My Name is Rapunzel

by K. C. Hilton

  “Yeah, it's been a while.” I shrugged.

  “Yeah,” the workman shook his head. “I just don't know how you two ladies survived so long. My wife? She’d never have stood for it.” He chuckled as he walked toward his van.

  If he only knew.

  ***

  I crossed the kitchen floor, my eyes still not used to the new golden brown and avocado-green linoleum. I opened the mustard-colored refrigerator door and reached inside for the bottle of milk. I added that to the kitchen table next to my box of cereal and sank onto the padded bench seat of the new dinette set.

  Wow. Gretta had been going all out lately—the electricity, the modern furnishings, the plumbing. I wondered what Father would say about the castle now. Fine, I had to admit, it was kind of interesting to see some things leap off the pages of my magazines into my home. I dug into my cereal in silence.

  Gretta hobbled into the kitchen and went immediately to the television and switched it on.

  “I wish you wouldn’t turn that on during meals.” The big television in the den was one thing, but now she had one in the kitchen? The next thing would be to install one in the bathroom. She needed to cut it out—both the spending and the changing. I couldn’t decide which was worse. Some things were sacred.

  Gretta smiled. “It won’t hurt you to watch a little Leave it to Beaver, now will it? Well, my favorite is Happy Days, but it isn’t on now. The Fonz and all those other guys.” Gretta settled into the chair beside mine and reached for the Wheaties box. Bruce Jenner grinned from the cover.

  Having the television really did open my eyes to a lot of things going on in the world. Trends and styles…and problems. But I had to wonder if some of those things available now like photographs, television, and video, would be my demise.

  Yet, now, Mr. Jenkins, as I look back from the future and all its modern developments, I see it’s more likely that communication with an old newspaperman is what will do me in.

  ***

  Dirty and sore from working in the vegetable garden, I hobbled up the stairs, stumbled past the bathroom and into to my tower room. I pulled a pair of flannel pajamas out of my armoire and retrieved my fluffy towel from the hook behind my door. I pulled my door shut and locked it, including the deadbolt, and slipped my key into the pocket of my robe as I left for the bathroom.

  A hot soak and then maybe some television—if Gretta wasn’t watching it, anyway.

  I filled the tub with plenty of suds and hot water.

  Maybe one of those hospital shows about people who are dying. It reminded me how life was supposed to be lived and about the natural circle of life—birth and death. The doctors on those shows scurried around like little mice doing everything they could to save a person’s life, but when it was someone’s time to go, there was no stopping it.

  I sighed. Except for me.

  I sank down into the bubbles. I'd always wondered what would happen if something tragic happened, like a car accident or fall from the tower. What would happen if my body were mangled, like run over by a train or something. Would I die? Not really something I was willing to test, but it posed an interesting question.

  My eyes flew open. Had I fallen asleep in the bathtub? I didn't feel that tired, maybe I was coming down with something. I sure hoped not. I lifted the drain with my toe and let the water begin running out of the tub.

  I climbed from the draining water and toweled my body.

  The room was too steamy for my liking. I’d get dressed in my room. I gathered my things and headed that way.

  Wait. I stopped dead in the hallway. Something seemed odd. No one was there. Nothing looked out of place on the path from the bathroom to my bedroom. Maybe…oh, that's it. My bedroom door stood cracked open. Unlocked. I sighed. Gretta had been in there.

  How had she gotten into my room? Where had she gotten a key to the deadbolt? And more importantly, what did she want in my room? This wasn't acceptable at all.

  I nudged the door open a bit more then looked behind it in case she was hiding. Nobody there. I opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside. Nothing looked disturbed. What had Gretta done and why didn’t she even bother to hide her invasion?

  I stepped over toward my armoire and draped my dirty clothes over the chair back. The hamper was full. I turned in a full circle, searching every inch of my room.

  And then I saw it. A laptop computer. On my bed. In my room. Why?

