"warmth"
By robblu (https://pastebin.com/u/robblu)

URL: https://pastebin.com/ZJV2W9dD
Created on: Thursday 9th of March 2017 06:28:26 PM CDT
Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 03:23:02 AM UTC


The morning was warm, so she dressed light: two sweaters, a parka, sweat pants, two pairs of socks, and her thick, insulated snow boots. In the half-lit kitchen she made tea, operating with the speed of habit. As usual, she was the only thing in the house stirring so early; her parents slept until seven, and on a Saturday, her sisters would lie in as long as possible.

She savored the quiet times before daily life began, when she had time to move slowly, and think each thought fully and to her own satisfaction. There were precious few hours in the day when she could do this; before long the world would lash at her with noise and bustle, hurling the customary orders to hurry up, stop daydreaming, quit wasting time.

But for now, she had time to waste. She had time to move at her own rhythm, and she did so as she collected her bag and slipped out the front door. She checked the lock twice, as always, and crunched her way 
across the mat of dry leaves and twigs masquerading as the front lawn. In the stillness of the morning her footfalls were the only sound, her stride and the rising fog of her breath the only motion. At five-thirty AM, the neighborhood was still asleep.

She relished the 'AM'. It meant 'All Mine'.

Up the vacant sidewalk she went, hands in her pockets to keep her fingers from growing numb. It was warm, supposedly; in Michigan Falls, February should have been a month of snow and short, frigid days, but the sun had shone brightly ever since Christmas. The temperature was hovering in the high forty-degree range, and her family insisted that this qualified as 'lovely' or 'brisk'. As usual she ignored them, piled on the insulated clothing, and shivered anyway. 

She sipped her tea as she rounded the familiar streets, taking an easy route without too many hills. When the little corner shop came into view, windows glowing in the blue morning, she stepped up the pace. Being used to freezing was one thing, but enjoying it was an impossibility. She pushed the door open, coaxing a resigned jingle from the tired old chime affixed to the frame. 

"Hey, there she is!" From his stool behind the counter, Sal waved a cruller in amiable greeting. "You warm enough today? Need more tea yet?"

"I'm fine," she said, smiling and depositing her bag on his counter. "But I'd say 'yes' to the tea, please."

"Okay, coming up!"

She watched him putter around at the sink, fiddling unhurriedly with tea leaves and an electric kettle. Sal knew how to take his time too; it was one of the reasons she liked working for him. She also loved to hear him talk--his thick accent was full of texture and history, and turned his greeting into, "Dere she eez!" The rich, varied tones in his voice always brought to mind the feeling of brushing her fingertips over burlap, and the shine of late afternoon sunlight in her father's office. 

"You going to be warm enough?" he asked, finally turning to pour fresh tea into her travel-mug. "You no wear your scarf today. Your neck get cold, and you catch the sniffles!"

"I think I'll be okay." She stirred packets of sugar into the tea and snapped the lid back on. "It's not so cold anymore."

"Cold enough for you, though?" Sal's tone was a comfortable mid-point between concern and teasing. "I bet when you get older, you move right out of town, eh? You go someplace with sun all the time?"

"Sounds like my kind of place," she sighed, regarding the window with reluctant acceptance. "Have to make do with this for now, though."

"That's the way." Sal reached under his counter and retrieved a twine-bound stack of newspapers, which he plopped in front of her. "It not so cold if you start later, you know. More sunshine--" he wrapped his arms around his wide chest and gave a theatrical shiver "--and less of that!"

"Maybe," she murmured, packing newspapers into her bag. "But if I started later, I couldn't take my time."

Sal nodded, and helped himself to a glazed donut from a paper carton. "You do it your way, yes?" He patted her shoulder, smiling like the grandfather she had never had. "That's my Jean."

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, smiling as she stepped out again; Sal waved her away with his donut, giving her a farewell wink as she left.

A trickle of cars had begun to slide past the store, though not enough to disrupt the before-dawn tranquility. Jean slipped through a backyard, clutching her tea in one hand and hiking up the newly-laden bag with the other. She had twenty-seven houses in her paper route, and the entire circuit usually took about two hours to complete. It could probably have been finished in half the time if someone else was covering it, but the route belonged to Jean, and her preference was to stroll. Best to let everyone else be in a hurry, she thought; that left just enough room for one girl who wasn't. 

