AH OOOOW!

The charity marionette show is over. Duplicates of Little Red Riding Hood, Grandma and the wolf had been made by seniors at Glenrock High. They are for sale outside the auditorium. Nagging young kids drag their parents close, beg for one, two or all of the characters. My Sue is one of them. ‘Cut it out, Sue. You have an overage of toys, dolls of all sizes that you have outgrown and haven’t looked at for years. In fact, over the week-end, you and I are going thru your bedroom displays and the 3 toy boxes in the basement. Most are going to Toyland at a charity. You pick the one you want. Don’t make any other Sunday plans. I claim the entire morning.’

‘Mom, look. Here comes Dad. ‘Sue, I knew you’d want these.’ He hands her all three marionettes. Ralph gets a big hug from her and the meanest, nastiest scowl I can muster from me. ‘Anybody feel like pizza?’ Spendthrift asks. ‘Ralph, I told you I have hot, lean corned beef, home fries and sour pickles for dinner tonight. That’s what we are having.’ ‘Come on, Amy. That’ll keep. Let’s go.’ We go!

Sue carries Red Riding Hood and Grandma over one arm and tries to manipulate the wolf with her right hand. In the blink of an eye, strings twist together. One of the wolf’s snaps. We all stand still. ‘Ralph, did you hear that? ‘ ’Hear what, Amy?’ ‘A baying, a howl, that’s what!’ ‘You’re nuts. All I heard was the three of us saying at the same time, ‘Oh no.’ ‘Sue, did you hear it?’ ‘ No, Mom I was busy trying to keep the wolf off the grass.’

The marionettes go in the back of the car with Sue. She fiddles with the wolf but it needs a new string, something we don’t have. It’s left leg is inanimate and hangs like a drying salami in the delly window. I turn to Sue. ‘Leave them all alone. You’ll do more damage than good.’ ‘Do you know what, Mom? The Grandma reminds me of you.’ Ralph thinks that is funny. I am hurt.

The pizzas are delicious. We devour two mediums, add too much fat and cholesterol to our innards. But what the heck. Ralph was right. The brisket can wait and I have tomorrow’s dinner ready.

Sue takes the still working marionettes out of the car and walks them up the driveway. She hands me the broken wolf and asks me to fix it in the morning. ‘You wanted it, Sue, it’s yours. You broke it, fix it. Don’t give me another job to do.’ ‘But, Mom, it wasn’t my fault. The string was lousy. You are much handier than I am. Please fix it tomorrow.’ ‘No, I will not. Learn not to count on anybody but yourself. There’s no rush. Maybe Josie, your friend who helped make the actors, can get you a new string. See you in the morning. Good nite. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ ‘You’re right, Mom. I’ll try to work on it later or tomorrow. OK?

Sunday morning comes, toy cleaning day. Sue doesn’t come down to breakfast at her usual 8. I call upstairs for her to come down. She doesn’t answer. I call again, then go upstairs. Her door is partially open. I push it hard enough that it bangs against the wall, chips the paint. Sue is in bed. Her eyes are closed. The sheets and coverlet are rumpled, hanging partially out of the bed. My heart is doing flip flops. I shake her. She stirs. Slightly dazed, she sits up, puts her hand on her neck.‘Mom, what’s wrong with my neck. It hurts.’ I look and see a large red mark. I imagine a wolf’s fangs would do that.

On the other side of the bed the broken Big Bad Wolf is totally wrapped in all its strings. It’s eyes are red and they shine. I scream. Sue screams and the wolf snarls.