Technically, we didn’t know for sure that Ms. Wicker was a witch, but we did have what we considered several experiences and observations that certainly added up for us. First off, she just looked wicked. Her hair was always muddled and frizzy, at least during the few glimpses we had of her peeking out her windows. She never interacted with anyone on the block, and the few times we did see her, she was watching us from her kitchen window, her head half hidden by the curtain. She never, ever left her little green house. Eleanor Wicker stayed home all the time with nothing but time to cast spells from her window. Every once in a while, we saw a deliveryman bringing groceries—milk, bread, and probably some eye of newt.
Now the experiences. They may seem a little farfetched, but if you had lived them, you would have agreed that we might have a witch on our hands. We were pretty sure that the Wicker Witch had put a curse on the Shanahans’ cat—not that this was a bad thing. Precious Christmas Morning, the most spoiled pet on the planet, was a snooty, fuzzy, gray-and-white thing. She was a gift from Mr. Shanahan to Mrs. Shanahan one—you guessed it—Christmas morning after all of Mrs. Shanahan’s children had grown and moved out. She named the feline and spoiled it like a bratty grandchild. “Precious Christmas Morning! Precious Christmas Morning! Mommy needs you to come have your lunchy-poo now. Precious Christmas Morning!”
One not-so-precious morning, said cat walked onto the lawn of said witch and never returned for his lunchy-poo. Stephano Mangiamelli said that a guy he knew from the next block over had seen the precious fur ball walking onto the lawn of the Wicker Witch. We never saw that cat again. Enough said.
Lucy said her dog, Grandma, had a protective, witch-proof aura since Grandma had been known to meander over to the Witch House and take a nap on the sunny side of the wicked, green house. Eleanor must have liked Grandma. We weren’t about to test our own auras. Because our destinies on those grounds were uncertain, none of us risked the fate of poor Precious Christmas Morning.
Every Halloween, our neighborhood looked like Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. Fun, silly, and scary costume-clad children marched down the sidewalks, parents stood out on the lawn with big bowls of Mike and Ikes and Baby Ruths, and houses lining Maple Crest blazed with light—all except the tiny, green Wicker house, the last house out of our little block, waiting. It sat dark and eerie, welcoming no one on a night when most witches are probably pretty busy.
So, while most of the evidence was questionable, we still justified any evil activity on the circle as the work of the Wicker Witch. When we were not directly in front of her house, we felt pretty safe. Proximity meant fear, and so speed was the answer as we flew by the green house.
I shared a secret with A.C. about the witch.
“I swear, I feel like the Wicker Witch is watching me. Like she singles me out. It kind of creeps me out.”
“Ben, she’s watching all of us. You’re just paranoid. Paranoia will destroy-a.”
Whenever my mom overheard us swapping witch stories, she would scold us and tell us that we should mind our own business. “Leave that poor woman alone.” Once she pulled me aside to further reprimand me, seeing this as an opportunity to teach her only son a little compassion. “No one knows what a person’s life is really like.” She explained that Eleanor Wicker had been married once. Though my mother was not sure of the details, she knew that Eleanor had never had any children and was somehow able to maintain her residency without working. She explained to me that life is just a little more overwhelming to some than others. I figured the world must have been extremely overwhelming to Ms. Wicker.
This did not stop me from wondering, and it certainly didn’t stop me from racing by the last house out of the cul-de-sac on Maple Crest. On that perfect summer day back in 1976, our clump of bikes directed our thoughts to the pool as we whizzed past the green house. Thoughts of the Wicker Witch vanished as girls and freedom filled our minds.
About a block before we got to the pool, we could hear the pool sound system blaring WOW radio station playing the top-forty songs, over and over again. The song “Shannon” blasted out of the pool speakers. I remember because A.C. starting singing it really loudly as we got closer. His high-pitched nasal bellow made the rest of us laugh.