As she walked, tucking papers into mail slots and under doormats, she let her mind stroll too. It wandered past the test she had taken in class the previous day (geometry, and not a successful endeavor), wound around the fine supper she had eaten the night before (roasted pork with twice-baked potatoes, her father's specialty), and pensively regarded the amount of time her oldest sister would be in the house before returning to college (another month, which was about four weeks too long). She considered each topic with the gravity of a philosopher, and only let the trains of thought roll away when she was satisfied with her conclusions. 

She trudged up a steep hill, only dropping off three papers on the ascent, and turned, intending to take a shortcut through an overgrown hedge. It was colder than she had expected, and she was out of tea and sorely beginning to wish that she had worn her scarf; shaving ten minutes off the trip didn't seem like a bad idea at the moment. As she cleared the hedge, however, and came into view of her next delivery, she slowed and then stopped completely.

A commotion of significant scale was taking place just across the street. Shouts and even a few crashes, as if someone was throwing things, emanated from the tall, mildly run-down house in the midst of an overgrown lawn. As she watched, the front window actually shattered, and a baseball hit the pavement. It bounced a few times and rolled to a halt in front of her. She picked it up and found it to be a perfectly ordinary baseball, which seemed an odd reversal--baseballs, she thought, generally went into houses from the outside, didn't they? 

She got no further. The huge, wooden front doors burst suddenly open and a girl about her own age came tearing out. Her face was red and contorted in anger, and she spun around in the middle of the street, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"You won't get me!' she shouted toward the house. "I'm not stupid like the others, you lousy old witch! I'll make sure you never catch anyone else again!" The girl whirled around and began to dash in the opposite direction, but she halted when she spotted Jean watching her. "Hey," she demanded, "what are you doing? Don't you know whose house that is?"

"Um--" Jean faltered, at something of a loss. She did know who the house belonged to, since it was her next delivery, but she was completely confused as to why the girl was wearing only a t-shirt and panties, and seemed to have been dusted liberally with some sort of green spice. "Yes...?"

The newcomer stared at her, then shook her head. "Whatever. If you want my advice, you should be running too. That old biddy is nuts." She lit off again, and was gone in moments. 

Jean hovered curbside for a few moments, directionless. She knew Mrs. Glauss was a witch, and had heard the rumors of children disappearing into the dark recesses of the old house. In her own experiences though, the woman had been invariably pleasant and polite. She paid her subscription on time and with no fuss, and was the best tipper on Jean's route. The idea of her terrorizing her neighbors simply didn't click. Jean resolved to investigate the matter on her own. And besides, she did still have a paper to deliver. 

Navigating around the fragments of glass, Jean mounted the steps and crossed Mrs. Glauss' front porch. The door was still hanging open, so she poked her head inside. "Mrs. Glauss?" She looked up and down the dim hallway, feeling awkward. "Are you home?"

No reply was forthcoming. Jean stepped cautiously in, beginning to worry about her customer. What if all the loud noises had been a sign of violence? Could Mrs. Glauss be somewhere in the house, injured and bleeding on the floor? Could witches even be injured?

"Mrs. Glauss?"

Silence answered in volumes. Jean continued further in, wondering if she should try to find a phone and call the police or an ambulance. 

"Filthy, rotten, conniving little whelp!"

Jean took an involuntary step back, almost knocking over a bookshelf full of little glass bottles. She noticed a doorway on the far side of the dark room, in which was the plump, unmistakable figure of Mrs. Glauss. Just now, she seemed to be fully involved with the passionate muttering of an angry tirade. 

"We'll just see what happens to her, oh yes we will. One of my best plates ruined, smashed to splinters, and another window broken. Arrangements will have to be made, you just mark my words. I've been a nice old witch until now, but that's all over...spoiled, ungracious--"

"Er," Jean hazarded, acutely aware that she was interrupting a very steady flow of irritation. 

The witch's head snapped up, and she gaped in surprise and anger for the briefest of seconds. Then recognition dawned, and her features rearranged into the welcoming, maternal smile that Jean was familiar with. "Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed, crossing the room at a near-jog. "I do believe you're catching me at an inopportune moment, my dear! I've had a little spot of bother with a guest. Nothing serious, just a...slight difference in opinions."

