Gretel

by Christopher Coleman

  “I don’t remember exactly,” Petr replied, this time more serious in his tone. “I think I asked you why my father was there. Why he came out to your house in the first place.” Petr’s eyes were now back on the murky water and he was shifting slightly back and forth on the seat, trying to find the true middle.

  “Wrong!” Gretel barked, snapping Petr’s head to attention. She locked on his eyes and held them steady. “You actually said, ‘I don’t think he’s here to help you,’ those were your exact words.” Gretel lowered her voice and then continued. “You already knew why he was there because I had told you in the house. And then when I asked why he was there if not to help us, you said, ‘I don’t know,’ and, by the way, you looked very suspicious while saying it.”

  “I…I guess I don’t…”

  “We’re here,” Gretel interrupted, slipping off her sandals and hopping into the shallow water bordering Rifle Field. “Help me pull it in.”

  She’d, of course, pulled the boat on the bank dozens of times by herself, but she felt barking orders would keep Petr off his guard and manageable. Gretel slung the blanket over her shoulder and grabbed the loaded basket and walked off alone while Petr finished docking the boat. He sprinted to catch up with her, and the two children silently acknowledged a spot in the field and spread the blanket.

  Gretel sat on her knees and unloaded the basket, arranging the bread and fruit on the blanket in her own private categories.

  “So, do you remember now?” she said finally, after several minutes of speechlessness.

  “I remember,” Petr replied.

  Gretel broke off a large piece of bread from the loaf and handed it to Petr. And waited.

  “Okay,” Petr said, absently crumbling the bread piece as he searched for the words to his confession. “The truth is my father sent me to the door and told me to talk to you. I think he left his binder on purpose.”

  “But why? What did he want you to talk to me about?”

  “I really don’t know. He didn’t say anything specific. I think he just wanted me to meet you. When he came back to the car that night he described you to me and told me that you made a good impression on him. He said you were very sophisticated or something, and asked me why I couldn’t be as mature and polite as you.”

  Gretel felt a flush in her cheeks. “So why did you say he wouldn’t help me?”

  “I was just mad at him for insulting me, I guess, wishing I was more like some stranger he’d just met for only a few minutes.” Petr dropped his eyes and smiled. “And a girl to boot.”

  Gretel couldn’t hold back a smile and she shook her head in playful irritation.

  “Plus,” the boy continued, “I was already unhappy about the meeting at the boarding school. It was just a long day. And by the time he sent me to your door—and then you threw me out—I …I was trying to scare you, I guess. I’m sorry.”

  Petr gave an epiphanic sideways glance and then nodded. “My father was right, I’m not as mature and polite as you are. Your mother had just disappeared. I should have been more understanding.”

  Gretel’s look was hard as she stared at Petr’s shamed face, but she wasn’t mad at him. She put herself in his position, and though she wouldn’t have behaved exactly as he did if the roles were reversed, she certainly would have acted out in some way. Not to mention that, as she recalled, he had remained incredibly cordial and sophisticated throughout the encounter.

  “And I want to be honest with you about something else,” Petr said.

  Gretel stared in anticipation, swarming with relief that she had finally reached this point with Petr.

  “My father knew that you were starting at the orchard, and that’s why he asked the Klahrs to take me on.”

  On some level Gretel knew this fact, but she was stunned to hear it admitted. “So Mr. Klahr was lying about your friend from school?”

  “No! Of course not! Mr. Klahr would never lie to cover me. He’d choose you over me any day.”

  This fact was so self-evident Gretel didn’t even bother disputing it.

  “My roommate really did work there last summer. That was just a coincidence, and a good excuse to use for finding the work in the first place.”

  Gretel stayed quiet for several moments, and then started giggling softly.

  “What’s funny?”

  “Your father sure thinks highly of me!”

  Petr laughed. “I guess.”

  “I mean, I only met him for ten minutes!” Gretel was in full-blown laughter now. “Maybe he wants you to marry me someday!”

