The Witch That Lives Down The Street

The crunch of gravel beneath my feet was alternating with the pounding in my head. Crunch. Pound. Crunch. Pound. Otherwise, things were lovely. The humidity had made itself into a very warm and unnecessarily cozy scarf, and it had wrapped itself tightly around my neck. People say they hate the humidity here, but those people don’t know it like I do.

How could you hate the trickle of sweat that continually drips down your forehead, reminding you that your body is functioning beautifully? And why hate that build-up of clouds that hangs in the horizon, giving the humid season its moisture and its drama? Instead of hating it, build a tolerance to it. Now I am rambling—rambling like the lightning in those clouds.

A flash here; a flash there. It was scattered around in the sky, like my thoughts in my head. There was a crescent moon above my head too, coming out all bright and friendly in the growing darkness. And then I heard a sound that was different from the gravel crunch or the headache pound. It wasn’t a non-native Floridian complaining about the humidity either.

It was something like a wail—the sound someone in distress makes—only it was a sing-song sort of wail. It was like the musical version of someone in distress. I envisioned an out-of-work actress standing on her balcony in one of the houses set back from the road performing a soliloquy of sadness. I stopped in my tracks, because I wasn’t standing in front of an out-of-work actress’s house.

I was standing in front of the witch’s house.

The witch is a woman working on her mid-eighties, and wholly lacking the wisdom-spouting grandmotherly-manner some of the elderly set do so well. With every new wrinkle collected on her face, a greater sourness seemed to come to her disposition. I once gave her a polite greeting as I walked by with my toddler in the stroller, and in response was informed that I was a terrible mother for taking my son for a walk in the middle of the afternoon. I had been avoiding her ever since.

I stood there, hoping it was only a trick of the ears, but no—there it went again, only this time it was a distinct and oddly cheerful sounding “Help!”

My greyhound mix, restless on her leash and eager to continue showing me how I am too slow, reluctantly followed me up the driveway to the witch’s house. Her ancient garage door, which looked as old and grouchy as she was, was about a foot open from the ground.

“Hello?” I called tentatively inside, bending down to peer into the grey light of the garage, which was quickly fading. Sitting in the back, almost against the wall, was the witch. She was on her butt and looked unhurt, but by the way she was situated it looked clear that she was unable to regain her footing.

“Hello!” she said cheerfully, “I’m just waiting for someone to open my garage door.”

I blinked at her. There was no scowl, from what I could see in that grey light. There was no disgruntled tone. No insults. There was, however, the distinct vibe of someone that had gone cuckoo for cocoa puffs.

I’ve only met one other person with dementia, and it was an eerie experience. It seemed to reveal what was lurking inside this person all along, his ego not allowing it to see the light of day until the dementia set in. This person was also a neighbor, and he had been so jolly and pleasant to me prior to dementia. Post dementia he stared at everyone with an other-worldly evil gaze. It was terrifying.

“Do you need…some help?”

“Could you open the garage door? I’m just waiting for someone to come alone and open it. It gets stuck. It is manual—just pull on the handle,” she continued speaking as though imaginary butterflies were flitting about her and the fields were alive with the sound of music.

I would like to say that the reason the handle on the outside of the garage immediately came off in my hand was because I am such a strong woman, but it had a lot more to do with the fact that the screws were quite loose. The garage door didn’t budge.

“It is very…stuck,” I said, while setting the handle down on the driveway.

“Oh well,” she said happily, “Someone will come along and fix it.”

Except by then it was basically dark. No one was coming along…to open her garage or help her up.

“Do you…need some help?” I fished, wondering what Lil Crazy—the over-protective greyhound mix—would do if I crawled inside the witch’s garage.

“Someone will come along. Maybe my brother can fix it. He lives nearby,” she said, or rather, practically sang. This was beautiful information; this was fabulous—this was my exit from the situation, without having to crawl into the garage and interact any further with the witch that thought I was a terrible mother when she was in possession of all her faculties…or at least a few of them.

Down the street I was able to meet the brother along with his adult son, who rolled his eyes but hopped up off the couch and headed in the direction of the witch’s house.

Lil Crazy and I walked home as an owl hooted in a tree above our heads. I wondered about that witch. Maybe I shouldn’t call her that anymore. Maybe she is like the humidity, which we must learn to not hate, but to build a tolerance instead. Lil Crazy and I decided to give over to the crunch/pound sounds, and leave the debate for another walk.