Gretel was on the lake by eight o’clock the next morning, which was two hours earlier than she’d been awake on a Sunday in as long as she could remember. Her lunch with Petr wasn’t for several hours, and though she’d get some rowing in on her way to Rifle Field, the type of rowing she’d use for that excursion wasn’t the effort Gretel was accustomed to on her day off. Sunday was her day of rigor on the lake, the day she sweated out those frustrations and grievances that couldn’t be expressed through words or work. On some days the brutality of her catharsis was so severe that Gretel imagined any onlooker would think she was in the midst of some desperate escape, fleeing the bonds of slavery or the eager jaws of a crocodile, perhaps.
But to Gretel the feeling was nothing short of wonderful, and once she finally reached exhaustion, usually somewhere just beyond the last scattered stretch of the Klahr orchard, a substitute feeling of peacefulness slipped into her body, as if filling the gap left by her concerns. Gretel would drench herself in the feeling, at once studying and devouring it, always knowing on some level that she was experiencing the sensation of normalcy: the natural state of being where God had intended humans to dwell.
She dipped the blades of the oars into the water and gave a long exaggerated pull, propelling the boat forward down the middle of the narrow lake, closing her eyes to experience the full pleasure of the draft on the back of her neck. She repeated these long, slow strokes, gradually building up speed while stretching the muscles of her chest, shoulders and back. She focused on the strain of each tendon, visualizing as they stretched and contracted, slowly unloading the buildup of anxieties from the previous week.
And then the fury began.
Gretel thrust the shafts of the oars from bow to stern, pivoting them at breakneck speed on their fulcrums, the blades slashing the surface of the water in hypnotic ferocity. She puffed her cheeks with each exhalation, and focused the air back into her lungs with every breath, watching absently as the banks of her property diminished. She was two hundred yards or so when the film of sweat began to form on her cheeks and forehead, and the world of confusion and problems began to drift steadily away. How laughably easy it was, Gretel thought, to simply leave a situation, to simply turn away and run, or row, as the case was here. When she was home, chest-deep in the chaos and responsibility of what her life had become, constantly being forced to decide on this and argue her points on that, she seemed utterly trapped, hopelessly surrounded by walls so tall and thick they could never be scaled or penetrated. But from the distance of only a hundred yards or so, surrounded by the vastness of earth and water, the truth was uncovered. The walls were a mirage. Escaping her world was no more difficult than thrusting a rowboat down a lake and leaving, and then watching with cold detachment as her house and property faded around a bend. She could never actually leave it of course, there was too much at home that she loved and needed to see through, but if she really wanted to, if she could ever summon the boldness and courage, she was free to just keep going.
The other part of rowing that Gretel had grown to love was the utter blindness of it—that feeling of never being sure, not entirely, what lie in wait. Of course, after all these weeks, she now knew this lake as well as anyone on earth probably, but there was always that possibility that some unknown log or critter had surfaced just up ahead, or even that another boat, heading just as blindly in the opposite direction, was on course to collide with Gretel and plunge her unconscious into the water. And when those fears didn’t satisfy her adventure, Gretel would create other fantasies: imagining hazarding some exotic river perhaps, all the time being watched by cannibals; or unknowingly bounding toward the shelf of some plunging waterfall.
She watched as the trees in the orchard began to diffuse, signaling the end of the Klahr property, and she summoned what remained of her reserves, ferociously clenching her jaws while ignoring the burn in her triceps and thighs. When her muscles had nothing left to serve, Gretel stopped abruptly and unleashed a scream that started deep in her belly and ended in a fit of hoarse, violent coughing. The burn in her chest was cold and harsh, but it lasted only a second or two, and her breathing steadied quickly.
Gretel flexed her biceps and stared down at them, rubbing them with her open palms, the sweat and oil accentuating their definition. She loved the thin, wiriness of her body now, and she figured she was at least as strong as any boy she knew her age, including Petr. She thought of her mother and how she would be in awe of Gretel if she could see her now. Gretel stared at the sky and thought of what that encounter might look like. Her mother would first hug her desperately, of course, but then she would push her to arms length and examine her, laughing incredulously at the transformation that had taken place in her daughter. Gretel looked at herself in a mirror everyday and couldn’t believe the change; imagine what her mother would see!
Gretel turned the boat around and headed back for home, this time taking the long easy strokes one would normally expect to see from a Sunday morning oarsman. As she reached the plush, perfect lines of the orchard, she heard the sounds of light work from somewhere beyond the treeline. Petr, no doubt, passing the morning with busy-work.
Gretel was tempted to pull to the bank and visit, but it would only be a few hours before their lunch date, and even though she imagined Petr would be more than happy to see her beforehand, she didn’t want to seem pushy. She liked the boy, he was friendly and funny, and certainly he was handsome enough, but she wasn’t ready for the complexities she imagined would accompany having a boyfriend. And she wasn’t even sure she liked him in that way. She had always remained fairly demure in his company, but she never felt that nervous, chest-gripping sensation that she’d had around a handful of boys in the past. Maybe she’d been hardened by the loss of her mother and the unnatural burden of taking care of her family, but Gretel felt instinctively it was more than that. It was him. It was Petr. She couldn’t pinpoint the component exactly, but some chemical or current that naturally combined to form that swell of passion wasn’t being properly received by her or transmitted by him. Maybe it was that ever-elusive component of trust, she thought, and figured this might be her lot with men for the rest of her life.
