To Dance With the Bogeyman

by Nancy Widrew

“Good morning, sweetheart. How’s our birthday girl?”

I scamper down the stairs of the farmhouse, eager for the day to begin. My mother stands at the bottom landing, arms open, waiting for my hug. My father, directly behind her, smiles. We had taken the train to Liberty, New York the day before, just as we do every summer. I had been looking forward to two weeks of endless days of tumbling in the grass with my three cousins who live on the farm. My sister, Ellen, eleven years to my seven, is an annoyance, but with the wide-open spaces of meadows and hills, I can avoid her kicks and name calling. My teenage brother, Warren, will be off doing his typical big-boy things; I know he won’t get in my way.

It isn’t a real working farm, even though there are sheep, goats, and chickens. The latter we eat, after my aunt beheads, plucks, and cooks them. The first time I remember this happening I was horrified, yet so fascinated that I was unable to turn away. I stared as the headless bird ran down the road before collapsing on its side, still twitching. Despite the spectacle, I had eaten the poor thing, anyway.

My parents and I make our way into the country kitchen where everyone is sitting around the table eating breakfast. My aunt is cooking pancakes in a cast-iron skillet. I can hear the oil sizzle. Even my maternal grandmother is here. She had arrived earlier in the summer to help with the kids while my aunt’s husband, an engineer, is away building a dam. Grandma’s name is Bertha, but I have always called her Happy Birthday. Today Happy Birthday will be celebrating a milestone in my short life. I give her a kiss before climbing into the chair next to her.

A stack of pancakes is placed in front of me. This unexpected treat has blueberries mixed in the batter, which grow on the hillside above the farm. On top is a dollop of fresh whipped cream. “For Linda’s special day,” says my aunt. “How does it feel to be seven?”

“Like a big girl,” I say, smiling with the joy of new beginnings.

“You’re still a big baby,” says Ellen.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

We stick out our tongues, make faces, before dissolving in giggles. Mommy and Daddy just shake their heads.

I am the last to finish the pancakes, even though I can only manage two. My mother starts collecting the dishes. “Remember,” she says to all the children, “the party begins right after lunch. Don’t wander off and disappear so we have to come look for you.”

No chance of that for me, I think. “Will there be yellow cake with chocolate frosting? The question is rhetorical, but from my seven-year-old perspective, a mix of innocence and rationality, I am programmed to ask it.

My mother smiles sweetly. “What do you think?”

I can tell from the way her smile says I love you what the answer is, but when I ask about my presents, she puts a finger across her mouth. I’ll have to wait for that.

“Let’s not forget to mention the goats,” says my father.

My head tips to the side, and my eyes scrunch up in confusion.

He taps his leg to beckon me over, and I climb onto his knees. “Gladys gave birth last winter. She had two kids—twins. Since it’s your birthday, Aunt June says you get to name them.”

While I don’t like goats as much as sheep, I know this is an honor. Wait till I tell Ellen. Immediately, I jump up and down in his lap, my excitement too much to hold back. “Hey, slow down,” says my father. “You’re a frisky one today.”

I run outside and look for my bratty sister. She is not on the swings, one of her favorite places. I check in the barn with its organic smell of moist hay and manure. No one there. I drum my fingers across my mouth. Then it comes to me. I know where she is. It’s the only other place she could be: Tumble-Down Hill.

Squinting my eyes from the sun, I see my sister, off in the distance. Her golden hair is a distinctive feature, and I zero in on it as I jealously run my fingers through my mousy-brown strands. I see my brother near her doing cartwheels. He’s the oldest of all the children, and the others are trying to imitate him.

I hurry along, gliding among the animals that are nibbling on grass and leafy shrubs. I suspect my twins are among the flock, but all goats look the same to me. Daddy says we’ll have the naming ceremony after my party, at which time I’ll be properly introduced to my “kids.”

“Guess what?” I say to my sister, my breath still catching up to the rest of my body. “I get to name Gladys’s babies. Aunt June said so.”

“Big deal,” says Ellen, although her frown makes it clear it is.

