The Gretel Series: Books 1-3 (Gretel Series Boxed set)

by Coleman, Christopher

  “How are you feeling, Papa?” Gretel said, now straight-faced, unable to conceal her weariness. She sat on the edge of the bed and examined her father’s bandages.

  “Better than I look.”

  “Well, you look terrible.”

  “So better than terrible then.” He waved an absent hand and began shuffling to get on his feet, having reached the extent of how much he wanted to discuss himself or his maladies. “Get me up.”

  “You need to stay in bed, Papa. You’re not ready.”

  “Then you had better be ready with the piss pot.”

  With that, Gretel stooped and leaned in toward her father, offering her shoulder as a crutch. She could see him size up her position, and with a soft, guttural grunt he threw an arm around his daughter’s neck, embarrassment no longer the palpable element it had been six weeks ago. His white bedshirt was badly stained with some type of red sauce, and his ever-growing belly extended over the elastic of his tattered long underpants. It had amazed Gretel the short time it took for a man with such a long-standing trademark of pride and masculinity to concede to the often cruel circumstances of life; in the case of her father, those circumstances had come most recently in the form of three fractured ribs—not exactly the bubonic plague in the hierarchy of ailments, but painfully debilitating nevertheless. Particularly for a man nearing sixty.

  Gretel boosted him from the bed and shuffled him slowly to the threshold of the washroom, grimacing throughout the process, and from there left him to his own maneuvers. The doctor had explained to her mother that the injury would likely cause a decrease in appetite, since even automatic bodily functions like swallowing and digesting could be painful, and limited activity would reduce his need for the same amount of nourishment he was getting before the accident. The opposite, however, was proving true; he ate constantly and, as a result, had become quite heavy. She couldn’t be sure, but Gretel guessed that her father had gained at least forty pounds in little over a month.

  “So where is your mother?” The voice from behind the bathroom door was less demanding now and contained the subtle hint of concern. Gretel had lingered outside since she would have to bring her father back when he was done.

  “Delayed, I guess. But she must have left Deda’s already or else she would have telephoned.”

  “Then why didn’t she phone to say she would be delayed?” His pitch was now higher and layered with obstinance.

  “Perhaps she was delayed on the road, I don’t know Papa.” She paused and asked, “Are you going to be in there much longer?” Gretel was now annoyed, both at her father for his current weakness and at her mother for being late. There were still dishes remaining in the kitchen, and she needed a break—if only for fifteen minutes—to sit and rest. Not working or helping or talking. Just to rest.

  “Maybe you should bathe,” she suggested, offering the words in the tone of a helpful reminder so as not to offend him. “You’ll call Deda’s when you’re out.” Her father mumbled something inaudible from behind the door, and then a grain of joy arose in Gretel at the abrupt sound of water being released from the tub’s faucet.

  She sighed with relief and walked back toward the kitchen, her desire to finish housework now dwarfed by the urge to rest. She averted her gaze from the sink as she passed it, and headed quickly for the back porch, where she collapsed forcefully in a white, weathered rocker. She tilted her face up toward the ceiling and closed her eyes, thankful for the chance to relax, but understanding that what she really needed was sleep. Sleep had now become the default thought in her mind throughout the day, and, in fact, had become of such value since her father’s accident, that over the past three weeks Gretel had started her mornings by staring at herself in the small nightstand mirror by her bed and listing in her mind the things that she would be willing to give up for an undisturbed day of slumber. A full day. Not one chore. Not one knock. Not even a voice. Just complete serenity. Of course, she possessed virtually nothing of her own, so this exercise basically involved the sacrifices of treasures she would never see and powers she would never have, the latest offering being a horse that could fly. Later, in the throes of the day, she would scoff at how little value she would have gotten from her imagined trade-offs; but she was convinced that, at the time, she would have made the deal.

