Fee Fie Foe Fum, Ray Bradbury

Fee Fie Foe Fum

The postman came melting along the sidewalk in the hot summer sun, his nose dripping, his fingers wet on his full leather pouch. “Let’s see. Next house is Barton’s. Three letters. One for Thomas Q., one for his wife, Liddy, and one for old Grandma. Isshestill alive? How theydohang on.”

He slid the letters in the box and froze.
A lion roared.
He stepped back, eyes wide.

The screen door sang open on its taut spring. “Morning, Ralph.”
“Morning, Mrs. Barton. Just heard your pet lion.”
“What?”
“Lion. In your kitchen.”

She listened. “Oh,that? Our Garburator. You know: garbage disposal unit.”
“Your husband buy it?”

“Right. You men and your machines. That thing’ll eat anything, bones and all.”
“Careful. It might eat you.”

“No. I’m a lion-tamer.” She laughed, and listened. “Hey, itdoessound like a lion.”
“A hungry one. Well, so long.”

He drifted off into the hot morning.
Liddy ran upstairs with the letters.
“Grandma?” She tapped on a door. “Letter for you.”
The door was silent.

“Grandma? You in there?”
After a long pause, a dry-wicker voice replied, “Yep.”
“What’re you doing?”

“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” chanted the old one, hid away.
“You’ve been in there all morning.”
“I might be here all year,” snapped Grandma.
Liddy tried the knob. “You’ve locked the door.”
“Well, so Ihave!”
“You coming down to lunch, Grandma?”

“Nope. Nor supper. I won’t come down till you throw that damned machine out of the kitchen.” Her flinty eye jittered in the keyhole, staring out at her granddaughter.
“You mean the Garburator?” Liddy smiled.

“I heard the postman. He’s right. I won’t have a lion inmyhouse!Listen! There’s your husband now,usingit.”
Below stairs, the Garburator roared, swallowing garbage, bones and all.

“Liddy!” her husband called. “Liddy, come on down. See it work!”
Liddy spoke to Grandma’s keyhole. “Don’t you want to watch, Grandma?”
“Nope!”

Footsteps arose behind Liddy. Turning, she found Tom on the top stairs. “Go down and try, Liddy. I got some extra bones from the butcher. It reallychewsthem.”
She descended toward the kitchen. “It’s grisly, but heck, why not?”

Thomas Barton stood neat and alone at Grandma’s door and waited a full minute, motionless, a prim smile on his lips. He knocked softly, delicately. “Grandma?” he whispered. No reply. He patted the knob tenderly. “I know you’re there, you old ruin. Grandma, youhear? Down below. Youhear? How come your door’s locked? Something wrong? What could bother you on such a nice summer day?”

Silence. He moved into the bathroom.

The hall stood empty. From the bath came sounds of water running. Then, Thomas Barton’s voice, full and resonant in the tile room, sang:

“Fee fie foe fum

I smell the blood of an Englishmum;

Be she alive or be she dead,

I’ll gurrrr-innnnnnd her bones to make my bread!”

In the kitchen, the lion roared.

Grandma smelled like attic furniture, smelled like dust, smelled like a lemon, and resembled a withered flower. Her firm jaw sagged and her pale gold eyes were flinty bright as she sat in her chair like a hatchet, cleaving the hot noon air, rocking.

She heard Thomas Barton’s song.
Her heart grew an ice crystal.

She had heard her grandson-in-law rip open the crate this morning, like a child with an evil Christmas toy. The fierce cracklings and tearings, the cry of triumph, the eager fumbling of his hands over the toothy machine. He had caught Grandma’s yellow eagle eye in the hall entry and given her a mighty wink. Bang! She had run to slam her door!

Grandma shivered in her room all day.
Liddy knocked again, concerning lunch, but was scolded away.

Through the simmering afternoon, the Garburator lived gloriously in the kitchen sink. It fed, it ate, it made grinding, smacking noises with hungry mouth and vicious hidden teeth. It whirled, it groaned.

It ate pig knuckles, coffee grounds, eggshells, drumsticks. It was an ancient hunger which, unfed, waited, crouched, metal entrail upon metal entrail, little flailing propellers of razor-screw all bright with lust.

Liddy carried supper up on a tray.
“Slide it under the door,” shouted Grandma.

“Heavens!” said Liddy. “Open the door long enough for me to poke it in at you.”
“Look over your shoulder; anyonelurkingin the hall?”
“No.”

“So!” The door flew wide. Half the corn was spilled being yanked in. She gave Liddy a shove and slammed the door. “That was close!” she cried, holding the rabbit-run in her bosom.
“Grandma, what’s gotinyou?”

Grandma watched the knob twist. “No use telling, you wouldn’t believe, child. Out of the goodness of my heart I moved you here a year ago. Tom and I always spit at each other. Now he wants me gone, but he won’t getme,no sir! I know his trick. One day you’ll come from the store and I’ll be nowhere.

