RAMONA QUINN

MIXED GREENS

Listen, my mother said to me. I'll tell you how to catch a man.

I didn't listen. What did I care? I was six years old and beautiful. Fat as a puppy, bald as an egg.

It didn't matter. Whatever I missed I'd hear again. My mother is a master of repetition.

Listen, my mother said to me, once, twice, ten thousand times. I'll tell you how to catch a man.

I was fourteen and the gardener's girl hated me. I knew this story. Still, I listened while my mother stroked the blonde hair that fell halfway down my back.

Princess hair, my mother said, taking up a handful.

She slid my new hair off and set it on the high knob of her chair to get her hands on the smooth, tanned flesh of my head. I lay back and let her stroke me, remembering the gardner's girl.

You're bald, my darling, my mother said. And when you marry it must not be in spite of your beautiful head. Because then, you see, he'll have the upper hand. And that must never, never happen.

In the twenty years my parents have been married my father has not, for one second, had the upper hand. My mother doesn't say this. There is no need. It is a well-known fact.

Once a man gets the upper hand, even the tiniest taste of it, all chance at happiness is gone for you. Because he'll love it. Power. Why do you think men want to be king? Why do you think men want to be husbands?

No, your husband must marry you because you're bald. Look at me, I am a prime example. If it wasn't for my feet I might not have caught your father. Now, stop crying. There will be more gardener's girls after you're married, if gardener's girls are what you like. Very sensible, really. No chance at pregnancy and it keeps your maidenhead intact. I wish I'd had half your wits when I was your age.

She smoothed my hair back on and straightened it. Go show this to your father, he'll be very pleased. But wash your face first. You can't go around all pink eyed. Princesses are happy and they dance all the time. Keep appearances up, myths like that can work in our favor. My mother is always alert for things that can work in our favor.

I went to a bedroom in the south wing and watched the gardener leave from a window. His plump and pretty wife and two young sons were crying. His daughter stood a bit apart, her butchered head held up and tilted proudly. For a while I hated my mother.

Mother let that go on for a few weeks before she lost patience with my sulking and said, Oh, stop it. She's gone already, and it had to be done. Anyway you never loved her. It was her hair you loved and you've got that.

But she was wrong. I could have loved the gardener's girl forever if my mother hadn't caught us. She walked into my room and found us sticky fingered and red faced with our dress fronts open and our skirts pushed up.

Honestly, my mother said as we jerked apart and felt the earth drop from beneath us. If you're going to behave with so little decorum at least be quiet about it. You were moaning like banshees. She clucked in disapproval. I stared at her, fidgeting. She was acting as though we'd been caught eating cake just before dinner.

We won't do it again, the gardener's girl said, terrified. My mother can be quite imposing.

Yes you will, my mother sighed. If I know anything about my daughter. But not here, any of a dozen servants could walk in at any time. From now on go to the sewing room in my quarters. She turned a baleful eye on me. You are almost fourteen. Have I taught you nothing? You are a princess, don't ever forget that for a moment, and if you don't wish to be virginal you must be discreet. But love can be contained in a sewing room. My mother should have known better.

It ended when a kitchen maid caught us kissing beneath a stairwell. Mother had the maid beheaded on a trumped up charge of stealing before any gossip leaked. She could have had the wizard put a spell of silence on girl, but she wanted to teach me a lesson. It worked. I felt horrid.

My mother was still angry at my disobedience. She decided the gardener's girl had to go. She bided her time. When the incident was all but forgotten she went out to the gardener's cottage. She took a pair of his shears and cut the girl's hair off at the roots. My mother told her I needed a wig and had chosen her hair as the most beautiful in the kingdom. Feel honored, my mother told her.

When she could think she ran to me, stood before me crying. Why? she said. I stared at her in wonder. I reached out and touched her head. It was raw and stubbly. Toward the back it felt like velvet. She jerked away. I hate you, she said.

I sat in my room all day, weeping. Quit mooning, my mother said and fired the gardener. I watched them leave from a window in the south wing and learned to hate my mother for a while.

Listen, my mother said to me, once, twice, ten thousand times when I had ceased to hate her. I call him that man, I call him your father (which he may well be) I call him the king, I call him my husband. I have not said nor thought his name since the day I took my vows. I would have to think to remember it. Naming enpowers, Rae, naming makes things solid. To you she must become the gardener's girl. Forget her name. The gardener's girl can't hurt you, she's only smoke and memory. I followed this advice, but not quite to the letter.

Her name was Sarah.

