The Witch

A scream rings out that rivals a late 1970s Jamie Lee Curtis in both pitch and intensity.  It’s the primordial, almost ethereal, cry of a being bearing witness to their demise.  To produce such a scream the throat contracts so that it only permits a thin stream of air to pass through, thus prolonging the call for help.  The scream can last for what feels like an eternity.  That is, unless at mid-scream the victim is kicked in the stomach, in which case the scream turns into undignified retching.

I have only myself to blame.  I asked to see the witch and the witch obliged.

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I don’t remember what we were all doing.  I don’t remember who was all there.  I don’t even remember whose house we were all visiting.  What I do remember is that everyone was having a good time.  Everyone except my brother and I who were being forced to get a bath.  Like all kids pulled away from fun, we weren’t thrilled to be missing the action.  Hearing the merriment coming from the other room was a form of torture.  I was especially upset at not being on the faucet end of the tub where the water was warmer.

Mid-way through the bath, when my fingers were just starting to prune, the laughter in the other room began a crescendo.  Each decibel increase matched with an equal rise in my disappointment.  Through the cacophony of laughter, cheers, and my brother’s ceaseless splashing, I heard someone shout, “Look at the witch!”  More laughter followed and set into me an overwhelming resolve to see the witch.

From the tub I called out to the witch.  She replied with a lesson in regret.

She appeared from the steam of the bath even before I had completed my summons, as if she had been there all along, invisible until beckoned.  Her hair was a tangled mix of horrors and her eyes were frozen wide, sending her brows into ominous peaks.  She let out a shrill cackle and reached for me with pale, bony fingers.

I screamed.

I screamed with everything a five year old could muster.

I screamed as if that was the only charm I could produce to ward off the approaching evil.

I screamed until my brother’s recoiling produced a kick to my gut that silenced my cry and we both slipped under the turbulent waves we had created in our panic.

This is my earliest memory of Grandma.

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It wasn’t until much later that I learned what hair curlers were and that Grandma used them for purposes other than scaring kids.  Even more recently I learned that Grandma said she felt terrible for scaring us.  I hope that isn’t true.  I hope she only said she felt bad while deep down knowing one day we would find it funny.  I’d like her to know that my earliest memory of her didn’t set me up for a lifetime of fearing her.  Quite the opposite.  There is something strangely endearing about the thought of her running around scaring the grandchildren.

Everyone needs a healthy scare once in a while.  I hope she relished in her power and ability to provide said scare.