The Witch's Hat
Emma Burcart

You’re walking when you find it, taking a short-cut through the empty field behind the old high school. You stop at the edge where the chain link fence starts to fold in on itself and remember what it used to feel like inside those walls, when you were young and still dreaming. You see something there on the dying grass, just beyond the fence. A black, pointed hat with a circular rim. There is nothing but the hat. You step over the leaning fence and pick it up. You put it on your head. And it fits. Perfectly. Then you continue on your way home.

You take the hat off before you walk into the house. A tiny sliver of sadness opens up in your abdomen and you swallow before it can creep up to your throat. You go directly to your bedroom and stick the hat on a shelf in your closet. You slide the closet door closed and the sliver begins to grow. You don’t understand the feeling, but it’s there. 

Later, when the kids are down for the night and your husband is snoring in bed beside you, you get up and open the closet door. It feels good to stand in front of it, to see the tip almost touching the ceiling. Your heart beats faster and your shoulders seem stronger, it is easier to breathe. You aren’t sure how long you stand there or at what point you fall asleep, but you wake with a start and realize that you’re still standing, your hand still on the door. You slide the door closed and crawl back into bed, the sheets cold against your skin. Your eyes drift closed, you know it’s still there.

In the morning you wait for your husband to leave and the kids to get on the bus, then you call insick to the office. You open the closet and reach up to get the hat. You put it on and stand infront of the full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. You don’t look any different:
skinny legs and narrow shoulders, plain brown hair that hangs down your back. The hat casts a shadow over your face, blurring your features and giving you an air of mystery despite your yoga pants. And there’s something changed in the way you feel. The longer you stand there, staring at yourself, the more you feel it. Strong.

You take the hat off to shower and don’t like how you feel: small, ordinary, like every daybefore. You dry your hair quickly and put the hat back on, go about the rest of your bathroomroutine: lotion, powder, deodorant. The air feels fresh against your skin, the wind from theceiling fan sharp against your nipples. It’s your house, you decide, there is no need for clothes.You stay naked, except for the hat, and get on with the afternoon. You make lunch--pad thai,extra spicy, and mango nectar with a splash of tonic water and a dribble of vodka--and eat onthe screened in porch. The trees in the backyard block out the neighbors, and anyway, you’re
allowed to be naked in your own house. After lunch you paint your nails--toes and fingers--and take a nap. You wake up in time to hear the rumble of the garage door opening, in time to put the hat back in the closet and toss on one of many yoga pant/t-shirt combos stacked in your drawers. When your family comes home, you are just how they expect you to be.

                                                                                   ****

Wearing the hat at home, in every moment alone you can find, changes the way you feel when
you step out the front door. It’s as if the hat still sits atop your head. You feel it there even when it’s not. You hold your shoulders back tighter, your chin at a sharper angle, and you don’t avert your eyes. You go for the better parking spot and make people hold the elevator for you at work. You play chicken with Mark from accounting in the narrow corridor to the break room--why should you be the one to move just because you’re the woman? Just because you’ve done it
every time before? When your boss tries to claim credit for your idea in a meeting, you stop him,and you don’t apologize for the interruption. Later, in the bathroom, Brenda calls you inspiring,her new role model. Brenda is twenty-four and new in the office, in the workforce. She is watching you.

Two days later, your boss asks to speak with you, alone, in his office. He closes the door behind you, offers you a seat. You remain standing. He says he’s concerned with what he calls your “uncharacteristic” behavior. He asks if everything is okay at home. He says you’re usually his right hand and he doesn’t understand the anger. “No one has made a complaint yet,” he says, “I just don’t want it to get to that.”

“Is this about the meeting?” you ask.
He looks out the window and doesn’t say a word.

You have your answer. You meet Isabel for lunch at the cart in the courtyard. Her department is the same bullshit as yours--you always have plenty to talk about. She orders a salad and you get the turkey sandwich with fries. A man you don’t know moves up close behind you while you wait for your orders.You look over your shoulder so he knows you see him: jacket and tie, shoes shined to a reddish brown that almost sparkles, most likely works in the building. His order is called and he brushes past you, his hand cupping an entire ass cheek. Your ass cheek. You pull back and push his arm away at the same time. He stumbles backward and the coke in his hand goes flying, sprays across his shirt and face, over the floor. There is a small sticky pool forming at his feet. He looks you right in the eyes. “Witch,” he says.   

****

You leave the hat on when your husband comes home with the kids still in their damp suits and
smelling of chlorine from swimming lessons. He doesn’t say anything at first, but your kids loveit. They call it “cool” and want to touch the point, flick the circular brim and watch it spring
back. They ask if they can put on hats, too, and when they come out of their rooms your son is wearing a chef’s hat and your daughter has on her Thor helmet. Your son makes a face at his sister. “Girls can’t be Thor,” he says. 

“Girls can be anything they want,” you say, before your daughter’s smile has a chance to slip
away. Then the three of you move into the kitchen and decide on breakfast for dinner, pancakes specifically. You help your son mix the batter--just enough to get rid of the clumps--while your daughter pulls the chocolate chips down from the cupboard. For a smiley face, she says, and you shrug. Why not. Your husband’s footsteps are loud behind you, clomping down the stairs and then the hall. He steps into the kitchen with his old college beer hat on and you can’t help it, you laugh.

“Don’t worry, I’ll load it with Cokes.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you and you can feel that
you’re smiling like an idiot. But you don’t care. He pulls a package of bacon from the fridge and joins in on the cooking. It’s the best family dinner you’ve had in a while.

The next morning you take extra time on your hair, flat iron it all the way to the ends. You put the hat on and check your reflection in the mirror by the door; you like what you see. You have your jacket on and your bag in your hand when your husband points to your head.  “You’re still wearing the hat,” he says.

“I know.”

He kisses you goodbye and then turns to round up the kids for school. You walk outside.

The morning is bright and people see you in the hat, neighbors out for their walks or getting their papers from the yard. The cars you pass on the street, even the highway, and the man next to you at the red light--he turns and gets a good look. In the office people stare openly. Not that it’s any different from before, on their ends. You’ve just given them a reason. Your shoulders are back,your chin is up, you don’t care what any of them think. 

You are the last one to the meeting. You know they are waiting for you. No matter what your boss will admit, nothing can start without you. Nothing gets done without you, either. You are both the planner of details and the follow through. The conference room is already full, your boss is at the head of the table and the only empty chair is next to him. On his right. Every head turns when you step into the room. Someone gasps, a woman from the sound of it. Eyes wide and mouths partly open, every face follows you down the length of the table.
You take your seat.    
​  

​

About the Author: 
Emma Burcart lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she teaches college composition and searches for the state’s best milkshake. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Antioch University Los Angeles and was a fiction contributor at the 2017 Sewanee Writers’ Conference. Her work has been published in Pembroke Magazine, The MacGuffin, The Manifest-Station, and NonBinary Review.

---