Sleepy and irritable, the twins drifted down from the attic. Carrie settled in front of the dollhouse. Cory squatted down on his heels to watch TV. He picked up his expensive, professional guitar and began to play. Chris sat on his bed and faced the door. I hedged, ready to run when she came back. I'd run into the bath, lock the door. . . I'd . . .
The key turned in the door. The doorknob twisted.
I jumped to my feet, as did Chris. He said, "Get in the bath- room, Cathy, and stay there."
Our grandmother walked into the room, towering like a tree; and she bore not a whip, but a huge pair of scissors, the kind women use when cutting fabric to make clothes. They were chrome-colored, shiny, long, and looked very sharp.
"Sit down, girl!" she snapped. "I am going to cut off your hair to the scalp--and then maybe you won't feel pride when you look in the minor."
Scornfully, cruelly, she smiled when she saw my surprise-- the first time I'd seen her smile.
My worst fear! I'd rather be whipped! My skin would heal, but it would take years and years to grow back the beautiful, long hair I'd cherished since Daddy first said it was pretty, and he liked long hair on little girls. Oh, dear God, how could she know that almost every night I dreamed she stole into this room while I slept and sheared me as one does a sheep? And sometimes I dreamed not only did I wake up in the mornings bald and ugly, but she cut off my breasts, too!
Whenever she looked at me, it was at some particular place. She didn't see me as a whole person, but in sections that seemed to arouse her anger . . . and she would destroy whatever made her angry!
I tried to dash into the bathroom, and lock the door behind me. But for some reason my dancer's legs, trained so well, refused to move. I was paralyzed by the very threat of those long, shiny scissors and above them--the grandmother's chrome-colored eyes were sparked with hate, scorn, contempt.
That's when Chris spoke up in a strong man's voice. "You are not going to cut off one strand of Cathy's hair, Grandmother! Take just one step in her direction, and I will pound you over the head with this chair!"
He held one of the chairs we used for dining, ready to carry out his threat. His blue eyes snapped fire as hers shot hate.
She flicked him a scathing glance, as if what he threatened were of no consequence, as if his puny strength could never overcome the mountain of steel she appeared. "All right. Have it your way. I will give you your choice, girl--the loss of your hair, or no food or milk for an entire week."
"The twins have done nothing wrong," I implored. "Chris has done nothing He didn't know I was unclothed when he came down from the attic--it was all my fault. I can go without food and milk for a week. I won't starve, and besides, Momma won't let you do this to me. She'll bring us food."
I didn't say that with any confidence, though. Momma had been gone so long. She didn't come very often; I'd grow very hungry.
"Your hair--or no food for a week," she repeated, untouched and unflinching.
"You are wrong to do this, old woman," said Chris, coming closer with his lifted chair. "I caught Cathy by surprise. We did nothing sinful. We never have. You judge us by circumstantial evidence."
"Your hair, or none of you will eat for a week," she said to me, ignoring Chris, as she always did. "And if you lock yourself in the bathroom, or hide yourself in the attic, then not one of you will eat for two weeks! Or when you come down with a bald head!" Next, she riveted her cold and calculating eyes on Chris for a long, excruciating moment. "I think you will be the one to shear off your sister's long, cherished hair," she said with a secret smile. On the dresser top she laid the shiny scissors. "When I come back, and see your sister without hair, then the four of you will eat."
She left us, locked us in, left us in a quandary, with Chris staring at me, and me staring back at him
Chris smiled. "Come now, Cathy, she's all bluff! Momma will come any hour. We'll tell her. . . no problem. I'll never cut off your hair." He came to put his arm around me. "Isn't it fortunate we've hidden a box of crackers and a pound of cheddar cheese in the attic? And we still have today's food--the old witch forgot that."
We seldom ate very much. We ate even less that day, just in case Momma didn't show up. We saved half our milk, and the oranges. The day ended without a visit from Momma. All night I tossed and turned, fretting in and out of sleep. When I slept I had horrible nightmares. I dreamed Chris and I were in a deep dark woods, running lost, looking for Carrie and Cory. We called their names in the silent voices of dreams. The twins never answered. We panicked and ran in utter blackness.
Then suddenly, out of the dark loomed up a cottage made of gingerbread! Made of cheese, too, with a roof of Oreo cookies, and hard Christmas candy made a colorful winding path to the Hershey bar door. The picket fence was of peppermint sticks, the shrubbery of ice-cream cones, seven flavors. I flashed a thought over to Chris. No! This is a trick! We can't go in!
He messaged back: We have to go in! We have to save the twins!
Quietly we stole inside and saw the hot-roll cushions, drip- ping with golden butter, and the sofa was of freshly baked bread, buttered, too.
In the kitchen was the witch to end all witches! Beak-nosed, jutting jaw, sunken, toothless mouth, and her head was a mop of strings colored gray and pointing wildly in all directions.
She held up our twins by their long golden hair. They were about to be thrust into her hot oven! Already they were frosted pink and blue, and their flesh, without cooking, was beginning to turn into gingerbread, and their blue eyes into black raisins!
I screamed! Over and
over again I screamed!
The witch whirled to glare at me with her gray flintstone eyes, and her sunken mouth, thin as a red knife slash, opened wide to laugh! Hysterically, she laughed on and on as Chris and I cringed in shock. She threw back her head, her wide open mouth exposing fang-like tonsils--and startlingly,
frighteningly, she began to change from the
grandmother. From a caterpillar into a butterfly she emerged as we stood frozen, and could only watch. . . and there from the horror came our mother!