1969
Evening didn’t bring much relief from the heat. No air seemed to circulate. I straddled the banana seat of my lime green Schwinn Stingray, talking to Betsy and Susan. Betsy sat on the steps that led to the driveway, her elbows resting on her knees. She talked in a monotone about something unimportant, while Susan scratched her bug bites and I watched a parade of ants descend into a crack in the driveway. Our heads turned as we heard the distinct sound of a door open, the squeaky, high-pitched whoosh of air escaping from a narrow opening. The noise came from across the street. Our three pairs of eyes focused on Mrs. Ingalls’ house and her door that was slightly ajar.
“What’s she doing?” I asked.
“She’s just standing there staring at us,” replied Betsy.
What’s wrong with that woman? She’s mental,” said Susan, answering her own question.
“Wave at her, Betsy,” I taunted.
“Why don’t you?” she asked.
“I dare you to go over and stick your foot in her yard,” I challenged Betsy.
“Are you crazy?” she growled.
“I know, I know!” Susan interjected mischievously. “Let’s all wave at her, and, at the same time say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Ingalls.'”
“Okay, okay,” I said enthusiastically, I whispered. “At the count of three. Ready? One…Two…Three!”
“Hello, Mrs. Ingalls!” we yelled in unison, collapsing into fits of obnoxious laughter. The door to Mrs. Ingalls’ house slammed shut.
Mrs. Ingalls…how do you describe such a person? I guess you could say she was a recluse, a crab…a hater of children and other creatures of nature. Her wicked behavior matched her gruesome appearance. Her round shoulders and slightly hunched back rested on a thick, bulky frame. Her gait was that of a penguin shifting its weight from side to side. Raven hair, interspersed with web-like silver strands, engulfed her head. Her eyes peered out of slits in mounds of puffy flesh weighted down by her sagging jowls. Her mouth was a single thin line that ran from ear to ear.
Looking across the street to Mrs. Ingalls’ house, I was reminded of the story of Hansel and Gretel and the gingerbread house. Her meticulously neat cottage was adorned with colorful bouquets of begonias that etched the walkway, like sugar-coated gumdrops. Caramel-colored bricks were flecked with almond sprinkles that glistened in the remaining rays of the evening sun. The shutters, doors, and latticework, all in pale pink, frosted the house like a sinfully rich birthday cake. The house’s luscious appearance concealed the evil character that lurked behind those candy-coated walls, a woman so terrifying that kids would sacrifice and errant baseball before entering her yard to retrieve it.
I had witnessed Mrs. Ingalls swing a hatchet at my dog Sidney because he found her dogwood tree a desirable depositing spot. “Don’t you dare hurt my dog.” I had yelled, scared to death.
“If he comes into my yard again, he won’t be your dog no more. He won’t be nobody’s dog no more, ’cause he’s gonna be a dead dog!” she screeched.
Another time, I happened to look out my front door and saw old Mrs. Ingalls watering her yard in her slip. “You’re not going to believe this one!” I screamed to anyone listening. “Mrs. Ingalls is watering the grass in nothing but her underwear!”
You never knew what she would do next. Her favorite pastime was to pounce on unsuspecting children who just happened to be riding their bikes too close to her yard. With the eye of a vulture, she stared down our kickball games, forcing us to move to a safer location. Every child in that neighborhood, at one time or another, wanted to get even.
We were no exception on that steamy July evening. Restless energy, coupled with adolescent brains, became a recipe for poor judgement. I rode my bike around the driveway in tiny circles, trying to come up with something we could do. I got off my bike and kicked the stand into place. “C’mon guys,” I begged, “let’s do something. Anything.”
They looked at me blankly. I sighed and ran up the sidewalk. I spotted a smashed crabapple on the path, its pulpy remains staining the concrete. I peeled it off by the stem and said, “Anyone for hopscotch?” I began my make-believe game of hopscotch by gently tossing the crabapple a foot from where I stood. These little rock-hard rubies would faithfully burst forth on the tree each summer, along with our yard’s other natural wonder, our peach tree. Just outside my brother’s window stood our crabapple tree, its leaves the color of burgundy wine and its limbs abundant with crabapples, about half the size of cherries. But they sure didn’t taste like cherries. They were way too bitter to eat. In the center of the yard stood a thick, green, leafy peach tree, its great mass of foliage almost touching the ground from the weight of its golden blushed peaches. These gifts of nature provided plenty of ammo for any summer invasion, as well as ingredients for Mom’s homemade peach cobbler. These trees made us the envy of every kid in the neighborhood.