“Want to roll down the hill?” I ask. I already know the answer. That’s why we are all here, and it’s my sister’s favorite farm activity as well as my own. Tumble-Down Hill is below the farm, unlike the blueberry patch above. It’s not a big hill, if you don’t count the descent below the plateau where we are not allowed to play. The second part of the hill leads to another farm. The pitch there is much steeper, and someone once broke an ankle trying to roll down. He only made it halfway when he had to return by crawling back on his hands and knees.

Then there’s the tale of the boy who made it all the way down and was never seen again. While everyone knows that’s just a make-believe story, it scares me just the same. Of more significance is the problem between my relatives and the couple who own the land below. Something about the property line. My aunt says they are not nice people, and we should stay away.

I’m told the bad neighbors have a real working farm, but their fields are far in the distance so that when they’re out working they appear no bigger than my brother’s toy soldiers. Once I saw a woman hanging up laundry. She was closer, next to the house. I waved, but she didn’t wave back. Maybe she didn’t see me, but probably she’s a meany, just like my aunt says.

Ellen and I take the plunge. It’s always a race to see who can get to the plateau first. She usually wins because she’s bigger. I don’t care because I know how to get even. When she says, “The last one there is a rotten egg,” I respond with, “The first one has to eat it.”

Now all the kids are tumbling together, and we arrive at the bottom in a pile, sort of like the pancakes we ate for breakfast. I notice I have cut myself. My left elbow is bleeding, and it starts to burn. I spit into my right hand to wash it off, but Ellen says not to. I should go back to the house and have Mom clean it before I get a “fection.” I don’t want to leave, but I know I’ll be back after lunch because I have something incredible planned. But I’m not telling anyone. It’s a secret.

At the farmhouse, Mommy cleans my wound with peroxide, which hurts and makes me scream, then applies a bandage. “You must be more careful,” she admonishes me. “I worry about you.” I promise her I won’t do anything reckless, although I know it’s a fib. I have my secret plan, but since I’m still toying with it—vacillating—maybe it’s not a lie, after all.

Mommy tells me there is a surprise for me in my room, and I zoom up the steps. Lying across the bed are the birthday clothes Mommy made on our Singer sewing machine back home in the Bronx. I had watched as she cut out the material and sewed the pieces together. The dress is green, my favorite color. Best of all, it has a matching pinafore, a sleeveless garment that resembles an apron. I exchange my shorts and top for my party outfit, then spin around so fast that my dress flares in an illusion of concentric circles. I’m thrilled with my present, yet feelings of guilt gnaw at my conscience. I want to be a good girl, to please those I love and who love me. Is my secret plan a contradiction, a rebuff, or more likely childish defiance? Too quickly, I toss those thoughts aside, along with my dirty clothes, and rush downstairs, taking two steps at a time.

It’s noon and with the smell of cake fresh from the oven, grownups and children file into the kitchen. Everyone admires my dress. Everyone, that is, except Ellen, who gives me a dirty look. Since my party will begin right after lunch, we eat lightly, only soup and sandwiches.

Taking a bite of my balogna and cheese, I crunch down on something hard. I know immediately what it is since I had lost another only weeks before. “Look!” I say to everyone, holding up the small white tooth as if it were a treasure. With my tongue I feel the empty space in front of my lower mouth where it had been attached only seconds ago.

“Congratulations, Linda,” says Happy Birthday, bending down to kiss my cheek. “Now you’ll get a visit from the Tooth Fairy.”

This really is a special day, I tell myself, having no idea that special can mean unusual, and unusual can lead to dire consequences if we’re not careful. But being careful is the last thing on my mind.

After the dishes are piled in the sink, Auntie spreads out a pretty tablecloth and the cake arrives with the candles already lit. Everyone joins in a chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.” In my haste to get to the presents, I gobble down my slice and forget to make a wish after blowing out the candles.

The best presents are from my parents and aunt and uncle. A doll that actually walks and talks from Mommy and Daddy and a dollhouse which my uncle built himself. It even has furniture that came from a catalog. This is better than I could have imagined. My sister is jealous. Good! “You can play with my presents, too,” I tell her. To myself, I think, Only if you’re nice to me.

