
My cousin Jeff crouched down, pressed his ear to the sidewalk like an Indian in a Western movie, and listened for the thud-thud-thud of Miz Wilkes and the creak-scrape-creak of Miz Hicks. I sat in the prickly grass, in the shade of Grandma Estelle's magnolia, watching Jeff's flushed, freckled face, scratching the chigger welts on my legs. Aunt Sue lived in the country, and Grandma Estelle lived in town. During my Arkansas summer, Jeff and I split our time between them. The country had terrapin to tease, and water moccasins to harrow us, to dare us and set our hearts pounding. Town had Elephant and Cane.
Elephant and Cane didn't go to church. They never visited, either, or let anybody visit them. Graying paint peeled from their old house, and their yard was full of weeds and pecan hulls and rotting, worm-holed crab apples. Aunt Sue said they hadn't even opened their tacky blinds in years.
"Lord knows, I've done my best to convince them they don't need to be alone," Grandma Estelle said that morning, when Aunt Sue dropped us off. "But they're proud, private ladies, and they don't want anybody chipping away at their independence, even if it means letting that house fall apart around them."
"I've always said that house was too big for a couple of old maids," Aunt Sue replied. "I expect the college will buy it and turn it into a fraternity house, once they die."
"Yes," said Grandma Estelle dryly. "I expect they will."
Aunt Sue shivered. "It's spooky, thinking of two old maids holed up in that house all their lives. I'd bet you money they're a couple of"
"Jeff, Peggy, you just scoot out of here!" Grandma Estelle said, sharply interrupting Aunt Sue (something only grown-ups were allowed to do). She did this every time Aunt Sue tried to talk about the divorce and what Uncle Boss had done to deserve it. Used to it, we scooted; once we were outside, Jeff grabbed my arm and whispered, "I knew it!"
I tugged my arm free. "Knew what?"
"They're witches!"
"Who is?"