‘I’ll bake you up in a pie, wee girly. I’ll bake you up in a pie,’ Grandma sang. ‘I’ll use my sharp teeth to grind your bones and bake you up in a pie. My pot is packed with children who lie. I’ll bake you up in a pie.’
Grandma grew noises under the bed, made Young Young Miss Lamp see little black dots when she opened her eyes in the sunshine.
§
Mmm, Mmm, Good.
Young Young Miss Lamp leaned into the kitchen. Her dirty toes pushed into the linoleum. Abby raised her left hand high above her head. Her pointer finger shook and twitched almost an inch each way as she held her wrist tight. The magpie chattered to the window ledge. Abby didn’t trust magpies. She grabbed a tea towel, wrapping her convulsing finger together with the rest of her hand, and pressed the bundle hard to her stomach. Creased in stress.
The magpie didn’t flinch.
‘Get away, stupid bird! Shoo! I don’t have anything for you.’
The magpie didn’t flinch at all.
‘I have nothing for you, magpie, go away. You frightened me.’
Young Young Miss Lamp huffed. Quietly. ‘Maybe he wants to help, Mom. To check if you’re okay. Magpies are very smart.’ She thought about Grandma’s pie story and the taste of ground bones.
Abby crumpled the tea towel behind her back and dropped it in the sink. With right hand over left, she squeezed her knuckles white. A strand of red hair hung down her cheek, tickling eyelashes in front of jade-green eyes. ‘When did you come in? I thought you were on the porch swing.’
‘I was.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘My feets was cold.’ Young Young Miss Lamp covered dirty toes with more dirty toes.
‘My feet were cold, dear, were cold – ’
‘And my toes too.’
Young Young Miss Lamp enjoyed saying words incorrectly, blinking at her mom’s corrections, especially if the correct part sounded higher than it really should be. She sat up straight at the kitchen table. She giggled when the paper towel got folded into a triangle – more exciting than a square, she reckoned. Her mom always put a bit of spit on it, wiping harder than she needed to at those tomato-soup spots around the mouth and chin.
Warm as a soda cracker.
‘Why were you crying, Mom?’
‘Would you like grilled cheese and tomato soup?’ Abby knew when her daughter was hungry.
‘Golden brown. Cut in triangles. And if it’s Campbell’s with moomoo.’ Young Young Miss Lamp stood up on her tippy-toes, peering into the cupboard with no doors.
‘Yes, dear. I haven’t poisoned you yet, have I?’
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