The Willow House

The Willow House by the River

I never really understood that my grandfather lived on the poor side of the tracks. I thought the other side of the tracks was the best place to live, as there were so many things to do and see on “E” street. At the single-entry way, there was an open dirt lot to the right side of the street, that immediately curved away from a two-story weathered, white house nearly hidden by two enormous willow trees. The trees were taller than the house and wider than the barren yard. The leaves were paled yellow-green and cast heavy shadows on the face of the house. The old Victorian two-story structure sat next to a pink building with large white letters spelling out “La Paloma.” The bar was about thirty yards further out from the willow house and where the railroad workers went for a cold cerveza and shot of whiskey, to quench their thirst. I was told to stay away from the willow house and bar at the end of the street. I didn’t question the warning, the house looked like it belonged in scary movie with peeling paint, shredded white linens behind large square windows. The cobwebs dangling of the window frames were thick and filled with dust. It was the only house that looked empty.

Driving to my grandfather’s, the railroad tracks were on the left and the houses were lined on the right side of the street. The trains were always rumbling by or blowing their whistles, on one of the many tracks laid on the open stretch of land. Behind my grandfather’s house was an elementary school with baseball fields and best of all, the Mojave River streamed, further back from the school.

I rarely went to the river without one of my cousins. Being ten years old, I wasn’t allowed to venture further than the open lot next to my grandfather’s house, where I looked for frogs and lizards. Except on one occasion, I went further out. I managed to walk to the end of the street with my BB gun, because I knew there was an alleyway that led directly down to the river, the only problem was, the alley was next to the willow house. I had to be careful not to be seen by anyone when I carefully and very quietly stepped near the scary home.

As I moved toward the river, I kept my eyes on the creaky doors and thin white curtains of the decaying willow house and hoped no one was looking through the dusty windowpanes. At the back of the house was an enclosed patio with chicken wire, framed with rotting wood and torn sheer material draped over the wire. I could barely see through the sheer fabric to the back door and empty chairs siting against the back wall. Everything looked old and broken around the house. The windows were covered with layers of railroad dust and crime, and what I could see, the curtains looked ragged or torn. The yard was covered with leaves and river rot. The bushes were wild with vines, creeping up the walls of the faded gray wood panels. I suspected a frail old woman, perhaps a witch in black clothes, might be sitting in the chair when I walked through the back alley because only a witch would live in such a dwelling. I walked a little faster but as quietly as possible, when I was near the back patio of the house. I managed to watch the back door, windows and the twigs on the ground so as not to step on them and make any noise. If anyone was to appear from the house, I was ready to run as fast as I could down into the river’s marsh. I was careful not to be seen by my relatives, but I was sure, I was more afraid of the house witch catching me. The other houses on the street were old but this one, the largest one, had something far more sinister about it, it was always eerily still and hauntingly hidden behind the long droopy willow branches. Most times, I did as I was told and stayed away and instead watched the long trains pass-by into the horizon, wondering where they came from and where they were going. Sometimes if the engineer saw my cousins and I, he would blow the whistle as he crept past us. It was always a new adventure going to the house on “E” street, especially since the river was where my cousins and I spent most our time.

It had long become a family tradition to go to the river and hunt lizards with BB guns and my cousins Donny, Larry and myself carried on the tradition on many weekends. Donny was the oldest and knew the river better than Larry and myself. He often led us to where the biggest and fattest lizards popped out from the marsh and ledge of rocks. On one occasion, while we were walking along the raised dirt embankment, between the thick marshes of broken tree branches, thick bushes, and the wall of rocks, we were walking in single formation, like they did in the army TV programs we watched on black and white television. We were serious and committed to carry on the tradition; every lizard we saw and shot we counted like my cousins before us had done. The highest count of lizards was tracked and required confirmation as a kill before one could add it to the official count. We had strict rules on the sighting and shooting order if and when a lizard was spotted, and we all had to abide by the rules or we were penalized. The prize was Mr. Brown the biggest, ugliest, black lizard that lived at the end of the embankment, near a broken fence post. Mr. Brown had survived for years by being elusive and crafty, and every hunt we looked for him but I never saw him. I only knew of legend of Mr. Brown, the craftiest lizard this side of the Mojave River, by the stories my uncles and cousins had passed down through the generations of cousins.

