He forgot his anger when Dorothy woke up inside it. He loved the idea of being warm and safe, cradled in the wind. He loved the chickens flying about inside the storm and the people in a boat, rowing their way through clouds as if through water.
Then there was a lady on a bicycle. It had been a long time since Miss Gulch was on the screen; Jonathan had forgotten all about her. He didn't recognize her. He did recognize what she turned into.
Suddenly, clothes streaming behind her, there was a huge horrible witch riding a broomstick.
He screamed and hid under the Indian blanket.
"Jonathan!" laughed his mother, always taken aback by his susceptibilities.
"Is it gone?" he demanded.
"Yes, yes," said his mother. Jonathan stayed under his blanket. He heard Dorothy screaming, and he screwed his eyes shut.
There was a line in Jonathan's shortened book: "The cyclone set the house down very gently for a cyclone." He had liked that. He knew what it meant. There would be quite a big bump, but not so big that Dorothy would be hurt. He wanted to see the house land so he forced himself to watch. He looked out from under his blanket in time to see the room and the house come to a stop with a tremendous bump. Oh, said Dorothy. Perfect! They had done it perfectly!
Dorothy was in Oz. Jonathan wanted to see the Munchkins and he wanted to see the Good Witch. Most of all he wanted to see her give Dorothy the magic kiss that meant no harm could come to her. Jonathan loved the idea that no harm could come.
Dorothy went toward the door. Jonathan was so excited, he almost had to pee.
"Look," said his father. "This is the part that turns into color. She steps out and everything is in color."
The commentary was an unwarranted distraction. Jonathan knew perfectly well that the television couldn't show color. He was gripped by both joy and edgy suspense. Dorothy peered out through the door. Then she stepped out onto the porch, but he still couldn't see Oz.
"There, that's when it turns into color!" exclaimed his father.
Oz was black-and-white. It didn't matter. Dorothy's eyes were wide and round, and she wandered through a strange gray place full of television mist and giant leaves. Jonathan went breathless and still. And then, there was a floating, silvery globe.
"That's like Space Cat!" cried Jonathan, overjoyed.
The bubble turned into Glinda, the Witch of the North. The magic kiss was to come.
Glinda asked, so very politely, if Dorothy were a good witch or a bad witch. Jonathan loved the idea of good witches. He loved the way Oz people spoke, very polite and slightly addled. When Glinda asked if Toto was the Witch, Jonathan shrieked with laughter and kicked his feet.
"Sssh, Jonathan," said his mother, worried about the way he could get overexcited.
Jonathan loved it that Dorothy had killed the Wicked Witch. It was good that she had not meant to do it, and it was so strange to see the Witch's striped-stocking feet sticking out from under the house, strange in the way that being tickled is strange, slightly fearful and gigglesome at the same time.
"She'll be all squashed and flat," said Jonathan gleefully.
The Good Witch was beautiful, and the Munchkins laughed in high-pitched voices, and Dorothy was a National Heroine because she had saved them. Out came the Munchkins to celebrate. In Jonathan's book they all wore what looked like witch hats, only cockeyed and crumpled and amusing, and they all wore blue and played fiddles. These Munchkins looked different from that-but oh! they were all happy and sang aloud and Jonathan could not tell if they were adults or children. They looked like both. It was a new world, in which adults stayed children and children could be adults.
And they sang. They sang that the Witch was dead, and that they were free of her. No more bad witches, only good and smiling ones, like Glinda.
Then, when everything seemed nicest and happiest, and everyone was singing, there was a boom and a bash and everything was ruined. The Witch was back. The Munchkins ran.
Jonathan emitted a piercing shriek and hid under the blanket again. He screwed his eyes shut and plugged his ears.
This had not been his pretty little book. Glinda explained: this was the sister of the witch who was dead. This was the Witch of the West. Were all witches, even Glinda, sisters?
"Who killed my sister?" the Witch demanded. Jonathan didn't want to hear; he couldn't bear it. "Was it you?" the Witch roared at Dorothy, terrible with hatred, and Jonathan, under his blanket, wailed again. It was wrong to kill, even if it wasn't your fault. How would Dorothy explain?
"No, no, it was an accident, I didn't mean to kill anybody!" said Dorothy.
Why had they put the Witch there? He felt his mother's hand on his shoulder. He peeked out over the edge of the blanket again, and she was still there, swirling with hatred. He screamed again and hid again.
"Jonathan," said his mother, "if you keep this up, I'll have to turn it off."
Jonathan forced himself to come out. He watched, wincing.
The Witch promised death. She promised she would get Dorothy and her dog.
She screamed and cackled and then there was a great booming sound. The Witch exploded and went away, in front of horrified eyes. Jonathan did not learn until years later that in that flash of fire the actress who played the Witch was severely burned.
He stared numbly, bestilled by horror, taking comfort from Glinda's motherly voice. Quietly and gently, she was telling Dorothy about the great and wonderful Wizard of Oz. And then, and then, she kissed Dorothy on the forehead.
He waited for the kiss to stay there, glowing on her forehead. But nothing happened. Gradually Jonathan realized that in the movie, the kiss was not a spell. The kiss would not protect Dorothy. She could be hurt.
It was television, frightening him again.
"It's all right," said Jonathan's mother. "Look, she's off to see the Wizard." But her voice was solemn. Jonathan looked around and his mother's face was pinched and hurt.
Things began to get hazy. Jonathan wasn't rocking himself, but watching Oz was rather like being rocked. When he rocked himself to sleep, Jonathan saw things like Oz, wonderful things, colors and magic.
Half-asleep, he met the Scarecrow. Jonathan loved the Scarecrow the best, like he loved Indians. Nothing would shake his loyalty. He loved the floppiness, the weak ankles, the loud cries, the gentleness. In comparison, the Tin Man looked greasy to him and nasty, and besides he was a machine and machines had no magic for Jonathan. He almost disliked the Tin Man, even though he kept crying out of kindness.