To Paul, Laurie, and Ross for loving a witch
1
I FIRST MET JENNIFER ON my way to school. It was Halloween, and she was sitting in a tree. I was going back to school from lunch. This particular lunch hour was only a little different from usual because of Halloween. We were told to dress in costume for the school Halloween parade. I was dressed as a Pilgrim.
I always walked the back road to school, and I always walked alone. We had moved to the apartment house in town in September just before school started, and I walked alone because I didn’t have anyone to walk with. I walked the back way because it passed through a little woods that I liked. Jennifer was sitting in one of the trees in this woods.
Our apartment house had grown on a farm about ten years before. There was still a small farm across the street; it included a big white house, a greenhouse, a caretaker’s house, and a pump painted green without a handle. The greenhouse had clean windows; they shone in the sun. I could see only the roof windows from our second floor apartment. The rest were hidden by trees and shrubs. My mother never called the place a farm; she always called it THE ESTATE. It was old; the lady who owned it was old. She had given part of her land to the town for a park, and the town named the park after her: Samellson Park. THE ESTATE gave us a beautiful view from our apartment. My mother liked trees.
Our new town was not full of apartments. Almost everyone else lived in houses. There were only three apartment buildings as big as ours. All three sat on the top of the hill from the train station. Hundreds of men rode the train to New York City every morning and rode it home every night. My father did. In the mornings the elevators would be full of kids going to school and fathers going to the train. The kids left the building by the back door and ran down one side of the hill to the school. The fathers left the building by the front door and ran down the other side of the hill to the station.
Other kids from the apartment chose to walk to school through the little woods. The footsteps of all of them for ten years had worn away the soil so that the roots of the trees were bare and made steps for walking up and down the steep slope. The little woods made better company than the sidewalks. I liked the smells of the trees and the colors of the trees. I liked to walk with my head way up, practically hanging over my back. Then I could see the patterns the leaves formed against the blue sky.
I had my head way back and was watching the leaves when I first saw Jennifer up in the tree. She was dressed as a Pilgrim, too. I saw her feet first. She was sitting on one of the lower branches of the tree swinging her feet. That’s how I happened to see her feet first. They were just about the boniest feet I had ever seen. Swinging right in front of my eyes as if I were sitting in the first row at Cinerama. They wore real Pilgrim shoes made of buckles and cracked old leather. The heel part flapped up and down because the shoes were so big that only the toe part could stay attached. Those shoes looked as if they were going to fall off any minute.
I grabbed the heel of the shoe and shoved it back onto the heel of that bony foot. Then I wiped my hands on my Pilgrim apron and looked up at Jennifer. I didn’t know yet that she was Jennifer. She was not smiling, and I was embarrassed.
I said in a loud voice, which I hoped would sound stout red but which came out sounding thin blue, “You’re going to lose that shoe.”
The first thing Jennifer ever said to me was, “Witches never lose anything.”
“But you’re not a witch,” I said. “You’re a Pilgrim, and look, so am I.”
“I won’t argue with you,” she said. “Witches convince; they never argue. But I’ll tell you this much. Real witches are Pilgrims, and just because I don’t have on a silly black costume and carry a silly broom and wear a silly black hat, doesn’t mean that I’m not a witch. I’m a witch all the time and not just on Halloween.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said what my mother always says when she can’t answer one of my questions. I said, “You better hurry up now, or you’ll be late for school.”
“Witches are never late,” she said.
“But witches have to go to school.” I wished I had said something clever.
“I just go to school because I’m putting the teacher under a spell,” she said.
“Which teacher?” I asked. “Get it? Witch teacher?” I laughed. I was pleased that now I had said something clever.
Jennifer neither laughed nor answered. But I was sure she’d got it. She looked at me hard and said, “Give me those three chocolate chip cookies, and I’ll come down and tell you my name, and I’ll walk the rest of the way to school with you.”
I wasn’t particularly hungry for the cookies, but I was hungry for company, so I said, “Okay,” and reached out my hand holding the cookies. I wondered how she could tell that they were chocolate chips. They were in a bag.
