Aunt Oliva is a Witch

We knew Aunt Oliva was a witch the first time we met her at the St. Paul train station. My brother squeezed my hand as we watched her small frame walk toward us, the large wart on her cheek could be seen from at least three corn fields away. She hugged our mother, her sister at the station. We did not hug her. We shook hands.

"Last time I saw you, you were in nothing but diapers! But now you're a handsome seven-year-old, now aren't you?" She pinched my cheek and handed me her suitcase.

Wendell helped me carry it as best as a little brother could, mostly pulling it down with his weight because he wasn't tall enough to keep it off the ground. But in our struggles to keep up with our mom, we both whispered about the mysterious leather pouch dangling from Aunt Oliva's waist.

Before Aunt Oliva arrived, mom explained why she was coming at all because the only inkling we ever had of our mother's dear older sister was because she mailed us lefse every Christmas from her Kansas City, Kansas address where she was a maid for a wealthy family. Besides the wedding quilt she made our parents that they used each night on their bed, we only ever thought of her and Santa at the same time. So when she arrived, in person, with a wart and a secret pouch, well, if she wasn't Santa, then she must be a witch because only magical people appear every so often and carry pouches of goodies.

But when we got back to the farm, Wendell and I became more and more convinced she was up to no good.

Aunt Oliva had never married and never had any children of her own, but she had come up to Minnesota to watch me when I was a baby when my mom got sick. I don't remember what she had or why she got sick—I don't think it was because of me—but Aunt Oliva scraped together the train fare to watch me while she got better. It was during the harvest season, and our dad had never changed a diaper in his life.

But just shy of eight years later, she decided to come back to celebrate her mom's 60th birthday, just a few days before mine. It was a big party because our grandma had cancer. It was a lady kind, but I don't know which kind of the lady it was. She was very sick, and everyone talked like it was going to be her last and they weren't even sure if she'd make it to the big day. Some argued we should hold it at the beginning of the summer just in case, but most said that would seem like cheating. And this way it gave her something to look forward to as well.

"And besides," my mom said. "Harvey will have more people at his party, too. It's a joint party, ya know."

Since Wendell and I already shared a bedroom, it was not off-putting to have a guest in the house. The only thing I will say was quite annoying was her snoring. Our bedrooms were right next to each other, the headboards on all of our beds butted up against the same wall, and we heard her snoring the whole time. From the little bitty snuffles to the drawn-out chainsaw reverbs.

On the day before the party, Aunt Oliva helped my mom get the good china together and dug out the nice silverware from above the dining room buffet. They ironed tablecloths and gathered Ball jars to place Queen Anne's Lace and [another ditch flower] they planned to pick from ditches in the morning. After we helped dad milk the cows, he told us to gather the eggs for our mom. We checked for eggs. Wendell got pecked twice and once we were done, I dumped a bucket of water in their feed dish.

"Take that," Wendell said with a smirk.

We delivered the eggs to Aunt Oliva who said thanks and then walked them over the sink to wash. With her back turned, we saw the little leather pouch on the kitchen table, next to the biscuit dough, ready to be dumped and rolled and cut out. I quickly and quietly snatched it, and the two of us ran through the back door, giggling, my heart split in two and coming out of my ears. Once we reached the edge of the field and ducked down to hide in the tall grass, I opened the drawstring and peered inside.