“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?”
“I already told you how old I am and where my parents are.” I could feel my face turning hot. This man needed to leave, now. I had made a mistake trusting him. I should never have written that letter.
“Oh, right. You're 267 years old and will turn 268 next month on the full moon. See? I didn't forget.” He grinned. “You can drop the act for a minute. Let’s talk business. You’ve convinced me you have a vivid imagination, you’re a decent writer, and you can stay in character no matter what.”
“I really must get going. You need to leave.” My words rushed out a little too fast. If the dragon saw him, I wasn’t sure what would happen.
“Let me take you to lunch on Wednesday. Just us. No interview. I'll pick you up around noon?” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket.
“What? No!” I shook my head. The man had lost his mind. He didn’t believe me and now he wanted me to agree to go to lunch with him in two days? “I don't go into town.”
“Why? Oh, that's right,” He said, then shook his head. “You think people will recognize you.” It wasn't a question. He did think I was crazy. Maybe it was true. “How long has it been since you've been to town?”
“Nearly fifty years. I’ve told you this already.” I looked at the ground. Tears welled up in my eyes. Oh, how I yearned to go to town—to see people and talk to them, even if it was only small talk. I wanted more interaction. I needed some socialization. It had been far too long. These past years had gone by too slow. Had it been long enough since I’d last shown my face among people, not counting my stealthy taxi ride?
“It's not that I hadn't wanted to go to town, because I really do miss being around people. The simple fact is that I don't want to be recognized. I'm afraid of going around old people.” I tried to keep the whine from my voice. “The older people could recognize me from when I last ventured out.”
When people were suspicious, they became scared. They could send some type of lynch mob after me like they had soon after I’d moved to Paradise Valley. I’d talked my way out of trouble then, but what if I wasn’t so lucky this time? And what about the dragon? People feared what they didn't understand. How could I possibly explain that to someone who hasn't had to live the life I had?
I must keep my distance from the town and from people as much as I could. Although witch trials and stake burning were a thing of the very distant past. Salem—what a huge tragedy it had been. Proof that people in higher positions of power and influence could make stupid mistakes. The meaningless deaths of those innocent men, women, and children long before I was even born should have haunted them to their graves. Not that I wish ill will toward anyone, but it would have been good to know their guilt drove them insane.
Those days, witches were burned at the stake, but these days, witches made money from their services. What a difference a century or three could make.
He covered a small laugh, but I heard it just the same. “Let's imagine that I believed your story. You haven't been to town in nearly fifty years. Hypothetically speaking of course, do you really believe people would recognize you? If you've been isolated that long, away from town, you've just developed a phobia of some sort. Trust me. People don't care about others. They don't pay attention to the comings and goings of anyone, and old folks’ memories fade.”
He reached out and grabbed hold of both my hands. It felt strange to have another person touch me. I'd sought comfort for so long, I’d forgotten what it felt like. But still, he shouldn't be touching me. Holding hands was intimate.
“Come on, Rapunzel! What can it hurt?” He smiled. “Surely you can't believe someone will recognize you if you've been away for so long. You have nothing to worry about. Besides, if there were any witch hunters left, they certainly wouldn't come after you. Look at you! You don't even come close to looking like a witch. You know what I mean—green skin, a huge nose with a hairy wart. And what about the black cape, the crooked walking stick, and the black pointy hat? And where's your broom to fly on?” He laughed, still holding my hands.