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Snip, Snap, Snip!
by
Manfred Gabriel
Peter couldn’t understand a word his Oma said as she sat on the edge of his bed, reading the verse in her sing-song Hochdeutsch:
Weh jetzt geht es klipp und klapp
Mit der Scher’die Daumen ab,
Mit der grossen scharfen Scher’!
Hei! Da schreit der Konrad Scher.
He could understand the picture from the book that lay open in her lap, though. The Tall Tailor leapt off the page, his eyes slanted, his flaming hair swept back, his top hat falling off his head. And the scissors, big as hedge clippers, held in both hands, taking off poor Conrad’s thumb, the boy’s mouth shaped into a permanent “O” as blood dripped in a pool on the bright yellow floor.
All because the boy dared to suck his thumb.
Oma closed the book, set it on top of the Green Lantern and Spiderman Comic Books that littered the nightstand. Peter pulled the covers up to his chin, trembled - not just because of the story, but because of Oma herself. Her pale, nearly translucent skin, bony fingers and voice that always sounded mean, even when she smiled.
“She’ll only be here a few more days, then she’ll head back to Germany,” his father had told him earlier that day. “To tell you the truth, I felt the same way when I first met her. Dropped my fork three times at lunch.” He shrugged. “Boy, did she glare at me. She doesn’t mean any harm, though. It’s just her way.”
That night, his parents went out to dinner, leaving Peter and Oma alone. “It will be nice for you and Oma to spend some time together,” his mother had said, adding, “You never know how much time people her age have left.” So there Oma was, telling Peter stories of a girl burnt to a crisp from playing with matches, a boy who wouldn’t eat and whithered away, and of couse, about Conrad, who wouldn’t stop sucking his thumb. And it seemed, by the tone in her voice, it was the one Oma most wanted him to hear. As she sat, back straight, her hands folded in her lap, Peter realized his thumb was in his mouth.
Oma rose, frowned down on him. She shook her head, reached out, pulled his thumb from his mouth. With her middle and forefinger, she made a scissor-like motion. “Klipp und klapp!” she said in a high-pitched shrill, then, “Snip, snap, snip!” And she walked out of the room. As she left, she turned off the light. Peter wished he knew how to tell her his parents always left it on.
*
Peter had attempted over and over again to cure his fear of the dark. He’d try to talk himself out of it, tell himself there was nothing there that didn’t exist in the light. Sometimes he succeeded, drifting off to sleep in utter peace. Not tonight, though, not with thoughts of the Tall Tailor running through his head, scissors opening and closing like an alligator’s jaws while Oma watched approvingly. Even with the street lamp shining through the cracks in his shutters, there was just too much darkness. Peter’s thumb went back into his mouth. He wondered if the Tall Tailor was watching, waiting for an excuse to come after him. He jerked it out.
Thumb sucking had always been a problem for him, bigger even than his fear of the dark. He had been doing it as long as he could remember. Whenever he was nervous, or scared, or just plain bored, he sucked his thumb, sometimes without even realizing it. His schoolmates teased him for it, as if they didn’t have enough to tease him for - being bad at baseball, always having his shoes untied and his shirt half tucked, the fact that he talked about comics when the other boys talked about sports, or even girls.
“He’s a very creative boy,” his teacher, Mrs. Olsen, had told his parents after he had gotten into a fight at school. He had lashed out at two other boys who were mocking him for writing in his journal, drawing comics actually, while everyone else was playing dodge ball at recess. “But he’s also overly sensitive. Other children sense that sort of thing. They single him out.”
“You bring a lot of this on yourself,” his father told him afterwards. “It’s that imagination of yours that gets you into trouble.”
