opposite side of the heap. Not that I think it made any difference where Jesus was put for what Cinderella did next.
Elise gave her three short and three long knocks at the door of the sawmill.
We all moved well away from the heap of meaning. Jon-Johan opened the door and Elise walked in, with Cinderella plodding slowly along behind her. The dog was puffing and panting like a boiled-out kettle and looked like she was going to collapse any minute. But no sooner was the leash removed than she lifted her head, nosed the air like a sprightly young pup, and trotted elegantly and without effort, her tail aloft, over to the heap of meaning, where she sniffed a moment at Jesus on the Rosewood Cross, before squattinghalfway up the cross and peeing on Jesus right about the midriff.
Pee-pee. Piddly-piss. Oh, my Lord!
Gerda giggled. The rest of us uttered not a sound.
————
The consequences of Cinderella’s behavior were quite incalculable. We would never be able to return a pissed-on Jesus statue to the church.
Nevertheless, one by one we all began to laugh. All that piety was just too comical with Cinderella’s yellow fluid running down the sides and onto the broken stumps that had been legs, then dripping on down into the sawdust. And anyway, with two broken legs, Jesus wasn’t doing too good to begin with.
We laughed and laughed, and there was a good feeling now, and after a while Sofie went and got her stereo tape deck so we could have some music. And we sang and screeched and hada real time for ourselves until we realized it was past nine o’clock.
The tape was turned off and we flew off home in all directions. Imagine if some of the grown-ups had gone out looking for us and heard the noise from the old sawmill.
XV
We weren’t expecting much of Holy Karl, but this time he surprised us: He wanted Cinderella’s head.
Weird.
Especially because Cinderella didn’t belong to anyone.
To be sure, the dog meant most to Elise, but Elise had already given up her baby brother’s coffin. Otherwise, only Pretty Rosa and Jon-Johan were left, and why should giving up Cinderella’s head mean more to either of them than to the rest of us?
Holy Karl insisted.
“Oh, come on, Karl,” said Otto.
“Cinderella’s head,” Holy Karl demanded.
“Get serious, Karl!” said Elise.
“Cinderella’s head,” Holy Karl demanded.
“Quit fooling around, Karl,” said Maiken.
“Cinderella’s head!” Holy Karl demanded, and continued demanding regardless of what the rest of us were saying.
Truth be told, we knew why.
Ever since Jesus had been dragged onto the heap of meaning, five days ago now, Cinderella had been using the rosewood cross as her personal toilet, both for one thing and another. Jesus on the Rosewood Cross had already lost a good deal of his sacredness with the broken legs and all, and now with the dogged efforts of Cinderella there surely wasn’t much hope left for Jesus. But still!
In the end we told Holy Karl that he had to choose something that mattered especially to either Pretty Rosa or Jon-Johan.
“Okay,” he said. “Then Pretty Rosa’s going to cut Cinderella’s throat.”
He’d got us. Pretty Rosa couldn’t bear the sight of blood, so separating Cinderella from her head was going to mean a great deal for her especially. Discussion over.
This time there were two who cried.
Pretty Rosa cried and begged for mercy and said she couldn’t and that she’d just pass out in the middle of it all and maybe have an epileptic fit and have to be taken to the hospital and never be normal again. Elise cried like she’d never cried over her baby brother’s coffin.
We didn’t pay either of them any heed.
The first thing was for Pretty Rosa to pull herself together. Cinderella’s head was a considerably smaller sacrifice than the ones many of the rest of us had been forced to make. The second thing was that we’d all suspected Elise had gotten off too lightly and had actually been happy about
Elise gave her three short and three long knocks at the door of the sawmill.
We all moved well away from the heap of meaning. Jon-Johan opened the door and Elise walked in, with Cinderella plodding slowly along behind her. The dog was puffing and panting like a boiled-out kettle and looked like she was going to collapse any minute. But no sooner was the leash removed than she lifted her head, nosed the air like a sprightly young pup, and trotted elegantly and without effort, her tail aloft, over to the heap of meaning, where she sniffed a moment at Jesus on the Rosewood Cross, before squattinghalfway up the cross and peeing on Jesus right about the midriff.
Pee-pee. Piddly-piss. Oh, my Lord!
Gerda giggled. The rest of us uttered not a sound.
————
The consequences of Cinderella’s behavior were quite incalculable. We would never be able to return a pissed-on Jesus statue to the church.
Nevertheless, one by one we all began to laugh. All that piety was just too comical with Cinderella’s yellow fluid running down the sides and onto the broken stumps that had been legs, then dripping on down into the sawdust. And anyway, with two broken legs, Jesus wasn’t doing too good to begin with.
We laughed and laughed, and there was a good feeling now, and after a while Sofie went and got her stereo tape deck so we could have some music. And we sang and screeched and hada real time for ourselves until we realized it was past nine o’clock.
The tape was turned off and we flew off home in all directions. Imagine if some of the grown-ups had gone out looking for us and heard the noise from the old sawmill.
XV
We weren’t expecting much of Holy Karl, but this time he surprised us: He wanted Cinderella’s head.
Weird.
Especially because Cinderella didn’t belong to anyone.
To be sure, the dog meant most to Elise, but Elise had already given up her baby brother’s coffin. Otherwise, only Pretty Rosa and Jon-Johan were left, and why should giving up Cinderella’s head mean more to either of them than to the rest of us?
Holy Karl insisted.
“Oh, come on, Karl,” said Otto.
“Cinderella’s head,” Holy Karl demanded.
“Get serious, Karl!” said Elise.
“Cinderella’s head,” Holy Karl demanded.
“Quit fooling around, Karl,” said Maiken.
“Cinderella’s head!” Holy Karl demanded, and continued demanding regardless of what the rest of us were saying.
Truth be told, we knew why.
Ever since Jesus had been dragged onto the heap of meaning, five days ago now, Cinderella had been using the rosewood cross as her personal toilet, both for one thing and another. Jesus on the Rosewood Cross had already lost a good deal of his sacredness with the broken legs and all, and now with the dogged efforts of Cinderella there surely wasn’t much hope left for Jesus. But still!
In the end we told Holy Karl that he had to choose something that mattered especially to either Pretty Rosa or Jon-Johan.
“Okay,” he said. “Then Pretty Rosa’s going to cut Cinderella’s throat.”
He’d got us. Pretty Rosa couldn’t bear the sight of blood, so separating Cinderella from her head was going to mean a great deal for her especially. Discussion over.
This time there were two who cried.
Pretty Rosa cried and begged for mercy and said she couldn’t and that she’d just pass out in the middle of it all and maybe have an epileptic fit and have to be taken to the hospital and never be normal again. Elise cried like she’d never cried over her baby brother’s coffin.
We didn’t pay either of them any heed.
The first thing was for Pretty Rosa to pull herself together. Cinderella’s head was a considerably smaller sacrifice than the ones many of the rest of us had been forced to make. The second thing was that we’d all suspected Elise had gotten off too lightly and had actually been happy about
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