At first she was simply an oddity, something for us to talk about--a diversion from the dullness of our still, small-town summer days. She sat alongside the road, just this side of the fence surrounding Jenkins' pasture. Tab, Jenkins old, broken-down Palomino seemed to take a liking to her and frequently stood guard over her section of the fence. Of course, he may just have been looking for a handout; she was surrounded by pumpkins, gourds, and various cages of all sizes. We used to ride by--very casually--trying to peer through the wire mesh of the cages, and then race back to our hideout to compare stories.

"It's a dog!"

"No way, man, a cat--I saw its claws!"

"What are you talking about; those were rats! I bet she's a witch."

"Yeah right, here in our town? Naw, she's just a crazy lady,"

We would deliberate for hours about her cages, her pumpkins, andwhy she was there.

The pumpkins started to rot, though, and she let her animals go. Joey found a whole litter of kittens underneath his barn, and after a while the crazy lady lost her novelty. I don't know how long she'd been gone before we finally noticed. We might never have, actually, except one day Shelley came barging into our hideout, breathless with news: the crazy lady was at the park. This was different. We stared at each other just long enough to assure ourselves this was bigger than the penny poker game we were playing, and scrambled for our bikes.

We must have formed an interesting parade: a rag-tag crew on rusty bikes, sun bleached hair flying, skin burnt and peeled and sunburnt again, sandals or thongs flapping. We rushed to the park to stand, bikes close at hand in case sudden escape were a necessity, clustered around the crazy lady.

The maintenance men had been working on the park all week, clipping trees and bushes, pulling weeds and planting flowers, and it was obvious to us what had happened to all their clippings. The crazy lady had made a bed out of them. A bed of sorts, at least. She didn't move at all, and with her eyes shut and her hands crossed in front of her I got the creepy feeling that--

"Is she dead?" Trini whispered my unspoken fear.

All eyes turned to Shelley, the news-bearer and thus the definitive authority on the subject. She hesitated, and we all turned, once again, to study the form in front of us.

"There's bugs crawlin' all over her," Joey observed. We shuddered in unison and nodded in mute agreement. Suddenly Benny yelped, "She's breathing!"

The shattered silence, coupled with the terrible realization that the crazy lady was alive, converted paralyzed fear into frantic action, and our bikes clattered and skidded as our skinned legs pumped furiously towards home.

That night our hideout was abuzz with theories. "Maybe she's tired and doesn't have anywhere to go," Trini proposed. Joey argued that maybe she wanted to die, and Shelley expounded an intricate theory that related to a far-out religion and meditation. I kind-of liked her explanation because it sounded so exotic and mysterious, but Benny was convinced she was a witch who slept all day and tortured people at night. We went round and round, alternately swayed by one explanation then another, arguing our points, and reveling in the mystery of it all until bedtime. Vowing complete silence, we agreed to meet the next morning for another venture to the park.

When we met again, we were prepared. Trini had her dad's binoculars. Joey brought a canteen and peanut butter sandwiches "in case we have to do a stake-out," and Shelley brought her big brother's walkie-talkies. We felt very official with them clipped to our jeans shorts, even if they didn't work much beyond three feet.

At some unspoken command, we all stopped at the edge of the park and hid our bikes in the ditch. As we neared the clearing our walk slowed. Her bed was still there. Would she still be there? Was she dead by now? What would we do if she said something or moved? Shelley crept forward and we bunched behind her, peering over a shoulder or around an elbow, craning to be the first to see.

Suddenly Shelley let out a big breath and strode forward. "She's not here." In frustration she kicked the pile of leaves, and the rest of us surged forward.

"Wait a minute! Don't destroy the evidence!" We halted in mid-step, confused by Joey's outburst. As we turned to look at him, he outlined his plan. Slowly smiles spread from face to face. Of course! This was a mystery, and it was our duty to solve it. A great responsibility had been laid on our shoulders. I whipped out my steno-pad, ever ready to be the recorder, and Trini proudly offered her binoculars.

"They're not meant for this exactly, but I think they might work. To look at things up close and stuff." Even Benny forgot his fear of "the witch" and seemed a little excited.

Slowly, and with extreme dignity, Joey doled out the responsibilities. Shelley started at one end of the bed and Benny at the other, painstakingly working their way inch-by-inch through the tangle of branches and leaves. Anything of interest they brought immediately to Trini, who carefully examined it with our improvised "microscope." Hovering over her shoulder, I dutifully recorded each find and noted each pronouncement. Joey strode masterfully back and forth, directing the proceedings with the authority of a professional.

Our big find that day was a half-eaten apple. Benny found it, and he reverently transported it to Trini's work station. We were sure it held the key to all our questions, but after examining it carefully, we reluctantly agreed that the crazy lady had just been hungry. Our find was relegated to the ever-growing pile of broken twigs, berry-stained leaves, and bits of lint. Undeterred, we continued our arduous examination that day, and the next. By the third day, however, the thrill of discovery had dimmed, the sun was hot, and the pond was calling. Besides, Shelley had caught poison oak from the "bed" and refused to touch it again. We abandoned our examination and ran to enjoy the rest of our summer.

I held on to my notes, though. Many nights I spent poring over my little notebook, searching for clues to unravel this mystery. I told no one, and hid my notes in a special place, high up where my sister couldn't reach. Periodically I pedaled back to the park to stand over that pile of leaves, pondering the meaning of it all. My mind created amazing stories, each more intricate than the last, but when reason pressed in upon my imagination, my castles in the clouds crumbled into the reality of small-town summers. It was my secret. I reveled in the status it lent me.

Fall came early that year. All too soon the falling leaves and cooler mornings signaled the imminent return of school. My dad had been raking leaves all afternoon when I came home from one final summer trip to the park. I found my sister, eyes closed and arms crossed, lying quietly in a bed of leaves. Flashes of my summer pounded through my head, and my brain scrambled for an explanation. How could she know? It was a perfect re-creation, even down to the half-eaten apple! Trying to be casual, I sauntered over and choked out,

"Watcha doin', Sara?"

Her eyes flew open and she giggled

"I'm Snow White, silly. Can't you tell? See--here's my poisoned apple. I'm waiting for my prince to come."

Snow White. Poisoned apple. Bed in the forest. My mind reeled through my pages of notes. As I raced back to the park, clues began to click. Maybe this was even related to her stint in front of Jenkins' farm. Hadn't Cinderella . . . .

I skidded to a stop in front by the decaying bed of leaves and stared at the mystery that had consumed my summer. Was that the whole explanation? A crazy lady trying to live a fairy tale? I knelt down and picked up the dried, withered core of an apple, our "major find" that had caused hours of intense speculation. Was it merely the pretense of a child's story? I raised my arm to hurl it into the forest--and stopped.

At the edge of the clearing, nearly hidden by trees and shadow, stood the crazy lady. Our eyes met and locked, and a slow smile spread from her eyes down across her whole face. In indecision I hesitated, then slowly joined her in a smile. She turned and walked away, and I carefully set down the apple core.

We called her the crazy lady, and she probably was. But maybe her reality was more than ours. She had added moments of magic and mystery to our summer, moments I would carry with me, treasured away, to draw out in the midst of a tedious discussion, a hectic traffic jam, a particularly frustrating relationship, when the monotony and reality of life needed just a touch of insanity.

--Molly Sloan (July 1997)
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