My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me (54 page)

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Authors: KATE BERNHEIMER

BOOK: My Mother She Killed Me, My Father He Ate Me
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“See if he can manage this,” the attractive young man said to Vicky. He set a bowl of broth on the table.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, propping up Eddie, who had slid so far down in his chair he couldn’t reach the table. “I’m going to break an egg into it to give it more body,” she explained. Then she reached into the shoe box for the curved knife and gave the egg a whack, separating the two halves of the shell and dropping the contents into Eddie’s broth.
The room grew very quiet. Shadows padded along the walls, poured over Eddie like rain.
The old woman leaned closer. “Uh-oh,” she said. “It looks like he’s wet himself.”
She took off her sunglasses to get a better look.
She was wearing a long robe of a heavy lustrous fabric like the satin they stopped making years ago, and it set off her skin—she allowed just the right amount of animal fat in her diet to keep it thick and creamy, hydrated it just enough to keep it translucent. “I have something to tell you, Mister,” she said to Eddie, looking up over her fork at him, lifting her eyes which weren’t cloudy and dull but alive and dark and lit by the fire of her spirit, which, like the sun, couldn’t be confronted directly but had to be filtered through the vitreous humor of her material self. Eddie remembered those eyes watching him, and as he did he heard the sound of the crickets, a sound he hadn’t heard in a very long time, and with it the voice of his mother calling him in, and his father whistling as he adjusted the sprinkler, its lazy arc above the freshly mowed lawn, and there was Mary in her plaid shorts and white T-shirt, standing on one leg like a stork.
“You look like you just saw a ghost,” the attractive young man said. It was the very last thing Eddie heard before his soul flew out of his body.
My story has two sources. The first is the Italian fairy tale “Body-without-Soul.” I was attracted to its obsession with the physical body, as well as its elaborate and gruesome set of rules for tracking down the soul, and I took elements of its plot for my own. The second source is less specific but stems from the role time plays in the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen, where it overpowers everything, including magic. In his fairy tales it’s time above all else that is magical, elastic, strange—even with otherworldly help you can’t escape it. I wanted to write a story reflecting this condition, and I thought “Body-without-Soul” would provide a good container.
—KD
KELLIE WELLS
The Girl, the Wolf, the Crone
MORE
THAN ONCE THERE WAS A SOON-TO-BE-OLD WOMAN WHO HAD A loaf of bread, held it in her hands she did, and it was inconvenient to have a loaf of bread always sitting in her hands as she tried to sweep or sew or sneeze, so she said to her daughter, the one with cheeks the appalling color of let blood: “With a face like that, you haven’t anything better to do, so here, take this bread off my hands!” The woman said she knew a sickly wolf who would like nothing better than to receive stale bread from a girl like her, “but be careful,” said the girl’s mother, “as the woods are full of primordial women with faces like the bottom of a river and who long to feel the weight of bread in their twisted mitts once more.” The minute the woman handed the bread to the girl, her face grew dark as thunder, and she barked, “Git!”
The girl fled with the loaf under her arm, and at the fork where everyone chooses wrongly, she saw a crusty old woman with a face like a fallen cake, and the woman yowled, “You’re headed the wrong way, dear heart!”
“But I haven’t chosen yet!” said the girl with the objectionable cheeks.
“As if that mattered,” muttered the woman, and for a moment her face looked like a weathered map leading nowhere good.
The girl examined the tines of the forking path and could see that in one direction the road was covered in spoons and in the other it was littered with blood sausages. The girl had always preferred spoon to sausage and so she confidently strode in that direction. The sunlight that needled its way through the branches of the forest struck the bowed bellies of the spoons, splintered in every direction, and pricked the girl’s skin as she walked. She tried to brush away the light that beetled along her arms and up her throat with its sticky legs. The light, pragmatic and cowardly at heart, would not go near those cheeks red as a carbuncle.
The old woman, knowing what was expected of her, cackled. She swiftly slipped and wobbled atop the sausages and cursed herself for having forgotten to bring along a growler of beer. No matter, she’d be at the house of the ailing wolf soon enough, and then she’d have her fill, boy howdy.
When she reached the house of the wolf, the cunning beldam let herself in and shook her head at the sight of him: he looked half-dead already, more moth-eaten pelt than glamorous savage, not even fit to be a stole. She spit a bolus of sausage at the foot of his bed. The wolf weakly stirred at the sound.
“Well, I suppose I haven’t any choice but to eat you,” said the woman.
“I suppose not,” said the wolf, who’d had a hunch the saving catholicon of the bread would not make it to him in time. There is no rescuing a wolf, not in this world or any other. He unzipped his coat and dragged his body dutifully into her mouth, and the woman, who found him a little gamey, spit the bones onto the bed.
From inside her belly, the wolf’s muffled voice came,
Take, eat,
he said,
this is my body, which is broken for you.
Such theatrics, heavens to betsy! thought the old woman, and she socked herself in the stomach and belched. If she ate before sundown, her meals always repeated on her.
The ancienne noblesse began to undress, lace-up peep toes, garters, support hose, daisied duster, crocheted shrug, ragged bonnet.