I’d rather take my toys into the living room and arrange the tiny furniture, but my father looks among the children. Laugh lines crease his face, and I know a joke is imminent. “Let’s find the goats before we lose one of you,” he says. With reluctance, I set my gifts aside for later. Then off we go to the field, grownups walking, boys running, girls skipping.

Aunt June points to a goat which looks exactly like the others. “That’s Gladys,” she says. I don’t know how she can tell one from the other. It must be a magic trick grownups have. Gladys’s two kids are nearby. They’re a little smaller. Both white with dirty rumps. One of the kids does number two, and everyone laughs as small dark pellets fall to the ground.

My mother puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “Have you decided on names?”

I haven’t given it any thought until this moment but immediately say, “Kathy,” which is the name of my best friend.

“That’s a dumb name,” says Ellen. “Besides how do you know it’s a girl?”

“Cause Aunt June told me this morning,” I say with a ha-ha tone of voice.

“What about the second kid?” says my brother.

I turn back to my sister. “You can name her. She’s also a girl.”

Ellen shuffles her feet, humbled by my proposal.. This offer was totally unplanned, and I have no idea why I made it. Ellen walks over to me and puts her arm around my waist, and I reach up and do the same to her. Now I’m glad I was so nice. She scrunches up her mouth to the right, crosses her arms, then raises an index finger along the left side of her face. “I’ll do what you did, Linda, and name her after my best friend, Carol. Is that okay?” she asks, suddenly shy.

I nod my head. “Kathy and Carol, best friends and sisters.” We look at each other lost in a rare sentimental moment, and even my mother is moved.

“That’s it,” says my father, abruptly ending the feeling of warmth which had passed between us. We are still arm in arm, but break apart when we hear the words, “Party’s over. You can all go back to doing whatever you want.”

What should I do? With a dose of good judgment, I resolve to forgo my secret plan, having concluded that it was a naughty idea; besides, I’d rather get back to my toys. But when I see the big kids heading off to Tumble-Down Hill, I pause and decide to tag along. I can always play house later.

Mommy says, “Just try not to tear your new clothes, Linda. And Ellen—you watch over your sister. Don’t let her do anything she shouldn’t.”

Ellen scowls at the responsibility, and any lingering feelings of affection are replaced with familiar resentment. “You better listen to me,” she says before we hurry off with the others.

My brother and cousins get to the hill first and are already rolling down when Ellen and I arrive. I don’t waste time and join in. The ground is covered in a blanket of grass, and my dress picks up blades of the downy felt, along with its earthy smell. As soon as I get to the plateau, I run back up and repeat the process. I can go on like this for hours, but Ellen is getting bored. “We have to go back to the house,” she says.

I suspect she wants to play with my toys, and I turn to her in defiance. “You can go back if you want. I’m not done yet.”

She grabs my arm and drags me forward. “Mommy says I have to watch you so you don’t scrape yourself like this morning. You’re only seven.”

I know that’s her catchword for calling me a baby, and I’m mad. “Let go,” I say, standing up for myself.

“You’d better listen to me,” she says right back.

Intuitively I know I’d better appease her if I want to get my way. “Let’s just roll down one more time. Then I’ll leave with you.”

“Okay,” she says, wagging a finger in my face to emphasize her authority. “But it better just be one more time.”

I fall to my side, cross my arms in front, and take off. What I love most is the feeling of complete freedom, letting go, and flying, flying, flying. The plateau comes too soon. All the other kids are still enjoying the afternoon. Why do I have to listen to my dumb sister?

I look down to the very bottom of the hill where none of us have ever been. A man is getting out of a car. I wave to him, and I’m surprised when he waves back. He’s holding something white. “Look,” I say to Ellen, who is already tugging on my arm. “He must be the mean neighbor Auntie was talking about.”

“Yeah,” says Ellen. “He’s probably the bogeyman.”

“That’s silly,” I say. “He waved to me.”

Ellen is getting impatient. “You’re such an idiot. He didn’t wave. He just wiped his face with a dirty old handkerchief.”

“He did so wave, and he’s not the bogeyman. Everyone knows the bogeyman lives under your bed.”

