Grimm's Last Fairy Tale Read Free Page B

getting nowhere. Then, as she turned to leave her computer, a book caught her eye. Grimm's Fairy Tales. Wilhelm and Jacob Grimm. Maybe it was the ghost of Jacob Grimm, she mused. She giggled, fed the cats and then hit the road to what she hoped would be sweet sleep.

Chapter 5,
    in which a literary battle of wits ensues, some things are
    revealed and others are not

    When Maggie awoke, she was not feeling as blissful as she had the last couple of days. She occasionally suffered from sleep apnea and this had been a particularly bad night. She labored her way through about half of her oats and even her shower didn’t bring her to life.
    She arrived at the bookstore more tired than she had left it the day before, doubting that any messages could turn her outlook around. Days like this—days when she would have rather stayed in bed—brought up old resentments of having to work in the first place. It was not that she was at all lazy or wanted to lie around watching TV. Maggie had aspirations. She wanted to spend her days pursuing dreams that had long been on the back burner due to raising children, the one dream of hers which had been fulfilled. As much as she loved being a mother to many, she had forgone many things and made many sacrifices to do it and now was the time to accomplish these ambitions. The men who had not known how to love her the way she needed to be loved—exclusively—had left her with no income, no retirement, no social security and had saddled her with the need to work to meet her most rudimentary needs. She had worked so hard raising her children and had thoughtlessly counted on having a man to care for her as she got older. Her thought was that she could do these things when the kids were grown.
    Instead, she mourned over the lives her husbands had chosen to live that had left her struggling to care for herself. She attributed the stress-damage ravages that her body was enduring to these immature men and that left her feeling even worse about herself and her inability to forgive, forget, and move on.
    So it was an altogether rotten day she was facing and it was seasoned with bitterness. She gave no thought to romantic messages or secret admirers and quite frankly was in no mood for them today. Why should she give the time of day to anyone who might be interested in her? History had proven all her romantic dreams utterly futile. The truth was, Maggie had often said, much to the chagrin of those who loved her, that she could never respect anyone that could love her.
    As she returned from the stacks with the last of the previous night’s sales, she approached her desk with a sincere hope that there would be no message today. It would not be received well in her hateful state. Unfortunately, not only did her admirer ignore her wishes, but, like all men, felt that he could somehow fix her. She had no way of knowing that he believed that he had it within himself to counteract all the pain that was eroding her core.
    She closed her eyes just before she got to her desk and gingerly set the books down. Then, slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes to find this passage:

    "How beautiful you are! You are more beautiful in anger than in repose. I don't ask you for your love; give me yourself and your hatred; give me yourself and that pretty rage; give me yourself and that enchanting scorn; it will be enough for me."

    She loved this passage. This was from Dickens’ The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Now Maggie was really beside herself. Whoever this was, he was able to know how she felt in her heart. She was an uncomfortable blend of indignant, afraid and angry, though she could not discern which one held the controlling share.
    These feelings, with painful rapidity, morphed into a bitterness that love was once again either mocking her or attempting to intrude into her life. She also felt that it was more than likely doing so with a hope that it could not only impose, but would also find the accommodations appealing and