THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE
Jacqueline Hopper
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright 2012 Jacqueline D. Hopper
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination.
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DEDICATION
To Robin Boss: the first person to discover how much I loved writing and who suffered through some of my early work.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
"Don't go!"
Keren Joel scratched at the cluster of freckles beneath her left eye, while she watched her eight-year-old son have a meltdown. He stomped his feet, cried tears that broke her tender mother-heart and shrieked in decibel levels that'd make crowds rush for the nearest exit. Thank goodness, they were at home during his latest outburst.
After taking a deep, calming breath - the tenth one in two minutes - she forced a smile to her lips and dropped to her knees in front of him.
"Listen, Kid." She spoke above his screams, fidgeting with the top button on his plaid shirt. "I have an appointment in the city and then I'll be home in a jiffy."
She finally had his attention and his howling yielded to whimpers, but his gasping, shuddering breaths continued to twist her inside. His blond bangs, soaked with sweat, clung to his pale forehead. If she could calm him down, the feverish color in his cheeks would fade, and his temperature would return to normal.
This hysterical behavior couldn't be healthy for a child.
"Stay!" Sawyer puffed out his lower lip. It wobbled and Keren felt her own tears prick the corners of her eyes. "Stwangers."
And there it was.
While most children used the term ‘boogie man’ to embody everything dark and scary, her son used ‘stranger’. That word, even whispered, could incite him into the kind of screaming fits that made neighbors reach for their phones.
"Stay home." He wrapped his arms around her neck. She felt his muscles quiver slightly against her skin. "Pwease."
It killed pieces of her heart, every time he went into an emotional tailspin: the tears, the theatrics. The trauma. Honestly, a bystander would think she was abandoning him.
And it made her feel like a parental failure.
Some people, like the friendly cashier at the grocery store, called it a shy stage. Sure, what eight-year-old child didn’t balk when meeting someone new? However, Sawyer’s shrieks, when the cashier playfully ruffled his hair, were anything but normal.
Shyness had nothing to do with his genuine fear of strangers. Her son had a phobia and she wanted - needed - it cured. Or she’d never leave the house when he got big enough to stop her physically
"What if I make a promise," she said, rubbing his back, "to be home faster than you can say lickety-split? Besides, Sherry's going to spend some time with you. You love Sherry."
He raised his shoulders up to his ears and let them drop: the universal show of 'I'm going to do my best to be difficult'.
"I bet she's bringing a cool new book with her." The moment called for trickery and she wasn't above bribing her son. "And maybe something else." She blew out a breath and injected regret into her voice, when she added, "But, you’ll never find out, if I stay home."
"No!" Sawyer pulled away from her, his red lips the same alarming shade as his tear-dampened cheeks.
Whether he was protesting her staying home - not too likely - or the fact he'd lose out on a potential treat, Keren didn't know.
"Anyone home?" Sherry's voice called from the kitchen at that moment, effectively breaking the tension.
Perfect timing, as always.
"In here," Keren said from the living room.
The tiny, dark-haired teenager joined them; nonchalant and smiling. Sherry was one of those people who were in a perpetually good mood. She'd known Sawyer since he'd been a toddler. But she'd be leaving for university in the fall and then what? In light of his problem with unknown people, Keren's choices were limited.
"Guess what I brought today?" Sherry directed the question to Sawyer. It garnered his full attention and he released his mother. He flew to the teen’s side, as she opened up her drawstring book bag and stuck her hand inside.
Had it not been for Sherry, Sawyer might never have started going to school three years earlier. She'd made a big to-do about how much fun he'd have, the interesting things he'd see. She'd even made recess on the playground sound like a picnic. That wasn't to say he didn't struggle with getting acquainted with his teachers.
Keren shuddered at those memories.
"I’ll lock the door on my way out," she said in a stage whisper, leaving while her son was effectively distracted. Sawyer didn’t glance in her direction, as she picked up her jacket and purse from the armchair. She'd dropped them there before making the colossal mistake of telling him she was going out.
She sent one last, cautious look where the pair sat cross-legged on the floor. His attention was riveted on the book the teenager handed him. No one could argue Sherry had a magical touch, when it came to handling Sawyer, but it was a superficial cover on a very deep wound. What he needed was a specialist, one who could remedy the cause of his fears. Hence, the reason Keren crept out of her own house like a paroled thief clutching a stolen wallet.
Earlier that day, she’d made an appointment to see someone who had experience dealing with Sawyer’s type of issues. She tapped the knuckles on her left hand with the piece of paper she’d used to record the time and address of the appointment. She gave it one final, hopeful look before shoving it into her coat pocket and reaching for her car door.
"Well, Doctor Oath," she said, into the chilly winter air. "You better be all Sawyer needs you to be."
2
"Pay attention!"
Jared Oath flinched when Peggie, aka Kizzy, hissed the order into his ear and dug the tip of her pen into his ribs. He sent her a quelling look. He’d warned her earlier that he didn’t want to attend this meeting: his mind busy with other things and another person. He could almost guarantee that nothing the two men, in designer suits, said would appeal to him.
But she’d refused to listen and now here he sat, unable to focus on their presentation while he daydreamed about a time - twenty years earlier - and a person he hadn’t seen since he’d been twelve.
Keren.
Would she remember him? He scowled down at his watch. For that matter, would she stick around long enough to hear what he had to say?
"Are we done yet, Gentlemen?" Jared cut off the taller of the two representatives in midsentence. The man’s mouth hung open. Apparently, Jared’s disinterest in something like a hundred million dollars floored him.
