as a warning and when I pry my eyes off the knuckles to obediently look at her, she glares at me.
“Sonnet, eat your stew and stop that daydreaming,” she says, firmly. She sets down another plate of stew in front of Old Babba and her white, white knuckles. Old Babba will suck it down like she did the first plate: noisily, lips smacking, making more noise than Dolly, her pet goat, when she eats. Old Babba is skinny, rail thin, with milky white skin, and sunken black eyes. She doesn’t have much hair and what she does have is baby fine, thin, thinner than my little sister Rose, whose own hair is very fine and so light in color it is practically clear. Old Babba finishes her stew and the moment she swallows the last bite, she turns her small black eyes on me with such ferocity and with such speed, that I yelp and fall out of my chair.
“For goodness sake, Sonnet,” my exasperated mother says, righting my chair. “Go lie down and rest your eyes. This fidgety nature of yours is impossible to enjoy a meal with. Go on!” She shoos me towards the big fireplace and clears away my plate. I am sorry to see my half eaten stew being carted away when I am still hungry, but I am not sorry to leave Old Babba and her scary eyes and bony knuckles that grasp her spoon so greedily.
“She’s not the one to watch, Carolina,” Old Babba says to my mother. “She’s nothing. But the little one…the little one is different.”
“Rose is no different than the rest of us,” snaps my mother, and I am surprised to see her treat the old woman so. She is always reprimanding me on my lack of respect and manners with our elderly neighbor and yet she is barking at her now. “I don’t want to talk about this. You’ve said your peace and I’ll thank you to say no more.”
Old Babba cackles. She is just like the witch in my Hansel and Gretel story, I think. She will cage me in a giant bird cage and feed me chickens and plump me up and then eat me and then her knuckles and fingers won’t be so bony anymore. She will fatten up and smooth out, her back will straighten and become strong, all her wrinkles will turn to smoothness, her hair will fill in and turn glossy and spill over her shoulders like a younger lady’s, and all because she will make me into stew. A stew that she will smack her lips over and ask for seconds with.
I awake in a panic in my own bed, eighteen years old, and terrified of a witch in a gingerbread cottage. I am afraid it is more memory than dream.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, I work the a.m. shift at the coffee shop. I have a love/hate relationship with the morning shift: on the one hand I earn better tips for some reason, on the other there’s no singing or guitar picking. In fact, Micki gets to pick the music selection that runs on our compact disc player and it is, in a word, boring. I want to add extra shots of espresso to everyone’s drinks as an apology and in the hopes that they won’t fall asleep and drool on my counter.
Today Penny works with me because mornings are always busy and sure enough there is a lovely selection of elevator music playing softly. Our customers approach the counter like zombies.
“May I recommend the triple shot Irish Cream mocha with whip and sprinkles?” I chirp to the man next in line, who appears as though he may slip into a coma at any time.
He takes a deep breath and to my great disappointment, orders a non-fat, decaf, sugar-free vanilla latte, not too hot.
“One cup of ‘why-bother,’” I tell Penny, who is making the drinks that I place orders for.
The next lady wants a skinny mocha, the next a half dozen muffins and cappuccinos for her co-workers. Three hours go by like that, with nary an interesting customer, until finally someone familiar darkens my cash register.
“Coffee. Black,” says Luke. He looks as usual, like he just rolled out of bed, forgetting to shave. On him, it seems to work.
“Can’t interest you in a toffee cream breve? My specialty?” I cajole.
“Are you kidding? This some sort of entrapment? You know darn well a troop of well organized macho men would jump me and demand