She shakes her head. 'What about the ducks that sank and Agnes dropping her calf before her time? What about Belshazzar?' She begins to breathe through her nostrils. 'It's hexin', that's what it is!'
'What's hexin', ma'am?'
'Heathen doings by that old Miz' Sigafoos. She's been warned and warned plenty to stick to her doctoring. I hold nothing against her for curing the croup or maybe selling a young man love potion if he's goin'
down to Scranton to sell his crop and play around a little. But she's not satisfied with that, I guess. Dud Wingle must of gone to her with a twenty-dollar bill to witch my farm!'
I do not know what to make of this. My mama, of course, has told me about la vecchia religione, but I never know they believe in stuff like that over here. 'Can you go to the cops, ma'am?' I ast.
She snorts like Belshazzar the Magnificent. 'Cops! A fat lot old Henry Bricker would know about witchin'. No, Bub, I guess I'll handle this myself. I ain't the five-times-great-granddaughter of Pru Posthlewaite for nothin'!'
'Who was Pru— what you said?'
'Hanged in Salem, Massachusettes, in 1680 for witchcraft. Her coven name was Little Gadfly, but I guess she wasn't so little. The first two ropes broke—but we got no time to stand around talkin'. I got to find my Ma's truck in the attic. You go get the black rooster from the chicken run. I wonder where there's some chalk?' And she walks off to the house, mumbling. I walk to the chicken run thinking she has flipped.
The black rooster is a tricky character, very fast on his feet and also I am new at the chicken racket. It takes me half an hour to stalk him down, during which time incidentally the Ford leaves with Brenda in it and George drives away in his car. See you later, Brenda, I think to myself.
I go to the kitchen door with the rooster screaming in my arms and Mrs.
Parry says: 'Come on in with him and set him anywhere.' I do, Mrs.
Parry scatters some cornflakes on the floor and the rooster calms down right away and stalks around picking it up. Mrs. Parry is sweaty and dust-covered and there are some dirty old papers rolled up on the kitchen table.
She starts fooling around on the floor with one of the papers and a hunk of carpenter's chalk, and just to be doing something I look at the rest of them. Honest to God, you never saw such lousy spelling and handwriting. Tayke the Duste off one Olde Ymmage Quhich Ye Myn-gel—like that.
I shake my head and think: it's the cow racket. No normal human being can take this life. She has flipped and I don't blame her, but it will be a horrible thing if it becomes homicidal. I look around for a poker or something and start to edge away. I am thinking of a dash from the door to the Willys and then scorching into town to come back with the men in the little white coats.
She looks up at me and says: 'Don't go away, Bub. This is woman's work, but I need somebody to hold the sword and palm and you're the onliest one around.' She grins. 'I guess you never saw anything like this in the city, hey?'
'No, ma'am,' I say, and notice that my voice is very faint.
'Well, don't let it skeer you. There's some people it'd skeer, but the Probation Association people say they call you Tough Tony, so I guess you won't take fright.'
'No, ma'am.'
'Now what do we do for a sword? I guess this bread knife'll—no; the ham slicer. It looks more like a sword. Hold it in your left hand and get a couple of them gilded bulrushes from the vase in the parlor. Mind you wipe your feet before you tread on the carpet! And then come back.
Make it fast.'
She starts to copy some stuff that looks like Yiddish writing onto the floor and I go into the parlor. I am about to tiptoe to the front door when she yells: 'Bub! That you?'
Maybe I could beat her in a race for the car, maybe not. I shrug. At least I have a knife—and know how to use it. I bring her the gilded things from the vase. Ugh!
While I am out she has cut the head off the rooster and is sprinkling its blood over a big chalk star and the writing on the floor. But the knife makes me feel more confident even though I begin to worry about how it will look if I have to do anything with it. I am figuring that maybe I can hamstring her if she takes off after me, and meanwhile I should humor her because maybe she will snap out of it.
'Bub,' she says, 'hold the sword and palms in front of you pointing up and don't step inside the chalk lines. Now, will you promise me not to tell anybody about the words I speak? The rest of this stuff don't matter; it's down in all the books and people have their minds made up that it don't work. But about the words, do you promise?'
'Yes, ma'am. Anything you say, ma'am.'
So she starts talking and the promise was not necessary because it's in some foreign language and I don't talk foreign languages except sometimes a little Italian to my mama. I am beginning to yawn when I notice that we have company.
He is eight feet tall, he is green, he has teeth like Red Riding Hood's grandma.
I dive through the window, screaming.
When Mrs. Parry comes out she finds me in a pile of broken glass, on my knees, praying. She clamps two fingers on my ear and hoists me to my feet. 'Stop that praying,' she says. 'He's complaining about it. Says it makes him itch. And you said you wouldn't be skeered! Now come inside where I can keep an eye on you and behave yourself. The idea!
The very idea!'
To tell you the truth, I don't remember what happens after this so good.
There is some talk between the green character and Mrs. Parry about her five-times-great-grandmother who, it seems, is doing nicely in a warm climate. There is an argument in which the green character gets shifty and says he doesn't know who is working for Miz' Sigafoos these days. Miz' Parry threatens to let me pray again and the green character gets sulky and says all right he'll send for him and rassle with him but he is sure he can lick him.
The next thing I recall is a grunt-and-groan exhibition between the green character and a smaller purple character who must of arrived when I was blacked out or something. This at least I know something about because I am a television fan. It is a very slow match, because when one of the characters, for instance, bends the other character's arm it just bends and does not break. But a good big character can lick a good little character every time and finally greenface has got his opponent tied into a bow-knot.
'Be gone,' Mrs. Parry says to the purple character, 'and never more molest me or mine. Be gone, be gone, be gone.'
He is gone, and I never do find out if he gets unknotted.
'Now fetch me Miz' Sigafoos.'
Blip! An ugly little old woman is sharing the ring with the winner and new champeen. She spits at Mrs. Parry: 'So you it was dot mine Teufel haff ge-schtolen!' Her English is terrible. A greenhorn.
'This ain't a social call, Miz' Sigafoos,' Mrs. Parry says coldly. 'I just want you to unwitch my farm and kinfolks. And if you're an honest woman you'll return his money to that sneakin', dog-murderin' shiftless squirt, Dud Wingle.'
'Yah,' the old woman mumbles. She reaches up and feels the biceps of the green character. 'Yah, I guess maybe dot I besser do. Who der Yunger iss?' She is looking at me. 'For why the teeth on his mouth go clop-clop- clop? Und so white the face on his head iss! You besser should feed him, Ella.'
'Missus Parry to you, Miz' Sigafoos, if you don't mind. Now the both of you be gone, be gone, be gone.'
At last we are alone.
'Now,' Mrs. Parry grunts, 'maybe we can get back to farmin'. Such foolishness and me a busy woman.' She looks at me closely and says: 'I do believe the old fool was right. You're as white as a sheet.' She feels my forehead. 'Oh, shoot! You have a temperature. You better get to bed.
If you ain't better in the morning I'll call Doc Mines.'
So I am in the bedroom writing this letter, Mr. Marino, and I hope you will help me out. Like I said, I never ast no favors but this is special.
Mr. Marino, will you please go to the judge and tell him I have a change of heart and don't want no probation? Tell him I want to pay my debt to society. Tell him I want to go to jail for three years, and for them to come and get me right away. Sincerely,
anthony (Tough Tony) cornaro.
P.S.—On my way to get a stamp for this I notice that I have some grey hairs, which is very unusual for a person