  Not that I hadn’t been considering buying one, but why had Gretta made the decision for me? I hadn’t been in any rush to catch up with the times. I hadn’t jumped on the computer bandwagon to that point, why did she think today was the day? And what made it her decision?

  It was my money. If I had wanted a computer, I could've had one sitting on the desk for the past ten years like Gretta had—some kind of plastic monstrosity for playing a card game.

  It had been thirty years since the big home makeover when the new refrigerator, washing machine, and dishwasher descended upon my home—and I still wasn’t used to all of it. If I'd wanted a computer, I could've gotten one when Gretta had in 1998. Now, granted, the new computers did hold more appeal now with the Internet and all the conveniences it afforded, but that was my choice to make, not Gretta’s.

  And, I couldn’t forget that she’d entered my room. She’d have had to get through two different kinds of locks to make it in. How could she have done that? Was she just toying with me?

  I sighed. Somehow I had to free myself of Gretta. I had to stop her.

  Regardless, Mr. Jenkins, it was the year 2008 and I was now online.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  2013

  I stood and dusted my hands on my dungarees. Oh, wait. They didn’t call them that anymore. My jeans. “Jeans.” I tried the word out to see how it felt. Strange, it felt like most trendy words were just slurred speech. They changed so fast I could barely keep up—another reason I avoided townspeople.

  It's a wonder I risked myself with Pepper, the mail delivery girl—er, person. Somewhere over the years it became wrong to call someone who was a girl, a girl. People sure have strange ideas about things, about what was important and what wasn't. It was all silly.

  I dropped my spade into the empty row beside the green beans. It was almost time for Pepper's arrival. I'd chat with her for a moment then return to my gardening or my writing. I glanced at the brewing storm clouds. The weather would decide which.

  I set off down the winding lane from the house to the mailbox. It had been, what—three days?—since I'd made my last long trek down the driveway. Pepper probably assumed I was sick. I never got sick, but she didn't know that.

  I'd best make an appearance with Pepper, lest she worry and call someone for help. I smirked to myself. Even I knew that was just an excuse. I needed the human contact more than anything. Especially since I’d been holed up in my room writing to Mr. Jenkins lately.

  Pepper was the closest thing to a friend I'd had in years. Since Suzette died. Girlfriends these days spent time shopping at the mall or getting fancy, frothy coffee drinks and chatting for hours. I would never have those luxuries, but a few minutes by the mailbox couldn't hurt me. Could it?

  I walked down the long drive, looking at the ground and kicking a rock when I saw one. The flowers were beautiful, and the trees were in bloom, but I didn't take much notice of them. My mind was in the past, far away. Somehow my writings, my searchings, had to bring some kind of reconciliation between the past and the future. It had to help me make sense of my purpose. Otherwise, it all felt meaningless.

  I leaned against the mailbox and scanned the road for Pepper’s car. My eyes landed on a man standing on the hillside—the same man I’d seen the other day.

  Why was he there again? He must be watching me, which meant he knew something about me. Maybe it had to do with Gretta and the man in the wheelchair.

  “Hey, you!” I cupped my hands around my mouth as I shouted.

  He didn't wave back or even blink in response.
He just stood there and ignored me. How rude. I needed to find out who this man was. Tomorrow, I’d get up early and go to that hillside before he arrived. I’d hide there and find out. His spying was going to end.

  The sound of Pepper's car brought my attention back to the gravel lane. She honked when she got closer and waved out the side window. “Hey, chic. I haven't seen you in a few days. I was worried about you,” Pepper said.

  She was worried about me? Nobody had worried about me in a long time.

  “Oh, I'm sorry. I've been a little preoccupied lately. I’ve taken up a writing project and it has kind of consumed me. That's all.”

  “Well, that's good, because I have a special delivery for you.” Pepper's eyes twinkled.

  The gravel crunched as another vehicle approached.

  “Here he comes now. And let me tell you something, he's a hottie.” Pepper giggled like a schoolgirl.

  “Special delivery?” I tried to peer into the car window, but the glare from the sun blurred my view. “What's going on? Who is that?” I pointed to the car as it pulled to the roadside just behind Pepper.