It’s no wonder that this stinker song was a shoe-in for the A.C. and Ben’s Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time. Theories abound about its dumb yet well-known lyrics. One theory suggests that one member of the Beach Boys, the writer of the song, had a dog named Shannon that drowned, and so he wrote a song about it. This would explain the part of the song that whines about the dog finding an island with a tree, just like the one in the family backyard. How dumb is that? First, the dog is dumb because it loves to swim away and so it drowns. Then the guy singing the song is dumb because he’s crying about how his dumb mom and dad are missing the dumb dog. If your dog was that dumb, why would you write a song about her, even if her name was Shannon? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. No-brainer for the list.
Our list was called the A.C. and Ben Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time, but we had more than ten songs on it. Over time we lost count, but we could make strong arguments for each and every song on the list. Most people wouldn’t argue, though. Our list included “Muskrat Love” (duh, dumb), “All by Myself” (the guy is assuming someone is listening to his dumb song), “Having My Baby” (what a lovely way of saying how dumb the song is), “I Am, I Said” (Neil Diamond sings to a chair that doesn’t reply), anything by Neil Sedaka, and most songs by Barry Manilow. Just to name a few.
A.C. was best at making sound arguments to justify placement on our list. Lucy and A.C. once went at it over the presence of the song “The Candy Man” on our famous (or infamous) list. A.C. looked Lucy squarely in the eye and asked her, “Do we really need to argue about sprinkling a sunrise with dew?”
Lucy could not answer.
A.C. responded, “I rest my case.”
The dumb dog song was just ending as we got to the fence and was replaced by Elvin Bishop’s “Fooled Around and Fell in Love.” Not on the Top Ten Dumb Songs of All Time. Perfect background music for checking out girls.
We rode up to the fence on the side of the pool where the diving boards were. Our unspoken plan was to stand by our bikes acting not very interested, as though we were just stopping by on our way to another and more interesting place. Soon one girl might come up to the fence, followed by a friend or two, and in time we would be hanging with a group of girls—granted, with a fence between us. That was the plan.
While waiting for the group to assemble, we would stand there looking cool and talking about not-so-cool things, like the fart machine and the Farrah Fawcett poster Will had bought at Spencer’s Gifts in the mall. Is that a paradox or what? Will was boy enough to think that foul bodily noises were hilarious and man enough to think that a woman’s body was beautiful. I thought it was kind of stupid to buy the poster of the Charlie’s angel wearing that amazing, orange swimsuit, but that didn’t stop me from looking at the revealing pose that hung above his bed in his basement.
That day by the pool, we also discussed important issues like the mental state of the master on the TV show I Dream of Jeannie. Like, why was Larry Hagman so uptight when he had this gorgeous woman who lives in a bottle, calls him master, and says that she will do anything he wants? Was Larry dense or what? Our debates were disrupted by the loud, irritating singing of Lovey Webber. Lovey, who was now thirteen and developing nicely, sang loudly as she sauntered toward our clump. She wiggled over to the fence and giggled. She looked directly at me.
“Somebody got a haircut!”
“I got them all cut…”
Exaggerated laughter exploded. Maybe some other, more interesting girls would hear us and want to know what was so funny.
“Oh, Ben.” Lovey rolled her eyes and tilted her head. “Hey, we’re all asking our moms if they will take us to Peony Park tomorrow night for Sprite Nite. You want to meet there?”
Peony Park was the Omaha amusement park located in the center
of the city at that time. Grandpa Mac told me that he used to go listen to the big bands at Peony Park Ballroom when he was a young man. In 1976, the older Mangiamelli boys worked the rides at the amusement park, and my sister Cheryl was at the big pool every day. My friends and I were more excited about a dance called Sprite Nite, where a DJ played the same top-forty songs we had listened to all day at the pool.
Will answered for the group. “It depends on who ‘we’ includes.” Careful now, not too cool.
“Oh, Lucy, Theresa, Marty…”
“Theresa’s here?”
“Lucy has her as a guest. Didn’t you know?” As Lovey spoke, our eyes darted around the pool area for a glimpse of Theresa. The radio in the background, the smell of chlorine and suntan lotion, the sun on my back…My senses all seemed heightened.
