Gretel (13 page)

Gretel had kept a close watch on Odalinde’s trips to this private space, and in particular to the time she spent huddled by the opening. As far as Gretel could tell, the bag was the only thing in the cabinet, or at least the only thing she tended to. And Odalinde always squatted, never sat, so as to always keep her bag completely covered and hidden while she shuffled and rechecked the contents. When she did finally take the bag out, it was always double-zipped and clasped, and clutched tightly to her breast or rib. And it was never left unattended—never—which for Odalinde’s sake was a good thing. Because Gretel was waiting.

Odalinde shepherded Hansel out the door and down the porch stairs to the truck. Gretel followed them to the bottom of the stairs, leaving her brother with a look that said ‘stay aware,’ and then watched as the truck crept slowly away, disappearing over the hill toward town.

Gretel could feel the time until her family completely fell apart was short. They were starving and sick, their mother was missing and presumed dead, and now a stranger had come from nowhere and taken control of the household. Things were dire indeed. In the past, these realities would have overwhelmed Gretel and brought her to tears, but she now looked at them with pragmatism, prioritizing them as problems needing to be solved.

The first of these problems was, of course, her mother. Though she had promised herself never to give up on the possibility that her mother was still alive, there were few actions Gretel could think of taking to help find her. The System officer had never again come calling on her for help—help for which he had told Gretel in no uncertain terms he would need from her. Perhaps her father’s invasion that night had dissuaded the officer. Or perhaps he’d never intended on returning, and had only told her that to make her feel useful.

And then there was the problem of her father, who apparently was not as far along as Gretel had believed. Or else his recovery had slipped. She knew nothing of medicine, but the doctor had prognosticated her father’s recovery weeks ago, and indeed, based on the immediate signs, seemed to be accurate in his assessment. But there had been a slide in his recuperation—not in terms of his actual internal injuries, but in his overall energy and clarity. Even his intellect, Gretel thought. She didn’t know what to do about the problem of her father, other than to wait it out.

As for Odalinde, this problem was becoming increasingly formidable, particularly after today’s exchange. At the very least she was not to be trusted; at worst, she was a danger. Her threats were only passive at this point, however, and there was nothing specific Gretel could say or do to fix this problem right now. She would have to let that play out a bit more as well. And if the opportunity arose, she would get into that cabinet and see what mysteries lurked there.

That left the problem of food. It was the most pressing problem and the one that Gretel felt she had the most control over. Gretel didn’t know where Odalinde’s money had come from to buy the food for which she was now on her way to purchase, but it obviously couldn’t be counted on to feed Hansel and her. With two children in the house, the nurse had let the supplies dwindle to nothing, having not fed either of them all day. But yet there had been a bowl of soup for Father. Had that bowl been from today? Or even last night? Gretel admitted to herself that she couldn’t be sure, though she was fairly confident that if there had been enough for only one person, Hansel and Gretel would have been the last two names on the meal list. For the time being, and perhaps from now on, it would be up to Gretel to figure out where the meals would come from for her and her brother.

She mentally ran through the names of friends and neighbors in the Back Country, some of whom had helped out in one way or another since her mother’s disappearance. Since most were poorer than Gretel’s family, the help had come mainly in the form of labor and childcare. But since the arrival of Odalinde, it had mostly stopped, with the occasional visit of obligation to “see if there was anything they could do.” There was certainly nothing in the form of financial help, the perception being, Gretel assumed, that anyone affording a private nurse could certainly afford food. Gretel could never quite follow this line of thinking though; after all, they were a farming family, their income depended on selling crops, and if no crops were being harvested and sold, how could they be taking in any money?

But Gretel didn’t judge them too harshly. She supposed people had their own problems and usually looked only as deeply as necessary to satisfy their consciences. There may have been life insurance, after all, or a family grant to see the Morgans through. It wasn’t the burden of neighbors to ask
how
they were making it with no crops or occupation to speak of—questions like those might easily be construed as nosy and intrusive. Apparently they were making it and that’s all that mattered.