  “I don’t know. I just saw him driving up behind me. Looks good, though. I want to know all the details.” She grinned as she handed me a small bundle of magazines. “I've gotta go, chic. Have fun, and remember, I want to know everything,” Pepper waved out the window as she left.

  My stomach was doing flips inside my belly. Nobody came to visit me! I didn't know anyone. I wanted to run, but it was too late. Nothing good could come of this. The vehicle pulled to the side and the driver stepped out.

  “Hello.” The man stepped toward me and reached out a hand. “My name is John Jenkins. I work for the local newspaper. I'm looking for a lady named Rapunzel,” John chuckled, the lines around his bright blue eyes crinkling.He winked.

  Ignoring his hand, I squared my shoulders, stuck my chin out and glared up at him. Eyes say a lot about a person and he was looking directly into mine. Oh, he was good. John portrayed himself as a confident adult and couldn't be more than twenty-five years old. He had a lot to learn about winning people over. First, never make fun of a person's name, especially a woman's name. John definitely started off on the wrong foot and wasn't going to get any points for gentlemanly behavior from me.

  “I know who you are,” I said, refusing to shake his hand. Why was this man here? I warned him not to come after he made fun of my story. How could this be happening? The last person I wanted to talk to was him! He needed to leave. Now. “I didn't invite you to my home. Actually, I warned you not to come. Please, leave.”

  Pepper said he was a hottie, and I had to agree he was very pleasing to look at. Not at all the old codger I’d assumed he was after reading his letters. But those letters told a lot about his attitude. That was all I needed to know about Mr. John Jenkins.

  I held the magazines close to my chest and turned on my heels to leave. How dare he show up unannounced? How rude. I'd had enough rudeness for one day—first the spy on the hillside and now this reporter.

  I thought reporters were supposed to be smart? I begged to differ. I’d warned him and he ignored my warning. If the dragon scorched him or the witch cursed him, it wasn’t my fault.

  “Look, miss?” He eyed my hair. “Rapunzel, if that's your real name, I didn't drive all the way out here to be turned away. I just wanted to talk to you. Give me ten minutes of your time, please. I'd like to interview you for my next story.”

  I should make him beg.

  I stopped then looked over my shoulder. “You made fun of me.” Tears rose to the surface. The memories flooded my mind like a wave of water refusing to yield. I forced the tears back, willing them not to fall. I would not cry today. I would not! How could this man, this stranger, bring me to tears? No chance I’d give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. “Please leave.” I had the upper hand here, not John Jenkins.

  “Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make fun of you. That wasn't my intention. It's just my nature, how I am. I want to know the rest of the story,” John said. “I want to know about the dragon and how it all ended. I need to know.”

  That stopped me in my tracks.

  “Why? Why do you need to know?” I turned around to face him. Why did this man feel the need to drive all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, just to hear the rest of my story?

  “I can't explain it.” John shrugged as he dug his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I just need to know is all.” His eyes looked sincere. But would I know if he was insincere? I'd been tricked before, and look where that got me. I refused to be made a fool of again.

  I looked toward the hillside, where the stranger had stood earlier. Of course, he was gone.

  “Fine. I’ll talk to you, as long as you promise to take my story seriously.”

  Mr. Jenkins nodded. “I promise.”

  “Pull your car down the lane and out of sight. Then meet me back here.” No need to have some fancy car sitting near my mailbox.

  John parked his car behind a cluster of bushes. He strode back to me. “So, when do I get to meet the witch or see the dragon?” he asked. Why did he look like a kid on Christmas morning?

  Oh, he was good!

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You came to hear my story, not meet anyone or see the dragon.”

  He looked about to protest, but that wasn’t up for discussion. “We can't stay here. Let's take a walk.” I turned toward the stream. It was well hidden within the forest, so if Gretta returned early, she’d never see us.

  “So, you live here? In this castle?” John whistled as he looked over my home from top to bottom. “How many people live here? Where are your parents? How long have you written fairy tales?”