Now all the other kids are laughing at me, especially my sister. She doesn’t mince any words. “You’re a big baby, even if it is your birthday. Come on. We have to go.”

Up until that moment, I really had decided to forget my secret plan, obey my mother, and be more careful, but when Ellen once again yanks on my wrist, I instinctively pull back. Without thinking, I put her hand in my mouth and bite down hard. I am horrified at what I’ve done. How could I do such a thing? Mommy’s going to be so mad!

Ellen is as shocked as I am and starts to cry, but before she can retaliate, I fling myself down the hill toward the farm below. My last thought is, No one can tell me what to do. I’m a big girl. I begin to roll, but I can hear Ellen calling after me. Her voice is faint and trembly. “Come back, Linda. Please! They’re gonna kill me.”

At first, I tumble pleasantly enough at a steady rate. The puffy clouds above look pillow soft, and the earth embraces me with a warm cushion. I continue to turn round and round, filling my mind with happy thoughts. Gradually, however, I become aware that the grass is thinning out and turning stiff like toothpicks. My dress hoists up almost to my waist by my momentum, and I feel scraping sensations on my legs. The ruffle on my pinafore tears. Mommy’s going to yell at me. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I put my hands on the ground to try and stop my fall, but it has no effect.

I am rolling faster now, too fast, and am unable to get my bearings. This is no longer fun. “Ellen!” I cry. “Help me.” My hip strikes a rock with the force of a white-hot electric charge, like the time I stuck my finger into a bare socket. I know there’s going to be a purple bruise. Gravel kicks up and lodges in the back of my throat. I am in pain and having trouble breathing, but the fear is far worse. My bladder empties itself. I’m not a baby, I cry silently.

I see funny things—things from my past and things (can it be?) from my future. Goats become people, people become monsters. Everything dies and is reborn as something else. Buildings catch fire, collapse, and are rebuilt. I see colors, lines, amorphous shapes, taste things I’ve never tasted, and dance naked with abandon. The world is imploding, and I am plunging into a black hole. In a flash I realize I am going to die. There is no longer time to be afraid.

* * *

I am sitting up. They found me. I am hurt but alive. While I’m pretty sure it’s still afternoon, I can’t tell for certain because the drapes are tightly drawn and my vision is hazy. There is a cord running down the wall. Its end loops around a metal bar attached

to my bed. I can make out that it is connected to a switch from an overhead light. I don’t remember any of this. I reach over, pull the cord, and the light turns on. Now I can see better. My arm stops in midair. Something is strange. I look at my hand. It is larger, and, even more peculiar, the skin has changed. It has tiny cracks in it. They crisscross, sort of like the inside of Daddy’s leather wallet. I also notice blue, lumpy veins running directly into my fingers. I take my other hand, reach over, and pinch my skin. It hangs there for a moment before retracting. It’s old ladies’ skin, similar to the skin on Happy Birthday’s arm! “Dammit!” Where did I learn that word? Then I remember. My brother said it once, and Daddy boxed his ears. I think I also heard it at the moving picture theater, but all the movies I’ve seen are silent. Nevertheless, I know it’s a bad word. I’m ashamed.

A woman rises from a chair and comes up besides me. I am frightened because I don’t know her, but since she’s a grownup, I let her speak first. “We were worried about you, Mom,” she says. “Thank God you seem all right.”

We? Mom? I look at the lady. She seems nice enough. It’s hard for me to judge her age, but I’ll try. She looks old. I think she’s in her sixties.

“Carol, why don’t you give Mom her glasses,” says another woman. Through the fog, I can tell she is sitting on the end of my bed.

Even though I don’t wear glasses, the woman named Carol hands me a pair. Now I can see both of them clearly. They look alike. “Who are you?” I say.

The two ladies exchange concerned glances. “We’re you daughters, Mom,” says Carol. “Your twin daughters. Kathy and Carol. Don’t you know us?”

The lady on the bed named Kathy speaks. “Maybe she is more seriously hurt than we were told.”

“Where have I heard those names?” I say this out loud, even though it is really a thought. “I know. My goats. Carol and Kathy. The kids.”