Besides, Gretel had always been taught it was the job of family to help navigate the straits of life, and Gretel’s family was nothing short of conspicuous in their absence. Her father’s side of the family had never been close to begin with, and they had drifted even further when Anika disappeared. And Deda, whom Gretel had barely seen since her mother vanished, had become, according to her father, ‘a bona fide hermit,’ and now refused to take calls or visits from anyone, including his own grandchildren.

Gretel walked around to the back of the house and continued into the small clump of trees that divided the rear of the house from the small lake that formed the back of the Morgan property. She walked to water’s edge, absently picking up a small stone and tossing it in. Across the lake, Gretel could see the trees of the Klahr orchard approaching full bloom, the apple and pear trees perhaps a week away from perfect ripeness. In a few days the extended Klahr relatives and a dozen or so other workers would descend on the trees like caterpillars, furiously climbing and picking until the last of the fruit was sifted through and basketed, ready to be sold at market, or further processed into jam, bread, and wine.

The Klahrs were what passed for wealth in the Back Country, having a small stable of horses, a tractor, and two trucks, as well as, by all accounts, a profitable business. They were an older couple—Gretel imagined they were on the other side of sixty by now—and as far as Gretel knew they had no children of their own. At least none Gretel had ever seen. Presumably if they did have heirs, they were now grown men and women—men and women who had perhaps decided to see their land only as a future inheritance, pursuing instead a career more sophisticated than farmer. But Gretel didn’t think this was the case. The Klahrs had lived across the lake from her family since before Gretel was born, and she had never heard of any Klahr children.

There was nothing at all ostentatious about the couple, but by all measures they were deeply proud of their farming operation, and ran it with great organization and efficiency. They kept to themselves for the most part—Gretel couldn’t remember her mother or father ever engaging them in conversation—with her only interaction coming in the form of the occasional wave from across the lake. They seemed friendly enough, dealing with merchants in town or whatever, but work was always the order of the day, the exception being Sunday, of course.

So Gretel had no illusions that what she was planning was acceptable, and she justified it only on the most practical of levels: Her family needed to eat, and there was food in her sights.

Her decision made, Gretel walked back through the trees to the house. She wasted no time on preemptive regret or future plans of atonement, figuring those would only distract from what was required. If her family was to eat, focus and will were all that mattered.

There would be no school tomorrow. Tomorrow Gretel would become a thief.

Gretel awoke just after two o’clock in the morning, feeling well-rested and sparked with adrenaline. She had gone to her room just before Hansel and Odalinde returned from the market and had stayed there, forgoing whatever dinner had been brought home for her. More than food she had wanted to sleep, knowing she would need to be fully rested to take on the task ahead. And since Hansel hadn’t come to her, Gretel assumed he had been fed, and that was her main concern.

As she had done dozens of times in her life, Gretel quietly slid open her bedroom window and slipped out, easing herself down the four-foot drop to the ground below. The sound of her feet in the overgrown garden bed was amplified in the serenity of the night, but Gretel didn’t anticipate anyone investigating it. In a place where nocturnal animals were as common as weeds, rustling sounds outside your house rarely caused alarm in the Back Country.

She ran slowly on her toes until she was through the tree clump to the lake edge, and then stopped to get her bearings. It was darker than she’d expected; the light she had hoped to get from the moon was swallowed up by clouds. But her eyes would adjust, and she had the lantern.

After she’d made her decision yesterday, Gretel spent the rest of her time alone preparing for the early morning raid. She had fetched the lantern from the shed, checking the battery twice to make sure it worked. And the canoe, once a fixture along this sliver of beach, Gretel had untarped in the yard and dragged down to the shoreline. The skeleton of a mouse had welcomed her when she first pulled the covering from the small boat, and the accompanying oars had long been broken and discarded, but otherwise the craft seemed in decent condition. As long as it didn’t sink, Gretel thought, that’s all that mattered. If she had had to paddle with her hands she would have—the distance across was short enough that she could have swum it—but Gretel had been able to find a hollowed-out guitar among the ever-increasing junk in the yard, a fossil from merrier Morgan days when things like music were a part of their lives. It would do fine as a replacement for an oar.