My mother was the youngest daughter of a middle class business man. There would have been plenty of money, my mother said. If I hadn't been deformed. As it was I got a lot of extras. If two older sisters resented that, well fine. I resented them. They could walk and run and dance. The dancing most of all. They would come home in fluffy white dresses and ribbons and curls. We were right on the edge of high society, the lowest run on the highest ladder. They would see the crown prince every so often. Once he asked the oldest girl to dance. They went crazy, the one so jealous, the other so superior. And I was just a child, Rae, with all a child's silliness. You know all about that. I was prettier than both of them and we all knew it. At the time it enraged me.

My mother was and is a beautiful woman. She has dark, rich hair and eyes the color of the moon. She has plump pink arms, a full bosom, and a tiny waist. She has womanly hips and nicely rounded thighs. Beneath her knees she has not grown an inch since she was seven years old. Instead the flesh withered and twisted around her bones. Her feet are sticks. Her toes are dry dead leaves.

When I was sixteen, my mother said upon my sixteenth birthday, I found a witch. Never mind how, witches know you're looking. Her name, yes I'll tell you, was Malthist. I bought a night from her, never mind the price. I bought one night and she gave me some advice for free. Not a bad bargain. She told me about the crown prince's two younger brothers. One had found a beautiful sleeping maiden and he woke her with a kiss. She was a comely wench who kept her witts about her. He actually believed she was a princess, kept sleeping for a thousand years while her kingdom fell to dust. The other found his bride held captive by seven midgets, their drudge, perhaps their whore. She convinced him she was a princess also, exhiled by a wicked Queen. You know them--your fat, common aunts and stupid uncles. Your father was a young fool as well. He wanted what his brothers claimed to find. Magic. I found a witch and bought him some.

This witch, Malthist, gave me a dress that danced by itself. A moon colored cloud of a dress that danced with me inside it. My legs just dangled into air beneath its skirts. She gave me a tiny glass and onyx slipper too. It smelled of magic and thyme.

I went to his birthday ball, the mystery maiden. I floated in from nowhere. The crowd parted, he saw me. He moved to me, took me in his arms. We danced until midnight. The other ladies were in an uproar because he never left my side, the fool. I never spoke. He broke the silence to say, "You dance as if on air." I almost broke out laughing. On the stroke of twelve the dress pulled away and curtsied low. Then it fled so fast the motion made me sick. I barely had time to drop the shoe upon the stairs.

You know the rest. He tripped over the shoe chasing me and broke his ankle. Then he issued a national proclamation swearing he would find and marry the maid who fit the shoe. He'd taken the bait, he was trapped. All I had to do was sit back and wait.

He went all over with an idiot footman carrying the shoe on a pillow and trying to stuff it on the big toe of every girl in the land. He smiled when he saw me. I think he recognized my eyes. You should have seen his face when he lifted the hem of my dress and found no feet. He lifted higher and higher until there they were, the ugly things. Rae, his jaw dropped and all the air hissed out of him. He'd eaten cheese for lunch. Still, the shoe fit and he had to wear it. Malthist is no fool.

We had the footman killed, of course. No one else had seen my legs, except my family. Then he issued another proclamation saying that my precious feet would never have to touch the ground again. We were both married sitting down, his ankle pained him.

Everyone thinks it's so romantic that he still has me carried about in litters after all these years.

Listen, my mother said once, twice, ten thousand times. If you forget everything I've taught you, Rae, remember this. The one lie that is always believed is Happily Ever After.

She had told me this story before, but this time stuck is my mind for three reasons. First, I had never heard my mother say anyone's name aloud, save my own. She said the witch's name three times. Malthist.

Second, she had spoken of the witch in the present tense. Malthist is a fool, she said.

Last, it was my sixteenth birthday. When I was sixteen, she'd said.

I went into my garden, the only place besides my mother's chambers where no eyes could touch me. I took off my hat, one of thousands, and threw it aside. I took off the gardener's girl's hair and hunt it on my white rose bush.

Listen, my mother said to me once, twice, ten thousand times. Naming empowers, Rae, naming makes things solid. Some people hold secret names, like cats do. Knowing them, and knowing when to use them can empower you.

I whispered Malthist to the moon and waited.

When she came it was not what I expected.

She seemed young. She wore a plain but well cut dress of gray linen. Her collar bones were sharp, she was blade thing. She sat on the ground beside my white rose bush and played with the ends of the gardener's girl's hair.

We looked at each other for a while. Her eyes were dark, her face very white and chiseled. I found myself liking the cut of her mouth. She smiled and said, I'll tell you things, Rae. Things your mother never told you.

This, to me, was irresistible. I leaned toward her. She smelled of eucalyptus and honeysuckle.