The two ladies continue to look at each other. Now they seem worried, but I don’t care. I’m more worried than they are.

“I want my mommy!” I start to cry, then put my thumb in my mouth. I haven’t done that in years and take it out with a loud pop.

“Maybe we should get the nurse again,” says the Kathy lady. “They said she was okay, but I don’t know. Where did she ever get the strength to get out of her wheelchair, anyway?”

I’m about to cry again. This time I suspect it will be a torrent. I manage to whimper a, “W-What’s going on?” before my tears sting my eggshell-thin skin. Now I’m having trouble catching my breath, and the women, who I now realize are both crazy, rush over to me.

“Mom,” says Crazy Carol, “you fell out of your chair at your birthday party. Do you know where you are?”

I stop crying. Of course, I know. “I’m at the farmhouse. Where’s Ellen?”

The two crazy ladies look afraid. One speaks. “What farmhouse? You mean the one that burned in the fire? Your aunt and uncle rebuilt it and then sold it decades ago. You’re in a nursing home, Mom. It’s your birthday. Do you know how old you are?”

“Of course, I know. I’m seven. I’m a big girl.”

The Kathy lady frowns. “It’s your birthday, all right, but you’re not seven. You’re eighty-seven.”

I’m not sure what that means. That would be older than the Wicked Witch in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Mommy read me the book, and I covered my eyes when I saw the witch’s picture. She was scary.

“We bought you some new aprons for a present. Look. You’re wearing one. It’s green. You’re favorite color.”

I look down at my pinafore. It looks different. The tear in the ruffle is on the wrong side, but I notice grass across the top. I pick some off with my trembling fingers and show it to the crazy ladies.

“We wheeled you outside for a walk, Mom. The weather’s so nice, even if it’s a little breezy.”

I touch my elbow. The bandage is gone from this morning, but I can feel the rough edge of a scab forming. There is no point in mentioning this, nor the scratches I feel on my legs. I’m aware that my underwear is dry. Someone must have cleaned me up. Put on a fresh pair. My face feels hot with shame, but I force myself to speak. “Where’s Ellen?” I say again.

The crazy Kathy lady sucks in her lower lip. “Mom, you know what happened. Ellen died when she was still a child. They never found out who killed her.”

I scream loudly. “No. It can’t be! She was fine today. Mommy! Mommy!” My breathing becomes fast and shallow as I picture Ellen calling to me from the plateau. This is all my fault! I start to choke.

“Get the nurse!” says one of the crazy ladies as the other one flies out of the room. There’s something in the back of my throat, and I cough it up into my hand. It’s gravel from Tumble-Down Hill. The other lady comes back with a man I’ve never seen, and the choking sensation stops. I blink away fear, replace it with fortitude, and open my palm to show them the gravel.

“Looks like a filling,” says the man. He introduces himself. “My name’s Bart, Mrs. Hillyard. I’m going to be your nurse today.”

Who’s Mrs. Hillyard, dammit! There’s that nasty word again! What’s wrong with me? Then I have another thought. Nurses are female, and they wear white dresses with little caps on their heads. Why is he wearing something that looks like pajamas with happy faces all over it?

The strange man says, “It seems you may have lost another tooth.”

I run my tongue along my gums. The empty space from this morning hasn’t changed, but there are more spaces, both top and bottom.

A terrifying thought enters my mind. I lost a lot more than a tooth. I lost eighty years. Are we all crazy? While I’m thinking this the man says, “I better get a flashlight and look in her mouth.”

After he leaves the room, the two ladies continue to talk. Only now their voices are becoming fainter, and they begin moving upwards as if they are on some type of huge dumbwaiter.

I can barely see the crazy ladies, anymore. They are mere pinpoints which blink out to nonexistence when the male nurse returns. By now nothing seems odd, and the man doesn’t comment on their absence.

The nurse smiles. “Now open wide, Mrs. Hillyard.” He aims the flashlight at my mouth, but there’s no beam shining from its lens. It must be broken and no wonder. Where did he ever find such a tiny portable lamp? “Hmmm,” he says, shaking it like a hapless person kicks a tire. Turning the tube-shaped contraption sideways, he checks for the on switch. “Pushed it the wrong way,” he mutters. The light comes on and crosses the lower half of his face.

