by John Kenyon
“Maybe,” she said. She finished off the drink, slivers of ice sticking to the sides of the expensive glass.
“Might want to lay off the drinking,” he said. “Could be a long few days ahead.”
“Well, thanks for the advice,” she said. She tipped the glass again, tongued the ice chips into her mouth as if to say, I’ll drink what I want, when I want.
He shrugged and began walking down the hill.
* * *
Where they were, it was dark, and warm, and smelled of sugar, and they were terrified.
Greta had called the thing they were in a big birdcage. Han said it looked like a stripper cage. He’d seen them in a video, this rock band wailing away while girls danced in a couple of cages like this hanging above the stage. They sat in it, side-by-side, backs pressed against the cold steel bars, every movement causing the thing to pendulum slowly back and forth.
“Stop moving it,” she hissed. “It’s gonna fall.”
“Maybe it would break,” he said. “We could get out.”
“She would hear it and come in here,” Greta said. “Come and get us.”
“She’s not going to do anything,” Han said.
“She’s going to eat us,” Greta said.
Han wanted to say “No, she’s not,” but he couldn’t. Because that’s what the lady had told them she was going to do.
Your mommy doesn’t know it, but I’m going to fatten you up and eat you up.
She’s not our mommy! Greta had cried, but the woman had turned from them and gone into the other room, where the sounds and smells were coming from. Pots and pans rattling. A squeaky oven door opening and closing, opening and closing. Pounding and scraping and the whirr of a blender, all of it underscored with the lady’s flat, toneless singing:
Patty cake, patty cake, Greta and Han
Put ’em in a cake as fast as I can
He hugged his sister closer. “Don’t worry. I’ll save us.” But he was only ten, and he didn’t know how.
In the other room, someone knocked on the door. The other sounds stopped. They heard the woman plunk something down on the counter. She opened the door and poked her head inside, a shaft of light slicing through the darkness to illuminate her doughy face, mismatched eyes and horrible crooked nose.
“Not a word, my pretties,” she said. “Be so still and so quiet now.” She held a finger, impossibly long and many-jointed, to her lips and smiled, showing blackened teeth as pointed as shark fins. She slid out of the light and pulled the door tight.
Greta began to cry.
“It’s someone,” Han said. “Someone come to help us.”
But it wasn’t.
* * *
“Surprised to see you here,” the old crone said.
“I’m surprised to be here,” the carpenter’s second wife said. “But I had to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That they’re gone. My husband called someone. A detective. He’s out there now, snooping around in the woods.”
“He didn’t follow you, now did he?”
“No, I sent him the other way. Down the path to the river.”
“Good, good. Well, there’s nothing to see here, anyway.”
“You finished the—you finished it?”
“Told you I would,” the old woman said. “They’re sleeping now, in the arms of Mother Earth.”
“What does that mean?”
“Dead,” the old woman said flatly. “Dead and buried and gone, gone, gone.”
“Where?”
“You don’t need to know. And you don’t need to be here. Scoot on back to your house, now. Enjoy your husband, without the troublesome noise and interference of the children. Enjoy his money and his attention.”
“What are you doing in here?”
“Baking,” the old woman said. “I have a sweet tooth.”
“Don’t you like anything but gingerbread?”
“Oh yes,” the old woman crooned. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Got a drink?” The carpenter’s second wife held up her empty glass.
“Milk,” the old woman said. The carpenter’s second wife rolled her eyes. “Sorry, but it’s all I drink. Goes good with the sweets.” She bent and opened the oven. The door screeched. She brought out a baking sheet covered with gingerbread.
“How about a bathroom, then? I’ve had three of these—” Again, she shook the glass. “—and I need to go.”
“No bathroom,” the old woman said. “Go use your own. Get back, before that detective you so stupidly led into the woods gets back and wonders where you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are a fool,” the old woman said. “And you are keeping me from my sweets. Now get out.”