Gretel drifted into the bank behind her home and hopped out of the rowboat, pulling it up far enough onto the shore to keep it from floating away. She then turned and sprinted toward the house, burning off the last of the energy that remained in her from the morning.
As she reached the porch stairs leading to the front door, Gretel dropped her head in concentration, placing her feet on each step just right, so as not to tumble during her ascension. And as she reached the top of the steps, Gretel plowed the top of her head into the center of Odalinde’s chest, barreling her over as a bull might do to an overconfident matador.
Gretel’s first thought was that she had just run over Hansel, the force of the impact was so solid and the body had put up such little resistance, but when Gretel looked to see Odalinde on the ground at her feet, staring back at her with such astonishment and fear, Gretel couldn’t hold back the grin on her face.
“What…Gretel watch where you’re going!” There wasn’t anger in Odalinde’s voice; her tone was more instructive, as a mother teaching manners to her child.
Gretel’s grin flattened, though it was hardly replaced with the look of concern. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
“Well, I should hope you didn’t see me! You could have killed me!”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Are you all right?” Gretel didn’t wait for the reply as she stepped over the fallen woman and past the threshold into the house.
“It’s not an exaggeration! What if I had been knocked down the stairs?” Odalinde asked rhetorically. There was a shrillness now to her voice that teetered on yelling, but it remained motherly, as if combating the petulance of a child. “You need to pay attention when…”
“I said I’m sorry!”
Gretel now stood back on the porch at the woman’s feet, staring down
at her as a fighter would to his fallen opponent. It was a posture of intimidation and warning.
Gretel waited for a response from the nurse and, receiving none, walked back into the house. She wiped the sweat from her face with a towel and poured herself a drink of water, and then began making the lunches for the picnic. She listened attentively for the opening of the truck door, signaling Odalinde was leaving, or else the sounds of her coming back into the house. Several minutes passed with no movement from the porch. Finally the front door creaked open and Gretel heard Odalinde walk slowly into the kitchen. Gretel didn’t look up.
“Gretel?” Odalinde said softly, as if waking her from a nap.
Gretel looked up.
“I’m leaving for the market. I’ll be home in an hour or so.” Odalinde paused for a moment and looked down at the floor before raising her head again and making eye contact with Gretel.
“I’m sorry for my tone on the porch. It was an accident, I know that, and my screaming at you was uncalled for.” She paused again. “While I was outside I was thinking, perhaps we could talk later. There are some important things—very important things—I’ve been wanting to tell you. You and Hansel. And I think now is the time.”
Gretel looked at Odalinde suspiciously and then returned her attention to the picnic lunch. “I suppose that will be okay,” she said casually, “but I’ll be having lunch with a friend today, so I won’t be home until this afternoon.”
“A friend?
Gretel glanced at the nurse and dropped her eyes quickly, as she wrapped a loaf of bread in a damp towel. “Yes,” she said, “a friend. You know, someone whose company you enjoy and they enjoy yours.”
Odalinde didn’t respond to the jab. “Is it that boy from the orchard?” she said flatly.
Gretel ignored the question. “As I said, Odalinde, I’ll be back this afternoon.”
Gretel placed the remaining items for the picnic into a shallow woven basket and left it on the counter by the door, and then walked toward her room to begin changing for lunch.
“If Hansel is around later, I’ll be happy to participate in that wildly important talk.”
“He’s The System man’s son, correct?”
Gretel stopped frozen in stride.
“That officer that was looking for your mother, right?”
“How do you know him?” Gretel whispered. “The System officer, how do you know him?”
Gretel had mentioned to her father that a new boy had come to work at the orchard and, as she now tried to recall, had perhaps even told Odalinde. But she had never mentioned his name, and certainly had never told them that he was Officer Stenson’s son. In fact, Gretel had never told either of them about that first night when Petr had come to the door for his father’s binder. She had even kept it a secret from Hansel. She couldn’t have said why exactly, but Petr’s cryptic statement on the porch that night, as well her general instincts, impressed upon her to keep Petr in the shadows. After all, if she had remarked to her father that next morning that Officer Stenson’s son had stopped by just after he’d gone to his room, and oh, by the way, implied that his father, whom Gretel’s own father had bounced only minutes before, was less than genuine about his intentions to find their mother, that may have pushed her father over the edge. He may have even tried to find Officer Stenson, or filed a complaint to The System itself, which certainly wouldn’t have improved the chances of finding her mother.
“I don’t know him,” Odalinde replied, “not really. But I did meet him. He stopped by one day when you were at school, not long after you began working at the orchard.”
Gretel was floored by this revelation. “What did he want?” Her breathing was now frantic and labored. “Was there something found?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It was more of a courtesy visit, I suppose. He said his son worked at the orchard, just like you, and since he was in the area he wanted to see how all of you were getting on. He asked for you.”
Gretel said nothing as she digested this news.