Your mother struck a bargain with me, Rae. I liked her because she didn't ask me to make her a Queen. Instead she asked for the chance to do it herself. So I gave her a break. My price is simple. In matters of marriage I take the children. At this I felt my heart close up, but she went on. Because I liked her I only took her sons.

I found my voice. My mother has no sons.

Of course not. She looked at me levelly and patiently. I took them.

When did she have sons? I asked.

She never had sons. She never will. I took them. She could have had as many as seven. I think it was a fair bargain. I had to weave a dress of spider webs and thistledown. I could have taken you as well. She grinned and added, Before she had you she got spitting mad with me. She summoned me to the palace, your mother is so good at playing queen. She demanded her daughter, demanded you, as if I had you. I told her it was her diet. For a nominal fee I made up a stew of mixed greens, spinach with basil, mostly rapunzel. Very high in iron. Any witch could have done the same. Still, Rae, that's where you got your name.

She leaned toward me and ran her thumb down the flesh of my neck. She left goose bumps. Her scent washed over me and I felt a little dizzy.

It's your birthday, isn't it Rae? Her voice dropped, became as soft as petals. Why don't I give you a gift. A little one. I'll grant a wish for you, no fee. It shouldn't be too hard. You're still a child, you're sure to wish for something foolish.

I wouldn't wish for something foolish, I said.

Oh, I bet you would. Her thumb brushed my pulse.

I bet I wouldn't.

She dropped her hand and leaned away abruptly. You're on. What shall we wager?

What? I don't know, I said, a little unsure of myself.

Well, what are you willing to put up? She was smiling again.

What do you want?

I don't know, Rae, what have I got that you want?

I don't know.

Coward. We must wager something, empty bets are boring.

She seemed to consider. I tell you what. We'll bet a favor. If you win, sometime, anytime in the future that you need something done you can call me. Or if I win you'll owe me one.

I felt wary. I was thinking of the children I might have. It would be something to do, not a thing you'd have to give away, right?

If that's the way you want it, Rae. We'll seal it with a kiss.

My throat closed. I couldn't swallow as she leaned toward me. At the last second I saw the trap and jerked away.

Who will judge my wish? I said.

She raised her eyebrows in admiration. Very quick, Rae. Who do you trust, who do we both trust? Your mother? If she thinks you've wished wisely then who am I to disagree?

I thought of what I'd wish for, my mother's face. Done, I said.

She stood and then took my hand and pulled me to my feet. Her fingers lingered for a moment on my palm as she released me. I breathed deep, trying to clear my mind.

Wish, she said. Just one, now.

I closed my eyes and said, I wish I had long, glorious, golden hair that would grow an inch every day.

She lifted the gardener's girl's hair. Like this?

Yes. Princess hair, I said dreamily. Then a picture flashed into my mind, the gardener's girl's ravaged skull. And if someone cut it, it would grow out twice as fast.

Enough, she said. Done. Happy Birthday. Once again she leaned forward, the iron taste of blood filling my mouth as I fell into her scent.

When I woke up it was in my bed. I rubbed my eyes and stretched. When I sat up my head felt strange and heavy. Remembering, I ran to the mirror. I was beautiful. It fell in a heavy gold curtain to my waist.

My mother came in then. Her breath caught in her throat and she stopped short. She looked from my head to the gardener's girl's hair hanging on the bed post. I swung around for her, reveling in the weight of it.


My mother shook her head, rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. You little fool, she said, almost kindly.

Every night I lay awake for hours waiting for Malthist to come and claim her prize. I didn't tell my mother about the bet.

As the days became weeks and she still didn't come my fear began to change. Anticipation. I remember her scent, her cool, callused hand. I wanted to see her again, favor or no favor.

Then I grew angry. Had she forgotten, was my favor so unimportant? Then, despondent, perhaps she'd just forgotten me.

Mother watched these changes with an ever deepening scowl. Quit mooning, she said.

On top of it all my hair had awakened my father's interest in me. I had never had that much to do with him and his sudden attentions made me nervous. I don't want to give the impression that my father was a fool. He was an intelligent and kindly man for the most part, and a decent king. But he was simply no match for my mother.

Your father is a terrible king, my mother said once, twice, ten thousand times. Who do you think runs this place, hmm? All he wants to do is host jousting tourneys. Sneak up behind him and say "Taxes." He'd jump a mile.

My father did love the tourneys. I had never paid them much attention. They were rough and tumble events, too windy for a girl who wore a wig. After what he termed "the miracle" he started dragging me to every one of them. I had to smile like an ass and wave a hanky at his favorites. I think he was just pleased to have a normal child.