"O...kay," Jean said carefully. She still hadn't obtained a grasp on the situation, and decided to proceed with caution. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, perfectly fine!" Mrs. Glauss beamed an expression of such sunniness that flowers could have sprouted under the glow. "As I say, nothing serious. And what can I do for you?"

"I was just delivering your paper," Jean said, extracting one from her bag. "And I found your baseball in the street."

"Ah, that is my baseball!" the witch agreed, taking it and the paper with obvious gratitude. "Just a silly thing, you know, but it does have sentimental value. And how are you this morning, little Jean? Keeping warm?"

Jean gave a rueful smile. "Not really," she admitted, "but you know me. That's nothing new."

The witch shook her head. "I've never met a girl as terribly susceptible to the cold as you, my dear. You really must move to Florida or Hawaii as soon as possible."

"My boss keeps telling me the same thing," said Jean. "But for now I'm stuck here, so there's no use complaining, right?"

"It is a fact of life," Mrs. Glauss agreed. "Just like it's a fact that I seem to have a window to fix. Ah well, that's the way of things." 

To Jean, the window seemed to present little problem. Mrs. Glauss merely flicked a finger at it, and the splintered shards of glass danced back into place like a crystalline puzzle solving itself. The cracks sealed and vanished in moments, leaving no indication that any damage had ever been present. The witch waved her hand a second time, and the dark room was suddenly lit by a quartet of table lamps, one in each corner.

"That's a bit better," she said. "Was there anything else you needed today?"

"No, that's all," Jean said. "Have a nice morning, Mrs. Glauss." She turned to leave, but paused. A question had occurred, and Mrs. Glauss was typically very good about answering questions. "Um, Ms. Glauss?"

"Yes, darling?" The witch was nothing but attentive. 

"That other girl--your guest, I mean--what was she angry about? She said something about not wanting you to catch anyone else, and she was dressed kind of...funny. What were you two doing?"

The witch regarded her reflectively, her lips still wearing a calm smile. After a moment of silence, the smile widened, and she bobbed her shoulders. "Oh, I suppose there's no harm in telling you. But after that nonsense just now I'm not in the mood for any more excitement, so please feel free to go at any time."

Jean thought this a rather odd invitation, but she set her bag on the table and followed Mrs. Glauss further into the house. It was much larger than she had guessed, and they passed a surprising number of rooms before finally arriving in a cozy, cream-tiled kitchen. Jean instantly loved the room, if not for the dynamic variance of aromas and colors, then certainly for the wash of thick, blanketing warmth that emanated from the huge oven set directly into the wall. She felt her cheeks begin to thaw, and removed her hands from her pockets to let her fingers regain some feeling.

While savoring the heat, she also realized that a preparation had clearly been underway; the counter was ranged with several tin cans of spice, and a huge ceramic bowl rested by the sink, a brush leaning against the inner edge. On the wooden table was a metal baking pan, larger than Jean had ever seen. It bore a number of sliced potatoes and onions, though many had been knocked off and now lay on the floor.

"Please overlook the mess, if you can," the witch apologized. "My last guest left her manners at home, I think."

Jean absorbed the details and turned them over in her mind. The conclusion presented itself almost immediately, and although she took an extra few seconds to try out some alternate answer, nothing else made sense. "Mrs. Glauss?"

The witch was calm and serene. "Yes?"

"Were you going to eat that girl?"

"I planned to cook her first, but yes. I was going to eat her."

"So those rumors are true?"

"Certainly," Mrs. Glauss confirmed. She began to pick up potatoes and onions, tossing them unceremoniously into the garbage. "I'm quite fond of children."

"To eat?"

"Just as you say, my dear."

Jean thought this over. "You've never tried to eat me," she commented, and bent to help with the cleanup.

"I like you," Mrs. Glauss said, patting her cheek with a rosy smile. "You're a lovely girl, and so polite. And aside from all that, if I ate you, who would deliver my paper? It just isn't practical."

Jean laughed. "I guess that's true. But how many children do you eat? And how do you pick?"

"I watch," Mrs. Glauss said vaguely. "I wait until I see one I like, and then try to think of an interesting way to lure them in. Sometimes they don't mind, but I rather prefer the spunky ones. It makes things more difficult sometimes, though. As you've just noticed," she added. 