  Petr’s laughter had crescendoed to match Gretel’s.

  “Maybe,” he replied “but I don’t think your father would approve!’

  This last quip sent Gretel into hysterics, and the laughter and joking continued throughout the better part of lunch, at one point causing Gretel to spit out the apple she’d been chewing, nearly causing her mortal embarrassment. It was the most fun she’d had in months, and maybe longer.

  Finally, when the chortling subsided, Gretel said, “I’m sorry too.”

  “For what?”

  “Mainly for being mean to you that day at my house—and most of the days during the harvest—but also for your dad getting you involved that day. That wasn’t fair of him.” Gretel watched the boy closely to see if he became defensive about his father, which he didn’t seem to, and she pressed him. “Why do you think he would have done that? Really?”

  Petr shook his head and shrugged.

  Gretel decided to let the gesture suffice, and then asked, “Do you get along with him?”

  “As much as most kids get along with their fathers, I guess,” Petr answered. “I don’t see him that much anymore since the academy, and now with work and everything. Plus he’s not home much.”

  Since Petr seemed open to conversation, Gretel plowed on, asking about his home and the rest of his family, what it was like to live in the Urbanlands, and the benefits and drawbacks of having a System officer for a father, of which there seemed to be plenty on both accounts. Petr was vague on the subject of his mother, who had died when he was six, but was otherwise candid about his life, and by the end of the conversation, when Gretel had formed her image of what he’d told her, it all seemed fairly ordinary. Not quite boring, but certainly nothing like she’d have guessed only months ago.

  She watched his expressions throughout the lunch, recognizing the shine of pride in his eyes as he recounted the pistoleer award he’d won when he was ten; and, alternately, the devastation at the loss of his grandmother—the woman who had raised him—only the year before. Gretel was rapt by his voice, so lush and sincere, and when the discussion lagged, it seemed the most natural action in the world for her to lean over and kiss him. He kissed her back, awkwardly yet gently, and when Gretel pulled away Petr remained puckered and shut-eyed for just a moment too long, and this made Gretel giggle and Petr blush.

  After the kiss, neither child said a word until time dictated they begin the process of leaving. Gretel would have stayed until nightfall if she could have, and she knew Petr felt the same.

  In blissful silence the two teenagers walked back to the rowboat, occasionally stealing glances and smiling, though Petr’s smiles possessed something more than Gretel’s. Gretel had enjoyed the kiss—later, what she would always consider her first—but it was being with Petr that she enjoyed more. It was friendship that she wanted most from him right now, and though their relationship had certainly crossed into something more since this morning, Gretel wasn’t in love. At least not yet. Not in the holding hands, having babies kind of way.

  The silence continued for the entire ride back to the orchard, with Petr in his same position on the bow seat and Gretel at the helm. When they finally reached the bank, Petr lingered for a moment, staring at Gretel and smiling. She thought he was going to kiss her again, which would have been perfectly appropriate, she thought, but he didn’t, and that was okay too.

  “Thank you,” he said finally, “for the
picnic. I had a great time. I wish I could stay longer.”

  “Me too,” Gretel replied softly, smiling. And then, as if needing something to segue from the mushiness, said, “And good luck on the ride home with your father.”

  “Thanks.”

  Petr disembarked with a hop, displaying a confident acumen not seen during boarding, and Gretel watched with a sympathetic smile as he jogged up the bank into the first cut of grass lining the orchard.

  At the tree line he turned back toward the water and called with a wave, “And good luck with your stepmother. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  Gretel waved back and watched the boy as he ran on air toward the Klahr house. When he was out of sight, she shoved off toward home, pressing the oars back and forth with steady deliberation. She had considered an afternoon rowing session, but decided to pass. It wasn’t that she was tired—in fact she had more energy than she’d had that morning—but her talk with Petr had created a longing for her family—Hansel mainly, but father as well—and she decided to go directly home to see them.