“I paid you good money.”
“Yes,” the old woman said. “You paid me good money to kill your husband’s children. And that I’ve done. I owe you nothing more, not a drink of milk or a pot to piss in. Now go!”
“Don’t yell at me, you crazy old hag!”
“What’s that now, dearie?” Her voice had gone flat again, and cold as a stream in winter.
“N-nothing,” the second wife said. “It’s been…a long day. I’m sorry. I’m going now.” She moved to the door, but the old woman moved faster, slamming the door with the disjointed, wiggling fingers of her free hand. The other hand had been filled with the thick wooden handle of a long, gleaming knife.
“You don’t want to be yelling,” the old woman said. “This is my happy place. My gingerbread house. You don’t want to come in here and spoil it.”
“No.”
“I have your money. I’ve done the job. I want to be left alone.”
“Yes. You will. I will.”
“Will you, now?” The mismatched eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. You bring a detective into the woods. You come back here to make sure I’ve done the job. How many times will you come back? How many chances to be followed? To bring others here, and ruin my gingerbread house?”
“None. I promise. I won’t ever come back.”
The old woman held the knife up. The sharp point twinkled in the light. “I don’t believe you,” she said. She took in a great, gasping breath and tensed, ready to bring the blade down. But the door burst open, and the air filled with a popping sound, and the woman looked down to see two bright blooms spreading on her chest.
“Drop it,” Peter Grimm said.
She hissed, a horrible, sandpaper rasp of pain and anger, and took a quick step toward him. He fired again, putting one through her throat. She fell, landing on the open oven door, which tore loose from its hinges and crashed to the floor. Her head and shoulders flopped into the oven. Hair and fabric began to blacken, then burn.
“Oh thank you, thank you!” the carpenter’s second wife cried.
“You’re under arrest,” Peter Grimm told her. He pointed at the open window. “She was right. You are a fool. You talk too much. Maybe because you drink too much.” He took out a pair of handcuffs, tightened one around her wrist and latched the other to the refrigerator door. “You’re also way too easy to follow.”
He grabbed the old woman’s ankle and yanked. Her head hit the floor with a thud. The smell of burning hair made the detective and the carpenter’s second wife cough. He grabbed a bowl from the counter, ran some water into it, and dumped it over the old woman’s smoldering head.
“You can’t prove anything,” the carpenter’s second wife said.
“Here, here, in here!” Two voices, small, frightened, urgent, coming through a closed bedroom door. Grimm walked over, raised his gun, kicked the door in. Saw the cage, suspended by rusty chains from an exposed beam. Saw the two kids from the picture. The boy looked over him, into the kitchen at the woman cuffed to the refrigerator.
“You,” the boy said. “You do talk too much.”
* * *
They all went back to the carpenter’s house, Peter Grimm and the carpenter’s second wife and Han and Greta. The carpenter wept when his childre
n walked through the door. He seemed neither surprised nor sad to see his second wife in custody.
“She never liked them,” he said. “I was going to leave her. I never should have been with her.”
“It’s okay, Poppa,” Greta said.
“Yeah, Dad,” Han said. “Don’t sweat it.”
Grimm left them to their reunion. Got on his cell phone and called for someone to come and take the carpenter’s second wife to jail. Told them to send the coroner to collect the dead old cannibal woman from her gingerbread house.
When he went back into the house, he found the carpenter’s bar and poured himself a Scotch.
Gato
By Seana Graham
In casting about for a story to use for this challenge, I found myself drawn to one that has always seemed to me to have an element of latent criminality. I’d rather not say what the story is—it’s a common and famous one, which should be enough. I think it was the element of a helper character who seems to have an agenda of his own rather than a slavish devotion that particularly intrigued me.
It was a Saturday, and I had driven over to my brother’s house. The house, I mean, that used to belong to my dad. He had left it lock, stock and barrel to my oldest brother, Joe—Joe, who had three other properties already and would no doubt have a couple more before the year was done. It needed a lot of work. By the time Dad died, it was a real shambles. Joe was the only one who could afford to fix it up. Still, it hardly seemed fair.
