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  The Season of the

  Witch

  James Leo Herlihy

  The Season of the Witch Copyright © 1971 by James Leo Herlihy

  All rights copyright owner Jeffrey J. Bailey

  Cover art and Electronic Edition © 2018 by RosettaBooks LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Cover jacket design by

  ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795351228

  For DICK DUANE

  James Leo Herlihy’s unique ability to connect the reader with other people’s lives has made his previous novels, Midnight Cowboy and All Fall Down, modern American classics. Brilliantly readable, his new novel, The Season of the Witch, goes far beyond them to explore a society in revolution.

  At the novel’s center is the Witch of its title, Gloria Random. Gloria is seventeen, turned on, a fugitive from home, on the run with her draft-evading friend John. Tough, innocent and shrewd, she confronts New York with her complete unshockability and an implacable lack of self-pity. The results are bizarre, comic, and profoundly moving.

  The Season of the Witch is to other novels what Woodstock is to a chamber music concert. By bringing to it the full impact of his exceptional storytelling powers, Herlihy has produced what may well be regarded as the first major work of fiction of the Aquarian Age.

  Special thanks to EVAN RHODES

  for valuable help

  in editing the manuscript.

  J.L.H.

  CONTENTS

  BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, IN MY BED, SEPTEMBER 2, 1969

  DEPARTURE DAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3, 1969

  AT THE LAKE, SUNDAY, JULY 13, 1969

  WESTERN UNION OFFICE, NEW YORK CITY, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 5, 1969

  CANAL STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1969

  CANAL STREET, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1969

  CANAL STREET, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1969

  CANAL STREET, SEPTEMBER 12, 1969

  MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1969, 11 P.M., 23RD STREET AUTOMAT

  CANAL STREET, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1969

  CANAL STREET, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1969

  CANAL STREET, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 1969

  CANAL STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1969

  CANAL STREET, MONDAY NOON, SEPTEMBER 22, 1969

  THE STATEN ISLAND FERRY, 10 P.M. OF THE SAME DAY

  CANAL STREET, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1969

  CANAL STREET, 7:10 P.M., THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 25, 1969

  WILL’S GREENHOUSE, SUNSET, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1969

  CANAL STREET, SEPTEMBER 27, 1969, 4:30 A.M.

  CANAL STREET, SEPTEMBER 27, 1969, 4:30 A.M.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1969

  THE AUTOMAT, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1969

  THE LADIES’ ROOM AT CAPRICORN CAPERS, MONDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1969

  IN MY ALCOVE AT CANAL STREET, BEDTIME, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 14, 1969

  THE SHEEP MEADOW, CENTRAL PARK, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 15, 1969— MORATORIUM DAY

  WILL’S GREENHOUSE, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 21, 1969

  ORANGE—WILL’S GREENHOUSE, OCTOBER 31, 1969

  BRIGHT GREEN—THANKSGIVING 1970

  RED—CHRISTMAS 1970

  ROBIN’S EGG BLUE—EASTER 1971

  MARIJUANA GREEN—FOURTH OF JULY 1971

  TURQUOISE—LABOR DAY 1971

  MAGENTA—NEW YEAR’S DAY 1972

  PINK—BEAUTIFUL SPRING DAY 1972

  PURE WHITE—THE FOURTH OF JULY, 1976

  BLACK AND WHITE AGAIN—WILL’S GREENHOUSE, OCTOBER 31, 1969

  ON JOSHUA’S BUS, ABOUT 100 MILES EAST OF BUFFALO, NOVEMBER 3, 1969

  SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969

  SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969

  SPATAFORA STREET, YORKVILLE, NOVEMBER 4, 1969

  BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, NOVEMBER 7, 1969

  IN MOTHER’S ROOM, BELLE WOODS, NOVEMBER 11, 1969

  IN MY ROOM, BELLE WOODS, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

  BELLE WOODS, NOVEMBER 14, 1969

  BELLE WOODS, MICHIGAN, IN MY BED, SEPTEMBER 2, 1969

  Sometimes I think Mother hits it right on the nose when she calls me a cold cookie. I’ve just spent five full minutes eyeballing this room and telling myself all sorts of sad things like Oh dear, my princess doll will miss me, and Just think, Gloria, you’ll never spend another night here, etc., etc.