  Gretel could feel herself drifting, and decided not to fight. The dishes remained, but her mother would be home soon, and though she would be in no mood to finish her daughter’s chores after a long day of travel, Gretel concluded that as a parent she would recognize when her child was spent. If her father needed help back to his bed she would help, but aside from that, she was done for the day.

  “SHE’S NOT HOME, GRETEL.”

  Gretel opened her eyes and was greeted by the orange glow of the twilight sky above her. She was momentarily disoriented, but smelled the oil from the lamps and remembered she was on the porch. Her late afternoon catnap had metastasized into solid sleep. By her estimation, she was out for at least four hours.

  Her thoughts immediately went to her father, whom, for all she knew, was in the tub dead, a victim of immobility, hypothermia, and a neglectful daughter.

  She got up quickly from the rocker and felt the effect of her sleeping position in the form of a dull stiffness at the back of her neck. No question she would be dealing with that misery for the rest of the night. Tentatively, Gretel turned back toward the house and screamed at the sight of her father sitting at the porch table, dressed and shaven, his elbows propped up and his head buried in his hands. He looked as if her were in a library reading—the way one might read a dictionary or an atlas—but there was nothing on the table below him.

  Her initial thoughts were of relief, that her father was alive and that she was not a murderer. Then, registering his condition, her thoughts became more selfish, assuming his apparent improvement meant she would now get real relief. Physical relief. More sleep.

  She stood staring at him, waiting for him to speak, but he sat in position, silent.

  “Papa?” she said, “What’s wrong?” Gretel spoke softly, but her tone had no sympathy and was one demanding an explanation. Her father didn’t move and she became uneasy, then scared. “What’s wrong!” she said again, this time louder, panicked and quivery, the film of sleep and the surreality of her father sitting upright in a chair on the porch, functional, now completely wiped away.

  “She’s not home, Gretel.” Her father lifted his head from his hands and looked out through the trees at the small narrow lake that lined their property.

  Gretel could see where the tears had been on his freshly-washed cheeks and she noted that this was as close to weeping as she’d ever seen from either of her parents.

  “Something’s happened,” he said, “I know something’s happened.”

  Her father’s words caused Gretel’s legs to wobble, and she sat back down slowly in the rocker. She couldn’t speak, and looked off in the same direction as her father, as if they were both trying to spot the same object on the water. “Did you call Deda?” she asked finally, in a whisper, already knowing the answer.

  “Of course I called him. She left even earlier than she had told me she would. She should have been home long before we expected her.” There was no anger in her father’s voice, only defeat.

  “Perhaps there was traffic then. A very bad accident...and the road is closed.”

  “I’ve called The System. There is no report of any accident along the Interways.”

  Gretel could hear in her father’s tone that the bases had been covered. Heinrich Morgan was a man of routine, as was his wife, and any break from that routine would immediately incite him to make it right again. To look at all the possibilities and rule them out, one by one, until the answer to the problem emerged. And if the remaining answers were out of his control, and he couldn’t reset the routine to its proper function, he shut down. This was the point he had apparently reached.

  The tears in Gretel’s eyes seemed to be dripping to
the floor before she even felt the sadness, and her face flushed with hate for her father’s weakness. Nothing was wrong! Her mother was fine! He should be ashamed, a grown man crying in front of his teenage daughter because her mother is a few hours late. For a month he had contributed nothing to the house—NOTHING—other than dirty plates and whines of discomfort. Gretel and her mother had worked the fields for six weeks while he moaned over a few broken bones in his belly. If only that horse had kicked his head! And now, when strength was needed—when he was needed—he was a clammy dishrag, like a woman who’s just watched her son leave for war.

  Gretel erupted from the rocking chair and ran toward her room, ignoring the sharp pain that burned through her neck the whole way. She stumbled in and fell face down on the foot end of her bed, nearly crashing her head on the bench of the small white vanity that sat only inches away. Almost immediately, she stood back up and strode defiantly back to the open bedroom door, slamming it harder than she thought she was capable of. For that split moment she felt better than she could remember in weeks, as if the suppressed grievances of her fourteen-year-old body and mind were instantly alleviated.

