Epeolatry Book Review: Witchcraft for Wayward Girls by Grady Hendrix

Neva aka Fern (Neva is told, for privacy, to never use her real name) is a young mother-to-be, out of wedlock in the 1970s, sent to Florida, the Sunshine State, to give birth. She’s to live with other pregnant and unwed wayward girls in a home at first reminiscent of Gone with the Wind, and upon further inspection, more like the “peeling wreck” of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Miss Wellwood—a mature blue-haired woman who is described as President Wilson’s doppelganger in a dress—owns and runs Wellwood House, her family home, a temporary home to other girls who have shamed their families. She keeps it staffed by a kindly nurse, a clinical and judgmental doctor, a competent social worker, and a brusque yet well-intentioned housekeeper/cook. Neva tells herself that she is there because her father was right, she had ruined everything, done something so bad that things would never be the same; she had ruined her life by getting pregnant. She is there because, according to Miss Wellwood, she acted like a barnyard animal, dishonored her mother and father, and pain will serve as her penance. 

I’m inclined to read books about evil women, partially because it breaks the cliché of who a woman is supposed to be. It might not be ideal to give birth at age 15, but being pregnant is never evil, and neither is giving birth. (this opinion from a woman who’s had 5 children, and none of them are evil!) So, when this book came across my email, I requested an ARC wondering how witches, pregnant teenage girls, and evil would circle together. I was imagining something along the lines of the supernatural film Suspiria. That’s not what I got, but that’s A-ok. I read the 476-page book in one day, it was that unputdownable.

Reading Grady’s website before I delved into his book, he wrote, “I’ve wanted to write this book for years but it was a rough one for a whole bunch of reasons.

Many years ago, I learned that two of my relatives had been sent away (as it was called) when they were teenagers. No one knew, not even their siblings, until much, much later in their lives. I loved both of these women very much and the idea that they had been sent away when they were teenagers to have children in secret and never talk about it again horrified me. I could not — cannot — imagine how scared, lonely, and desperate they must have felt.”

I remember being shunned on a high school ski trip. My friend, who had signed up with me, bailed at the last minute. I had never skied before. I could barely afford the ski ticket, let alone the equipment rental. All those kids sat on the yellow bus paired with friends. I was surrounded by upper class and popular kids whose names and faces I knew but did not talk to, and avid skiers with their boots and poles in tow. I sat alone on a gray plastic double seat, feeling like an imposter, like I didn’t belong, knowing I’d spend the day alone while others swished down the mountain in their stylish gear (I was wearing my brother’s bland navy blue bib overalls and pants—a snowsuit better suited for making snowballs and snowmen, not for skiing). I dreaded sitting cold and alone in the lodge, watching them huddle together at their table, pom-poms on their hats bobbing as they sipped hot chocolate (I had no money other than what had been allotted for the rental), eyes darting in my direction as they talked about me, wondering why I was even there.

But…

Wendy got up from her bus seat—she’d been sitting beside Kristen and said it was too crowded with their puffy jackets and ski poles knocking together. Wendy sat beside me. And immediately asked me who I was with, had I skied before. She was friendly. Smiling. When the bus came to a stop at the ski lodge, Kristen eye-balled Wendy. “C’mon,” Kristen said, then stared hard when Wendy said, “No. I’m going to hang out with her (ME!) today.” I didn’t think she meant it. I figured she’d maybe start out with me, spend the ride up the ski lift then, bye—her pink matching suit S-ing down the bunny slope, never to be seen again once I reached the bottom. 

But Wendy and I did spend the day together. At the lodge, she bought me a hot cocoa, never abandoning me when she could have. The smartest and prettiest girl, arguably the most popular, was hanging out with me, unafraid to risk leaving her gaggle. I couldn’t believe it. Why would she do that? She even accompanied me to the bathroom, using the toilet as an exercise in patience and camaraderie. 

We never became close friends, and the next day at school it was business as usual. But I never, ever forgot her kindness. She changed me.

And when Wendy’s pregnant belly ballooned under her uniform skirt the following year, I never judged her. Ever. I couldn’t. And I wouldn’t. If anyone whispered anything catty behind her back, I shut them down. 

Hendrix included a Wendy in his novel, and I wanted to be her friend. Maybe she would have been mine if I’d been at Wellwood House. I found all those young girls relatable, especially as a mother of two young women and three young adult men. 

Hendrix’s style varies with his works, and that’s not an easy task as a writer. For example, in How to Sell a Haunted House, Grady’s sarcasm and wit were on full display, and his housewives in The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires are as disturbing as they are funny. Authors’ voices tend to be recognizable from book to book, and while that’s not a bad thing at all, it’s a talent to be able to switch voice so seamlessly. 

The novel remained in my hand while my butt remained in my chair, ignoring texts, children, pets, and knocks on the front door. (My den—my lair—is furnished with my writing desk, a TV, and a shitty old Archie Bunker/Martin Crane recliner. There’s a window, the ledge lined with books and, more often than not, our watchful tabby cat. From that window I see and ignore all.)

As for the witchcraft—yes we have spells that run amuck and the kindly librarian that turns out to be the scary ole’ witch. Though I can’t say the book was creepy, I can say that I’d like to see it portrayed in film with major creep-fest, imagining actress Alice Krige from the movie Gretel Hansel as the librarian. Hendrix’s flying scene reminded of the scene from The Craft where the four young witches sat in a circle testing their powers. 

When Fern and her friends are caught in their devilish spell-casting, they are treated with less harshness than their unintended pregnancies had garnered. Maybe that was Hendrix’s intentional point, and that’s saying something. 

Hendrix’s depiction of the aloof and uncaring nurse’s during delivery was not far from the truth. I’m sure there’s a few bitchy ones still out there lurking today’s halls. OB nurses, when I had my children in the late 1990s, were impatient and indifferent. I can’t imagine how I would have been treated back in the 70s as an unwed mother, and I believe his depictions were too kind. I don’t mean that as a negative to this story—it’s merely a bit of sad truth. 

By the satisfactory ending, we have a mother who wants her child, who wants her child to know s/he was not unwanted or given away. We’re not dealing with Sophie’s Choice here, but still, those decisions are not easily made. This book’s suspension of disbelief was held tight, and I walked away from it feeling sad yet hopeful. Horrified? Scared? Well, that is childbirth, and child-birth is more than hopeful, and that’s how this story ended.

/5

Available from Amazon and Bookshop.