  But nothing happens. You might think I could squeeze out one teensy little tearlet just for form’s sake, but my eyes are as dry as stones. All I feel is relief, anticipation, and enough excitement to keep me awake for the rest of my life.

  Unless . . . !

  There. That’s better. I just found a roach in my bag and got two lovely tokes out of it. Thanks to the prez and his grass curtain on the Mexican border, we’re suffering a ghastly marijuana famine this summer, so this is my first smoke in days. I’d almost forgotten how much I dig it. (Not really.)

  Now, let us return to

  Departure Blues, absence of

  Back in the dark ages of my girlhood I used to think I’d have to get married to spring myself from this dainty quilted prison, but not a bit of it, my dears. John, my fellow fugitive, is homosexual. The first time we took LSD together, we observed our relationship. It couldn’t be simpler: He’s my guru, I’m his earth mother. Which means I’ll be walking out of here tomorrow not in bondage but with a beautiful soul companion. No compromises, no strings, no bullshit, just two free souls (both Pisces!) dedicated to one another’s purity and freedom, embarking together on their journey into reality.

  Reality. Wow. And to think it starts tomorrow! If I weren’t just faintly stoned, I’d probably faint and turn to stone.

  This has been such a bleak summer, with John going to the mailbox every day expecting to find the Big Finger waiting for him, me trying to help him decide what to do, and neither of us able to come up with any answers.

  And then suddenly, Friday morning, the waiting is over.

  I hear John’s voice from the yard next door, calling up to my window. I look out. He’s leaning on the fence, waving an envelope in his hand. I know immediately what it is.

  “When?” I ask.

  “Monday, the twenty-second.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I’ve decided to split. Want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  I loved my answering without a second’s pause. I thought that had style. So did John. He told me so later.

  Where to go?

  We went to Delano’s to discuss it, because Delano knows everything. He really does. I found that out when he was my lover.

  John thought he’d like to try living underground for a while, right here in the States. If he had to, he could always go to Canada later on. So the only question was where in the States. I said what about New York, because that’s where my real father lives and I’ve been dying to meet him ever since I was 12 and first heard of his existence.

  Delano thought New York was sheer genius. He said it was the only place in the country where a person could get really lost. So that was it, the perfect place for both of us. There have been other miracles, too.

  An hour ago for instance, while I was next door in John’s basement going over our super-simple plans for the 99th time, Delano phoned to say he had a buyer for the Vespa. This is major news. It means we won’t have to hitchhike, we’ll have bus fare plus. We both know luck like this can’t be just luck. It’s much too spooky. Obviously our trip is being guided by higher beings. All John and I have to do is keep our heads straight, maintain a nice high, and go with
it.

  Tomorrow, we wake up whenever we feel like it, grab our bags, and head out on the Vespa in the direction of Aunt June’s cottage. Then, at Jefferson Avenue, we turn right instead of left. The buyer for the scooter will be waiting at Delano’s. From there, after relaxing for a couple of hours and stoking our beautiful heads on some of Delano’s righteous hashish, we proceed downtown to catch the Greyhound at 4:30, never to be heard from again.

  That’s not true. We’ll have to write occasionally. Otherwise we’ll feel guilty.

  Speaking of which, I’d better compose a little number right now to leave on the kitchen table.

  Or.

  Why don’t I just put the Beatles on the stereo downstairs, let it play over and over again

  She’s leaving home

  after living alone

  for so many years.

  But that wouldn’t do, because when it got to the part about “she’s meeting a man from the motor trade,” mother’d say, “Ha, the little slut, she’s run off with a used car dealer!”

  Why am I chattering to myself like this? Avoiding something?