It was serious business and that day as we were walking, concentrating, trying to spot our lizards in the crevices of the rocks, when a tree top started violently shaking. We all knew the river well enough to know when something unusual was occurring and we immediately stopped in our tracks. The tall trees lined the river like a wall of timber and at most, swayed from the wind. The wall of trees was rooted ten yards below us and too thick to see through them. When the tree shook then stopped, and then started again hard enough to made cracking noises, it meant something large and strong was in the trees. Donny whispered, “Tio said to be careful. He heard there’s a crazy man living down here. It might be him.”

My cousin Larry asked, “What’s he look like.”

Donny, again whispered, “I don’t know but Tio said he carries an axe.”

“An axe? Let’s get out of here.” Larry said with urgency.

I kept quiet and didn’t move a muscle.

Donny was in charge. “He can’t get to us from down there. Stay still.”

“If he comes at us, I’m shooting him.” Larry raised his gun.

Donny instructed and settled on one knee, “Aim for his head.” Larry and I slowly got on one knee and kept our BB guns pointed toward the rustling tree.

That’s when I got scared. It occurred to me that the witch from the haunted house on the corner had probably sent the crazy man to come and get us. I knew she had seen me walking past the house in the alley a week earlier. She probably spied on me from the upper story window. I was glad my older cousins were with me.

As the tree violently shook, we remained in military defense. We held our breaths, waiting for the crazy man to break through the trees and chase us with a raised axe. Just as I was thinking I would have to take my shot and then pump my gun fast; a huge bird broke out and swooped down on us. Donny yelled, “Run!” Shocked, we sprang to our feet and started running as fast as we could. As I looked back, I saw gobs of white liquid falling from the bird. The fluid fell behind us but the bird was gaining on us. We kept running as the bird circled around and came at us again. We ran down the pathway as fast as we could, screaming like little girls and as I looked back, the bird was twice my size with streams of white fluid carpet bombing down on us.

I screamed, “It’s pooping!”

“It’s catching up.” Larry added.

Donny shouted, “Keep running!”

All the while BBs were shaking, bouncing and rattling in our pockets. When the bird flew back to the spot it first appeared, we stopped running. As we bent over with our hands on our knees, between our heavy breathes, we wondered what it was and why it came after us. Donny said, “It looked like an owl. It probably has a nest in the tree and we scared it.”

Larry remarked, “We scared it?”

Donny added, “Why didn’t you shoot it?”

“I started running because you ran.”

“When I saw it start to crap,” Donny was laughing, “I didn’t want to get hit.”

I had to add my commentary, “That was gross. It pooped a lot.”

Luckily, the owl failed to hit its targets. As we continued down to the river, I kept looking over my shoulder for the bird and the crazy man. We never did see the bird or man with an axe, but we also never stopped watching out for them.

Sometimes there wasn’t as much excitement at the river. When the lizards remained hidden in the rocks, we would hold shooting competitions. We would shoot cans, twigs and eventually we started shooting at single BBs off rocks. We made a game of it, trying to see who was the best shot. When we got bored of doing that Donny said we should look for frogs. He said Richard, my older cousin, and him used to capture frogs and take them to my grandmother to fry up the legs. My cousin Larry and I said no way were we going to eat frog legs. Donny said they were good and that they tasted like chicken. We looked for frogs but the ones we found were always too small to eat and I believe, Larry and I were relieved.

Decades later I asked my aunts if they knew who lived in the willow house because I never saw anyone near it. One of my aunts said it was a house for prostitutes. Good times were had on “E” street.

(Passage was edited out from early drafts of the book “Gutless”)