I pulled up and couldn’t even park in the driveway because Bill, my second brother, was working on his car there. Dad’s car, that is—an old Lincoln that would be worth something restored. Right now, it didn’t even run, which was what Bill was addressing, in a manner of speaking. Mostly, though, he was just plain swearing.
“Frankie!” Joe called when he saw me coming his way. A stranger might have taken it for a heartfelt welcome, but I had my reasons to be wary. I hadn’t just made my way here on my own—he’d summoned me. From long experience I should have known that it wasn’t because he meant to help me, but, as always, I’d come anyway.
“How’s it hangin’, little bro?” he asked, coming up and wrapping me in that big bear hug he’d perfected over the years. It wasn’t just because it was me—the born salesman, he used it sooner or later on everyone.
“What’s up?” I asked, extricating myself from his embrace, or wrestler’s hold, whichever you like to call it.
“Finally got the permits, buddy! So it’s full speed ahead!” His eyes were bright—as if he was on something. Maybe he was, but I think it was the project itself that got him high. Freud had it about right when it came to fathers and sons. On the other hand, I was my dad’s son, too, and I felt nothing but sadness. I remembered again that he was gone, and what I was left with were these two. I felt myself tearing up, but hid it—I’d learned long ago that tears brought only blows and scorn.
“Billy! Come on over here!” Joe called over the sound of the engine that Bill was revving, trying to get the engine to turn over. No one called Bill “Billy” except for Joe, not for a long time. Jesus, I thought. Why the hell had I come? “We got a bit of a situation here, Frankie,” Joe said, now that the racket had stopped.
Pretty good situation, I thought, looking at my brothers. A house and a classic car. And for me?
“What situation?” I asked, because he expected me to ask it.
“Gato,” Joe said. “Now that we’re in motion, he can’t stay.”
* * *
My dad died in the hospital, struggling for breath, all those cigarette packs finally catching up with him. His timing was bad—we couldn’t scrape up a woman between the four of us, and men are hopeless at this sort of scene on their own. My mom had died ten years before. Joe’s divorce was just through, and Bill had finally broken free of a bad relationship—bad for the girl, that is. As for me, well, we’ll get to that.
We stood around his bed, awkward as teenagers, not knowing what to say, wishing ourselves away. The others went out—for a smoke, for a drink—I don’t remember. All I know is that I was left. I wasn’t in the mood for either. I sighed, sat down by his side and took my father’s hand.
“Frankie,” he said, after awhile.
“I’m here, Dad,” I said. I squeezed his hand, because I’d heard somewhere that that was what you were supposed to do in these situations.
“I know,” he said, and squeezed back. Better he hadn’t—it was heartbreaking to feel how feeble his grip was.
“Frankie, someone’s got to look after Gato,” he said.
“I know, Dad. We will.”
“No,” he said. His hand grasped mine hard enough to hurt. “No we. It’s down to you.”
I understood. He knew the others weren’t up to it, and so did I.
“I’ll take care of it, Dad.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
He seemed comforted by that. Maybe it was the last thing he’d been waiting to do, because not too long after that and before the others returned, he died.
* * *
Joe led me out to the shed where Gato was staying. I’d like to be able to call it a studio but if I’m honest, I can’t. If it wasn’t a shed, it was more like a shed than anything else.
“Gato!” my brother called out as we approached. “Gato! We got a visitor! Someone here to see you.”
I wondered if he’d be disappointed. “It’s just me, Gato,” I said. “Frank.”
There was no reply, but after a moment Gato came out. He had a cloth in his hand and was cleaning a wrench. He was always cleaning something. He looked at me. If he was glad to see me, he didn’t let on.
“Gotta shift you, pal,” Joe said, to the background accompaniment of a sledgehammer.
