The next and last game was dropping clothes pins into a milk bottle. I got nine in. I won. Sometimes being short was nice. My prize was a package of hair ribbons. Four of them were pink. When I opened it and saw what it was, I said, “Well, it looks as if I have this prize all tied up.” Everyone looked at me and smiled. I didn’t smile back.
Then we all sat at the pinkly-pinkly table. Maria and Helen sat on either side of me and didn’t seem to mind sitting there at all. First, Cynthia opened her presents. She said, “Oh, how lovely!” every single time. It was disgusting. Before she opened each gift she held it up and said, “I wonder who this is from?” She was just asking; she didn’t want an answer. I answered. I said, “Maria,” or “Dolores,” or whoever the correct person was. I had been the first one at the party, and it was easy to remember who brought what. But when they asked, “Elizabeth, how do you do it?” I gave them another Jennifer-type look.
Finally, Cynthia’s mother lit the candles on the cake and everyone sang “Happy Birthday to You.” I didn’t sing. I know everyone wondered why. They didn’t ask. I didn’t explain. I couldn’t explain. I couldn’t tell them that I was enjoying being different.
It was even no trouble to not eat cake. No trouble at all.
Cynthia stood by the door and said, “Good-bye and thank you for coming” to everyone. She said it to me, too, but she didn’t mean it. She said it because her mother was standing there, behind her back. That’s the only reason. I know that’s the only reason because as she said it, she screwed up her face and stuck out her tongue.
I said, “Good-bye, and thank you for inviting me.” I said it loud enough for her mother to hear. Then I stepped on Cynthia’s foot as hard as I could. With my “sore” leg. Just once. I left without looking back. I could bet that my normal temperature was not 98.6 degrees.
When I got back to our apartment, my mother asked, “Did you thank for the party?”
I answered, “Of course.” The whole day had changed. The wind had changed and the air wasn’t butterscotch. It was freshly baked bread. There was also a bread factory in our town.
8
I SHARED WITH JENNIFER MY prizes from the party. I told her all about how pink everything was, and I told her how I won the treasure, and I told her about calling out the names on the gifts. I described these tricks with pride. Jennifer allowed me to finish before she made me feel dumb, “You must be careful never to show your witchcraft in public. Don’t be tempted into showing off.”
“But, Jennifer,” I said, “you can hardly call those tricks witchcraft. I just memorized those gifts, and I happened to accidentally sit on the treasure.”
Jennifer looked serious. She said, “Why do you think it was so easy to memorize those names?”
“Because I was the first one at the party?” I answered.
“Why do you think you were the first one at the party?” she asked.
“Because my mother sent me up there early?” I answered.
Jennifer paused a minute to let me think. Then she said, “Why do you think you sat on the treasure?”
“Because you said that I couldn’t play musical chairs?”
“Why do you think I said you couldn’t play musical chairs?” she asked.
“Because . . . because . . . because I don’t know.” I answered.
She said no more about the party, so I said no more. I felt disappointed because I had saved up much more gossip. Watching normal girls and collecting things to tell her about how they acted had helped me during the party. I couldn’t understand why Jennifer didn’t want to hear about normal girls.
We returned to business. We began as usual by hooking our fingers together and marching around the magic circle. It took me a little while to want to talk witch talk; I was still in a party mood. But the magic of our circle worked. We discussed our plans for the flying ointment.
I had completed my first responsibility. I had listed all the ingredients. Most of the recipes needed plants like foxglove, cowbane, and my very favorite, deadly nightshade. I had felt certain that every witch would put witch hazel on the list; not one did. Jennifer called the items from these famous recipes, general ingredients. Everyone needed the general ingredients, but everyone also needed special ingredients. Everyone could use the same general parts, but each witch must use some particular things that were different from all the other witches’ things. That’s why we had our particular fingernails and our particular snowball footprints.
