Tasty Morsels

WARNING!! Violent Content.

Tasty Morsels

A phone rings in the middle of the night.

“Can you come over? I need you.”

“Wha . . . what time is it?”

“Almost three. Something happened. I need you.”

I know what I’ll see before I get there. Something happens a lot.

Gretel greets me at the door, her eyes dry. Behind her I can see a man’s boots, still attached to the man, lying on the floor.

“He hit me.”

I think, but do not say, “Gretel, they ALWAYS hit you.” Instead, I ask, “Is he dead?”

Her eyes don’t meet mine. “I told you Hansel, he HIT me.”

Morning. I have learned to sleep like a cat, all curled around myself. It affords little warmth or comfort. Each morning brings with it slight dew so that I am not only cold, I am damp. Suddenly the door to my cage is opened. “Hansel, we’re saved! The old witch is dead! Now we’ve nothing to fear. . . .”

I’m thinking of the window panes on the witch’s house and trying to remember the flavor. Was it licorice? I can’t quite remember. The room around me is silent and still and I try to will my scrambled eggs to taste like those window panes.

The phone rings.

I don’t want to answer it.

Licorice with a hint of vanilla.

The phone keeps ringing.

Hello.

“Hansel, I’m in trouble. Can you come. . . “

I remember the shine of those window panes and how, despite their construction of crystallized sugar, they cast an almost perfect glass-like reflection.

“Hansel? . . . “

I hold the phone away from my mouth as I sigh, “I’ll be right there, Gretel.”

“I’m not at home. There’s a little road just past the bridge on Hwy 12. I’m a mile or two along that.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Hansel?”

“Yes?

“Bring a shovel.”

We’re back at our parents’ cottage. Father has lifted Gretel up in his arms and is swinging her round and round in circles. He looks almost impossibly happy. That night we play marbles with pearls and talk of our future. The next morning, before he goes to town to trade pearls for supplies, he draws me aside.

“Life has forced you to become a man before your time, Hansel. I’m sorry for the part I played in those events. It’s a hard thing to kill anyone, even a witch, and I just want you to know that I understand and I’m proud of you.”

I have no words to tell him, but will spend years replaying that moment as if I had spoken.

I didn’t kill the witch.

Outwardly there is not a mark to be found on Gretel. Her eyes are dry and she seems recharged, exhilarated.

“He would have hurt me, Hansel. Maybe even . . . “

That night we ate pheasant and rice with chunks of pear and a rich, rich sauce. There was cake and ice cream and Father drank a bottle of wine by himself. I fell asleep in my bed, happy with a full belly and a promising future.

“Hansel? . . “

Gretel’s voice in the darkness. For a moment, I can’t place where I am and it is only the softness of the bed that reminds me I am home.

“Hansel?” She is more insistent and has taken hold of my arm.

“What’s the matter, Gretel?”

“It’s father. I need your help.”

At first it is as if he fell asleep in front of the fireplace. At first I can’t see what is wrong. Then I see the knife in his neck.

“He meant for us to die, Hansel.”

I am speechless and for a moment hear only my father’s words in my head . . . ‘I understand and I’m proud of you.’

Gretel shakes me. “To DIE, Hansel. Our own father. How could we ever trust him?”

I have no answer.

It is done. She stands and brushes a bit of dirt from my face. Her hand lingers a moment.

“Hansel, my Hansel. Why can’t any other man be like my Hansel?”

She kisses me once on the cheek. Her lips are surprisingly soft and warm. Once again I remember.

“Hansel, we’re saved! The old witch is dead! Now we’ve nothing to fear. . . .”