Mother waxed sarcastic. He acts like you're his new creation. The old fool. Last night he was talking auctioning you off at some tourney. What marvelous qualifications for a husband and a future king: He knocked the most cretins off their horses one day. Quite a bargain you'll be getting, Daddy's girl.

I wasn't worried. Mother was not about to let that happen for all her jibes.

Malthist was nowhere to be found and my hair was growing at an alarming rate. After a month it was hanging near my feet and the weight of it was straining my neck. I cut it back to my waist and it grew out again in two weeks. I cut it off to my shoulders and the next day it was four inches longer. I panicked when I saw it, grabbed the scissors and hacked it off an inch from my scalp. I pressed it flat against my skull. When I released it it sprang back up like wheat, already looking longer. I didn't leave my room that day.

By the morning it had grown eight inches. I called a maid and had her shave my head. I felt free, beautiful and smooth. Until morning. I woke up to find it hanging past my shoulder blades.

A servant heard me screaming and called my mother.

Little fool, my mother said almost kindly after I'd told her the whole story. Malthist has a habit of holding bargains to, if not beyond, the letter. You did ask for it to grow back twice as fast when it was cut. No help for it. Just don't cut it again, you'll only make it worse. She's the only one who can help you now. I'll find her.

My mother had told me before that witches know when you're looking. Malthist didn't want to be found.

In three weeks I had over 26 feet of hair. Four maids carried it behind me on the rare times I left my bed. I filled the hours eating while my hair piled up beside me. I was starving and exhausted. Growing hair took all my strength. In six months I had lost close to ten pounds and was bedridden by almost 150 feet of hair. It filled my bed and spilled over into piles around the room.

My mother said, We'll have to cut it, no choice. I'll find her, don't worry. Have a biscuit. While the maids clipped it at the roots and carried it away in baskets Mother had a spot cleared for herself on the bed. Your Father is having the time of his life with this, Rae. He's issued a Royal Proclamation, his first since the one about my little shoe. You would think he's learn, look where that one got him. At any rate, a lot of nice young boys are going to lose their heads over this. The usual deal; save the princess and wing her hand and half the kingdom. Fail, your head is forfeit. Don't look so alarmed, I'm sure none of the formless fools lining up with scissors will succeed. And if someone does succeed, fine. You'll be free and if the boy isn't suitable I'll take care of it. I'll buy him off. If not there's always poison. And wouldn't that teach your father a thing or two about who will choose your husband. The whole ridiculous thing starts tomorrow, so try to get a good night's sleep.

The first boy gave me a choppy pageboy with scissors blessed by holy water.. His head rolled by sunset and I was growing 32 inches a day.

The second didn't cut. He burned it off, searing my skull. Mother ordered his fool head off immediately. No matter, he would have lost it anyway. I had healed the next day and grew well over 5 feet of hair.

The third brought a priest who performed an exorcism while the boy snipped it off bit by uneven bit. It grew close to 12 feet the next day. Mother had the priest beheaded as well to help discourage dilettantes.

Number four brought a wizard. They smeared a greasy salve and the hair dropped out in clumps. The inevitable happened. It was now growing at the rate of about a foot an hour. I was literally starving. I couldn't fall asleep for more than a few minutes. I would jerk awake, ravenous, and tear into cheese and kidney pie, fruit muffins with clotted cream and honey, roasted lamp and jelly. I'd fall asleep with my mouth full and wake up chewing. And still I lost weight steadily.

My father had a tall gray tower built while the first boys butchered me.

I sat in the highest room and let my hair grow out the window and pile around the base. Maids fed me around the clock.

Mother grew white lipped and enraged. Two or three more haircuts will kill you, Rae. The bitch, she's hiding.

I felt a calm come over me when Mother lost control. She'll come. I gnawed a chicken leg bare, licking grease off my fingers. I felt logical and in control. If I die she'll lost the favor. To myself I thought of the way she'd stroked my throat, that black kiss at the end. A dead certainty: she would not let me die.

Mother watched my face with a scowl. Quit mooning, Rae.

The the fifth fool came. He was a loose-limbed young man, nothing remarkable. I sucked down plum pudding and cream-roasted duck whle they hammered and sawed. By morning a vast scale sat beside the tower. He came up the stairs to join me in the highest room. I smiled at him around a chunk of pastry. He introduced himself as Eric, my future husband. Very calm and cocky for a man about to lose his head. He gathered my hair into a bundle at the nape and clipped it off without ceremony. As we walked downstairs I could feel it creeping down my back.

I sat on one side of the scale and waited while the maids passed up heaping plates of dumplings. In two hours my hair was long enough to set on the other side. Eric stood over it, chanting. I sat listening to myself chew as my hair piled up opposite me. Inch by inch I was raised as its weight increased.

