Gretel wakes in the middle of the night with the kind of hunger that claws at your insides, as if it were a feral creature trying to get back to the woods. She hears Hansel’s soft breathing in the dark, the faint sound of jazz downstairs, and the distant, tremulous voice of her stepfather. There is simply no getting out of it; she has to go down to the kitchen.
Gretel hears the familiar sound of tiny feet skittering underneath the stairwell. A single fat white candle sits on the stove, its wax slowly hardening on the surface. Shadows leap and dance high on the kitchen wall.
Kurt is in the living room pacing in front of an infomercial for a weight loss pill. Earlier, Gretel had spied him spraying fentanyl into his mouth. Now, he must have taken Adderall to get back up to speed.
Her mother lies on the couch, hidden by the wall. It’s where she lives now, ever since Kurt stuck the fentanyl patch on her a year ago.
“I’m telling you, Celia, it’s gonna be a ride. . . . So, so, so, I’ll call the neighbor tomorrow. What’s her name? Rachel? She’ll have to take the kids for the weekend. That’s the first thing,” he says.
“Rachelle,” Gretel’s mother murmurs. “You dummy.”
“Funny.” He starts pacing again. “They’re over Rachelle’s half the time anyway, and they’ll love it. All the food they want over there. Now . . .” He shakes his hand with a flourish.
He walks over to the couch and kneels in front of Gretel’s mother, his voice giddy, high-pitched. He grabs her hand and pulls it close to his chest. “This new package Max is sending, the pills in it are brand new. I told him to get them from his guy. I knew exactly what I want. Exactly! They’ll be a dream. And in the mail tomorrow.” He gets back up. “We’re pretty much out,” he says. He darts back and forth in front of the TV again.
Gretel’s mother’s hand slowly curls back into the couch.
“There’s one other thing, though. The social worker. She’s coming at four o’clock tomorrow. Guess we should clean up . . .”
Gretel hides in the stairwell just in time as Kurt looks over toward the kitchen. He turns to face the living room again.
“There’s a chance, Celia, that the social worker may not approve of the way we’re living. I mean, I can spend a little time cleaning before she gets here, but there’s no way you can do it, your back the way it is. You just let me take care of it, okay? I mean, it’s not like she’d take the kids away.”
Kurt stops to stare at himself in the mirror next to the big bay window. The candle on the stove reflects in the glass, and he focuses on the wavering light. For a moment, Gretel thinks she sees her reflection behind him. She moves back inside the entryway.
“I hate to even think about it, I mean, that would be just awful. Conditions are terrible for kids in foster care. Imagine little Gretel and Hansel living in a stranger’s house? Or what if they’re put in different houses, and with the most unsavory people?”
“No, no, NO!” says Gretel’s mother. Her voice garbles like she is underwater.
“Yeah, no. Don’t worry. Don’t worry. That’s not going to happen as long as I’m here. I don’t even want you to think about that right now.” Gretel peers out. Kurt kneels before her mother again. “We’ll have the whole weekend to ourselves, no one bothering us. I can go shopping in the morning, so we’ll have all the food we need. Everything! We won’t have to go anywhere. And we’ll be feeling no pain. We’re gonna let this all ride out, Celia. Are you with me?”
Gretel watches Kurt take her mother’s hand and lift her up to stand. Her mother stumbles forward into his arms. Strands of her once-lustrous long black and gray hair graze her doughy breasts that emerge slightly from her old dusty blue dress. Her slippers scuff on the wood floor as Kurt moves her to dance with him. She lets her head fall onto his shoulder, and her fingers try to match up with his; she focuses on getting their fingers lined up just right. They sway to Miles Davis’s “Blue in Green,” and Gretel can make out her mother’s puffy, gray face in the glow of the candle. Her mother’s eyes little black beads.
“We’re gonna let this all ride out, okay?” Kurt says.
Gretel’s mother turns her face up to meet Kurt’s.
“Let this all ride out,” she says, sweetly smiling and half-closing her eyes.
Gretel tiptoes up the stairs. Her hunger catapults through a million stars to the far edges of a ravenous black hole. She hopes light will return tomorrow in the shape of a plan.