Just bad all around. Also, can we retire the phrase "the race card"?
Before she leaves, he asks her to marry him and proposes with a unique ring.
"Ben, this is lovely. Almost.. Celtic." The ring made me wonder about this man I'd live with and loved for seven years. He'd had it in his family for generations? For all the years we'd been together, I really didn't know anything about Ben or his family. We'd stayed pretty true to the decision we'd made those seven years ago-- the one to keep our past separate from our present. "What and where are you from, Benjamin Mason?"
"Why, what were you expecting? An African mask? I'm from Massachusetts for Christ's sake! Why do you white people all think every single black American is a direct descendant of Kunta Kinte? It's a disease or something. Really, Bronwyn, I though you'd know better."
It was a funny thing to say, especially for Ben who didn't crack jokes very often, so we laughed together as he placed the ring on my finger. (pg 30)
A hyper-defensive stance (although to be fair, it was supposed to mostly be a joke) following the implausible talk about her family and racism, another oof.
And then there's this curious drop:
"Hey, Minerva," I called out, "I sure hope you have some dinner with you, I'm starving."
"Of course I do. What kind of homecoming would it be without some of your favorite things?" she said as she came up the steps, placed the tray on the table next to me, and gave me a hug.
Layers and layers of deep-fried green tomatoes covered in fresh picked crawfish stared up at me. Minerva always tossed the crawfish with some lime juice and some salt. Southern man's lobster. I'd missed the food down here. I never even ate "soul food" up north. It's a fake mess of a thing. Maybe it has something to do with the cooking of it. Like, you have to have high humidity and a certain kind of sarcasm to make it come out just right. (pg 115)
Okay. Soul food is a term that refers to the food made and eaten by Black slaves that carried over into Black American culture when slavery was abolished (save for prison labor) and found its way North during the Great Migration. While Bronwyn, a white woman, could quite possibly eat soul food, it's not the food cooked by her northern (and more importantly, white) aunt. And given that most if not all of the soul food places that would be in business up north would be Black-owned and run, it's quite a thing to have her be dismissive about them (although given that she doesn't know what soul food is, with a different author, I would assume that's a character choice). This is again an easy fix.
"I'd missed the food down here. I never even ate "southern food" up north. It's a fake mess of a thing. Maybe it has something to do with the cooking of it. Like, you have to have high humidity and a certain kind of sarcasm to make it come out just right."
But something that beat me over and over the head was the author's love of a term for Romani people that is now considered a slur and was considered a slur in 2014 when this book was published. "G*psy" doesn't mean "free-spirited" or "eccentric", it's a slur for an ethnic group and it fell out of fashion publicly by at least the 1990s if not early. So white authors still loving to use this word when so many better ones are available is pretty curious.
CONTENT WARNING! UNCENSORED SLURS AHEAD
When it was over, he said, "I've been waiting for you, you little lost thing," and I cried, because he'd acknowledged what my gypsy legs knew all along. (pgs 11 and 12)
Literally, a page later:
No matter where my vagabond legs carried me, no matter how many years passed, those letters found me. (pg 13)
YOU SAID "VAGABOND" THERE, SO YOU KNOW IT EXISTS.
And it keeps coming up in the book.
"Hey, Byrd," she said, all soft like cotton. She was wearing a gypsy-style green shirt over faded jeans, and her hair was pulled back, but the sticky hot of the day had set it free, curling it around her face. (pg 42)
I looked at the apron's muddy hem and her unkempt black hair hanging down as she walked. "That's one unlikely princess, Jackson. Gypsy queen, maybe, or queen of the wild things-- but princess? I think not." (pg 55)
I love you, Wyn. I ain't never loved anyone was much as I love you. Oh God... please don't go. Don't leave me here. Can't I come? I've got gypsy legs...I can come with you. We'll be like Bonnie and Clyde only we don't get ourselves shot... I'll be different if you leave. (pg 107)
I know babies aren't supposed to remember things, but they do. Normal babies remember it deep down in who they are. Because I ain't normal, I remember everything right up front. Even bein' inside my own mama's belly, God rest her gypsy soul. (pg 200)
And every time Patsy sang, "Crazy for lyin', crazy for tryin'," Byrd shook her hair back and forth with her eyes closed. My gypsy queen. (pg 333)
Seriously, a writer of fiction, of all people, can find a better word. It's a slur, please stop using it.
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She couldn't say goodbye to Naomi because she loved her. And she couldn't see Paddy cry because she loved him and couldn't bear to see him weak. (pg 125)
This is just an observation in general, not so much about the author's writing, but so many people see crying as weak, when it's actually pretty strong to be able to show emotion publicly. Again, this passage is totally appropriate for the culture the author is depicting, I'm just observing generally.
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As someone who reads the tarot, it can be both interesting and frustrating when tarot comes up in fiction, not unlike Witchcraft. I always wonder if they get the intentionally-complex tarot card meanings in anyway correct.
I took out the cards and shuffled them. It soothed me. There were two missing. I glanced around, and there they were.
The two missing cards taped to the window by the mattress.
Written on scraps of paper fixed right above them were, Did my daddy do it? and underneath, the Death card-- a card that can be read many ways. And then... Did I do it? and underneath? The nine of cups-- the biggest yes of all time.(pgs 144 and 145)
Correct that the Death card can be read multiple ways (and very rarely, if ever, refers to a physical death), not so correct about the Nine of Cups.
Referencing one of my favorite books about tarot, Joan Bunning's excellent Learning the Tarot, the Nine of Cups is not a "yes" card, and certainly if Byrd pulled it (incidentally, "yes or no" questions are generally discouraged in tarot) for that kind of a question, it's not a yes, it's a:
"having your wish fulfilled
achieving what you desire
obtaining your goal
getting what you think you want
having your dream come true
feeling satisfied
indulging in a little smugness
enjoying the situation just as it is
feeling pleased as punch
getting the results you hoped for
feeling all's well with the world
being contented
enjoying sensual pleasure
experiencing luxury
savoring a delicious meal
appreciating the arts
making love
relaxing
experiencing beauty
enjoying physical exertion"
I get most people aren't going to know that, but plenty will.
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"I'm Angel," she said, holding out a thin hand embellished with permanent black henna tattoos and chipped black polished nails. (pg 230)
Henna tattoos by nature are not permanent. Does the author mean "henna-like designs"? Apparently some uses of actual black henna (meaning not just black in color of the tattoo, but henna that has been mixed with black hair dye) can cause unintentional scarring (in the shape of the tattoo) that lasts longer than the traditional tattoo, but it's red and scarred and scabbed, not black. Just saying, as someone who appreciates henna tattoos.
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Final Grade: FOR CONTENT OUTSIDE THE RACIAL ISSUES, B-
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