  The note, of course. Okay. Here goes.

  Dear Mother,

  I’m gone.

  Stunning beginning. How obvious can you get?

  Dear Mother,

  By the time you read this

  That’s an improvement?

  Dear Mother,

  At first I wasn’t going to leave a note, because you never believe anything anyway, but I feel I have to explain, even if you think it’s all crap. To begin with, I’m not angry. I love you. I really do. I was angry, because you made me miss the Woodstock Festival, but I’m over that now. And yet, missing Woodstock is the reason I have to leave now instead of waiting till I’m 18, as agreed. This is hard to explain, maybe impossible. Woodstock wasn’t just a festival, it’s the future and I have to go out and meet it somewhere. No doubt it’ll be muddy and crowded too, with not enough food and no place to pee, but there’ll be love and peace wherever my compatriots are, and that’s why I have to go find them and live with them and try to make a real

  It’s no good. She’ll never buy it. To her, love and peace is sex and drugs. Besides, who am I kidding when I say I’m not angry?

  Dear Mother,

  I’m getting out of here because I’m pissed off. I missed Woodstock but I’m not missing my life, no matter what you say. You and a hundred million mothers just like you are the reason there had to be a festival in the first place. It’s urgent that the earth be saved from your lethal, uptight clutches before you succeed in hassling the life out of it altogether. I’m sick of living in this house pretending to be your daughter just because you gave birth to me. I saw very clearly under acid that I’m your mother, and you’re a wicked, reckless, selfish brat. I’m fed up to the teeth with your blind, criminal, phony, aggressive, power-mad behavior, and I have decided to abandon you to shift for yourself in this plastic palace that means more to you than I ever could.

  Okay, Gloria, now that the bile is out of your system, can’t you write something sweet? Try!

  Dear Mommy,

  Your itty-bitty girl is running away from home because she’s naughty. But she loves her mommy very much and she promises not to take any more nasty old drugs. So please don’t worry about her. Her’s a big girl now and if some dirty long-haired bum tries to stick his thing in her, she’ll scream for the Green Berets to come and save her. Love and Kisses.

  Gloria

  Maybe I’ll do better in the morning.

  Good night, room. Good night, princess doll. Good night, my girlhood, you poor wretch. Somehow I’ve managed to survive you.

  Later

  Can’t sleep. My head won’t quit.

  Fantasy: The simple act of running away from home causes some miraculous change in my character! I become disciplined. I keep my journal faithfully, every single day. Starting tomorrow at 4:30, the minute the bus pulls out of Detroit, I record everything that happens to John and me, his adventures living like a fugitive to avoid becoming a hired killer in Uncle Sam’s Army, and my first meeting with my real father. I write it all down, a simple flat report of the truth, no flourishes, no bullshit. To keep myself honest, I vow it’s not for publication. Then, one day in New York, when I’ve got enough material to fill a good fat book, I lose the notebook on the subway. By chance, it gets found. By a reader for a publishing house, etc., etc. The Detroit News calls it the Most Fabulous Human Document of Our Time, Time magazine prints my picture. (On the cover?) Much success. Much money. We buy a strip of land in Central America, start a new nation dedicated to love and peace. Live happily ever after. End of fantasy

  DEPARTURE DAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER 3, 1969

  Dear Mother,

  The reason I’m leaving is to put an end to the hassles. You and I have been hurting each other and I don’t think either of us wants to. I won’t make any promises about what I’ll be doing, because the whole point of leaving home is to be free. But I can promise one thing. I’ll be myself. I won’t fake anything.

  I’ve given some thought to whether or not I can truthfully say I love you, and I find that I can. I do love you, Mother, I truly do. But hardly ever when we’re in the same room. And I know you feel the same way about me. I don’t think we should blame each other for this. It’s just life.

  Love,

  Gloria

  This isn’t much, but at least it’s honest and not unkind. John says I should mail it special delivery instead of leaving it on the table because if she sees it before we leave town, we’re fucked.