You’ll ask Tom: What happened to old Grandma? Sweet-smiling, he’ll say: Grandma? Just now decided to hike to Illinois! Just packed andleft! And you won’t see Grandma again, Liddy, you know why, you got an inkling?”

“Grandma, that’s gibberish. Tomlovesyou!”
“Loves my house, my antiques, my mattress-money,that’swhat he loves dearly! Get away, I’ll work this out myself! I’m locked in here till hell burns out.”
“What about your canary, Grandma?”

“Youfeed Singing Sam! Buy hamburger for Spottie, he’s a happy dog, I can’t let him starve. Bring Kitten up on occasion, I can’t live without cats. Now, shoo! I’m climbing in bed.”

Grandma put herself to bed like a corpse preparing its own coffin. She folded her yellow wax fingers on her ruffly bosom, as her mothlike eyelids winced shut. What to do? What weapon to use against that clockwork mechanic? Liddy? But Liddy was fresh as new-baked bread, her rosy face was excited only by cinnamon buns and raised muffins, she smelled of yeast and warm milk.

The only murder Liddy might consider was one where the victim ended on the dinner platter, orange sucked in mouth, cloves in pink hide, silent under the knife. No, you couldn’t tell wild truths to Liddy, she’d only laugh and bake another cake.

Grandma sighed a lost sigh.

The small vein in her chicken neck stopped throbbing. Only the fragile bellows of her tiny lungs moved in the room like the ghost of an apprehension, whispering.

Below, in its bright chromed cage, the lion slept.

A week passed.

Only “heading for the bathroom” ran Grandma out of hiding. When Thomas Barton throttled his car she panicked from her bedroom. Her bathroom visits were frantic and explosive. She fell back in bed a few minutes later. Some mornings, Thomas delayed going to his office, purposely, and stood, erect as a numeral one, mathematically clean, working on her door with his eyes, smiling at this delay.

Once in the middle of a summer night, she sneaked down and fed the “lion” a bag of nuts and bolts. She trusted Liddy to turn on the beast at dawn and choke it to death. She lay in bed early, hearing the first stirs and yawns of the two arising people, waiting for the sound of the lion shrieking, choked by bolt, washer, and screw, dying of indigestible parts.

She heard Thomas walk downstairs.
Half an hour later his voice said, “Here’s a present for you, Grandma. My lion says: No thanks.”

Peeking out, later, she found the nuts and bolts laid in a neat row on her sill.
On the morning of the twelfth day of imprisonment, Grandma dialed her bedroom phone:
“Hello, Tom, thatyou? You atwork,Tom?”

“This is my office number,why?”
“True.” She hung up and tiptoed down the hall stairs into the parlor.
Liddy looked up, shocked. “Grandma!”
“Who else?” snapped the old one. “Tom here?”
“Youknowhe’s working.”

“Yes, yes!” Grandma stared unblinkingly about, gumming her porcelain teeth. “Just phoned him. Take ten minutes for him to drive home, don’t it?”
“Sometimes half an hour.”

“Good.” Grandma mourned. “Can’t stay in my room. Just had to come down, see you, set awhile, breathe.” She pulled a tiny gold watch from her bosom. “In ten minutes, back up I go. I’ll phone Tom then, to see if he’s still at work.

I might come down again, if he is.” She opened the front door and called out into the fresh summer day. “Spottie, here, Spot! Kitten, here, Kitt!”

A large white dog, unmarked, appeared, yelping, to be let in, followed by a plump black cat which leaped in her lap when she sat.

“Good pals,” Grandma cooed, stroking them. She lay back, eyes shut, and listened for the song of her wonderful canary in his golden cage in the dining room bay window.
Silence.

Grandma rose and peeked through the dining room door.
It was an instant before she realized what had happened to the cage.
It was empty.

“Singing Sam’s gone!” screamed Grandma. She ran to dump the cage upside down. “Gone!”
The cage fell to the floor, just as Liddy appeared. “I thought it was quiet, but didn’t know why. I must’ve left the cage open by mistake—”
“Yousure? Oh my God,wait!”

Grandma closed her eyes and groped her way out to the kitchen. Finding the kitchen sink cool under her fingers, she opened her eyes and looked down.
The Garburator lay gleaming, silent, its mouth wide. At its rim lay a small yellow feather.

Grandma turned on the water.
The Garburator made a chewing, swallowing noise.
Slowly, Grandma clamped both skinny hands over her mouth.

Her room was quiet as a pool; she remained in it like a quiet forest thing, knowing that once out of its shade, she might be set on by a jungle terror. With Singing Sam’s disappearance, the horror had made a mushroom growth into hysteria. Liddy had had to fight her away from the sink, where Grandma was trying to bat the gluttonous machine with a hammer. Liddy had forced her upstairs to put ice compresses on her raging brow.

“Singing Sam, he’s killed poor Sam!” Grandma had sobbed and wailed. But then the thrashing ceased, firm resolve seeped back. She locked Liddy out again and now