The Hag

"Who's there?" Booms a feeble broken voice. Joe flats himself on the floor of the half-collapsed convenience store.

Why is this happening?

He takes a deep breath and with it a quite fat amount of dust from the pavement.

ACHOO!

"Ah, there you are!"

Joe crawls towards the exit when two purple crocs step in to block his way.

Slowly, as if simmering terror, Joe's eyes climb up from the crocs on a pair of pink socks which apparently have been pulled over a pair of pantyhose. In turn, the pantyhose goes up into a dark green skirt made of some heavy and thick fabric. At this point, Joe's neck has reached its maximum backward extension capacity and it's about to snap. He gets back on his feet to face his assailant; she is scrawny and gaunt and clad in a red pullover.

"Oh my," she says with eyes sparkling full of joy. "Edgar!"

Who's Edgar?

Before Joe can react and make a move, the crone is on him with her fragile-looking arms wrapped around his skinny figure, squeezing with the strength of a mechanical press. She looks up at him and smiles without showing the teeth, due to the fact she has none. Then, with a softness that Joe hasn't heard in a very long time, she says: "You just came back from school! How was your day?"

My day? Good question. The world has ended and the city is in ruins. There's no power, no water. And those few who have survived are now killing each other over canned beans and dog food. "Fine," Joe says.

"Good, good." The hag pats him on the shoulder. "Dear lord, Edgard. Look at you! You're all bones. Ah, but grandma got you covered." She winks at him in a way that Joe finds highly disturbing. "Come on in, come on in!"

With a hand clutched on his arm like a metal clasp, the crone pulls him like a buffalo and he, tired and hungry, got nothing to fight her back. Through the backdoor, they get out on a narrow alley and then up a flight of stairs in the next-door building.

"Hop and go!" She says gesturing at him to go first.

She stops him on the third floor. "Home sweet home," she says as she unlocks the door to her apartment.

As he steps inside, the first thing that pops in Joe's eye is the collection of screens piled up in the living room. Flat screens of all kinds and even old cathodic TVs and PC monitors. Like darkness painted on canvas, framed black. A dozen windows on an endless night.

BAAM

The door gets slammed, locked, and bolted. "Sit Edgar, rest awhile. Grandma goes check the stew."

Joe's heart is beating so hard his nostrils are twitching. With a hesitant thumb up, he nods unsure while the hag disappears into the adjacent room. This would be the moment to beat it and run -but he's so exhausted he's about to faint. Backpack left by the door; he precipitates on the couch. He would fall asleep if it isn't for the fabric of the sofa making him so itchy that in a moment he gets back to be as awake as a rooster in the morning.

There are five remote controls on the end table. He chooses one with his infallible decision-making process: All around the roses…

He might be wrong but in the blackness of the screen, he sees a not-so-unfamiliar face staring back at him, blurred by darkness. A foggy reflection, or a faithful portrait?

Pointing the remote to a TV, Joe presses 1.

Nothing.

2?

Nothing.

No power. Yes, no power, he can understand that he feels just the same.

"Are you ok, Edgar?" The crone asks, shouting from the other room.

Between him and that lifeless TV, there's not much difference. After all, what's a light bulb without electricity?

"Yes." He replies.

His nose picks up a scent. It's a nice fragrance, something Joe has almost forgotten. Cautiously and slowly, furtive like an overweight house-cat, Joe approaches the adjacent room and peeks inside. The crone is busy with a long wooden spoon and a tall pot gargling on an old stove of cast iron. Speechless and in disbelief, he stares with eyes wide open.

The crone turns, sees him, and lets out a choked scream while reaching for the butcher knife. "You!" She shouts threateningly.

There you go. She has finally snapped out of her delusion and he's going to be chopped and cooked in that very same pot.

"Look how dirty you are! Come on, bath time. Let's go."

Taken aback, Joe stutters something about being very hungry but the ancient witch, putting the knife down, begins to shove him out of the kitchen. "You won't sit and eat covered in filth. Besides, it's not done yet."

Bath time? "You got running water?" He asks.

"Well, it's not running anywhere, we got tanks on the roof and it stays in there." She giggles. "What do you think, young man? In my time we made do with what we had. Is not going to be a little blackout to hold me back!" She says it all proud of herself.

Little blackout? The whole country is in the dark!

"Ah, the youngs today; one night with no lights and it's the end of the world!" She laughs genuinely amused by her wisdom. "Come on now."

One night? It's been what, a decade?

The crone guides him to the cleanest bathroom Joe has ever seen, so white is incredible. It smells of lavender, the towels on the hanger are white, the toilet seat is lowered, and there's a rubber duck on the bathtub.

"You get undressed, I go get a bucket." The crone says.

Joe reaches for the faucet and turns the handle towards the red dot.

Nothing.

He turns it to the blue, just in case.

Nothing.