  She went back to her bed and took a more conventional position, curled fetal-like at the head with her cheek flat on the quilt cover.

  The heavy sobs finally ended and Gretel lay still until her crying stopped completely. She rolled to her back and gazed vacuously at the brown wood that made up the cabin ceiling. Her thoughts became clear as she studied the evidence of the situation and soon became hopeful. This is all certainly an overreaction, she thought. Papa’s condition has unsettled him and I’ve let it influence me. There’s a good chance—better than good—that Mother is completely fine. In fact, there was a much higher likelihood that her mother was stranded on the road somewhere waiting for help to arrive, than lying dead on a river bank or in a landfill. True, she should have been home hours ago—if she left early, then at least six or seven hours to be more accurate—and she had taken the trip up North dozens of times over the past four or five years since Deda had become sick, so she wouldn’t have become lost. But none of that evinced tragedy. Gretel reasoned that if something truly terrible had happened, someone would know by now and the family would have been contacted.

  But her father’s words bore the texture of truth; if not because of the sure somberness of his words—“Something’s happened”—than for the possible explanations available. Even if Deda had suddenly been rushed away in an ambulance and died suddenly en route to a hospital (which, of course, hadn’t happened since her father had spoken with him earlier), Mother would have called as soon as she reached the hospital. Mother always called. If she didn’t call, there was a problem. In this case, Gretel proposed, that problem may simply be a blown tire or some mechanical malfunction in the car. But the Northlands were no more than two hours away on a clear spring day, so it was unlikely she wouldn’t have found a telephone by now if it were something so benign. There was no logical reason she could think of that Mother wouldn’t have called, other than reasons she didn’t want to imagine.

  She began to cry again softly, and her mind became overwhelmed with thoughts of never again seeing her mother. It was unimaginable, and physically nauseating. Her mother was everything to her. Everything. Gretel’s image of herself as a good young girl—exceptional even—was due solely to the woman she had studied thoroughly and tried for as long as she could remember to emulate. Though Gretel rarely noticed it in the environment which they lived, her mother had a finesse and dignity about her that always astounded Gretel, and only became evident—almost embarrassingly so—when it was contrasted with the tactlessness of most women in the Back Country. She avoided the crude speech that most of the Back Country wives used in an effort somehow to endear themselves to their husbands’ friends. Instead she maintained an easy poise that seemed almost regal and out of place. Consequently, of course, her mother stood out among her peers, earning the attention of the men and, Gretel supposed, the backstage scorn of her fellow ladies. She was far from what most people would describe as beautiful, but despite the physical advantages they may have had, other women always appeared intimidated by her mother’s confidence.

  Gretel got to her feet and walked to the vanity, where she sat on the bench and looked at her distraught face in the mirror as the day’s last few rays of sunlight entered her window. It was almost dark and there was no sign of Mother. She turned on the lamp and examined the framed picture of her parents that sat on the vanity top. Her father had gotten very lucky, she thought, and Gretel became sad for him. He was twenty years older than his bride, and in his marriage had always been decided in his ways, insisting on the traditional roles of husband and wife: provider and caregiver, tough and understanding, et cetera.

  But in that tradition he had never shown anything but respect and love for her mother. When choices of importance had to be made, concerning her and her brother, or otherwise, Heinrich Morgan always insisted on his wife’s opinion. He knew between the two of them she was the smarter one, and he never pretended otherwise.