  Late afternoon, on the bus

  Another miracle. The bus fare was only $28.75 apiece, so if we don’t make friends immediately in New York, we can spend a night or two in some hotel.

  Back at the Greyhound station, I suffered a minor attack of paranoia. I was sure the clerk knew we were runaways and would call the police the minute we left the window. John quieted me down, which is a switch. Usually he has the paranoia and I do the soothing.

  Then two minutes later, while I’m in the phone booth calling Mother to get my father’s address, John has a little fit of his own. As I’m dialing the last digit, he slaps his hand down on the receiver cradle, severing the connection.

  “Gloria, think! She’ll know it’s a local call, and if she’s not too stupid, she’ll send fuzz to all airports and bus stations.”

  “Who cares?” I said. “By then we’ll be on the bus and gone!”

  “All right, but be safe. Look.” He took from his pocket a handful of ¼-inch brass washers with the holes in the middles stuffed to make them act like dimes in pay phones. “When she answers, don’t say a word. Drop in five or six of these. Then the bells’ll go ding ding ding and she’ll think it’s long distance.”

  I didn’t stop to think it through, but it sounded reasonable. So I dialed again, and when mother hello-ed, I dropped in a few washers and made the bells go. Then I said, “Mother, this is Gloria. I’m phoning from a distant city.”

  “What are you talking about, Gloria? Gloria, where are you?” She was talking stiff-lipped, which painted the whole picture for me. I could see her lying on her chaise longue next to the phone with a mask of Sudden Beauty all over her triple-Virgo face.

  “I’m in a distant city, Mother, and that’s all I’m telling you.”

  “You’re at Aunt June’s cottage. Now stop this nonsense.”

  “If I’m calling from Aunt June’s, why did I have to drop in seven dimes?”

  “To deceive me. I don’t know why yet. I suspect I’m about to be punished for something.”

  I covered the mouthpiece and whispered to John, “She didn’t fall for it. Now what?”

  “I don’t know. Brazen it out.” He crossed his fingers for me. Big help.

  “You truly hate me, don’t you, Gloria,” Mother was saying. “And that’s what all this behavior is about. All right, hate me if you must, but I’m still your mother and I demand the truth.”

  “All right
then, we’re at Kennedy airport in New York. John McFadden’s with me. I can prove all this because he’s right here and you can talk to him if you want to.”

  “First of all, young lady, you’re lying. But if you’re not, I’ll die. . . . Oh, God! Are you telling the truth?”

  “I can’t talk forever, Mother. I don’t have that many coins.”

  “Then give me the number and I’ll call you back.”

  “No, thanks. I’m not getting into any big discussions. I’ve sent you a note, special delivery. All I want is my father’s address.”

  “Your father’s what? He’s at the office, you know that.”

  “I didn’t say my stepfather. I said my father. Hank Glyczwycz.”

  Pause.

  “I beg your pardon, Gloria?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand this, Mother, but I’ve had a revelation, and I know I’ve got to meet my real father. That’s what I’ve come to New York for.”

  “Gloria. Sweetheart. Have you taken LSD again?” She went into a cooing voice thing, like somebody luring a lunatic out of a treetop. “Mother’s not angry, darling, she loves you very much, but you must be truthful. Are you tripping again, honey? You know you did promise Mother you’d never do it again, hmm?”

  “I’m not tripping. I’m in a phone booth in New York and I’m asking you for Hank Glyczwycz’s address. May I have it or not?”

  After a loaded silence, she said, “I do not carry on conversations with cruel, evil young ladies.”

  “Okay then, I’ll hang up. Shall I hang up?”

  “I want to know where you are, immediately.”

  “We’ll make a bargain. Give me the address and I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

  John made a warning face and shook his head vigorously. I gave him an I-know-what-I’m-doing with my hand, but of course I was just playing the whole thing by ear.

  “Gloria, I do not have the address you are requesting. I am not in contact with that person, and you know it.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure you have the address where he teaches, don’t you?”