With everything working properly, he turns his attention to me once more, and his mouth pulls back in a satisfied grin. As he does small wrinkles appear above his upper lip, split open, revealing putrid black gums. I can smell their repulsive odor and gag. His white teeth begin to wiggle and turn into wormy-looking strings. I am horrified to the point of paralysis and am helpless to react, to scream. The worms become frenzied, aroused by some type of anticipation only they are aware of. They harden to cylindrical shapes, beyond my comprehension.

“M-Mommy,” I say helplessly, knowing there will be no help. I notice a clock on the far wall. I had learned to tell time in the first grade. The small hand is on the three. The big hand is almost at the half hour. Three thirty. Still afternoon. Where is everyone? The crazy ladies? Someone? Anyone? In a flash, I understand. This is the bogeyman, and I manage to let loose a piercing scream, the prehuman, primitive sound of a trapped creature doomed to being devoured alive.

The bogeyman notices my glance at the clock. “There’s no one here to help you, girly girl. Just me and my wife. We had a boy from your neighborhood years back. A naughty boy. Just like you, he didn’t listen to his parents and went tumbling down the hill. He wasn’t here very long; no one is. Right now my wife is busy hanging out the clothes. You’ll meet her soon enough.” His smile transforms into a snarl, and lost in a twisting noplace, I hear the hiss of oil heating on a stove. Wasn’t it just this morning that Auntie was cooking pancakes? Dear God! Please, save me!

Through splayed fingers, I watch as saliva pools in the corners of the bogeyman’s mouth. He begins to drool. His wormlike teeth take on a pink tinge as they become engorged with blood and grow sharp with the tips curling inward. He howls, a crude guttural sound. Without taking his eyes off me, he removes a dirty white hanky from his pocket, wipes his lips, and tucks it under his chin.

He leans closer and closer, and I can “see” my fear as if there is a third person in the room, watching. My heart quickens, skips one beat, then another, and I surrender to what I know must come. But instead a look of disbelief—shock—crosses the bogeyman’s face. His eyes bulge outward, his head hits the metal bar that runs across my bed, and blood trickles from his mouth. With a thud, he drops to the floor. I look over and see a knife sticking out of his back. A large knife. His body twitches so fiercely that my bed shimmies like a dancing flapper. He raises a clenched fist, a final challenge, before it drops to his now still body. “Thank You God,” I whisper, certain that this evil creature has gone to where he can’t hurt anyone again. Then I see a woman, the washerwoman, standing nearby. There’s blood on her clothes. His blood.

“You killed him,” I say gratefully. “You killed the bogeyman.”

She rubs her hands on her dress as if she is wiping off a foul substance. “Nasty man. Can’t remember what I ever saw in him.” She smiles at me, but it is not the malignant smile of the bogeyman but one of pity and remorse.

“We have to hurry,” she says as she helps me from my bed to the wheelchair, turning it so that we can both avoid the body. She wheels me from my room. I hear faint-sounding childlike voices in the hall, but they are more like echoes from a far-away, lost chasm, and I can’t make out the words. She leads me down a ramp. Instinctively I know where we are going.

We are at the foot of Tumble-Down Hill. “There are still hours of light before sunset,” she says. “If you begin now you may make it. You’ll have to crawl at first, but it will get easier the closer you get to the top. If—by the time you get there, you’ll be able to run, and all this—she gestures towards the nursing home which, from the outside, looks like a farmhouse again—will be less than nothing.”

“Is he gone forever?” I ask.

“This one is, but there’ll soon be another to take his place. There always is.”

“I’m afraid,” I say. “Don’t leave me!”

“I must get back to my washing. It never seems to end. Just remember—this is your special day.”

“But will I make it?”

The woman shrugs unknowingly, but with the hope of a child and the pragmatism of an adult, I understand that I must try, nonetheless.

After helping me to the ground, she reaches over and removes my glasses. “You won’t be needing these anymore.” She turns to go, hesitates, then looks back one last time.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Linda, and don’t forget to make a wish.”