Turning avoiding the man in the mirror, Joe squeezes the duck. He's a simple guy and he enjoys simple things, for about five minutes at least, then he gets bored and starts to wonder if the hag will ever come back.

When she finally does, she is holding a bucket filled with steaming water. "Edgar, still with those rags on? I said: get undressed!"

She can't be serious.

"Nothing grandma hasn't seen before. Chap chap. No need to be shy."

He might not need to be shy but she does need to leave. If the hag fills the tub, Joe may even jump in -not under her supervision though.

She pours the water in the tub and leaves again. "In the nude, now!" She commands.

The water is scalding. He feels a nice and warm torpor funneling through his skin and seeping into his bones.

Ok.

Joe takes off his clothes and remains with nothing but his yellowish underwear.

With the sun going down temperatures are falling and cold starts to bite, but the water in the tub is too hot and he can't hop in just yet. Squatting and hugging his knees, Joe stands by. To trick the time, Brain decides to broadcast an interesting scenario: the crone has fooled him and while he's resigning to his own misery, she is running away with his backpack and all his belongings.

No. She won't get away with it. The thought of being tricked and fooled ignites a fire in him that makes him forget about the cold. His nipples, though, are visibly still pretty aware of it.

With clenched fists, he approaches the door when the crone appears with another bucket full of water. She casts an inquisitorial look at Joe studying him from head to toes and from toes to waist. "And what are those?"

She pours the water in and then opens the faucet to let the water run. "I opened the valve. Don't waste the water."

"Thanks." Says Joe. Leave now.

Because Joe's reflexes are involuntary, and that means 'not willing' to respond to any stimulus, he is not fast enough to dodge the crone jolting forward, grabbing him by the underwear.

Joe gasps so hard he almost swallows his tonsils while the witch, with a swift and skillful movement, pulls down the last piece of Joe's dignity leaving him completely exposed. Whisking together a spoon of fear, a handful of surprise, a leaf of awkwardness, and a pinch of embarrassment, Joe blends a spicy cocktail of shame that he immediately spills on himself. He stumbles on his feet and falls on his butt. Quickly his hands move to cover his nudity.

The hag steps back in surprise. She giggles hidden behind her hand. "Oh, Edgar. You've become a man."

Oh God…

"But we got to cut it off."

Wait, what now?

#

"It really doesn't suit a boy of your age." Says the crone.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god -and so on.

Joe squeezes himself in the space between the toilet and the wall, desperately looking for anything to use as a weapon, a plunge? His softer self hidden behind a shaking hand.

His heart starts playing bongos in the jungle. There's no escape, no running this time. He must fight for his… let's say life.

"Look at you!" Screams the hideous hag in a frenzy as she grabs him by the beard, both hands clutched at his cheeks. "You've grown a beard! Such a big boy you are, aren't you?" She leans closer and whispers as if afraid of being heard. The proximity makes Joe very, very uncomfortable. "Your grandad always liked a clean shave. Reliable look, he said. But I liked the bearded man. You know, that wild, savage look." She giggles like a girl. "But we cannot let you go out like that, can we?"

"Hop in young man, let's scrub that dirt off you." She motions to the tub and leaves again in a hurry.

Joe, who has almost swallowed down his whole throat, climbs inside and sits in the water, hugging his knees with wide shot eyes and a crowded mind. Soon she is back with yet another bucket to pour in the tub and the water, the temperature, the torpor, it all becomes heaven.

Seated on a stool, she starts cutting hair in chunks with a scissor until the thick bushes on his head and face are reduced to a turf. Then, using soap as shaving gel, she begins to work on his face with a razor. "Hold this under your chin." She says handing him the bucket.

Joe remains so still he's barely breathing. When she is finally done, she reaches for a long scrubbing brush. "Let grandma wash your back. "

Joe would rather prefer to not be touched any further. "I can wash by myself."

"Uh-uh, I don't think so." Roars back the crone.

She starts scrubbing and by the time she's done with his arms and reached the waist, the water in the tub has turned into a swampy puddle.

"Alright, finish up by yourself, Edgar. Grandma gotta check on the stew."

The hag stops at the threshold, turns, and marches back towards Joe with a firm pace and a grin on her wrinkled face. Joe squirms in the tub.

"I missed you," she says stamping a kiss on his forehead.

#

Joe dries himself up with a nice clean towel and realizes his clothes are missing.

"Hey," he calls out loud, "My clothes!" But no answer comes back.

He leans on the door and shouts again: "Hey!" How to address her? "Woman…" He grunts. That doesn't sound right. "Ma'am?" Again, there's no answer.

Joe sighs in resignation. "Grandma?"

A wavery voice answers from the kitchen, "yes darling?"

"Clothes?"

"Coming."

After a minute or so, Grandma enters the bathroom with a pile of clean, folded clothes, and a candle. Light is waning away and the house is getting dark.

"Those are not my clothes." Says Joe.

"I threw away those rags. These are your grandpa's. I made the pullover myself. Get dressed and come, dinner's ready."

