Witches were supposed to be able to cast spells. That’s what made them witches, wasn’t it? Poisoned apples. Princes into toads. Gingerbread nouses. Abracadabra. Presto-chango. Spells.
Spilled-out pieces of an unknown puzzle flying together in George’s mind, as if by magic.
Magic, George thought, and groaned.
What was the picture? It was Gramma, of course, Gramma and her books, Gramma who had been driven out of town, Gramma who hadn’t been able to have babies and then had been able to, Gramma who had been driven out of the church as well as out of town. The picture was Gramma, yellow and fat and wrinkled and sluglike, her toothless mouth curved into a sunken grin, her faded, blind eyes somehow sly and cunning; and on her head was a black, conical hat sprinkled with silver stars and glittering Babylonian crescents; at her feet were slinking black cats with eyes as yellow as urine, and the smells were pork and blindness, pork and burning, ancient stars and candles as dark as the earth in which coffins lay; he heard words spoken from ancient books, and each word was like a stone and each sentence like a crypt reared in some stinking boneyard and every paragraph like a nightmare caravan of the plague-dead taken to a place of burning; his eye was the eye of a child and in that moment it opened wide in startled understanding on blackness.
Gramma had been a witch, just like the Wicked Witch in the Wizard of Oz. And now she was dead. That gargling sound, George thought with increasing horror. That gargling, snoring sound had been a… a… a “death rattle.”
“Gramma?” he whispered, and crazily he thought: Ding-dong, the wicked witch is dead.
No response. He held his cupped hand in front of Gramma’s mouth. There was no breeze stirring around inside Gramma. It was dead calm and slack sails and no wake widening behind the keel. Some of his fright began to recede now, and George tried to think. He remembered Uncle Fred showing him how to wet a finger and test the wind, and now he licked his entire palm and held it in front of Gramma’s mouth.
Still nothing.
He started for the phone to call Dr. Arlinder, and then stopped. Suppose he called the doctor and she really wasn’t dead at all? He’d be in dutch for sure.
Take her pulse.
He stopped in the doorway, looking doubtfully back at that dangling hand. The sleeve of Gramma’s nightie had pulled up, exposing her wrist. But that was no good. Once, after a visit to the doctor when the nurse had pressed her finger to his wrist to take his pulse, George had tried it and hadn’t been able to find anything. As far as his own unskilled fingers could tell, he was dead.
Besides, he didn’t really want to… well… to touch Gramma. Even if she was dead.
Especially if she was dead.
George stood in the entryway, looking from Gramma’s still, bedridden form to the phone on the wall beside Dr. Arlinder’s number, and back to Gramma again. He would just have to call.
He would—get a mirror!
Sure! When you breathed on a mirror, it got cloudy. He had seen a doctor check an unconscious person that way once in a movie. There was a bathroom connecting with Gramma’s room and now George hurried in and got Gramma’s vanity mirror. One side of it was regular, the other side magnified, so you could see to pluck out hairs and do stuff like that.
George took it back to Gramma’s bed and held one side of the mirror until it was almost touching Gramma’s open, gaping mouth. He held it there while he counted to sixty, watching Gramma the whole time. Nothing changed. He was sure she was dead even before he took the mirror away from her mouth and observed its surface, which was perfectly clear and unclouded.
Gramma was dead.
George realized with relief and some surprise that he could feel sorry for her now. Maybe she had been a witch. Maybe not. Maybe she had only thought she was a witch. However it had been, she was gone now. He realized with an adult’s comprehension that questions of concrete reality became not unimportant but less vital when they were examined in the mute bland face of mortal remains. He realized this with an adult’s comprehension and accepted with an adult’s relief. This was a passing footprint, the shape of a shoe, in his mind. So are all the child’s adult impressions; it is only in later years that the child realizes that he was being made; formed; shaped by random experiences; all that remains in the instant beyond the footprint is that bitter gunpowder smell which is the ignition of an idea beyond a child’s given years.
He returned the mirror to the bathroom, then went back through her room, glancing at the body on his way by. The setting sun had painted the old dead face with barbaric, orange-red colors, and George looked away quickly.
He went through the entry and crossed the kitchen to the telephone, determined to do everything right. Already in his mind he saw a certain advantage over Buddy; whenever Buddy started to tease him, he would simply say: I was all by myself in the house when Gramma died, and I did everything right.
Call Dr. Arlinder, that was first. Call him and say, “My Gramma just died. Can you tell me what I should do? Cover her up or something?” No.
“I think my Gramma just died.” Yes. Yes, that was better. Nobody thought a little kid knew anything anyway, so that was better.
Or how about:
“I’m pretty sure my Gramma just died—” Sure! That was best of all.
And tell about the mirror and the death rattle and all. And the doctor would come right away, and when he was done examining Gramma he would say, “I pronounce you dead, Gramma,” and then say to George, “You laid extremely chilly in a tough situation, George. I want to congratulate you.” And George would say something appropriately modest.
George looked at Arlinder’s number and took a couple of slow deep breaths before grabbing the phone. His heart was beating fast, but that painful spike-iron thud was gone now.
Gramma had died. The worst had happened, and somehow it wasn’t as bad as waiting for her to start bellowing for Mom to bring her tea.
The phone was dead.
He listened to the blankness, his mouth still formed around the words I’m sorry, Missus Dodd, but this is George Bruckner and I have to call the doctor for my Gramma. No voices. No dial tone. Just dead blankness. Like the dead blankness in the bed in there.
Gramma is——IS—(oh she is) Gramma is laying chilly.
Gooseflesh again, painful and marbling. His eyes fixed on the Pyrex teakettle on the stove, the cup on the counter with the herbal tea bag in it. No more tea for Gramma. Not ever.
(laying so chiflyj George shuddered.
He stuttered his finger up and down on the Princess phone’s cutoff button, but the phone was dead. Just as dead as—(just as chilly as) He slammed the handset down hard and the bell tinged faintly inside and he picked it up in a hurry to see if that meant it had magically gone right again. But there was nothing, and this time he put it back slowly.
His heart was thudding harder again.
I’m alone in this house with her dead body.
He crossed the kitchen slowly, stood by the table for a minute, and then turned on the light. It was getting dark in the house. Soon the sun would be gone; night would be here.
Wait. That’s all I got to do. Just wait until Mom gets back. This is better, really. If the phone went out, it’s better that she just died instead of maybe having a fit or something, foaming at the mouth, maybe falling out of bed—Ah, that was bad. He could have done very nicely without that horse-pucky.
Like being alone in the dark and thinking of dead things that were still lively—seeing shapes in the shadows on the walls and thinking of death, thinking of the dead, those things, the way they would stink and the way they would move toward you in the black: thinking this: thinking that: thinking of bugs turning in flesh: burrowing in flesh: eyes that moved in the dark.
Yeah. That most of all. Thinking of eyes that moved in the dark and the creak of floorboards as something came across the room through the zebra-stripes of shadows from the light outside.
Yeah.
In the dark your thoughts had a perfect circularity, and no matter what you tried to think of—flowers or Jesus or baseball or winning the gold in the 440 at the Olympics—it somehow led back to the form in the shadows with the claws and the unblinking eyes.