Susan and Betsy watched me play my game, balancing on one foot as I bent down to pick up the crabapple I had tossed on my pretend hopscotch square.
“That’s a stupid game, and you need to get chalk to outline the squares,” chided Betsy as she lifted herself up, wiping her hands on her shorts.
“No, I don’t. See. I can still do it,” I stretched my arms out, trying to balance myself on one foot.
“That’s dumb!” said Susan.
“Oh really? I suppose you have a better idea,” I snarled.
“Yeah!” she laughed as she picked up a peach that had fallen from the tree and hurled it at my head. I tried to dodge it, but I wasn’t fast enough. The sloppy peach planted its signature on the front of my favorite blue blouse.
“Oh, just you wait!” I screamed, ripping fistfuls of crabapples and zinging them at her like a Gatling gun.
“Betcha can’t reach me!” Betsy shrieked as she stuck out her tongue and darted into the street.
“Watch me,” I said defiantly, now sprinting to the other side of the yard and grabbing a mushy peach. I let it fly, missing my intended target. I heard the soft whumpf of the peach as it hit Miss Ingalls’ lamppost.
“Oh, shit! She’s gonna be mad! Oh, my God! I dare you to do it again!” Betsy challenged.
A smile crept onto my face. All those times that mean old lady caused us grief, I thought. It’s payback time, and well, why the Hell not!
“I will if you guys will,” I said with a maniacal smile.
And, with that, the battle commenced, with me in the unusual role of chief instigator. I seldom organized or joined such pranks. I was almost the direct opposite of my older sister Allison, whose middle name could have been “trouble” because of all the mischief she created. Yet, here I was, leading the charge. Never was revenge so sweet, or so short-lived.
Before long, Betsy, Susan, and I were fearless comrades, launching a pre-dusk attack on the enemy and having a great time reducing the weight of both trees. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized our sweet revenge was not only very, very, stupid, but came with a cost.
“Sally, Allison, would you two come down here a moment?” My dad’s gentle voice called from the bottom of the stairs.
“What now?” yelled Allison from her bedroom.
I hopped off my bed and made my way down the hallway. Allison and I reached the top of the stairs at the same time. We peered down the steps, hoping Dad’s face might give us a clue as to what he wanted.
“Down here,” he said again, pointing to a small spot right in front of him.
“This can’t be good,” I whispered to Allison.
Dad was wearing his old, faded maroon robe and scuffed house shoes, the heals worn down from his morning ritual of retrieving the newspaper. The paper was tucked under his arm. The way his silver-framed glasses were balanced on his nose always served as a barometer of his temperament; the lower the glasses, the higher the blood pressure. And those babies were hanging off the edge of that beak.
“Ladies,” he began, sounding like an attorney about to question a witness, “I went out this morning to get the newspaper when I was ensnared in the web of our illustrious widow across the street. Her yard resembles blitzkrieg at dawn. Would one of you like to shed some light on this for me?”
My chin dropped to my chest. I might as well have been wearing a neon sign flashing, GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY!
“Not this one,” Allison bellowed. “No one’s going to pin this one on me! I wasn’t even home last night. You can ask Mom. Go on, ask her!”
“I don’t think that ‘s going to be necessary,” my dad said, looking straight at me. “Sally, do you have something you want to tell me?”
“It wasn’t me alone!” I blurted out.
“I don’t believe it!” my sister gasped. “Little Goody Two Shoes did it? Wait until I tell…” She never finished the sentence because my father silenced her with a gesture directing her to leave the room.
Tongue-tied, I stammered as I tried to stop myself from ratting on my two very best friends. “I, I did it,” was my only reply.
“You and who else?” he asked.
“I can’t tell you,” I whimpered.
“You know Sally,” he said, “investigative reporting is not my expertise, but I think I can solve this fairly quickly.”
“If I get them to help me clean up the mess, would you have to tell their parents?”
“I’ve always known you to use good judgement. Everyone’s gong to make a mistake now and then. I’ll trust you on this one. But I want it cleaned up today!” he said firmly.
“Yes,” I replied as I started back up the stairs.
“And Sally, a verbal apology to Mrs. Ingalls.”
