I nodded wearily. “Why don’t you light one of these logs? I’ll try the VCR.”
Arthur began flicking his lighter against the log’s wrapper. I held the remote and aimed with both hands. There was a sharp crack and the house went dark.
“What the hell did I do?”
“Power’s off,” Arthur arranged the log, which was burning well, although some smoke was coming in. “Do you know where your fuse box is?”
“The boiler’s in a closet, door after the bathroom. Maybe it’s in there.” I opened the box of candles. “Take one of these.”
I lit a cigarette and puffed aggressively. Arthur came back down the hall. His candle suffused him with angelic light. “You couldn’t find the fuse box?”
“It’s not the fuses. The power must be out.”
“Oh fuck me.”
“Call the power company.”
Power was out all over the coast. I looked out the window, where afternoon had been blown away and night now stood with no street lamps and no stars, only the occasional swoop and blur of headlights across the bay. The electricity would be restored as soon as possible, but lines were down everywhere and we were advised to stay put.
“Do you want a beer?” I said.
“Thanks.”
“I have some leftover chicken, if you’re hungry.”
“Not right now, but it sounds good for later.”
“I want to apologize to you.”
“For what?”
“For the storm. For dragging you out here.”
“The storm isn’t your fault and you didn’t drag me out here,” said Arthur.
“Maybe I’m just apologizing in advance.”
“For what?”
“I usually manage to piss people off.” I smiled. “What are we going to do?”
“We can tell stories. Do you know any good stories?”
“I know tons of them,” I said.
I took the couch and he sat in the armchair. He put his socked feet on the coffee table.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“No, not at all. Please make yourself comfortable.”
“Tell me something about yourself,” said Arthur.
“You might not like me.”
“That is a possibility,” he said, smiling. He shook a cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit it.
“There’s nothing to me,” I said. “I grew up south of Boston. My father’s a businessman.”
“What does your mother do?”
“Not very much,” I smiled stiffly. “She’s in the hospital.”
“Is it bad?”
“I don’t think she’s ever getting out.” We were quiet.
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur.
“Don’t be.” I began shaking my head as if I could shake loose the thoughts of my mother.
“What’s wrong with her.”
“I’m not sure. She has lupus. It’s kind of affected her brain, nerve damage.”
Arthur watched me intently. “How long has she been sick?”
“Oh, she’s always been sick. My father thinks she’s safer in the hospital,” I raised my eyebrows in a relaxed way, to make it seem that all this was acceptable. “My mother was always getting lost. She was always late picking me up from school. She’d leave the house and forget why and find herself doing the grocery shopping at four P.M. I’d be waiting for her on the steps of the gym. All the other children would be gone.”
Arthur nodded. “You haven’t come to terms with her illness?”
“Terms. What terms? Yes. You’re right. One day, no doubt, I’ll wake up and be fine with it, but now… She’s always been so distracted that sometimes I think she’s just forgotten how to function. One day she’ll remember how to behave and come back. She’ll be very apologetic.”
There was a comforting silence.
“Do you see her much?” he asked.
I shook my head. “What about your family?”
Arthur put a cigarette into my mouth and lit it. He was silent for a moment. He leaned back into his chair and I took a long drag from the cigarette. He pushed the ashtray across the table. “My father died,” he said finally, “when I was very small. He was a good man.”
“That must make you sad.”
“When I remember,” Arthur rubbed his temples. “But sometimes I think it’s all right. I haven’t come to much.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“At six years old, I was a tremendous success.”
I pictured the little Arthur looking much like the Little Prince at the edge of the stage in his high-collared coat and knee boots. He was holding his violin and out past the orchestra a sea of applauding hands created a deafening sound, as if a thousand birds had all taken wing. Arthur closed his eyes tight willing all memories away. “Do you know any stories with happy endings?”
“No, not really. Fairy tales.”
“Know any fairy tales?”
“Sure,” I said. “How about Hansel and Gretel?”
“I know that one.”
“I could tell you another.”
“No. Let’s hear Hansel and Gretel. I always liked it.”
Outside the house the trees were bowing rhythmically. The wind rose shrieking and then silenced itself. The doors shook in their casings, as if a hundred angry spirits were demanding to be let in.
Arthur knew the story, so I had to innovate here and there. I tried to convince him that the cottage in the story was actually the house we were in. “Try to imagine this place, only with fewer appliances and more period detail.”
“What period?” asked Arthur.
“Carpenter gothic,” I said. “Try to imagine that you are Hansel. There nestled between the aged trees and dripping vines is a tiny house, barely a plaything, but so perfect that you feel you must be dreaming.”
“Wouldn’t I be suspicious?”
“Yes, But before you can think it through, Gretel has broken off a piece of shingle and is eating it.”
Arthur closed his eyes. He was imagining the windowpanes, clear slabs of crystalline sugar, the candy cane doorjambs and fixtures of marzipan and boiled sweets. Loops of icing decorated the eaves and blocks of licorice formed the foundation and steps. He approached, his hand extended nervously. This was the work of an enchantress, but he was hungry and the smell of ginger, coriander, nutmeg, vanilla, mint, and cinnamon clouded his reason. He snapped off a piece of the window box: his favorite, white chocolate.
Arthur was smiling. “Remember,” I warned him, “this story is not all candy and gingerbread.”
“I know that much,” he said.
Because ultimately Hansel and Gretel is a story of evil grownups and the persevering children who manage to survive. It’s a story of abstract greed translated into unmistakable hunger—that of the stepmother, who says she’ll starve if the woodcutter doesn’t kill his children, and the witch, whose hunger is known and understood by all. Hunger is the catalyst to every element of the story—crumb-eating birds, house-eating children, children-eating witches. Hansel eats everything put near him and finds himself knocked down the food chain. The once-malnourished boy now has a triple chin and enormous, straining buttocks; his large and somber eyes are reduced to small black pits, like cloves pressed into a Christmas ham.
I find it hard to feel bad for Hansel. It’s the witch I feel for.
The witch, if she had not been blind, would have seen the air about the oven quivering in the heat. She would have noticed the burners glowing red hot and the flush of warmth over Gretel’s cheeks. But she didn’t. She didn’t feel the heat prickle across her skin, or her hand begin to roast as she reached into the oven with her stick, tapping for the problem flue. This is her last moment, this search and the thought of Hansel’s fine rump with Yorkshire pudding. She is desiccated by her years and when Gretel pushes her into the oven she catches fire as if she were kindling.