Gato gave a slight nod that was almost a bow, but said nothing. We waited. I realized that my brother, for all his bluster, was afraid of the man. He had called me here to be a buffer.
“Gonna tear down this old shack,” he said—to Gato, to me…to no one. The silence and therefore the rebuff were so deep that he was forced to extemporize. “Frankie here said he has room for you for a while.”
Gato and I looked at him with what I expect was equal astonishment. My brother had two other properties in town alone. I had a rented two-bedroom flat, and calling it two was being charitable about the thing. I would have laughed at how ludicrous it all was. But I looked at Gato. He looked at me. I thought about my father—what he would have wanted.
“Want to bunk in with me for a while, Gato?” I asked.
Gato said nothing. He simply turned around and went back into the shed. After a few moments, he returned with a small black athletic bag.
“I’m not sure you understand,” my brother said. “I’m tearing it down. If you have anything you want to keep, better grab it now.”
Gato gestured toward his bag and nodded his assent, but he did not return into the structure.
My brother watched him for a moment and then said, “Okay, then.”
It was all happening pretty fast, much faster than anything I’d expected. “Come on, Gato,” I said. I led him out to my car. He threw the bag into the backseat and got in. I got behind the wheel of my beat-up old Honda. We pulled away to the tune of the jackhammer and the misfiring of a powerful internal combustion engine. I looked at Gato as I backed to a place where l could turn around. His face still told me nothing.
I’d headed over there without taking the time to fill up the tank, so I stopped on the way home to do this. It happened that just ahead of me at the pumps was a car I recognized, a black Audi convertible that belonged to Marina Reyes. Even rich people have to fill up sometime, I guess. True, she was rich enough to have a driver to do it for her, but I think she liked to drive too much herself to tolerate a chauffeur.
I had been in love with Marina since we were in kindergarten. She liked me, too, I knew, but we didn’t and never would travel in the same circles. We’d been lab partners in high school chemistr
y, and gotten along well enough that I’d held out the hope that I might somehow find the courage to ask her to the prom. For better or worse, our classmate Pete Torres, a scion of another long-established and affluent local clan, had swept her off her feet before I made an utter fool of myself. The last I’d heard, they were engaged.
“You know her, Señor Frank?” Gato asked. I had forgotten he was there.
“I used to, a little.”
“And you don’t go say hello, a beautiful woman like that?”
I flushed and shook my head. She glanced back at the car as she pulled out the hose, so we had a close-up view of her in all her splendor, but there must have been a glare off the windshield, because she didn’t see me at all. At least, I hoped not. She too would have thought me impolite, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t go through it all again.
“It’s just Frank, Gato,” I said, in slight irritation, but mostly to dispel the dark mood that had overtaken me. “You’re not my servant.”
“I am, though, Señor Frank. A sus ordenes.”
At my service. Great. So now he felt beholden to me, and that was the last thing in the world I wanted or needed.
Or so I thought.
* * *
Gato settled in without a lot of fuss. I felt put upon by my brothers, but not by him, and grew to like knowing he was there, though I was often absent myself. I thought it would just go on like that into some ill-defined future, but one day I came home and he said, “Señor Frank, I feel I need to make a contribution.”
“You already do, Gato. Don’t worry about it,” I said, because he did. He kept the place clean and even cooked a meal from time to time. It seemed like an arrangement I could live with.
“If you would loan me a little money, I could go out and get some good work boots, and then I could earn enough to pay rent,” he said.
I had just gotten my paycheck and was feeling expansive. “I can buy you a pair of work boots, Gato. Don’t worry about it. It’s what my dad would have wanted.” I peeled off a bunch of twenties and handed them to him.
“Thank you, Señor Frank,” he said. He retreated to his room without another word and I heard no more about work or work boots or anything like it. I remember thinking that I didn’t mind giving him the money, but wished I hadn’t had to buy the song and dance along with it.
