A Novella in installments, tracing the intermingling autobiographies of a boy and a violin, spanning over a century. The previous episode is right here. To find any episode, look here.

(The protagonist posing with some old friends.)

(4) – Baby Tomatoes in the Witch Cottage, rural NJ, 1961

Being 8, I ignored the dreaded date until Thursday morning. It was summer and the world was fun. But around lunchtime on a bike ride to Maxie’s Candy Store across the white bridge, I told Richie and Tom about the whole incident with Mrs. Markey. They couldn’t believe their ears. One of them said I shouldn’t go, pretend sick, and the other said I probably had to go. A date and all, and with a grandmother adult type, plus she was for real, pretty much, a witch, and who knows what she would do if I skipped out on her. There was also plenty of making fun of me, telling me how handsome I was, and “been nice to know ya” sort of stuff. But after some Sweet Tarts, chocolate Necco Wafers, and Jujubees, and a bracing ride back home up the hill, all that was forgotten. I was soon on my own, the hour approaching.

The only thing I could think of by way of getting ready for a date was to brush my teeth — so I did that twice. I also made sure my sneaker laces were tied, usually about a fifty-fifty thing with me. And I quietly slipped out the door and began walking down the block, trying to appear as normal as ever. I knew I couldn’t bring my bike cause other kids might go by and recognize it out front of her house. Luckily I came upon nobody who knew me.

When I got to Mrs. Markey’s pathway I stopped a second. She lived right next door to Timmy and Mikey’s house and they had a big long backyard — good for playing touch football in. A long fence seperated the witch’s backyard from my friends’ but you could see over it. What one could see was mysterious — some said spooky. But I thought it maybe a little closer to fascinating, though of course would never openly say so.

For example, instead of the usual long rectangle of grass I was accustomed to, the Markey terrain had lots of odd bushes, trees, curving paths, and tons of flowers. There was also a fountain partly visible towards the rear, and birds went into it. Also, I could see about four or five — one couldn’t take a long enough moment to accurately count them without arousing mockery — birdhouses of odd shapes and colors. They were obviously handmade, not from stores. The house itself was mostly yellow, but lots of little window sills and nooks and crannies were painted a different color. The pathway in front of me was itself curved, not straight, though I could see the porch and doorway directly in front of me. I realized I could not wait there long. Too big a risk Timmy or Mikey would come out and see me. So I walked the path to her entrance and pressed a round red doorbell, whispering an Our Father, though I wasn’t really religious. A carved wooden porcupine stood next to the thick straw welcome mat before her doorstep.

The doorbell, which made a chime note instead of a buzz, began to move away from me as I watched it, and I realized the door was opening. There was Mrs. Markey, without a plaid jacket, a completely new look for her. “Good Evening young man, and right on time! What is your name, incidentally? And come we must hurry — it will soon be too late in the evening.” With that flurry she took my arm and twirled me round leading me back to a path curling along the side of her house to the backyard. Luckily, it was on the opposite side from my friend’s house, which had upstairs windows. “Uh, Kaden”, I answered subserviently. She paused and looked at me as though trying to place the name geographically or culturally or something. Meanwhile I was taking in the bewildering and intriguing array of objects my eyes met on the short walk to her backyard.

She led me past a nice stone water fountain, where she said birds would often come for sips of water, around a large round bush to an area with dug out dark soil where cucumbers and red peppers were growing on plants. And off to the corner were three shorter plants bearing the baby tomatoes from two nights passed. It was very cool to see these things growing in the earth as opposed to sitting in the supermarket produce aisle. Each plant was tied to a thin stick with green yarn. I noticed her watching my reaction, and then she took a black plastic round container and a hand shovel and dug one of the baby tomato plants, roots and tomatoes and all, out of the ground and placed it into the container and tamped the soil down. Quickly, like she’d done it many times before. “Here you go, Kaden. It is yours now. Meaning your responsibility.” Her voice sharpened a bit at this. “Take it home and plant it in your backyard, and water it twice a week except if it rains. Ask your father for help, since he seems to know how to care for roses.”

On the way back she told me how I should go home soon and place it in my room till morning since it was cool out and they would like it better getting planted in the morning. But first — she stressed this — I had to come inside a minute and try some of the tomatoes with tea. There seemed in her world to be no civilized reason that this could be avoided or even discussed. So, in we were, before I knew it. An impossible to digest array of objects filled the walls and the living room. One, I was told, was a floor loom for making scarves and tablecloths. One wall was covered with Mexican-looking bowls of every color. A painting sat half completed on one of those artist easel things. Before I could gawk and explore, I was seated in the small kitchen, and a dish was prepared for me containing a few chopped baby tomatoes, green scallions cut, and some parsley, with oil and vinegar. This was delicious! I wondered why my family’s salads never tasted this good.

“These baby tomatoes taste great!” I offered. “Everything on your plate is from the garden, young man.” She seemed to offer this as an explanation. “And they are called cherry tomatoes, incidentally. Because they’re as big as cherries. You know cherries, right?” And without waiting for an answer, she dashed to her fridge and pulled out two perfect ripe cherries and added them to my tiny feast. The tea was also unusual. No milk in it, and it had a cinnamon kind of flavor. I thanked her for everything and looked up at one of her darkwood cupboards. It had a glass door you could see through. Inside it, standing upright, was a fancy looking violin. It had little white jewelry sort of things decorating its edges. I had never seen a musical instrument in a kitchen cupboard before and for some reason could not stop staring at it. The cupboard compartment seemed almost like made for it.

“That was Iain’s, my husband’s, God rest his soul. He passed two years ago.” Her voice and eyes, talking about death, felt so accepting and matter-of-fact to me. I did not know how to talk about death with old people, and so said nothing. She watched me and then rescued me. “He used to play it quite a bit, and I don’t have the heart to get rid of it.” Pause. “Do you play any instruments?” I shook my head no, almost like denying I did something wrong and then found myself staring at it again. “Well, you are quite young. Plenty of time for undreamt of hobbies for you, young man.” She grinned, and seemed to know many things. “And now, Kaden, I have to get moving. I have chorus practice at a friend’s house across town, and have to get ready.”

Everything around Mrs. Markey happened quickly and most efficiently, and soon as I could barely think of it, I was ushered out and walking down the street to my house, tomato plant gift in hand. The evening had darkened and fall was in the air. And no friends observed my departure. I never ever told any of my friends this, but I actually thought Mrs. Markey was — interesting.

_______RS

NOTE: The next episode, if it exists yet, is right here. To find any episode, look here.

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