Gretel now stood on the shore beside the boat and slowly scanned the water. She felt inside the hull of the canoe and found the lantern, lifting it out and lighting it. It was so bright! She was aware there wasn’t a way to adjust the intensity of the lantern, unlike the oil lantern they’d owned when Gretel was younger, but in the daylight that hadn’t seemed to be an issue. In fact, if she had any concern it was that the light wouldn’t be enough. But now, in the cape of Back Country blackness, it seemed the light must have been visible for miles, as if a star had been borne from the union of water and trees.

Gretel breathed deeply, trying to relax. The truth was there was no one out to see the light at this hour. These were farming folk, early risers; the only potential witnesses were likely to be either philandering or drunk—or most likely both. No one to worry about, Gretel thought. And in any case, witnesses or not, she was crossing the lake. Crossing the lake now. Life would decide her fate from there.

She moved the light over the canoe and checked again that both the guitar and buckets were intact. Gretel had decided on four buckets, figuring that four would hold enough fruit to last her and Hansel—and her father if necessary—for at least a week, more if she could keep it cool. She hadn’t considered exactly how to store and preserve the fruit yet, or how to explain their origin if her father—or God help her, Odalinde—were to ask, but there were more immediate concerns at the moment.

With everything in order, Gretel placed the lantern in the front of the boat and shoved the canoe easily into the water, dexterously avoiding wetting her shoes as she grabbed either side of the stern end, and bounced in, landing in perfect sitting position at the stern seat. She moved the lantern to the bow, picked up the guitar and gently began to row across the lake toward the Klahr orchard.

In the daylight, the lake looked like hardly more than a large pond, but now, under the shroud of night, it seemed larger, frightening. There was a quietness to it that implied undisclosed secrets and demanded trepidation. Gretel thought she would have preferred raging rapids under sunny skies to the lake at this moment.

She distracted herself by trying to remember when she’d last been on the boat, but she couldn’t recall, imagining it must have been when Hansel was just a toddler, and their father would row them past the entire Klahr orchard, down to the Stein mill where the lake ended. Gretel remembered being mostly bored by the trips, other than seeing the joy it brought to her brother and father. She would have given just about anything to have such stability and leisure in her life right now.

The canoe nudged into the silty bottom of the lake just a few feet off the shore of the Klahr side of the lake. Gretel was already across! She let out a breathy laugh at how quick the ride had been; she’d barely paddled the guitar more than a few times it seemed.

So far the plan was working as well as she could have hoped.

Gretel pulled the lantern and buckets from the canoe, and was now grateful for the lantern’s brightness; she was completely unfamiliar with the landscape on this side of the lake, and began to imagine bottomless pits and angry dogs waiting for her just outside the circumference of the light’s rays. She walked slowly up the slight slope of the muddy beach, focusing on the two or three feet that were illuminated just in front of her steps. Soon she crossed a threshold into a patch of wild grass and then saw the first of the trees planted closely together in the perfectly manicured row of dirt that formed the back of the Klahr orchard. She was there.

Gretel exhaled and then breathed in deeply, taking the clean, candied air into her lungs and holding it there, savoring it, before releasing it to the breeze. Her stomach reacted instantly, awakening from its slumber.

She lifted the lantern branch-high and her eyes were overwhelmed with pears. There were pears everywhere on the tree, bulbous and perfectly shaped, nestled in clusters, clinging to the leaves like giant green raindrops. There were dozens, maybe hundreds on the one tree, and Gretel’s mind conjured a picture of the entire orchard, which ran as long and deep as human eyes could see, even from across the lake in the clear of day. She began to extrapolate out how many pears and apples there must be in the entire orchard and realized it was inconceivable. Millions, she thought.