The way we divided the work was that Jennifer learned the chants and got the general stuff. I got my own special stuff, some of hers, the charcoal for the fire, and the three-pound can of Crisco. We needed the Crisco as a base for the ointment so that it would really stick. We had thought about using Vaseline, but we decided that it would be hard to get three pounds of Vaseline. When I took the Crisco, I planned to tell my mother that it was for the needy. I was the needy.
I was worried about getting foxglove, cowbane, and deadly nightshade. Jennifer told me to not worry. “Where will you get them?” I asked.
“From my father.”
I was amazed. “Is your father a wizard?”
“Some people say that he is a plant wizard,” she muttered.
“Honest?” I said. “A real wizard!”
“I said plant wizard,” she answered.
“Oh, Jennifer,” I gasped. “How wonderful! My father is only a commuter.”
Then Jennifer said, “Maybe we should make a flying potion instead.”
“What’s the difference between a flying ointment and a flying potion?” I inquired.
“You drink a potion; it works from the inside. You salve a flying ointment all over yourself; it works from the outside.”
“Drink it?” I asked.
“Yes. There’s a plant that grows in South America called ayahuasco. We could use that. Maybe some jungle witch could fly it here.”
“Drink it?” I squealed.
“Yes,” she repeated.
“I vote for the ointment.”
Jennifer sighed, “It does seem a shame to waste all of our research. We’ll have all our general ingredients ready for spring vacation.” I somehow knew that Jennifer was relieved that I voted for the ointment. I somehow knew that she mentioned the potion just to stop me from thinking about her father. I enjoyed knowing without letting her know that I knew.
• • •
The weather in March is a lot like me. Nice for one day and then nasty for two. In March I’m always waiting for warm days, and when they come, I wonder why I waited. My mother never admits that it can be warm in March. She always insists that I wear an undershirt and my heavy winter coat until May. She never has my heavy winter coat cleaned in March. She waits to clean it for summer storage. Neither my mother nor the weather can decide whether winter isn’t quite over or whether winter is almost over. So I spend the warm days of March in my heavy, itchy, dirty winter coat. And in my undershirt. I spend the warm days of March uncomfortably. But I wait for them.
When we met on Saturdays in March, Jennifer always brought Hilary Ezra with her. Hilary Ezra was our toad. Around New York most people don’t have toads in March. Around New York most people don’t have toads in March or watermelons in January. Jennifer was not most people. She came to the park the first Saturday in March and said, “Today I brought the toad.” She held him out in her hand. He wasn’t very big. For a minute I thought he was the plastic kind that you buy in kits. The kind that are stuck on a cardboard under one big plastic bubble. Sometimes they are glued on a card under separate little plastic bubbles, and the card says “Farmyard Friends,” or “Dinosaurs—Great and Small.” The toad moved. I jumped. Jennifer closed her hand.
“Where did you get him?” I asked.
“Witches always have toads,” she answered. “Toads are the first ingredient.” She paused a second, looked up toward the sky and said, “What’s the matter, didn’t you ever read Macbeth?”
“Well, no,” I said, “I’ve heard ab
out Macbeth”
“Every modern witch ought to read Macbeth” Jennifer said. “Those witches cooked up a wonderful brew. Not flying ointment brew. Trouble brew. And the first ingredient to go in was a toad.” Then Jennifer stared at me and recited:
“Round about the cauldron go:
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.”
She stared at me the whole time she was reciting.
“Did Macbeth say that?”
“Of course not,” she scolded. “Macbeth wasn’t a witch. The witches say that as they stir their brew of trouble. Notice they boiled the toad first in the pot.”
“What are the witches’ names in Macbeth?” I asked.
“First witch, second witch, third witch,” she answered, “and Hecate, the queen of the witches is in it, too.”
“What kind of trouble was in the pot?” I asked.
“They gave him a warning,” she replied.
I thought a minute and said, “It doesn’t sound mean to warn someone. That doesn’t sound like trouble. Sounds rather nice, as a matter of fact.”
“It wasn’t nice,” Jennifer insisted. “How can you be a witch and be good, too? The two just don’t go together.”
“What did they warn him of?”
