How a Mother Weaned Her Girl from Fairy Tales Read Online Free Page B

that they might starve. “What a monster,” this old witch, who was also a little witch, said. Unfortunately she also saw fit to settle them into a cage. The girls overheard her say to someone that they would soon be fat enough to kill, and then eat.

    â€œOnly a monster would harm little children,” said someone who stepped into their view. This girl wore a white dress and a white bonnet and high, lace-up white boots. She had white hair and was smoking a rose-colored cigar, like the bubblegum kind they got in their Christmas stockings each year. She was the most beautiful person they ever had seen.

    The witch snarled, “Don’t speak to your mother that way. You are my only joy.”

    And so it went. For some months, maybe years, this young white-haired girl would tell them to stick their hands out so she could get a good feel of their fingers. That was the way her mother had asked her to measure whether they were fat and ready to eat. The elder girl would poke her large fingers out through the wires, but her sister would only hold out some sticks. The young witch would take a drag of her cigar and say to the older girl, “Gee, you’re getting fat.” But the sticks the younger sister stuck out felt hard and she would shudder and call her skeletor, fondly. Then she’d report to her mother that they weren’t ready yet.

    So it went on. Then, one evening, with no explanation, for none was necessary in a world where good and evil work in mysterious ways, the young witch took the older girl’s hand and led her from the cage into the hut’s cozy kitchen. With a shrug, she told the older sister to get in the oven. The older sister said simply, “I won’t.” The young witch shrugged again, and offered her a pale blue cigar. By now they were both teenagers, the older sister and the young witch. Together they sat by the oven, chatting a bit, passing the time companionably; they had become, in their way, really good friends.

    Soon they heard the mother’s footsteps. The older sister hid behind the oven, cupping both lit cigars inside of her palms. They got burned. “Mom, can you check on the fire?” the young witch said. The old witch opened the oven and the two girls rushed toward her, pushed her in, slammed the door shut, and ran like a pair of beautiful twins to let the little sister out of the cage.

    And then they all ran toward the pale light that shone at the edge of the woods. They stopped by a tree now and then to have a smoke and a laugh.

    They hadn’t gone far before they ran into the father. He was looking for them as he had been doing nightly for years. When they saw him he was holding a flashlight in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other and he was crying a bit. When he saw them, he began crying harder. He hugged them—not seeming to notice there were three girls, not only two—and he sat them down on some tree stumps.

    He began to tell them a story. The father had arrived home from selling windowpanes one night, and he had seen his children were gone. He accused his wife of doing them harm. She had denied it—wept and drank gallons of wine. “I never would hurt them,” she said. “I’m a good person.” She was the one who called the police to report they were missing. The father and mother had held a press conference. “Dear Lord,” she had wept for the cameras, “please return my dear girls to me.”

    A popular news show had covered the story. “The universe works in mysterious ways,” the blonde broadcaster said. “Pray for the girls in the woods, let us all pray. Also for soldiers.”

    And then the mother went away—to a hospital—and the father was lonely. He had neither his daughters nor wife; he ate frozen dinners, not even thawing them out, after work every night. He listened to AM radio, and weeping he sang along. If you could read my mind, love, what a