As she began to swing down from the branches, I caught a glimpse of her underwear. I expected that it would look dusty, and it did. But that was not why it was not like any underwear I had ever seen. It was old fashioned. There were buttons and no elastic. She also had on yards and yards of petticoats. Her Pilgrim dress looked older than mine. Much older. Much, much older. Hers looked ancient. Of course, my Pilgrim costume was not new either. I had worn it the year before, but then I had been in a different grade in a different school. My cousin had worn the costume before that. I hadn’t grown much during the year. My dress was only a little short, and only a little tight, and only a little scratchy where it was pinned, and it was only absolutely uncomfortable. In other words, my costume was a hand-me-down, but Jennifer’s was a genuine antique.
After Jennifer touched the ground, I saw that she was taller than I. Everybody was. I was the shortest kid in my class. I was always the shortest kid in my class. She was thin. Skinny is what she really was. She came toward my hand and looked hard at the bag of cookies.
“Are you sure you didn’t bite any of them?” she demanded.
“Sure I’m sure,” I said. I was getting mad, but a bargain’s a bargain.
“Well,” she said, taking one cookie out of the bag, “My name is Jennifer. Now let’s get going.” As she said “going,” she grabbed the bag with the other two cookies and started to walk.
“Wait up,” I yelled. “A bargain’s a bargain. Don’t you want to know my name?”
“I told you witches are never late, but I can’t be responsible for you yet . . . Elizabeth.”
She knew my name already! She walked so fast that I was almost convinced that she was a witch; she was practically flying. We got to school just as the tardy bell began to ring. Jennifer’s room was a fifth grade just off the corridor near the entrance, and she slipped into her classroom while the bell was still buzzing. My room was four doors further down the hall, and I got to my room after the bell had stopped.
She had said that witches are never late. Being late felt as uncomfortable as my tight Pilgrim dress. No Pilgrim had ever suffered as much as I did. Walking to my seat while everyone stared at me was awful. My desk was in the back of the room; it was a long, long walk. The whole class had time to see that I was a blushing Pilgrim. I knew that I was ready to cry. The whole class didn’t have to know that too, so I didn’t raise my eyes until I was seated and felt sure that they wouldn’t leak. When I looked up, I saw that there were six Pilgrims: three other Pilgrim girls and two Pilgrim boys. That’s a lot of Pilgrims for a class of twenty. But none of them could be witches, I thought. After checking over their costumes and shoes, I decided that at least three of them had cousins who had been Pilgrims the year before.
Miss Hazen announced that she would po
stpone my detention until the next day because of the Halloween parade. Detention was a school rule; if you were late coming to school, you stayed after school that day. The kids called it “staying after.” I didn’t feel grateful for the postponement. She could have skipped my “staying after” altogether.
Our lesson that afternoon was short, and I didn’t perform too well. I had to tug on my dress a lot and scratch under my Pilgrim hat a lot. I would have scratched other places where the costume itched, but they weren’t polite.
At last we were all lined up in the hall. Each class was to march to the auditorium and be seated. Then one class at a time would walk across the stage before the judges. The rest of the classes would be the audience. The classes at the end of the hall marched to the auditorium first.
There were classes on both sides of the hall near my room, and the space for the marchers was narrow. Some of the children had large cardboard cartons over them and were supposed to be packages of cigarettes or sports cars. These costumes had trouble getting through. Then there was Jennifer. She was last in line. She looked neither to the right nor to the left but slightly up toward the ceiling. I kept my eye on her hoping she’d say “Hi” so that I wouldn’t feel so alone standing there. She didn’t. Instead, well, I almost didn’t believe what I actually saw her do.
But before I tell what I saw her do, I have to tell about Cynthia. Every grown-up in the whole U.S. of A. thinks that Cynthia is perfect. She is pretty and neat and smart. I guess that makes perfect to almost any grown-up. Since she lives in the same apartment house as we do, and since my mother is a grown-up, and since my mother thinks that she is perfect, my mother had tried hard to have us become friends since we first moved to town. My mother would drop hints. HINT: Why don’t you call Cynthia and ask her if she would like to show you where the library is? Then you can both eat lunch here. Or HINT: Why don’t you run over and play with Cynthia while I unpack the groceries?