A scratchy voice yelled from the door to the Snack Shack. “Hey! Did you tell them about Sprite Nite, Lovey?” Lucy may have appeared to most as a bossy little thing, but on closer observation, those around her appreciated her bossiness as a gift. She organized fun. She directed them to enjoy life. She was the Julie McCoy of Maple Crest Love Boat.
Tiny little Lucy walked toward us with what appeared like two bodyguards towering behind her. Theresa and especially Marty had grown tall and slender as they entered their early teen years, while Lucy stayed petite. One small disappointment of the day was that Theresa was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. No swimming suit for us. They had already finished swimming and were heading home. The girls all looked at Will. To me, Will was just a grump who bossed us all around. To the girls, he was very attractive. I wasn’t stupid. I’d figured that one out all by myself.
Lucy looked at Will. “If Mom says we can go, we can have Subby or Stephano drive us there. On the way we were going to stop by that billboard where the DJ from WOW is living in a huge banana. He’s broadcasting from up there and not leaving for a whole week.”
“WOW has gone bananas!” A.C. used a deep voice and held his pretend phone to his ears. During that week, the radio station was calling listeners. If you answered the phone like A.C. instead of saying hello, the station was offering prizes. The big prize was a trip to Kansas City.
“How does he go to the bathroom?” Stinky wondered out loud.
“Just let us know if you guys want to go.”
More girls walked up to the fence, sensing that Lucy had found a new adventure. Our plan was working.
Lucy shared her most recent discovery with the large audience. “OK, I have to tell you all what I just found out from this high-school girl who works in the Snack Shack.” As she spoke, her mouth sparkled. Lucy was wired for sound with the entire orthodontia works. She even wore the whole headgear thing at night, which only further encouraged my theory on the barbaric things that our own parents impose on us for the sake of vanity.
Lucy looked serious as she started her performance. “If you listen to the beginning of the song ‘Rollercoaster’ by the Ohio Players, you will hear a really high scream.”
“Son of a bitch. I’ve heard it!” Little Andy Morrow’s eyes were big and round and glued to the Lucy.
“Anyway, that’s the scream of a woman who was killed during the actual recording of the song. Her murder was recorded!” Lucy paused for effect. “It’s like her murder is repeated every time we hear that song.”
I was stunned by the big eyes and opened mouths in the group that had gathered. Really?
“It’s true.” Lucy shook her head slowly and pursed her lips with the burden of this sad awareness. Theresa and Marty shook their heads in unison and agreement, looking like the Supremes behind their lead singer. I worked hard to hide my smirk. In the shuffle of expressions in the group, Theresa looked at Will and smiled.
A deeper voice from behind me added, “And if you listen really, really closely to the end of that song, you’ll hear the drummer fart.” The voice came from a kid who had been sitting on his bike a couple feet behind the group, listening to Lucy. She looked at the boy perturbed but said nothing.
Eddie Krackenier laughed louder at his joke than anyone else. Eddie, a very fit fifteen-year-old, was from a nearby neighborhood that fed into the Saint Walter’s parish and school. In Omaha, parishes were like little puddles all over the city, with the little tiny Catholic fish that in time would jump into the bigger ponds of Catholic high schools, connecting all those little puddles.
“This pool sucks!” Eddie said to no one and everyone as he moved his bike up to the fence and looked around the deck of the pool. The crowd that had gathered was silent.
“Then why are you here?” Anthony Mangiamelli, a good year older and a foot taller than Eddie, had been silent until now. He wasn’t afraid of the bully from Saint Walter’s.
“Well, you see, I was just on my way to the housing development under construction out north of here, a place where me and my older buddies like to go when the workers aren’t around. Anyway, on my way, I see what appears to be a group around a fire or tragic accident or something. Turns out to be some stupid story about a roller coaster and a murder. Ahhhhh!” Eddie screamed in a high pitch so loud that I thought the lifeguards would come by.