"Do people taste good?" Asking the question made Jean feel fluttery inside, but she wanted to know the answer.

"Oh, delightfully good!" Mrs. Glauss straightened up and disposed of the last ruined onions. "I'm afraid it's why I'm able to maintain such a lovely, apple-shaped figure. I have no willpower whatsoever when it comes to children."

Jean grinned; somehow it didn't seem wrong that a witch should eat people. It wasn't even surprising, if you came down to it. Most stories involving witches mentioned such notions, and she found herself strangely comfortable with the idea. "So how were you going to cook that girl? Roast her in the oven?"

"Roasted right up," said Mrs. Glauss. "I wanted to take my time with her, so I was starting early in in the morning. I find that a long, slow roast makes for some of the best meat."

"That sounds like a good way to do it," Jean murmured.

After a moment's quiet, the witch sighed and examined the potatoes and onions still inhabiting the metal pan. "These are still good, at any rate. I can make some decent pie with them...before you go, could you be a lamb and slide the pan into the oven for me? I'll get the door."

"Oh, sure." Jean lifted the pan, and watched as Mrs. Glauss unlatched and opened the gaping oven. She stepped forward, intending to push the pan into a cavern of scorched bricks and dancing orange fire. As she did this, however, her momentum seemed to dwindle, and she simply stood in front of the oven.

"That's fine, dear. I can finish up if it's too heavy." The witch reached for the pan, but Jean absently halted her, one hand on the older woman's wrist.

"Could...could you wait for just a second, Mrs. Glauss?" Jean continued to peer into the oven for a few heartbeats before looking up at the witch. "It's just...so warm."

"It...is warm, yes," Mrs. Glauss agreed. She looked at Jean with a new expression. "Poor little Jean, you're always cold, aren't you? This must feel lovely."

Jean swallowed and turned her eyes away from the witch. "It really does."

An intensely long minute ticked by. Jean remained in front of the oven, eyes closed as the temperature in the kitchen steadily climbed. Mrs. Glauss watched her without blinking.

"Mrs. Glauss?"

"Yes, Jean?"

"Could you get by if someone else delivered your papers?"

The witch's mouth began to twitch at the corners. "I suspect so. But why-ever would I need to? I have you, after all."

"I know, but...I was thinking that maybe...maybe..."

Mrs. Glauss waited a second or two before coaxing, "Maybe what, darling?"

"Maybe since...you have everything ready, and that other girl ran away..."

The witch resembled nothing more than a cat happening upon an unsuspecting mouse. She grinned a grin of pure delight. "Since she ran away...?"

"Maybe you could...have me instead?" Jean finally turned, looking up at the witch with an expression of intense hope and desire. "I know it's a funny thing to ask, but your oven is so warm. If you cooked me, I just know I could stop being cold."

"That's an awfully permanent solution," Mrs. Glauss advised, though her grin had only continue to broaden. "Wouldn't you rather movie to Hawaii?"

"Hawaii is a long way away," Jean mumbled. She started to look embarrassed, but the witch draped a plump arm over her shoulders. 

"I would be delighted beyond words," she told the girl. "It's a very rare day that I get a volunteer, and even less likely that she would be as adorable as you. Nothing would make me happier than to have you for my supper, little Jean."

Jean let out a long, slow sigh of relief, and didn't try to stop the witch as the oven door was pushed shut. "Can you do it the same way as the other girl?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well...slowly, like you said. So that I'll taste good, and so that...I won't have to rush."

It was clearly all Mrs. Glauss could manage to keep from giggling. "I think that could be managed. Would you like to call your parents and let them know what we're doing?"

Jean shook her head immediately. "They're still asleep anyway," she said. "Can you just tell them for me later?"

"Anything you like. Shall we get started?"

"Okay." Jean let the witch guide her to the table, pausing to set the pan of potatoes on the counter. "What should I do?"

"Well, the customary procedure is to undress," Mrs. Glauss said. "Will you be too chilly?"

"Is it going to take a long time?" Jean unzipped her parka and draped it over the back of a chair. 

"Not very long. I'll just spread a bit of oil on you for crispness, then a bit of seasoning, and then pop you right in the oven. Won't take but a tick."