“The truth.”
I couldn’t understand what could be so awful about the truth. I had heard grown-ups talk about the awful truth, but I couldn’t understand what they meant. So I asked, “What’s so bad about the truth?”
“They told him the truth in such a way that he got to feeling too sure of himself. He became careless and brought about his doom.”
“What did they tell him?” I asked.
“I won’t tell. You have to read Macbeth. Every modern witch should. Those witches were wonderful.”
“Give me an example,” I begged. “Please?”
“I’ll give you an example of the kind of thing they did.” She thought a long minute before beginning. “Suppose they said to you first, ‘Elizabeth, beware of . . . beware of the toad. The toad will cause you pain.’ You think to yourself that you like the toad. Besides, you can’t imagine how any toad with no sharp claws and no sharp teeth can cause you pain. But since the witches warned you—you will beware.”
“Yes,” I said, “I would listen. They might mean that I’ll get a wart and need to have it burned off.”
Jennifer nodded. “Next they tell you that no animal born where rain can fall will harm you. Then you think to yourself . . . toads are always born out of doors in a pond or a lake where rain can fall. So you don’t have to worry much about the toad or about most animals.”
I silently agreed. Then Jennifer continued, “Next they tell you that you’ll have no pain until the home of the toad comes to you. You think . . . how can a lake or a pond or a park come to me? So after the first warning, which you are perfectly willing to believe, you end up feeling pretty sure of yourself.”
“What’s wrong with feeling pretty sure of yourself?” I asked.
“Pretty sure is okay. But too sure isn’t okay. Imagine being so sure of yourself for a test that you never even open the book.”
“Oh, I’m never that sure.” I was watching the toad and wanting to pet him.
Jennifer was still concentrating on Macbeth. “In Macbeth, Hecate says:
‘And you all know, security
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy.’ “
“Is man a mortal?” I asked.
“Of course,” Jennifer answered.
“Then, is that Hecate’s way of saying the story of the tortoise and the hare? You know, that fable about the rabbit being so sure of winning the race that he wasn’t even careful. He didn’t try very hard to win.”
“Yes,” Jennifer explained. “Except that they didn’t make Macbeth sure of winning . . . they made him sure he’d never lose.”
“Never lose what?” I demanded.
“His life,” she croaked. She looked at me hard. I swallowed hard.
“Jennifer,” I asked, “what do you ever do besides read?”
She looked up at the sky and sighed and said very seriously, “I think.” She continued looking up at the sky and added, “Now do you absolutely understand about the witches’ warning?”
“Macbeth’s witches?” I asked.
“Any witches.”
I nodded. For just a minute the idea crossed my mind that Jennifer actually was warning me. Then I thought, “Oh, well, how can a lovely little toad cause me pain?”
“May I hold him?” I asked.
“Of course.” She handed him to me.
“Jennifer, do witches ever name their toads?”
“Never,” she answered.
“I think we should,” I said.
“We shouldn’t,” she said.
“I think we should call him Hilary. Hilary means cheerful. And he is bright-eyed and cheerful.”
“Witches don’t name toads,” she said.
“Yep, Hilary is a fine name.”
“Witches don’t name toads,” she repeated.
“Hilary means cheerful, and you are cheery, dearie,” I murmured. To the toad . . . not to Jennifer.
“He should be called Ezra if he’s called anything at all,” she replied.
“Why Ezra?” I demanded.
“Because Ezra means help . . . and he’ll help us make the flying ointment.”
“Hilary is better,” I insisted.
“Ezra,” she said.
“How about Hilary Ezra?” I asked.
“Agreed,” she answered.
I think I grew to love Hilary Ezra from that very second. Naming him was the first argument I ever won from Jennifer. For once I had convinced her. I thought.
We both loved Hilary Ezra. We always called him by his entire, complete name. We enjoyed catching insects for him to eat. We would bring a ruler to the park to see how far he would jump. We marked down the date. We would calculate his average jump for the day, his longest jump, his lifetime average, and his lifetime record. He was wonderful company for being such a dumb animal. He always wore a prize ribbon. Not first prize or second prize. One of my ribbons I had won at Cynthia’s party.
