The Hex
In looking back at childhood, many moments are lost, and many seem blurry through a distant lens of time. People go in and out of focus, some events are remembered in puzzle pieces, needing more time before the image takes shape into something we recognize as truth….once upon a time.
I remember the bully of the neighborhood. She was a year older than me, and her sister, a year younger, was my best friend. Diane D, as we called her, to differentiate her from Diane V, myself at that time. My grandfather called her ‘the hex’, and believed she was a witch of a girl. Diane D made my life miserable, her sister Joanne’s life a living hell.
Diane D liked to break other people’s things, the newer, the better. She also liked to pull hair, bend fingers back, and make rubber-band sling shots to shoot paperclips, right into your chest. Highlights of our years together were too numerous to recount on the page, but some I still remember vividly.
I had a drink-and-wet doll I named Suzanne. She was a present from a relative, her pink satin clothes and bonnet, a matching set. She came with a regular bottle that you filled with water, ‘fed’ to your baby, and her diaper would get wet and need to be changed. She also came with a ‘magic bottle’, one plastic side looked like she was drinking milk, the other, orange juice. Diane D proposed the idea that Suzanne could not only wet her diaper, but poop in it as well. She borrowed the doll one day, pushed it to her house in the toy stroller, and later returned with a buck-toothed grin. As she handed Suzanne back to me, the smell was awful. Diane D had dipped the doll’s bottom in dog excrement. She demurely stated that Suzanne ‘had to go’, and since I was the mom I had to clean her up. Diane D delighted as I hand-scrubbed the pink satin outfit in ivory soap and water, followed by Tide detergent, followed by Oxydol. Although it was better, she still stunk. Since she slept in her bassinet on my dresser, and I shared the bedroom with my mother, I tried to disguise the stench. First, I tried Glade Lilac air freshener, but it only made it worse. Later, I sprayed Suzanne with my mother’s Emeraude cologne spray until she was moist with perfume scent. At last, success, even though it required weekly re-dousing of Emeraude, and laying the doll in the sunniest window sill.
Another time Diane D told me she had a magic trick. She produced an empty roll from Handi-Wrap plastic wrap, and told me to run my finger as fast as I could over the silver stripe on the box. I did as told, and cut my finger on the sharp razor strip. It bled so badly, I cried so loudly, my grandfather came running out after her, yelling “Gottdam hex, Gottdam hex, I warn you don’t come back!”
My grandfather was my champion during my childhood. He was laid-back, relaxed, loved to fix things and dabble in drawing. He fixed all the neighborhood kid’s bicycles, from flat tires to broken bells, slipped chains to minor dents. He took me for walks and introduced me to my love of plants. He told me stories of old Germany, and of himself. He was a patient man, but lost his patience easily with Diane D.
Another time, I had a brand new cloth jump rope, pristine white with pink and blue striping. Diane D. Begged to hold it, said she would show me a new rhyme to jump to. No sooner than I placed the rope in her hands, she turned and plunged it into our birdbath. The nice new jump rope was ruined, saturated with dirty bird water, it coiled at the bottom of the water like a snake in soiled repose.
Many such stories exist of my trials with Diane D. Toys were thrown atop steep roofs, Wham-O Superballs were bounced so hard they relocated blocks away, darts were stabbed into new basketballs. My childhood with Diane D. were very trying. But as 'evil' a girl as she was presumed to be, she kept the rest of the neighborhood kids on their toes. I was not her only victim, she loved to chase little boys on her bike and pull their hair til they cried. She would ring the doorbell of an older boy who was not to her liking, and pour a bottle of bubble soap over his head when he came to the door. She laughed an evil laugh as she ran out of sight. Sometimes, when I have something new that I have waited a long time for, I can still hear her laughing.
Author: Diane Funston
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