
		    WITCH

     (c) Copyright 1993 by Franchot Lewis


	 The banker warned that he would come the first thing in
     the morning. Miss. Bessie stood at the front window. Strips
     of sunlight lit her face. The sun forced some of its self
     through the cracks of the blinds at the front window. Miss.
     Bessie had drawn the cord tight, to shut out the outside.
     She didn't want to see this morning. The sun, in persistent
     defiance, tweeted her nose with its thumb, spilled its warm
     light on to her eye glasses, and caught her making the first
     sign of softening her frown. She brought back her deep
     frown as she saw the approaching banker. She mumbled, "true
     to his word."
	 The time was barely passed eight thirty, and the tall,
     nearly bald man, who walked like his engines were at full
     throttle, came quickly up the front steps, and knocked harshly
     on Miss. Bessie's door.
	 Miss. Bessie opened the door, slowly.  She glanced at
     the banker's transparent smile, and looked away from his light
     brown eyes. She knew that her black eyes were filled with
     liquid that captured some of the pain of her past sad days.
     She was an old lady, and like an old lady she has played the
     game old ladies play with their liquid eyes to get more days
     from bill collectors, foreclosure people and bankers. She has
     gotten more days, further and further extensions of time.
     She has been a mama cat playing with the young and little
     kittens the bank sent to get her to vacate her house. She
     clipped the young ones claws with her liquid eyes. But, this
     old banker who has come was no kitten. Miss Bessie considered
     him a rat. A big, old rat.
	 "Ma'am," the banker said, "You are still here."
	 "I'm waiting for my niece to move me," Miss. Bessie
     answered, speaking very humbly. "Her husband, as you know,
     broke his leg, and she has no body to help her."
	 "Ma'am, we've been through this."
	 "Please, bear with me. Please."
	 "Why is it, talking to you is like playing ping pong?
     This back and forth? Ma'am, if you don't get out, the
     Sheriff is going to move you, and who needs that? He'll
     move your stuff into the street."
	 Liquid overwhelmed Miss. Bessie's eyes. A tear dropped
     from the left corner of her left eye, every few seconds
     until she found a linen hankerchief in her apron and
     wiped the liquid away. While she did this the tall banker
     mumbled something about being exposed to every trick in the
     book, then he peered over Miss. Bessie's head to look into
     the house. "I need to check the house," he said.
	  "Oh, can't you come back?"
	  "The Sheriff is coming, tomorrow, " he said. "I'm
     going to check the house."
	   "Come in," she said. She stepped back from the door
     way. "But, be careful to step over the threshold."
	   "Why? Is the floor weak there, now?"
	   "You must please respect the spirits of this household
     that lie on guard at the threshold," answered Miss. Bessie.
	   "Brother," mumbled the banker. He looked wary of Miss.
     Bessie's eccentricities, and was determined not to be put off
     by her old lady tricks. He entered the house, boldly,
     purposefully planting both his feet down on the threshold
     and lingering to make his point. Miss. Bessie gasped as if
     she had been poked in the stomach.
	  "Oh, dear," she said. "Oh, dear."
	  The banker stepped into the house and felt a bright
     pain on his left leg, like something was digging there with
     a tiny piercing pick. He shook his leg and screeched, "What?"
     He grabbed the leg, and now felt something crawling up his
     leg. He swashed it in the leg of his pants and shook it loose.
     A roach had crawled up his pant leg. "You've got cockroaches!"
     he snarled, showing Miss. Bessie the whites of his eyes.
     Miss. Bessie was silent, but he heard a whisper in his ear.
     "You say something?"  He heard a buzz. "The last rude person
     who entered here."
	 "What you say, ma'am?"
	 "Nothing."
	 She walked away from him. She went into the next room.
     He followed. He looked around. He saw no sign that she has
     been packing. The house looked as though the occupant planned
     to remain a long time.  He asked, "What are you doing?"
	 She answered, "Chasing away shadows."
	 "I mean," he said, "You are not packed."
	 "My family built this house in 1867."
	 "Yeah, it is an old house, too much wood, not brick. No
     brick is going to be harder to resell."
	 "My father put in the bath rooms, and the asphalt roof."
	 "Ma'am, the house belongs to the bank."
	 " A few years back, the roof leaked up stairs in my
     father's old room. The plaster came down. My niece's husband
     came and fixed it. He painted over the ceiling, and he
     painted over the walls, over the pretty wall paper my
     mother had picked out, in the second year of her marriage
     to my father. Pretty wall paper with roses. They said my mama
     loved it. My father had been dead three years when my
     niece's husband painted the wall paper. I awoke one
     morning, heard a sound in his old room.  I've lived here
     alone since he died, and I felt there was an intruder in
     the house. Still, I went into his room. I was drawn. And
     there was my father standing at the wall. 'Where are your
     mother's roses?' he asked. "Wiped off,' I said. He told me
     to bring them back. I said I would and he left -"
	 "Vanished in thin air?" the banker remarked.
	 Miss. Bessie answered, "Yes."
	 "Ma'am, I'm sorry for your personal difficulty. This
     is not pleasant for me. The fact is that you co-signed
     a loan for your niece and used your family's home for
     collateral."
	 Miss. Bessie began to sob, "Mistake, mistake."
	 The banker nodded.
	 "Don't let anyone know I've lost my house. I would be
     too ashamed. Let them think I've sold it."
	  "No problem."
	  "What would the ladies at church think?  I'm to be
     evicted, put out in the cold on a rainy day."
	  "Rain day?" mumbled the banker. "It is going to be
     sunny all day tomorrow."
	   "My bunion says it's gonna pour down and rain."
	   "The problem is not mine, you could leave today on your
     own."
	   Miss. Bessie stopped sobbing, wiped her tears. "It
     has been a long time since I've walked the floor all night,
     and I've wished I had been born a man with a man's strength.
     I would not have allowed you in here."
	  Miss. Bessie raised her voice and gestured with a
     dramatic stare. She gave a grunt like she had lifted a
     weight. A light seemed to swirl in her black eyes, like a
     fire flash spinning in the sky at dusk. The banker returned
     a blank stare, like her sharp looks had no effect. Usually,
     persons hit by her hard stare curled up into a furry-like
     ball and dropped to the floor like a kitten and had no will
     at all. The banker stayed on his feet, clenched his fist
     and she began to sort of vibrate. Nothing like this has ever
     happened before, but somehow she could relate to it - perhaps
     because it was the way it had been with her father. He'd
     been the one in control of every situation, and his powers
     left her witch-like powers behind. Her father spirit warned
     that this banker wouldn't be easily put off.
	 " Stop, " she begged. "Stop."
	  The banker replaced the blank stare with a sweet look
     of delight, and she felt a sheet of ice nettled on the
     thumping, bleeding muscle that was her heart. She stumbled,
     fell. Icicles were now in her black eyes.
	 She mumbled, "What kind of man are you?"
	 He leaned over, watched her breathing heavily, resting
    her head against the couch. "A banker," he said.
	"I'm dying."
	"I know."
	She groaned and shook, as if from a terrible jolt of pain.
	He said, " I can see how your nephew-in-law got his leg
     broke. Most men would be dead after exposure to witchcraft
     like yours, but it is you with ice sheeting your heart. But,
     it is better this way. You could not live outside this house,
     and the bank could not live with the publicity of kicking out
     an old lady like yourself."
       "But who are?"
       "A banker. Ma'am, bankers know witchcraft too."

       END

     (c) Copyright 1993, by Franchot Lewis. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.