It didn’t take me long to discover that what Cynthia was, was not perfect. The word for what Cynthia was, was mean.
Here’s an example of mean. There was a little boy in our building who had moved in about a month before we did. His name was Johann; that’s German for John. He moved from Germany and didn’t speak English yet. He loved Cynthia. Because she was so pretty, I guess. He followed her around and said, “Cynsssia, Cynsssia.” Cynthia always made fun of him. She would stick her tongue between her teeth and say, “Th, th, th, th, th. My name is Cyn-th-ia not Cyn-sss-ia.” Johann would smile and say, “Cyn-sss-ia.” Cynthia would stick out her tongue and say, “Th, th, th, th, th.” And then she’d walk away from him. I liked Johann. I wished he would follow me around. I would have taught him English, and I would never even have minded if he called me Elizabessss. Another word for what Cynthia was, was two-faced. Because every time some grown-up was around, she was sweet to Johann. She’d smile at him and pat his head . . . only until the grown-up left.
And another thing: Cynthia certainly didn’t need me for a friend. She had a very good friend called Dolores who also lived in the apartment house. They told secrets and giggled together whenever I got into the elevator with them. So I got into the habit of leaving for school before they did. Sometimes, on weekends, they’d be in the elevator when I got on; I’d act as if they weren’t there. I had to get off the elevator before they did because I lived on the second floor, and they lived on the sixth. Before I’d get off the elevator, I’d take my fists, and fast and furious, I’d push every floor button just the second before I got out. I’d step out of the elevator and watch the dial stopping at every floor on the way up. Then I’d skip home to our apartment.
For Halloween Cynthia wore everything real ballerinas wear: leotards and tights and ballet slippers and a tutu. A tutu is a little short skirt that ballerinas wear somewhere around their waists. Hers looked like a nylon net doughnut floating around her middle. Besides all the equipment I listed above, Cynthia wore rouge and eye make-up and lipstick and a tiara. She looked glamorous, but I could tell that she felt plenty chilly in that costume. Her teeth were chattering. She wouldn’t put on a sweater.
As we were standing in the hall waiting for our turn to go to the auditorium, and as Jennifer’s class passed, Cynthia was turned around talking to Dolores. Dolores was dressed as a Pilgrim. They were both whispering and giggling. Probably about Jennifer.
Here’s what Jennifer did. As she passed Cynthia, she reached out and quicker than a blink unsnapped the tutu. I happened to be watching her closely, but even I didn’t believe that she had really done it. Jennifer clop-clopped along in the line with her eyes still up toward the ceiling and passed me a note almost without my knowing. She did it so fast that I wasn’t even sure she did it until I felt the note in my hand and crunched it beneath my apron to hide it. Jennifer never took her eyes off the ceiling or broke out of line for even half a step.
I wanted to make sure that everyone saw Cynthia with her tutu down, so I pointed my finger at her and said, “O-o-o-o-oh!” I said it loud. Of course, that made everyone on both sides of the aisle notice her and start to giggle.
Cynthia didn’t have sense enough to be embarrassed. She loved attention so much that she didn’t care if her tutu had fallen. She stepped out of it, picked it up, shook it out, floated it over her head, and anchored it back around her waist. She touched her hands to her hair, giving it little pushes the way women do who have just come out of the beauty parlor. I hoped she was itchy.
