MADWOMAN B y A l i c e E v a n s I l l u s t r a t i o n b y J e s s i c a D o d g e w o m a n r id e s b y r h y h o u s e o n h e r b ic y c le . S h e h a s d a r k , c u r ly hair, n e a t l y t r im m e d a n d c le a n . H e r c lo th e s fit a n d lo o k a lm o s t new . S h e w e a r s a sm a l l b a c k p a c k a n d m o v e s w i th a d i r e c tn e s s t h a t m a k e s m e th in k s h e m ig h t b e g o in g to w o r k s o m e w h e r e . Yet t h a t is b e y o n d b e lie f . She would be quite pretty if she were not so obviously crazy. It’s because of what she says and the look on her face as she says it—“motherfucker, cocksucker, shithead.” She has expanded my vocabulary of filth. Hers is the language of dismemberment. I fear her because 1recognize the hatred in her face, in her voice. She’s a facet of my own psyche, one that awakens me in the night whenever I’m caught on a spike of hatred. When I’m out of sorts with myself, which happens more frequently than 1 care to admit. I hate almost everybody. Particular somebodies, people whom 1 love at other times. Also, anyone who has ever wronged me. There is a savageness to my hatred which frightens me. I wonder if it falls within the “normal” range. I hate and 1scream forth this hatred within my head. By an act of will, I prevent it from spilling forth to contaminate my loved ones. Recently, I’ve worked to bring this seething hatred into consciousness. The problem is what to do with it now' that it’s there. It wants to burst forth and go somewhere, do something. W ”n August, soon after I’d returned K from visiting relatives in the east, a difficult journey which left me drained and troubled. 1 heard kids screaming at each other in front of my house. It was early in the morning and I She must have ridden off soon after I lowered the shade, for the voices stopped. 1quickly called my husband at work to describe the scene. He said, genuinely, “Oh, that’s really sad." I hadn’t been thinking in terms of sadness. I’d been thinking of madness. She’s in her mid-thirties, 1would guess. I’m in my mid-thirties, too, but I don’t ride a bicycle, not any more. It’s not convenient when you have a child. A few years ago, 1did attach a kiddie seat to the back of my old ten-speed, but when 1put my daughter aboard and tried to ride, it felt really awkward. I was afraid I’d crash, and that her head would be crushed like that of my old lover, David, who never wore the helmet I’d given him, a device which doctors said would not have saved his life anyway. I’m cautious, very cautious, now that I have a child. I try to avoid dangerous situations. Last week, when 1 was out jogging, I heard a bicycle coming up behind me really slowly. When it finally did pass, 1 saw it was this woman. Icouldn’t help the sudden rush of blood that heated up my face. What did 1think she would do to me if she knew 1was on to her? For once she wasn’t screaming, she had on portable radio headphones. I imagined the sounds coming in from the radio drowned out those other voices, the demon ones. Probably her psychiatrist, or caseworker, recommended them. I hope she’s got someone to tend her. I’m haunted by this link I have to the crazy woman, my desire to help her and my fear of being infected by her madness. I have never been inhabited by demons, but they come at me from time to time. When 1 think about saving somebody else. I’m thinking about saving me. If there’s evil riding the streets, it’s just as much inside as outside. . 1 j j f rn writing this out, in giving it form, 1 K am attempting to exorcise the im- age of this woman from my mind. Am 1 doing something too concrete, something that will vibrate out into the field of the collective unconscious and Im haunted by this link I have to the crazy woman, my desire to help her and my fear of being infected by her madness. When I think about saving somebody else, I’m thinking about saving me. If there’s evil riding the streets, it’s just as much inside as outside. S h e was standing a t my trashcan, holding the lid in her hand, spewing forth filth and hatred from a hole in her face. I was hearing more than one voice. Judging from her facial contortions, a whole bevy of demons inhabit her body simultaneously. was newly emerged from a dream state. I raised my living room shade and looked out upon—this woman. She was standing at my trash can, holding the lid in her hand, spewing forth filth and hatred from a hole in her face. She was alone, but I was hearing more than one voice. Judging from her facial contortions, a whole bevy of demons inhabit her body simultaneously. She didn't notice me watching her. I let the shade down again rather quickly, just so there would be no chance of an exchange of glances. I wasn't sure I’d be able to block her intense negative energy if her eyes locked into mine. 1was afraid she would enter me somehow— demons have no boundaries, after all, other than the ones we can individually build in consciousness and love. A lot of mornings, just as I step out the front door to drive my daughter to school, that woman goCs whizzihg by on her bicycle. I might catch a “cocksucker,” or an “I’m going to stab you in the eyeballs,” but she goes by too fast for me to ever get the full gist of what she’s saying. 1 wonder who she hates and why she hates them, but then, I doubt it’s a specific person. Most likely there's just one big amorphous blob of rapidly disappearing faces and forms, a parade of memories. Is there anyone who can help her? Is there anyone who can turn it off? I remember the movie The Exorcist, where Linda Blair is saved by a Catholic priest. But I’m no priest, and 1do recall that the exorcism of the devil in Linda Blair didn’t work out too well for the priest. draw her attention to me? All too soon, my fears are realized. I invited a friend’s daughter over to play with mine. When I open the door to the little girl’s knock, I see. in addition to my friend and her daughter, this crazy woman, staring at me, sitting on her bicycle in my driveway. 1 am agawk. After welcoming my guests, I quickly close the front door. I will not allow her to come in. My friends daughter informs me that she and her mother have just seen someone they know. “Oh,” I say, “Who?” I do not need to hear her answer, for I am already remembering the stories I’ve heard of the crazy aunt who lives in the woods and prostitutes herself. The paranoid schizophrenic who can’t live in- doors because she’s sure “they” can bug S her anywhere she goes. “Oh,” 1say, “your J2 Aunt Vernie.” There’s a crazy woman out riding the streets, and she is the sister-in-law of one g of my best friends. Q Writer Alice Evans lives in Eugene. This is her first story in Clinton St. Artist Jessica Dodge lives in Seattle and is a frequent contributor to Clinton St. Clinton St. Dec. ’89-Jan. '90 7
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