“He left his number with me and wanted you to call him if you felt up to it. I wrote it down. Stenson, I believe his name was. I wanted to tell you, I had every intention in fact, but your father forbade it.”
“Did father talk to him?” Gretel asked.
“Your father was in a very bad state at that time. He had no idea the officer was even here.”
“Well, what did he say? Was there any news at all on my mother? He had to have said something?”
Odalinde frowned and her look softened. “I’m sorry, Gretel, he didn’t. He just wanted to know how you were getting on.”
Gretel searched the room with her eyes, trying to place the meaning of this revelation.
Odalinde watched Gretel silently, until finally she said, “I should have told you sooner.”
“Yes,” Gretel replied, “you should have.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The rustling of leaves snapped Anika to attention; despite focusing all of her will to stay awake, she’d drifted off to sleep.
But early on in her captivity the sounds of the forest nestled in her subconscious, and now, after…months (?)…she could detect the nuances distinguishing the crackle of the witch breaching the treeline and the sounds of a deer trepidatiously grazing outside her room.
The old whore was back. Finally.
The crunching steps quickly turned to clicks as the ancient monster reached the boardwalk and made her way toward the porch steps and front door. Anika’s mind suddenly flooded with doubt. The woman would sense her plotting. Smell it maybe, or taste it on her tongue like a snake. If nothing else she would notice the bowl missing from the tray, or even see the bulge beneath the sheets. And then what?
Anika reached beneath the blanket for the bowl she’d stored next to her hip, but felt only linen. She felt lower, down to her thigh and past her knee, but still nothing. She spread her fingers wide and pressed the mattress around her frantically with both hands on either side of her legs. Where was it! She arched her back and felt under her torso. The sugars from the pie had cemented on her fingers and palms, and the sheets stuck to them as she hunted the bowl, making the search more difficult. The bowl was nowhere!
She sat up in fear and lifted the sheets over her head, hoping that the ceramic container had just rolled to a blind spot in her grasps, but she saw nothing.
She was now overcome with panic and her vision began to blur with tears. How could she have let it go? After having it in her grasp for so many hours! Waiting. Preparing.
Anika steadied her mind and made the rational assumption that the bowl had to be close. Perhaps it had rolled to her feet. Or off the bed. She slowly leaned her head over the side of the mattress, closing her eyes as she did so, sensing the importance of what she might see when she opened them: the bowl shattered on the floor would mean it was all over. It would mean she was to die in this room at the hands of a madwoman—this woman who intended to harvest Anika’s body for some demented concoction. It would mean she had botched her last chance.
It meant she would never see her children again.
Anika opened her eyes and exhaled, seeing nothing other than the bedpan full of poisoned water. There was still a chance. For another day at least. For another plan to be formed. She couldn’t give up now.
The door of the cabin closed with a gruesome thump, and the hurried steps of the witch marching toward the bedroom were immediate. There was no more time to look for the bowl.
Anika twisted her body into a sleeping posture, her back to the door, making one last fruitless search beneath her pillow in the process. She closed her eyes and prayed silently.
The bedroom door creaked open and Anika could sense the witch hesitate before slowly walking in. She listened carefully to the woman’s steps, trying to gauge her location as she stalked the room surveying the scene. The woman had been gone for longer than she’d ever been before, and Anika could sense her uneasiness at what may have transpired in her leave. But
other than the missing bowl, Anika was pretty sure she’d kept things as they were.
“Get up!”
The scream was deafening, and Anika’s eyes shot open in panicked surprise.
“Get up now you filthy pig! This will not do! This will not do at all! Filthy, filthy pig!
Anika’s mind erupted in terror, and tears filled her eyes as she braced herself for the weapon—perhaps the same one used to hunt her in the forest—to plow down upon her. The woman’s rage certainly meant the end this time. She must have seen the bowl (and the book! Anika had forgotten about the book!) and was finally going to kill her.
“I leave you alone for only a few hours, a few hours longer than usual, and you…you scat yourself! Filthy pig! Get up. Get up now and get off the bed. I will not have you lying around in your own filth!”
At first Anika had no idea what the woman was screaming about, but as she turned to the woman and obediently started off the bed, she looked down at the sheets and saw the long brown streaks. The pie stains where she’d wiped her hands. The woman thought Anika had foregone the bed pan and defecated on the bed.
“Get up!” the woman shouted once again, this time hunching toward the bed in short quick steps, her eyebrows sloped at a cartoonishly angry angle.
Anika slowly but deftly scooted to the front of the bed and pushed herself off, almost catching her chain on the bedpost in the process. She should have still been groggy from the poison, incapable of such a move, but the woman made no sign of noticing, focusing instead on the mess of linen before her.
“There can be no impurities for the last step,” the woman murmured to herself, carefully removing the pillows from the bed as she assessed exactly what she had in front of her. “It’s almost ready. Almost ready and look at this filth!”
Anika stood statue-like, removed from the scene, watching the old hag lament as she began to strip the sheets. The words “almost ready” didn’t sound promising.
The woman shuffled the wool blanket to the dusty floor and then snatched the top sheet from under the bed corners, gathering it into a ball and walking it back to the door.
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