Finally, our class got to the auditorium. After I sat down, I opened the note, holding both my hands under my Pilgrim apron. I slowly slipped my hands out and glanced at the note. I was amazed at what I saw. Jennifer’s note looked like this:
I studied the note a long time. I thought about the note as I watched the Halloween parade; I wondered if Jennifer used a quill pen. You can guess that I didn’t win any prizes for my costume. Neither did Cynthia. Neither did Jennifer (even though I thought she should have). We all marched across the stage wearing our masks and stopped for a curtsy or bow (depending on whether you were a girl or a boy) in front of the judges who were sitting at a table in the middle of the stage. Some of the girls who were disguised as boys forgot themselves and curtsied. Then we marched off. Our class was still seated when Jennifer clop-clopped across the stage in those crazy Pilgrim slippers. She didn’t wear a mask at all. She wore a big brown paper bag over her head and there were no holes cut out for her eyes. Yet, she walked up the stairs, across the stage, stopped and curtsied, and walked off without tripping or falling or walking out of those gigantic shoes.
2
OUR FAMILY RUSHED THROUGH SUPPER that night. But the trick or treaters started coming even before we finished. Most of the early ones were bitsy kids who had to bring their mothers to reach the door bells for them.
I didn’t tell my parents about Jennifer. I mentioned to my mother that I was meeting a friend at 6:30, and we were going to trick or treat together. Mom just asked, “Someone from school?” and I just said, “Yes.”
The days start getting short, and the evenings start getting cool in late October. So I had to wear my old ski jacket over my costume. I looked like a Pilgrim who had made a bad trade with the Indians. Jennifer was waiting. She was leaning against the tree. She had put on stockings. They were long, black, cotton stockings, and she wore a huge black shawl. She smelled a little bit like moth balls, but I happen to especially like that smell in autumn.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’ll take the bigger bag,” she replied.
She didn’t say “please.”
I held out the bags. She took the bigger one. She didn’t say “thank you.” Her manners were unusual. I guessed that witches never said “please” and never said “thank you.” All my life my mother had taught me a politeness vocabulary. I didn’t mind. I thought that “please” and “thank you” made conversation prettier, just as bows and lace make dresses prettier. I was full of admiration for how easily Jennifer managed without bows or lace or
“please” or “thank you.”
She opened her bag, stuck her head way down inside, and said:
“Bag, sack, parcel post,
Fill thyself
With goodies most.”
She lifted her head out of the bag and tightened her shawl. “We can go now,” she said.
“Don’t you mean ‘Bag, sack, parcel, poke?’ ” I asked. “Parcel post is the mail; poke is a name for a bag.”
Jennifer was walking with her head up, eyes up. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Poetic license. Poke doesn’t rhyme.”
I shrugged my shoulders and started walking with her. Jennifer disappeared behind a tree. No master spirit had taken her away. She reappeared in a minute, pulling a wagon. It was the usual kind of child’s wagon, but to make the sides taller, she had stretched a piece of chicken wire all along the inner rim. Jennifer pulled the wagon, carried her bag, clutched her shawl, and clop-clopped toward the first house. I walked.
I had been trick or treating for a number of years. I began as a bitsy kid, and my mother rang the door bells for me, as other mothers were ringing them for those other bitsy kids that night. I had been a nurse, a mouse (I had worn my sleepers with the feet in), and other things. I had been a Pilgrim before, too. I mentioned that I had been a Pilgrim the year before. All I mean to say is that I’d been trick or treating for years and years and years, and I’d seen lots of trick or treaters come to our house, but I’d never, never, never seen a performance like Jennifer’s.
This is the way Jennifer operated: 1. She left the wagon outside the door of the house and out of sight of her victim. 2. She rang the bell. 3. Instead of smiling and saying “trick or treat,” she said nothing when the people came to the door. 4. She half fell against the door post and said, “I would like just a drink of water.” 5. She breathed hard. 6. The lady or man who answered would say, “Of course,” and would bring her a drink of water. 7. As she reached out to get the water, she dropped her big, empty bag. 8. The lady or man noticed how empty it was and said, “Don’t you want just a little something?” 9. The lady or man poured stuff into Jennifer’s bag. 10. The lady or man put a little something in my bag, too. 11. Jennifer and I left the house. 12. Jennifer dumped the treats into the wagon. 13. Jennifer clop-clopped to the next house with the bag empty again. 14. I walked.