"I think I'll be okay, then." She slipped off her first sweater, then sat down to remove her snow boots and doubled-up socks. Goose-bumps began to rise on her legs almost immediately, but she she did her best to ignore it as she slid out of her sweat pants. 

"My precious little paper-girl," Mrs. Glauss purred, her green eyes fixed on Jean as the last sweater came off. "What a foolish old thing I was not to snap you up on your first day. This will be something to remember."

"Can you make this part fast?" Jean pleaded. She hugged herself tightly, but waves of shivers had already begun to race up and down her bare back. "I'm not trying to be rude, but..."

"Say no more," Mrs Glauss said, putting a finger up to hush Jean. She snatched the bowl of oil from the counter, gripped the brush, and began to coat the girl's skin in long, even strokes. "Just relax, darling...soon you'll be marvelously, perfectly warm." 

Jean nodded mutely. She hoped her nerve would hold, since a part of her had suddenly grasped what she was about to do. "W-who was th-the last p-person you c-cooked?" she stammered, her teeth starting to chatter. "Someone g-good?"

"Who was the last?" Mrs. Glauss wondered aloud. "It's been a rather paltry season, quite honestly, but I recall a young woman who I baked with fresh garlic. I think she must have been the last."

"H-how was she?" Jean unwrapped her arms so that the witch could oil them, then tried not to squirm as the brush moved to her stomach and chest. 

"Acceptable," Mrs. Glauss said. "Not spectacular, but worth the effort. Turn around, dear."

Jean turned, and Mrs. Glauss focused on her back, her legs, her bottom. The work did go quickly, and in a few minutes she was doing her best to stay still, arms held out to the sides, while Mrs. Glauss sprinkled her with spices from the tin cans. 

"I believe we may be ready," the witch told her. "Can you get to the pan without a stool?"

"I think so." Jean climbed, only a little awkwardly, onto the counter, and from there to the metal pan. She moved at the witch's instruction, rearranging herself amidst the potatoes and onions. 

"Very good. Now, do you think you'd rather sit for now, or lie down?"

"I guess I'll lie down," Jean decided. She uncrossed her legs and lay back, pushing vegetables away so that her head had a bare spot to rest. The metal was horribly cold on her skin, but she tried to focus on what was coming next. 

"Good girl," the witch said, and stroked her hair consolingly. She brushed a bit of oil onto the bottom's of Jean's feet, then lifted the tray with apparently no trouble at all. "Your part is done now, my sweet little Jean. Just relax."

"Right..." Jean breathed, her heart beginning to dance as the oven door opened. "It's warm in there...still warm..."

There was a scrape of metal on metal, and Jean was suddenly looking up at the brick ceiling inside the oven. The sudden increase in temperature seemed to lunge forward, engulfing her like a wave of cotton wool; for a handful of panicked moments she was unable to draw breath, and thought, terrified, that she might suffocate before she even began to cook. The sensation faded though, and the heat was all that remained. It coiled around her, licking at her skin, working its way into her open mouth, penetrating further with every heartbeat. 

Jean had never--ever--been so warm.

She lost track of time quickly, becoming conscious of little more than her own slow breathing and the occasional hiss from one of the oven's gas jets. Her mind wandered, as it was prone to do, and she found herself entertained by the idea of what her family might think when they found out about her little adventure.

"It's just like Jean," her mother would say. "Head in the clouds, dawdling along behind everyone else. It's no wonder she got herself eaten."

"Well, she's always known what was right for her," countered the imagined form of her father. "It might have taken her longer to get there, but she's usually been happy with her choices."

"She's just a dummy," her youngest sister opined.

"A big dummy," added the second youngest. 

Her oldest sister, who was talking on her cell phone, contributed nothing to the conversation. 

Eventually the fantasy evaporated into nothingness. Jean became periodically aware that Mrs. Glauss was opening the oven, poking her with a fork or knife, crooning reassurances all the while. She thought the witch might have basted her with more oil, and perhaps added some seasoning, but it might have been another spell of heat-induced daydreaming. 

Time might have passed, but Jean didn't care about time any more. She was finished with time. It was nothing but AM now--'All Mine'. 