A yellow cat lying curled before the hearth unwound himself, sat up, and said, “Get a load of Granny’s gams, ooh-wee hubba-hubba!” then whistled like a sailor newly on leave.
The ripe old dame, whose sister had a weakness for strays of every stripe, had had her fill of cheeky gibs and she booted him across the room. Then she stepped inside the wolf skin, which fit a skosh too snugly, and slipped beneath the covers. She struck a wan pose and conjured a pallor that announced she was on the verge of oblivion and should be the recipient of a steady supply of pity and bread and the affection of innocents, and just as she did, Little Miss Red Cheeks knocked at the door.
“Allow me,” said the limping tom, who wanted to hotfoot it to a place free of irascible old grimalkins, notorious collectors of the likes of him, and he slid out the door sly as butter.
And there the girl was, laden with spoons she’d collected along the way, a crumbling loaf, eager to be cradled in the hands of a long-fallow hag, under her arm.
“Hello, sick wolf,” said the poppy, and she set the spoons and the bread upon the floor.
My soul is exceeding sorrowful
, lamented the wolf inside the woman, and she coughed hoarsely and slapped her chest, and the girl said, “What was that?” and the woman replied, “My cold is leaving my snout full,” and she coughed again.
“I have bread,” said the girl, who blushed brash as an open wound, “bread that has never left the hands of my mother until now, bread that can save you.”
I will smite the shepherd and scatter the sheep
, said the wolf, and the woman poked herself hard in the gut and her stomach emitted a feeble growl.
The little radish knew there was no love lost between wolf and sheep, but there wasn’t a flock to be found for miles around, and she smiled at him pityingly, thinking some poor creatures are simply doomed by instinct, helpless to hallucinate more reachable goals, slave to implausible diets. She picked up two spoons and began to tap a melody on her knees, which made her legs involuntarily kick.
The woman threw back the covers and exposed more fully her lupine duds.
“My, what big breasts you have!” exclaimed the girl with cheeks like molten embers. She dropped the spoons, which landed with a timpanic plonk upon the pile.
So sad when a girl goes ruddy, thought the woman, tsk.
The old woman adjusted her dugs, which, raised in the wild away from the civilizing influence of brassieres, were a little claustrophobic and so tried to escape the suffocating skin of the wolf. She corralled them and they nickered. “The better to suckle you with, dear heart!” said the woman. Pitiful little strawberry, thought she, whom I might once have been able to save had your mother, grrrr, not pinched the loaf from my withered fingers. It is always advisable to bear in mind that the embezzlement of fertility necessarily exacts a stiff tariff.
“Oh, wolf, what blue hair you have!” said the girl. The old woman had only yesterday been to the beauty parlor and chosen a rinse the color of irises. Sprigs of hair escaped through the wolf ’s ears, and the woman tried to tuck them back inside.
Behold, he is at hand that doth betray me
, croaked the woman’s belly
.
She was having a little trouble restraining her feral anatomy, and she put a hand to her complicated crotch and her befurred breasts and gave everything a shake and an upward tug.
Oof
, went her stomach.
“What opposable thumbs you have, wolf!” bleated the girl, who began to fear that this blue and breasted creature was not all that he seemed, this womanly wolf that smelled vaguely medicinal, giving off an odor of vitamins, blood, and moldering roses. And thumbs, he smelled of thumbs!
“Oh, wolf!” cried the girl. “Your bones, your bones!” She pointed at the pile. “How can you heave your body from hill to dale without them? How can you properly terrorize woodland creatures with only raggedy fur and a pudding of flesh with which to spook them?” Bones were an essential ingredient of both locomotion and thuggery, the girl well knew.
The old woman now saw she’d left the bones in plain view on the bed, an osteological oversight, and she took up the wolf ’s femurs and drummed on the headboard behind her. “If I carry them with me,” said the woman, “they don’t poke me as much. And, well, they’re, uh, erf, much more percussive when not swimming inside me!” The woman halted the racket and could see she was straining even this rosily jowled gull’s willful naïveté, so necessary to the telling of stories and the entrapment of children.
The girl bent to fetch the loaf of bread that she hoped would help provoke the wolf ’s natural canine vitality, and when she did, she spied beneath the bed the old woman’s clothes. She remembered what her mother had told her, and she was relieved at the thought that there was one less old woman in the woods to worry about. She put on the old woman’s shift and the old woman’s shawl and the old woman’s bonnet and she clomped about in the old woman’s shoes and she pretended to scold invisible children and to dab at imaginary dew-laps with an embroidered hankie that she kept tucked beneath her wristwatch, then she picked up the bread and crawled into bed with the wolf, who seemed to her to suffer from womanhood, the worst of all afflictions, a disease she would likely contract in time, and the wolf, quick as the flick of a lizard’s tongue, quick as a badger’s dander, swallowed her whole like the meat of an oyster. The old woman felt the satisfied satiety of having dined on bread and girl. The girl shimmied down the throat of the wolf clutching the loaf to her breast only to meet another throat on her way to the wolf’s stomach and she could see this was not the shriveled throat of a bruised peach past her prime. Only then did she realize she’d been bamboozled and was now curled inside the true wolf ’s boneless belly as if waiting to be born, half wood-sprite battle-ax, half consumptive cur, nuts! She heard the old woman licking her fingers, and she stretched herself inside the flesh of the wolf and began to jab the old woman in the kidneys. “Say, stop that!” howled the old woman. “Nobody likes an impudent lunch!”

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