  She was halfway across the lake when the knot formed low in her belly, and by the time she’d reached the bank of the Morgan property something akin to panic had set in. She stepped from the boat and stood statue-like on the rocky shore, her eyes wide and searching, her breath shallow as she rummaged through her memory, replaying each of the encounters she’d had with Petr over the last few weeks: today at the picnic, that day in the Klahr kitchen when he’d reappeared like a vivid memory, the past few days in the fields and in Klahr house working as partners and forming a real friendship. She even thought about each of the dozen or so perfunctory conversations they’d had during the harvest.

  And she was sure.

  Gretel knew the answer to her internal question: she’d never referred to Odalinde as anything other than her father’s nurse.

  She’d never mentioned to Petr that Odalinde was going to be her stepmother.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The car presented itself to Anika first in a dream, as a low sustained thunder somewhere miles off on the horizon, a benevolent warning to an inevitable storm.

  The dream itself was almost an exact replica of Anika’s current situation: she had escaped from an isolated cabin in the woods and was now desperately looking for help along the Interways. Only in her dream she was not alone, Hansel and Gretel were with her, and Anika’s desperation to find safety for her children was a burning sickness in her abdomen. And in her dream, unlike in reality (thank God), rain was apparently on the way.

  On any other day the rumbling thunder would have been inaudible to Anika, or unperceived, a white noise drifting above the trees until simply vanishing into the atmosphere. But Anika’s senses were heightened, and even in her sleep her mind indexed the sound, cross-referencing it with latent experiences of the past. Her mind told her the sound was an impending storm, but the rumble was continuous and growing, unlike the crescendo and decrescendo of thunder. And, as she recalled, the sky had been clear before she’d fallen asleep.

  Anika opened her eyes and glanced around, instinctively keeping the rest of her body still, afraid that moving would somehow expose a secret hiding spot in which she’d been hunkering. But she hadn’t been hiding. In fact, her position was rather exposed and precarious, less than four feet from the pavement of the Interways. She quickly got to her feet and breathed deeply, rubbing the confusion from her eyes while giving silent thanks that her children, though she missed them terribly, weren’t actually with her.

  Anika realized now that her energy levels were lower than she originally thought when she first started her journey home—she’d only walked a few miles by her estimate, and already was asleep. Exposed.

  She peeked toward the horizon for storm clouds and saw nothing but dusky blue clarity. She was mostly pleased with this sight, though thirst was beginning to factor in, and the thought of rain triggered a lumpy swallow in her throat.

  Then, as if keen to Anika’s inquisitiveness, the wind brought forth the low rumble of thunder from her dream. But the sound, she now realized, wasn’t thunder, it was the mechanical growl of an engine—a large engine by the sound of it—and it was getting louder. A car was coming. Finally.

  Anika stood and began to walk down the middle of the road toward the oncoming sound, and then broke into a slow lope, her arms hanging at her sides. She hadn’t the strength to run properly, but she needed to get to that noise and confirm her miracle. Her mind was shrouded by hope to the actual danger of running toward oncoming traffic, but she absently figured that at the long stretch of road she’d started down, any car headed toward her would see her well before reaching her.

  Anika squinted in desperation, trying to adjust the lenses of her eyes to the dimming afternoon light, hoping to catch the first flicker of metal heading toward her. She knew she’d been right about the sound. There was no question it was the sound of a car motor, or perhaps a motorcycle, and it was growing louder every second. In less than a minute she could be rescued, on her way home to Heinrich and her children, beginning her life again. She started to cry and began running faster. ‘Thank you! Thank you, God!’ she sobbed.

  She ran another thirty yards before the sound that began as a subtle reverie finally materialized into reality. Anika stopped running and leaned slightly forward, hands on her thighs, measuring the distance and the validity of what her eyes were seeing. It was true. A car was headed straight for her.