It might have been a few minutes or a hundred years when she finally came back to something like consciousness, and noticed in a thick, sleepy way that she was no longer in the oven. That didn't bother her, however, since the dominant physical sensation in her life--overwhelming, miserable cold--had departed forever. She was warm as toast, and never mind the fact that she was naked on a witch's kitchen table.

"You're doing so well, my darling," Mrs. Glauss told her silkily. "You've been roasting all morning and you haven't made a peep."

"Glad..." Jean sighed, which was the best she could manage. Pinpricks of inconsequential pain trickled through her body. With an immense effort, she was able to lift her head and see that Mrs. Glauss had sliced a large piece of her thigh, garnishing it with some crispy onions. 

"I'll take my time with you, just as I promised," the witch said, beginning to eat. "I think we'll carry on just like this, what do you say? A few more hours in the oven, then I'll have a few more bites of you before you go back in again. If I keep the heat low, you should be able to enjoy yourself for a good long while."

"Mmm," Jean agreed. She let her head fall back again, barely noticing when Mrs. Glauss removed most of her calf and began to devour it with relish. 

The witch was as good as her word, and when next Jean awoke, she was in the oven again. She breathed the heat in, soaking in it like a sauna, and found little concern for how much of her legs seemed to be gone. It just wasn't important. 

On the table some immeasurable time later, Jean discovered that she could speak if she really wanted to, and chatted sleepily as Mrs. Glauss nibbled on her hands. 

"I like the paper route," she said. The feeling of the witch's teeth nipping at her fingertips was peculiar, but not unpleasant. "I like walking, and all that...and my boss is nice. His name's Sal."

"Why not just go for a walk, then?" the witch inquired. She sipped some wine and bit off one of Jean's pinky fingers. "Why bother with a job?"

"I dunno...it's just nice to have some money, I guess."

"Did you want it for anything special? Most girls your age simply need to have a cell phone."

"I hate that stuff." Jean made a face; her features felt stiff, as if she was recovering from a bad sunburn. "I don't like it when people can call you anywhere. And I'm terrible at understanding technology anyway."

"I know just what you mean," the witch said, nodding. "I'm a hopeless old dinosaur. My phone still has a cord."

"How old--" Jean's lips parted for an unexpected yawn "--is your oven? It runs on gas..."

"Very old. Older than me, and that's saying something." Mrs. Glauss looked Jean over appraisingly, a knife in one hand. Maneuvering the girl gently, she turned her on her stomach and cut a few slices from her bottom. "But in my opinion, if a classic still works, there's no need to replace it. And it seems as though new things break all the time, don't they? Old things are made to last."

In the oven again, Jean found herself yawning more often, and more hugely each time. Her daydreams dwindled, and she fell into stretches of deep, restful sleep. Time was still impossible to gauge, and it occurred to her how irritating of a thing time really was. Simply removing it from her life was one of the best decisions she had ever made.

"I guess I'm a little bit lazy," she laughed that evening, while the witch cut thin strips from the bottoms of her feet. "I hate having to hurry, and I never want to do more than one thing at a time. I think being your dinner suits me, Mrs. Glauss."

"It suits me just fine," Mrs. Glauss concurred, chuckling. 

After the witch had finished with Jean's feet, and crunched on each of her toes like a cracker, there wasn't really much of the girl left. Her arms and legs had been eaten away in the multiple sittings, and although Mrs. Glauss had left them until close to last, her small breasts had taken only a few minutes to devour. 

"I think it's time for you to go now, little Jean," the witch said, stroking the girl's brown cheek with great affection. "I don't think you'll last much longer in my classic old oven."

"I'll die, huh?" Jean asked. It was getting harder and harder not to yawn, and she had to fight the urge to fall asleep again.

"I think so."

Jean nodded, though the motion was a tiny one. "Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Glauss."

"It was a pleasure, dear." The witch slid Jean back into the oven for a final time. She turned the heat up several notches, but Jean was unperturbed. Mrs. Glauss shut the door, and returned to the kitchen table to nibble on some choice bits she had saved.

In the oven, Jean let out a last, contented sigh. She hoped that Sal wouldn't be angry with her for leaving her paper route half-finished, but the concern was very distant, and faded in the space of a heartbeat. In the light of the orange-gold fire, Jean finished roasting, warmer than she had ever dreamt of being.