The storybook Oma had been reading still sat on his nightstand. He could just make it out in the dark. On the cover was a picture of the Struwwelpeter, the boy who never took care of his appearance, had a tangle of hair three feet tall and fingernails like kitchen knives. He stared at Peter, hands splayed as if crucified, as if to say, "We’re alike, you and I, and Conrad, too, we’re all doomed." Peter grabbed the book, shoved it deep under his bed among the dirty socks and neglected board games. He tried to sleep, repeating to himself, “It’s just a story, it’s just a story …” And his Oma, she was nothing but a fussy old bat. But he remained wide-eyed. No matter what he told himself, what logic he used, he feared that if he fell asleep, he would start sucking his thumb again and the Tall Tailor would come.
Peter shivered, shoved his hands under his pillow. Then he did what he so often did when his mind raced - he retreated to a place he had created in his head for just such times, when he was being made fun of by the other kids, or when he had gotten in trouble from Mrs. Olsen for acting out - a safe place of snow-capped mountains where dragons slept, of forests filled with unicorns, of green meadows inhabited by elves who didn’t mind if he sucked his thumb, and who had never heard of the Tall Tailor. He played there a time, jumping the streams, making friends of the birds who rested on his shoulders, climbing hidden paths to dragon’s gold.
In this way, he finally fell to asleep.
*
Peter awoke to the sound of his door opening and closing. He heard footsteps. His thumb was in his mouth again. He pulled it out. He opened his eyes. It was still night.
“Mom? Dad?” he asked. No answer. He heard breathing. He called out, “Oma?” Still, no answer. He sat up. Streetlight shining through the shutters cast a pattern on the floor like prison bars.
The shutters clamped shut, leaving him in utter darkness.
For a moment, or perhaps an hour, he couldn't tell, everything stayed quiet. No footsteps, no breathing. "This is just a dream," Peter tried to tell himself. He lay back, closed his eyes, tried but failed to find his safe place again. No, not a dream, he had to admit, but maybe his Oma, trying to scare him, believing in her twisted way that terror was for his own good. He tucked his thumbs into his fists.
He opened his eyes again. Slowly, he became accustomed to the dark. He could make out shadows - his dresser, his desk, someone standing stone still in the corner, thin and lanky, wearing a top hat that nearly touched the ceiling. In his hands, a pair of scissors? he couldn't tell. He just swallowed hard.
Peter let out a cry. The figure did not move. Why didn't he hear footsteps in the hall? His parents finally home, or his Oma, at least, come to his rescue. Nothing. Peter’s mind reeled. Where were they? Had the Tall Tailor gotten them? Why didn’t the figure move?
The door to the hall wasn’t far. Peter was closer to it than the Tall Tailor. If he could make it to the door before him, he could escape out into the hall, out of the house, go to a neighbor’s for help.
The Tall Tailor stood motionless, waiting, scissors still.
Peter wondered if anyone was really there. Maybe it was just his lamp, or his coat rack. He watched, sweating. He sucked his thumb more quickly, making a loud slurping noise.The Tall Tailor Man shook his head, his top hat rotating like the gear in an old timepiece.
Peter took his thumb out again. Maybe he was just getting what he deserved. He wasn’t a baby anymore, he shouldn’t be sucking his thumb. He shouldn’t be reading comics or living in fantasy worlds. He should start taking care in his appearance, take a cue from his grandmother, learn to be a proper young man. He could hear her voice, like a crow’s caw, reciting the story,
Als die Mutter kommt nach haus
Sieht der Konrad traurig aus
Ohne Daumen stet er dort,
Die sind alle beide fort.
Peter sprang out of bed and made for the door. Almost there, he heard footsteps behind him. Three steps was all it took for the Tall Tailor, with his wide strides, to reach him. Peter stretched for the doorknob, but the Tall Tailor was already standing between it and Peter. Peter could make out his face - snake eyes, hollow cheeks, a thin-lipped grin as he brought his scissors down.Snip, snap, snip!
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© Gabriel, 2006
Manfred Gabriel's short stories have appeared in Tales of the Unanticipated, AlienSkin, Not One of Us and L. Ron Hubbard's Writer's of the Future. He lives and writes in western Wisconsin with his wife, daughter, and two very large, unruly, but sweet dogs.