  And though Gretel couldn’t remember a time when her father was what she would describe as ‘sweet’ toward Mother, he certainly never gave her any reason to be docile or frightened around him. He never complained about a meal—whether overcooked or late or for any reason—and he always thanked her when it was over, even offering compliments if he found it exceptional. And if Mother needed to leave him for a day or a week—as in the current situation visiting her ill father—there was never a sense of trepidation when she told him, and the news was always delivered as a statement, with the full expectation that it would be received without protest, if not encouragement. “I’ll need to leave for the North tomorrow,” her mother would say. “Father’s doing poorly. Gretel will handle the house while I’m gone.” And father’s replies would be nothing other than words of concern for his father-in-law.

  The memory of these exchanges suddenly awakened Gretel to the fact that she was not ready to assume this position of authority. The surrogate role of housewife that Gretel had taken on for the last nine days, and that she had begrudgingly admitted to herself was, on some level, enjoyable, was beyond her capabilities. Well beyond. She couldn’t do this for five or ten more days let alone years!

  Gretel was startled by the muffled sound of the cabin door opening and then closing. She sat motionless, not breathing, and looked at nothing as she shifted her eyes in amazement around the room waiting for the next sound to decipher. Mother! It was definitely Mother. It had to be. Tired and with quite a story to tell, no doubt, but it had to be her. She waited for the booming sound of her father’s voice, joyful and scolding, to ring through her room. She wanted to rush out and verify her belief, but she was paralyzed, fearing that somehow by moving she would lose the sound and her hopes would evaporate.

  At the tepid knock on her bedroom door, Gretel smiled and lifted herself from the bench, banging her knee on the underside of the vanity and nearly knocking the lamp to the floor, catching it just before it fell. The door cracked and began to open. Gretel looked toward it, waiting for the miracle, holding her awkward lamp-in-hand pose.

  It was her father.

  “No!” she said, the word erupting from her mouth automatically, denoting both fear and authority, as if she were repelling a spirit that had ventured from hell to inhabit her room. Her father looked at her with sadness and acceptance. “Is she dead?” Gretel said, surprised at the bluntness of her question.

  “I don’t know, Gretel, we’re going to look for her. Your brother is home.”

  GRETEL LET OUT A RESTRAINED sigh as the family truck pulled in front of her grandfather’s small brick house, amazed they had made it. The truck, she guessed, was at least thirty years old, and probably hadn’t made a trip this far since before she was born. And each time her father had made one of his dozen or so stops along the way, exploring the considerable land surrounding every curve and potential hazard that the back roads offered,
he turned the engine off to conserve fuel. She was sure with each failed effort to locate her mother, the key would click ominously in the ignition when her father tried to restart the engine, and they too would disappear along the road. But it had always started, and here they were.

  She looked across the bench seat at her father and was disturbed by the look of indifference on his face. Her brother lay between them asleep.

  Her father opened the door and said weakly, “Stay in the car.”

  “I’m seeing Deda,” Gretel immediately responded, opening the door quickly and storming out of the truck, taking a more defiant tone than was indicative of how she actually felt. She had every intention of seeing her grandfather though. It had been months since she’d seen him, and even though she often felt awkward around him lately, more so now that he had worsened, she loved him enormously, and still considered him, next to her mother, the most comforting person in her world. If there was one person she needed right now, other than her mother, it was Deda.

  She ran toward the house and as she reached the stoop she saw the tall, smiling figure of Deda standing in the doorway. She screamed at the sight of him. He looked so old, at least twenty years older than the seventy-five he actually was, and his smile was far from the thin-lipped consoling grin Gretel would have expected. Instead his mouth was wide and toothy, as if he had been laughing. He looked crazy, she thought.

  “Hi, Deda,” she said swallowing hard. “How are you feeling?”

  At the sound of Gretel’s voice, Deda’s face lit up, morphing to normalcy and becoming consistent with that of a man seeing his beloved granddaughter for the first time in four months. “Gretel!” which he pronounced ‘Gree-tel,’ “my love, come in! Where is your brother?”

  “He’s in the car sleeping,” she replied, and with that her brother came running into the house and into Deda’s arms, which Deda had extended just in time to receive his grandson.