  She started laughing hysterically and waving her hands in front of her face in a frantic, scissor-like motion. The headlights grew larger as the car neared, and Anika could hear the downshifting gears as the car began its deceleration. Exhausted, she dropped to her knees and put her palms flat on the street, her head hanging as she simultaneously laughed and coughed and spat. It was implausible that she had made it to this place, free and unbound, seemingly in good health with her sanity still intact, though this last part she knew was yet to be fully determined. At no point had she ever completely given up hope, but, if she were honest with herself, at her core, she assumed she was going to die in that cabin.

  Anika tried to will the muscles in her neck to raise her head to the approaching stranger, but it was useless; her exhaustion was almost absolute. A whispered ‘thank you’ was all she could manage before collapsing face down on the street, her arms no longer able to support her torso. She listened as the footsteps quickened and she elicited the trace of a smile when she felt the blanket fall across her shoulders and back.

  But the cover didn’t warm the chill that flashed in her neck and spine when her rescuer spoke.

  “Anika Morgan,” the voice said confidently, “so you’re not dead after all.”

  ***

  Anika sat quietly in the front seat of The System officer’s car and held the woolen blanket tightly over her shoulders, sweeping it across the front of her neck and chest. The constant speed and steady hum of the tires on the road caused her to drift in and out of sleep, and with each brief awakening she brought the meticulously clean blanket under her nose to inhale the scent. She’d forgotten the smell of cleanliness, so accustomed had she become to the slaughter room’s gradual descent into filth and disgrace; and now, as she held the blanket to her face, the fresh fragrance of laundered fabric made her think of summertime as a small girl.

  Anika felt the car slow dramatically and then turn sharply to the left, and she woke instinctively to brace herself from toppling toward the driver. She opened her eyes and glanced at the window where a wall of daylight confronted her.

  Out of the front windshield Anika could see a narrow dirt road which had been divided down the middle by an overgrowth of grass and weeds. With some reluctance, she shifted her attention to the figure on the seat beside her, expecting either to be met by a face familiar to her, or else one not quite human, signaling she was in the midst of a dream. Instead, the smiling face she saw in the driver’s seat was as normal and unintimidating as any she’d see on a busy Saturday i
n the local market, though she supposed a bit more handsome. And not one she recognized.

  Anika sat straight on her portion of the bench seat and rubbed her palms down her face to clear the grogginess from her head.

  “You’re the man who helped me I suppose,” she said, her voice sounding raspy and timid. She cleared her throat. “I can never thank you enough.”

  “You’re welcome,” the man replied, not taking his eyes from the road in front of him.

  Anika vaguely remembered that the man had spoken her name as she had lain in the street, just before her last memory of the blanket being draped across her shoulders. “Do I know you?”

  The man smiled quizzically and finally looked at Anika. “I don’t think so,” he said, “do I look familiar to you?”

  “No, it’s just that…back on the street…I think you said my name. At least I think I remember that.”

  The man’s smile straightened and a serious look emerged on his face, an expression which hovered between interest and concern. He looked back to the road. “Yes, Anika, I know your name. Every System officer in this area knows your name.”

  Anika flinched at the man’s words, and an icy tremble trickled the length of her nape and dispersed across her blanketed shoulders.

  With her eyes now adjusted, Anika slowly surveyed the car’s interior and immediately noticed the bulbous metal switches and steep buttons, as well as the standard two-way radio, which indicated she was indeed among a man of The System. This wasn’t the first time she’d been in a System vehicle, and she was deluged with thoughts of her childhood when, as a girl of twelve, Anika rode quietly in the back of a cruiser as she was shuttled behind an ambulance carrying her father to the hospital following a rather severe traffic accident. At the time that short trip had seemed like a dream—Anika’s mind protecting her from considering all the possible fates of her father, she supposed—and she’d been unusually distracted by the car’s interior. She’d seen nothing like it in her world before, the stark leather of the seats and door panels, the chrome lines outlining every hard feature, and the various multi-colored blinking lights that spanned the dashboard. There was an alien feel to the car that made Anika feel both helpless and safe, and now, as she sat rigid and wary in the passenger seat of this more modern, yet still familiar cruiser, that same feeling possessed her again.