“What?” I said with complete disbelief. “You mean to go up to her face-to-face and say I’m sorry? You’re not serious?” It was like being sentenced to face the firing squad.
“I know you can do it,” Dad replied as he strolled out of the living room.
“After the necessary phone calls, I collected a mop, a bucket, a pair of rubber gloves, a scrub brush, and the paper sacks needed for the job. I waited for my friends on my front stoop. Betsy showed up first.
“Where’s Susan?” she asked.
“She’s coming.”
Betsy sat on the grass and began picking clovers, tying them together into a necklace. It reminded me of the Charles Dickens character Jacob Marley, who’s evil deeds added links to the heavy chain he carried for eternity. Susan came into view on her bicycle, and Betsy and I watched as she eased the bike into the driveway.
“Well, let’s get this over with,” I said.
We picked up the cleaning paraphernalia and headed toward the gingerbread house, stopping just short of enemy lines to scout out the target. The coast was clear. “Let’s go!” I commanded my troops.
We entered cautiously, stepping around smashed peaches, as if they were exposed land mines. “Gosh, we kind of made a mess, didn’t we? mused Betsy.
“You might say that,” I replied.
I headed up the sidewalk toward the front door, my heart in my throat and the roof of my mouth bone dry. “What am I going to say to her?” I asked. “Guys…guys?” Turning around, I discovered that Betsy and Susan had stopped dead in their tracks, several feet behind me. “Come on, you guys. You gotta help me.”
“You never said we had to go to the door,” Susan said with trepidation.
“Well, how are we going to apologize if we don’t go to the door?” I implored in a painful whisper.
“I’m not going,” Susan said.
“Me neither,” Betsy joined in.
“Okay, you big chickens, I’ll do it myself,” I said, mustering up as much courage as I could. Each step was difficult. I wanted to turn and run, but I kept seeing my dad’s face and hearing his words. I know you can do it.
Inhaling deep, I rang the doorbell. It seemed like forever before there was movement on the other side. Fear gripped me. I would soon come face-to-face with the witch. The door opened.
“What do you want?” she hissed.
“Mrs. Ingalls,” I stuttered, “m-m-m-my dad said I was to say I was sorry for what we did, and that we’re here to clean up the mess.
“You bet you’re going to clean this up, and I don’t want ONE peach left in the yard when you’re finished. If it’s not done right, I’m coming after you. Do I make myself clear?” She sounded as wicked as anything conjured up in make believe. “You tell your friends back there, too! I mean it, I’m comin’ after all of you!” And, with that, she slammed the door.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said to a closed door.
We organized our cleanup. Since I had the only pair of rubber gloves, I was the peach gatherer. I scooped up the soggy fruit bombs and plopped them into the bucket. Betsy and Susan picked up all the crabapples, even those that landed on Mrs. Ingalls’ front-porch. When we finished, we walked to the edge of the yard. There we stood with the peach-filled bucket and paper sacks of crabapples, surveying our work. We looked at each other and silently nodded our approval. No yard ever looked cleaner.
A few days later, I was assigned the chore of picking up the peaches that had fallen from our tree. As I worked, I found myself constantly looking across the street to the gingerbread house. I gazed up at the fruit that still dangled from the tree branches. I stopped working, fetched a clean paper sack from inside, and began searching for the best peaches left on the tree. When the sack was about three-quarters full, I closed it up and walked to the edge of Mrs. Ingalls’ driveway. I tiptoed to squint through her garage window, and I could see her car was there. I made my way up the walk. I stopped about three feet away and leaned in to ring the doorbell. I waited, no answer. I rang the bell again, my hands slick with nerves. Still no answer. I finally gave up, left the sack on the front porch and returned to my job.
A couple of days passed, and the bag remained on her front porch. No one had seen her peering through her drapes or pruning her shrubs. It was then that Mr. Crawford, the neighbor who lived in the house directly behind her, went to check on her. He rang and knocked several times. When she didn’t answer, concern replaced curiosity, so he climbed through an unlocked window in the back of the house and found her dead in bed. She had apparently died in her sleep.
Neighbors congregated near her driveway. They were talking about how sad it was that she had died alone. But all I could think about were her last words to me. I don’t want ONE peach left in this yard…
I walked over to her porch, picked up the peaches, and delivered them home.
If you liked what you read here, please consider buying my book for yourself or as a gift! And if you are even more compelled, please leave a review.
