{"id":2499,"date":"2025-01-14T10:00:00","date_gmt":"2025-01-14T15:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/hexliterary.com\/?p=2499"},"modified":"2025-01-14T10:05:20","modified_gmt":"2025-01-14T15:05:20","slug":"gretel-by-jane-osullivan","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/hexliterary.com\/?p=2499","title":{"rendered":"Gretel by Jane O’Sullivan"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

She\u2019s out in the backyard, squatting over a pile of sticks. She just turned up one day, said her mother was drunk, again, and she was hungry. A stray bloody kitten. I mean, I thought twice about it. Who wouldn\u2019t? I asked if she remembered her mother\u2019s number. I asked if I could walk her home. Fine<\/em>, I said eventually. Then come in and help me light the stove. I\u2019ll make us some scones, I guess.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She comes most mornings now. Early. Arrives out of the bush down by the fenceline, slips through the wire, and walks through the empty paddock. By the times she gets up to the house, she\u2019s wet to the knees, and there\u2019s a dark line through the silver-dewed grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve started making jam. She\u2019s just a kid, and a scrawny one at that. She acts like sugar lights her from within, like it\u2019s the best thing she could imagine ever happening to her. It\u2019s only marmalade<\/em>, I say, because I\u2019m ashamed I have no strawberries, just the orange tree covered in aphids and sooty ash out by the clothesline. The fruit hasn\u2019t been sweet in years. Thought it might be a bit tart?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s become a game. I pretend she is Paddington Bear, and she pretends she hasn\u2019t heard of him. I ask when her mother wants her back, and her mouth sets in a small hard line. I do not ask about school. But there are moments, sometimes, when she\u2019s still sitting at the kitchen table fingering up the last drops of jam on her plate, when she tells me things. Small things. The name of her old puppy. The best cicadas to catch. The kind of ice cream cake her brother promised to buy on her birthday, but the shop was all run out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d thought he was younger, the way she said it. Like it was cute. I told her she could bring him next time, if she wanted, and she\u2019d frowned at that. Looked around like she was assessing the place. The old fridge with its topping of greasy dust. The cracks in the window. John\u2019s old show ribbons pinned above the door, the reds and blues all faded and the gold writing rubbing off. The jars and junk on the shelves. Maybe<\/em>, she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Some days, my skin feels so dry, it\u2019s like I could go up at any moment. Poof. I don\u2019t notice most of the time, but some days, I feel very, very old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I used to know this town. These people. All of us spread across the valley, all of us rising at the same time to get the milking done. And I was one of them so I didn\u2019t have to think too hard to understand any of them. But I still have no idea who her mother is, can\u2019t even think where she might live.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

John\u2019s ute is still parked by the house. I\u2019ve thought about it. As if the pile of junk would even run now. As if I could drive through the fog of cataracts, find the girl\u2019s home somehow, and deliver her to a mother who would turn around and love her. And I thought I\u2019d left that all behind, the urge to fix what wasn\u2019t mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the end, John wouldn\u2019t even take his pills. Hid them under the bed like I was a bloody warden. Everything had already been sold off then, except the land. I hated him, I think, for giving up so easy. For expecting me to follow. Or maybe I just miss the cows, the purpose I used to have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I watch her from the kitchen window, talking to herself and swinging her little head as she plays.  When she finally comes in, she\u2019s holding the little bunch of sticks. Look<\/em>, she says, pressing it into my hands. I made<\/em> you<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A doll.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two arms. Two legs. Bunched grass for the head. A dry tip bursts from the chin, like the long hair I used to pluck, the one that won\u2019t stop growing. My hand goes to my face to hide it. As if I could hide anything from those clever young eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Very nice<\/em>, I murmur, because she is still looking up at me, waiting for praise, because she is so very hungry and ready to grow, and it is clever, really, how she\u2019s managed to make the thing, tying those limbs with nothing but knots of grass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Embarrassed, I ask her if she\u2019s going to take it home and show her mother. Then, to correct my mistake, Or your brother?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He\u2019s not around much<\/em>, she says. Anymore<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I understand then. That he\u2019s older. That he\u2019s the kind of brother who cares enough to make promises but not enough to keep them. She says it careless, but I see the hardness in her face, and I can guess well enough what it hides.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An ember in me. Orange lines cracking a darkened husk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d make him stay<\/em>. And I don\u2019t hide my anger. Everyone in her life had left her. I wanted to shake them all by the collar. Chain them down and force them to really look at her. Bring him<\/em>, I tell her. Next time you come. Tell him I want a word.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

He won\u2019t come.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You\u2019re a smart girl<\/em>, I say.<\/em> I\u2019m sure you\u2019ll find a way to convince him.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Everything is lit then. I am crackling, fairly humming. And this, this is the magic they talk about. The life she gives me. The life I do not want to give up, or not yet. Perhaps I am too hungry. She looks away. Her attention drifts over the room like a net. But I have her thinking now, I know it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I set the doll on the counter, next to the stove. The old Aga is still warm, still sending up smoke. And I wait as she works it all out, how different it could be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

________<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jane O’Sullivan is an Australian writer. Her work has appeared in<\/em> Meanjin, Passages North, Bull, Peatsmoke, New Flash Fiction Review, Milk Candy Review, Flash Frontier and <\/em>Micro Podcast. She lives and works on Bidjigal and Gadigal Land in Sydney and can be found online at janeosullivan.com.au<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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