Eddie was a bad seed. That’s what Mrs. Webber had told the kids after her tree had been TP-ed one time. Eddie called himself Chief and asked that others do the same in his presence. Kids in Maple Crest heard that Eddie had seen R-rated movies before he was ten. He also had a big birthmark on the back of his neck that was allegedly in the shape of a star. From where I stood, it looked more like a drunk amoeba that hoped to be a starfish someday. He didn’t have a dad, and his mother was never home, either working or whatever. The freedom he had meant that he had more connections with his older buddies finding all sorts of interesting things to do. Evidently at construction sites.
“You’re all welcome to come with the Chief to the construction site. Hell of lot more fun than this place.” He spoke to the group with an evil grin.
We were no idiots to the reputation of Eddie Krackenier. Eddie lore trickled from his puddle to ours, and we all felt as if the devil himself had just invited us all to hell. I wouldn’t allow some self-proclaimed chief to ruin my perfect day. I wanted Eddie Krackenier to go back to his puddle.
“I’ll go.” Will’s voice sounded strange. Now the group of wide eyes looked at him. What was he thinking? We all looked to the Mangiamellis’ oldest brother, Anthony. Was he going to stop Will or what?
Eddie’s grin grew into a creepy shape. “OK, Mangiamelli, the Chief says you may follow.”
I really do believe Will would have gone with Eddie that hot Saturday. Something in the way he looked at Eddie said that he was serious. The interview with the devil was interrupted by Faith Webber, who forced her way through the group up to the fence, panting and catching her breath. She had run the three blocks to Brookhill pool. Breathless and anxious, Faith still looked incredible.
“Lovey, is Hope with you?” Faith leaned against the fence and tried to catch her breath.
“You should see how red your face is, Faith.” Lovey laughed and looked at me.
“Lovey, is Hope with you?” Faith repeated with panic in her throat.
“No, she didn’t want to swim. I asked her. I really did…”
“We can’t find her anywhere. If she’s not with you, she’s been gone for a while. Hope never goes off by herself. The last thing I remember was that she was going over to the Mangiamelli house to visit Grandma. We know where Grandma is, but we can’t find…”
Faith had already turned around and was running back to the house. The group started moving with her. Lovey made her way back to the pool front desk and around the fence, and ran barefoot toward Faith in her swimsuit. The rest of us on bikes moved quickly. The others ran behind: Lucy, Will, Theresa, Stinky, Anthony. Everyone but Eddie.
“Hey, who’s this Hope? And just how often do you lose your grandma?” he yelled to us, laughing at himself.
The Chief stood alone.
We all took off without a plan
, moving quickly in our alarm. The Johnny Madlin thing was a few years behind us but never forgotten. Hope was too sensible to just take off without telling anyone. My own mind was racing as I rode. Where could she be? The three blocks back to our circle took forever, even on my bike. All I could think about was Hope.
As everyone rounded the corner near the green house, I slowed down. My heart pounding and a full bottle of TaB swishing around in my gut, I threw my bike down on the lawn of Wicker Witch and, without a second thought, ran quickly through the yard by the side of her house, taking a route I had never taken to the creek. I doubt if anyone on Maple Crest had ever taken this route. We didn’t even consider it growing up. During the days when we were allowed to play down there, we’d always walked between the Morrow and Mangiamelli houses.
From the back edge of the Wicker yard, I jumped into the weeded area that quickly turned into a steep hill and took me down to the area where we built forts and played Capture the Flag. Hope might have gone there to look for Grandma. Everything was overgrown. I fell twice but recovered quickly as I made my way down to the area where we had spent most of our creek-playing days. Nothing looked familiar to me.
About halfway down, I stepped on something that, with a quick glance, looked like the leg of a GI Joe. I kept moving. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been on this steep, bumpy hill, creeping and twisting down to the wooded creek. The ground beneath me began to level off, and I found my bearings, adjusting my internal compass.
I was now looking at the area I knew so well from a completely new viewpoint. I could see, through the overgrown trees, the dark area protecting the creek. The trees told the time. I recognized a few trees that had unique marks or trunks. They were so much bigger and wider, providing more shade than I ever remembered. My heart pounded as I stood on the forbidden ground, squinting as my eyes adjusted from the bright, sunny day to the darker woods.
Vanity Insanity Page 8