  He would kill me with questions if I let him. What had I gotten myself into? “Look, I'm not used to being around people, so let's take this slow. We can take turns asking questions. How’s that?” Maybe that would force him to slow him down a bit and listen.

  “Sure. Why not.”

  He began with the ancient history. Stuff I’d already written to him about. Maybe he was trying to see if I would change my story? So I told him again of my early years then about how I met Gretta and our friendship. But for all that I told him about my life, I found John's life more interesting.

  “I was an only child from a small family. My parents died in a car accident when I was very young. Only six, to be exact.”

  “That had to be horrible.” John Jenkins and I had more in common than either of us realized. “What happened to you after your parents died?”

  “My aunt Olivia raised me. She also passed away a few years ago.” John didn't have a girlfriend nor had he ever been married. He hadn't found the right person yet and thought he was too young to be tied down anyway. John had a good job that kept him busy and a few friends he called acquaintances. He didn't like crowds, loved the country, and had always wanted to learn to fly. The more I learned about John, the more I felt sorry for him. John was alone, like me.

  He tried to get me to laugh several times as I answered his questions about me, but I wanted him to take my story seriously. I wasn't in the mood for laughing.

  John climbed up the side of the steep bank, near the stream. He loved hiking and said it cleared his mind to be one with nature.

  “Are you coming?” he asked. John stood at the top of the bank looking down at me and waited for my answer.

  Had he lost his mind? I wasn't going to climb those rocks. I could fall. But there he was standing at the top with his hands on his hips like Peter Pan. I stifled a giggle.

  “Don't worry. You won't fall,” John said. “Just do what I did.” I swear I heard him laugh. That was it!

  He wasn't going to make me look bad. I could do this. “Just do what I did,” I mumbled and rolled my eyes. I rubbed my hands together then started my slow and careful climb. This must make me Tinker Bell. Men! Mr. Jenkins would pay for this.

  I put my foot on the top of the rocky face and stood upright. I dusted
my hands on my pants and considered my next words carefully. Mr. Jenkins was about to get an earful. I turned to face him, my temper at its peak.

  “Can I see you tomorrow?” John grinned.

  I sighed. “Sure. Same time.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Come on, give me a tour of the castle. What can it hurt? Gretta’s not home.” John’s blue eyes begged as he spoke. It was no wonder he always got his way. He’d been asking every day when we met by the stream. But I couldn’t. I didn't want to take any chances with Gretta.

  “It's getting late!” I jumped to my feet. I’d gotten so caught up in my story, I’d forgotten to watch the time. The sun had already begun its descent. How could I have let this happen? This whole thing with Mr. Jenkins had been a mistake.

  “It's barely even dark yet. I have no place to be, no plans.” His eyes darkened. “I'm sorry, I've taken up too much of your time. You must have a date.”

  Had this guy lost his mind? Had he not listened to anything I’d been saying? “No! I don't have a date.” I stepped onto the path toward the castle. “It's just getting late and I must get home.”

  “Oh, that's right. Because of the evil witch and the fierce dragon.” He chuckled.

  He was laughing at me again? Too bad he looked so handsome while he did it.

  “You don't believe me?” I planted my hands on my hips and stuck my chin out. All I'd told him, all the time we’d spent…wasted.

  “Look,” he spread his arms, palms up. “I'm not saying I don't believe you, but I want the truth. I'm a reporter. I work for a newspaper. It's what I do. I search for the truth no matter how off-the-wall it might sound, and you must admit, your story does sound a little out there. For your story to be true you'd have to be nearly 268 years old, and that's just crazy.”

  “You think my story is crazy?” How dare he. My fists balled in rage, I stormed up the path.

  Mr. Jenkins followed close at my heels. He reached forward and tugged on my sleeve. “Hey, that's not what I meant and you know it. I'm just not sure how well this story is going to go over, and I have a reputation to protect. Where are your parents? I'd like to meet them and get their permission to publish part of their story in the newspaper. How old are you again?”