Mother had her chair lifted just beside me. He thinks that if he cuts you off your hair, instead of cutting your hair off you, it will stop. He's chanting some spell to that effect. She rolled her eyes to show me what she thought of this idea. After this fool's beheaded I'm putting a stop to it. I promise you that. She looked at me for a moment, reading my face, and then her eyes narrowed. Stop smiling that way and eat. She's not a gardener's girl, Rae, nor a Prince. She's a witch, and witches keep their hearts in boxes. They don't come riding up on white charges. If she comes at all it will be to get what you owe her before you die. She signaled and was borne away, snorting in disgust. I stuffed a buttered crumpet in my mouth, feeling deflated and a bit afraid.



Aha! said Eric, my future husband. I jerked awake. I was swinging in midair. The other side of the scale, piled with hair, was almost touching the ground. Eric lifted some hedge clippers and hacked my hair off midway between the two sides. It swung down to rest gently in the small of my back. He climbed up to my side and his added weight lowered me enough to be lifted down.

We waited, all eyes riveted on the ends of my hair. Two minutes passed. Five. Ten. On the quarter hour there was a collective sigh. My hair had not grown an inch.

My father was laughing, clapping Eric on the back and calling him son when the pain hit and I started screaming.



I'm not quite sure what happened then. Mother told me later that I had started growing, my bones stretching and pulling upwards, flesh tearing as the spell reversed. Mother rolled off her chair and crawled to me, snatching up the shears to snip the ends off my hair. My body fell to its normal height and the hair came pouring down again.

When I woke up I was being carried up the stairs to the highest room in the tower. My Mother was just behind me, giving orders to her bearers. Set me down here, that's right. Now hand me Rae. I can hold her, she's a stick. And hang that hair out the window before it smothers us. Now leave. And when you're out I want the door sealed up. For good. Weld it.

I listened to their footsteps winding down. I didn't have the energy to eat. My body ached and my ribs grew so sharp they cut through my skin.

Listen, my Mother said to me once, and only once. She sat in the high tower holding my gaunt body. My hair wound down and away like a river. I love you, Rae.



My mother sits across from me in the highest room of the tower. She holds my black-eyed daughter on her knees. The child has an evil, toothless grin. She is delighted with Mother's elaborate hair.

Where on earth... my Mother says while the baby pulls her curls.

Mal brought her home one day. A changeling child she found in a small village. They were going to burn her, can you imagine? We seem to suit each other.

I'm kneading dough. I sprinkle on a bit more flour and give it a punch. You've put in too much flour, says my Mother, who has never baked a day in her life. I say nothing, just smile, keep punching the dough.

When will Mal be home?

In time for supper. She's never late. Why don't you stay?

She doesn't answer, she's busy separating the baby's fat hand from her bangs. I look out the window. Four litter bearers sit around my mother's chair, beside the sealed door. The long braid dangles down between two of them. I leave it. No need to pull it up, Mother will be climbing down soon and the men will watch it. They are husky boys. My mother has put on a little weight.

Mother sets my daughter on the floor to save her hair. I can't blame the child, she's not used to hair like that. Mal keeps hers clipped short. I keep mine on a peg by the window.



I remember waiting in this tower, starving, my mother and myself watching the moon.



Of course she came, to put her hands on my head and slide the hair from my scalp as easily as if it were the gardener's girl's.

Fresh baked bread, said Malthist. Made by your own hands every day.

That's it? That's the favor? I asked, running my hands along the smooth familiar contours of my skull. She only smiled as the hair began braiding itself into a long smooth coil that wound around her hands.

This is the way my life is now. The mornings I spend with my laughing daughter. We bake bread and tell each other secrets. Most afternoon my mother's voice calls, Rae! I lower the loops of hair and she pulls herself up with her strong arms. We drink tea together and talk.

Mal makes it home for supper, a swagger in her slight hips as she tells me of the deals she's made. She'll bring home small, bright magics for the baby. Sometimes she stays home all day. We'll make love in the afternoon, downstairs, while the baby sleeps above us in the sunlight. She'll help me fix dinner then. We eat plainly, baked fish, crisp vegetables lightly steamed, and always hot, fresh bread. I've lost my taste for rich food.

We fight sometime. I once broke every plate in the house aiming for her head. The baby cries, the bread burns. We go on.

When she gets home the coils of hair drop as if they knew her. They fall into her hands like a living thing. They were once a part of me, they love her.

Listen, my Mother says to me once, twice, ten thousand times. There is no such thing as happily ever after.

My barefoot daughter grins at me. We don't believe her.