Each of us tried to be kinder to Hilary Ezra than the other. We would argue about whose turn it was to pull him in the wagon. We placed an old window screen over the top of the wagon so that he couldn’t jump out. He was not a grateful animal; he would try to jump out every time we took the screen away. It was easily true that each of us loved Hilary Ezra more than he loved us. Sometimes it almost seemed true that we loved Hilary Ezra more than we loved each other. Hilary Ezra became the one thing that made me jealous of Jennifer. I admired the way she could read. I admired the way she could walk looking up at the sky. I admired the cool way she could ignore someone (even me) if she wanted to. I admired all these things. I always felt grateful when she shared her talents with me even if sharing them made her bossy. But I didn’t feel grateful when she shared Hilary Ezra. I felt jealous because I wished that I could have him all the time. He had pretty eyes.
One day Jennifer brought Hilary Ezra to school in her pocket. It was warm that day and all the fifth grades were out on the playground playing kick ball. Hilary Ezra hopped out of Jennifer’s pocket as she was guarding first base. The first person to notice was Tommy Schmidt. He had just kicked the ball and was on his way to first when he spotted Hilary Ezra. Everyone was yelling, “Go, Tom, go. Run, Tom, run.” Tom did not go. Tom did not run. Tom stopped dead. Jennifer was looking up at the sky as usual. There was sudden quiet when Tom stopped. Jennifer reached down, picked up Hilary Ezra and put him back in her pocket. She buttoned her pocket closed. No one said a word. I smiled to myself. A very small smile. I couldn’t let anyone know that he was mine, too.
During March I was practicing casting small journeyman witch spells.
Sometimes I was successful. Here is a list of my successful spells:
1. Cynthia got sick and missed eight days of school. Miss Hazen made me take her homework to her every day. Besides, being only a journeyman witch, I couldn’t make her terribly sick.
2. Miss Hazen didn’t call for our arithmetic homework the day I didn’t do it.
3. It rained on the day of the class trip to the zoo. Everyone got sick. Two kids threw up. The bus smelled awful from all the fumes and wet raincoats and all. The zoo didn’t smell too good, either. I loved it.
4. Cynthia and Dolores had a fight. It lasted only a short while. I could still cast only short spells.
All in all, I was feeling very competent.
9
SPRING VACATION CAME. IT WAS the middle of April. Jennifer and I had invested all of our Saturdays in witchcraft. We had invested bicycling time, movie time, roller-skating time, lounging-around-the-house-in-your-pajamas time. Now we would see if it had been worth it.
We arranged to meet at the park at 7:00 A.M. o’clock of the morning. The first Monday of vacation. This meant that I had to be up at 6:30 A.M. o’clock of the morning. My mother heard me getting up and getting dressed. She came into my bedroom, glanced at the clock, said, “I don’t believe it,” and went back to bed. That saved my having to answer a lot of questions. I was nervous. I couldn’t eat breakfast, partly because I wanted to be lighter for our flight.
I had written a list the night before. I checked off the items one by one. My fingernails, the watermelon seeds, the frozen snowball in an old milk carton, the foods the Greats had donated, the three pound can of Crisco, a spatula to get the Crisco out of the can, charcoal briquets and fluid to light them. I put everything into a large shopping bag from Bloomingdale’s and carried it to the park.
Jennifer was already at the park when I got there. She had brought her big kettle somehow. Her whole wagon was filled with potted plants. With the screen over it, it looked like a tiny greenhouse on wheels. Maybe Jennifer had made two trips. Inside the kettle were the matches, her fingernails, and her snowball, now melted in an old herring jar. Her fingernails were saved in a match box. I could tell that she had just added to the supply because her fingernails were very short right then. Both of us had chanted for a windy day; we got one. It was warm, too. We decided that we had enough proper ingredients, the proper chants, and a good proper wind. We were ready to fly.