Sweater, T-shirt, pants, undies and socks, and a pair of house slippers. She has given him everything but it's all quite large and big for him. It could fit just right if he hadn't been scraped down to the bone.

The sweater is unbearable, though; red and green with a pattern of rhombuses and lines that can make you sick only by describing it.

"I need a belt." He says entering the kitchen.

She regards him with a smile and then leads him to the bedroom. A humble room, with a small matrimonial bed. It's very cold here, colder than the rest of the house and although the sheets are clean and tidy, Joe has the impression that no-one has slept on that bed in a very long time.

From a drawer, Grandma produces a belt and tries to fix it on Joe but there are not enough holes to keep it tight enough. After trying out different belts, she resorts to a rope.

"This will do." She claims and he's fine with him.

Trousers fixed, Joe is invited to take a seat at the dining table.

The crone cleans her throat. "Edgar?"

What now?

"You got a bad look on your face. Are you worried? Something's wrong at school?"

Joe shakes his head.

"Are you having bad thoughts?"

All the time.

"It becomes a habit, you know? You gotta keep happy thoughts in your head."

Does she read my mind? Joe is willing to put that to the test: you ugly horse!

She smiles, clueless about his telepathic insult. "Do you remember Peter Pan?"

Joe nods, he has no idea what she's talking about.

"Lovely wonderful thoughts. That's how he can fly."

Confused, Joe decides to smile at her in the hope to put an end to the conversation.

It works, she seems satisfied.

"Now, let me get that stew."

#

"Ta-da!" Grandma lands a steamy pot on the table's trivet mat. It smells fantastic.

"Thanks," Joe says with a growling stomach.

"Such a polite boy. My pleasure. Eat up. Don't burn your tongue." She pours some stew in a bowl for him.

Joe eats with the ferocity of a starving animal. He feels every bite traveling down from his mouth to his stomach, spreading warmth throughout his body. Delicious.

"This is fantastic." He says as he finishes the first bowl. "More."

Grandma looks at him with an expectant look.

What? "Please?" He adds the little magic word and is rewarded with a second bowl.

Each bite seems to drive away the beast in him while his humanity re-emerges from the dark depths of desperation.

"What's this?" He asks, showing a red cube on his spoon.

"Carrot," Grandma says.

"Amazing. And this?" He asks, this time showing a yellow cube.

"Potato."

"Incredible. How do you make them?"

"Oh, Edgar. I don't make them. I grow them. On the roof. But I'm sure out there there are people still tending farms, growing crops and tending cattle."

Joe nods, disinterested. "And this, what's this, beef?"

She grins maliciously. "Kind of. Let's say that not all the Edgars that come back home are such sweet guys like you. And grandma doesn't like impolite Edgars." Keeping a fixed stare on Joe, she drums her fingertips on the table.

He's slow but he eventually gets there. The newly found life leaves his face leaving him pale and astonished.

Grandma jolts forward and pinches his cheek. "I got you! Oh, Edgar, you should see your face." She says laughing heartily at him.

What is happening?

"It's rat meat."

"Rat?"

She nods. "They're easy to catch. And there's plenty of them."

"It's really good."

"I am very pleased to hear that, Ed." Then, moving to the couch, she announces:

"I'm so tired now. I'm going to rest awhile. Leave the bowl in the sink. I'll wash it in the morrow."

What's the morrow? "Ok."

Her breath gets heavy and loud and her eyelids drop as she slips into slumber.

No wonder she's been running up and down all day with buckets full of water, Joe thinks.

#

The iron cast stove is now spent but still emanates a nice warmth. On the cutting board, there are some leftovers, minimal waste of carrots' butts, and potatoes' skin. Next to them, lay the bony remains of the rat. Odd. He has never realized how much the skeleton of a rat resembles a human foot.

Bowl left in the sink, he walks back into the living room and finds Grandma fast asleep. There's a wool blanket in a chest, right next to the couch. Joe has the good sense to pull it over her.

#

"You." Says Grandma startling Joe as he steps back into the living room. She speaks but her eyes are closed and her posture hasn't changed. "I promised you, remember? Promised you Grandma will wait for you to come home. And now that you did, I can finally rest."

Joe scratches the back of his head. He ducks next to her. "Listen, you've been very kind but I am…" He's looking for the right words but there's no better way to say it than to say it as it is. He holds her arm and bows his head in shame. "I am not Edmund."

Grandma chuckles. "Edgar."

"Ah, yes. Sorry. I mean, I'm not Edgar."

"No, but you're a good man, whoever you are." Her skinny, almost skeletal hand grabs Joe's. "I'll be watching you."

Joe cups the crone's hand and sits to pass the night next to her.

#

At the break of the day, Joe realizes the crone has become as rigid and cold as a popsicle. He kisses her forehead and pulls the blanket over her face before collecting his belongings and getting back on the road.

END