"Didn’t you hear what they were offering?" Peggie asked, shock registering in her round blue-contact eyes. "They flew all the way from Hollywood to put The Gingerbread House on the big screen." Her tone doubted his sanity. "Think of what you could do with that kind of success: like build a Gingerbread House theme park. We wouldn’t be stuck in this dark, gloomy, old theatre anymore."
"Exactly." The shorter Suit jumped into the conversation; as if he’d never have the opportunity again. Chances were, if Jared had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t. The two men from Hollywood were here to collect his signature on the dotted line as well as a hefty percentage of the potential income generated by The Gingerbread House.
Jared gave a mental snort. In short, they'd capitalize on what he’d spent two decades of his life working towards and building up.
"Think for a minute," Peggie said, poking his side again. "These guys are handing you this spectacular opportunity on a gold-California platter."
"Humph." Jared snorted. The idea of commercializing something he’d invested so much of himself into sickened him. His mouth flattened, as he sent Peggie a sidelong look that dared her to attack him with her pen one more time.
"Leave." He commanded her, although he'd have preferred it if the Suits were the ones doing the leaving.
Mutiny flared in her eyes. She never liked orders.
"But - "
"Now!"
Her face contorted into lines of outrage. "You’re just being a … a …" Her gaze whipped around the room, as if looking for inspiration.
"Kizzy." He used her character’s name as a warning. It sent her into a full-blown pout. However, she complied but not without showing a moment of rebellion.
"Meanie!"
He recognized the look brewing in her eyes, before she slammed out of the conference room: it promised she’d get him back for treating her like a naughty child in front of company.
Amusement wrestled Jared’s firm lips into a smile. It was difficult to take Peggie serious when she wore her costume: the extra large overalls with the rip in the knee; the plaid shirt only half tucked in; and her wild blonde hair partially controlled by a ponytail.
She played Kizzy to perfection.
"Ahem." The taller Suit - Peter? Philip? - cleared his throat. "Seashell Production Company wants to hire writers immediately. They'd like to see The Gingerbread House in theatres within two years."
"It’s already in a theatre." Jared knew he shouldn’t goad them, but he couldn’t help it. They thought they had a shot at The Gingerbread House. With him.
"But this will be around the country. The globe, even." The second Suit piped up. "And if it’s successful, there might be a theme park, just as Kiz - Peggie suggested. We’re talking millions in revenues. Yearly."
Millions made annually off the very children The Gingerbread House was trying to help. Jared shook his head at the irony.
"Gee, Guys, that sounds swell." Jared removed his heavy, brown-rimmed glasses and dangled them between his fingers. Tongue-in-cheek, he baited them. "What about The Gingerbread House cereal? You know, like caramel flavored gingerbread houses."
"Right. Right." The second Suit sent his peer a look of wild-eyed desperation. "With prizes inside boxes."
"All the characters from the Gingerbread House," the taller Suit - Peter, his name was definitely Peter - added, his voice growing louder as their excitement ballooned.
They were frantic for a sale, like ravenous sharks circling in the water waiting for their next kill. Jared nearly chuckled, before he shut them down.
"Sorry guys, I’m just not interested."
"You’re kidding." Peter’s jaw slackened in obvious shock. "You honestly mean you’re going to turn down this kind of money?"
"Look, Peter - "
"Charles."
"What?" Jared frowned at the taller man, momentarily distracted by the interruption.
"My name. It’s Charles."
"Okay, Charles." Jared didn’t care either way. "Understand this. I’m not interested in making as much as a dime on The Gingerbread House. That’s not why my crew donates so much of their time to weekend performances. It’s not the reason I practically live in this theatre. We’re here to help kids, not charge them to learn how to protect themselves from predators." He paused and glared at them, rapping his index finger on the tabletop. "That, Gentlemen, is what The Gingerbread House is all about. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep."
He headed for the door, but overheard the shorter Suit snarl at his partner, "You couldn’t just let him call you Peter?"
As if that would have made a difference, Jared thought. He took a well-gnawed pencil from his shirt pocket and stuck it between his teeth. Some people didn’t get it. He settled his glasses back in place on his nose. Well, no matter, he’d never see them or their contract again. What interested him had nothing to do with money or fame.
At first glance, Keren thought she’d taken a wrong turn at the stop sign. The old theatre, one that should have been condemned a decade ago, loomed above her as she parked her car. She winced, when the front tire dropped into a pothole.
Two storey's high, the theatre sat in what had once been prime realty fifty years earlier. Now it’d outlived its value, like a medieval royal who’d lost his kingdom to a politician. The original brick structure appeared sound, but graffiti artists had left a trail of artwork across the last two blocks and ended here.
To her way of thinking, graffiti sent up warning flags: thugs and drug pushers lived in the area. That's how it'd been in her own neighborhood, when she was younger. Why would anyone want to work with children in this environment?
As a tremor of misgiving quivered in the pit of her stomach, she thought of the cozy little town she'd chose to settle down in and raise her son. If she had anything to do with it, her son would never know about the low-life creeps that preyed on innocent children. At least, not until he was older and able to protect himself.
Spurred on by the unpleasant thoughts, Keren locked her car and jogged toward the glass entrance of the theatre. The air whooshed out of her lungs when she tried the handle.
Locked!
Sweat broke out on her forehead. Heart racing, she pounded on the door.
It was daytime, for goodness sakes, businesses didn't lock up before closing for the night.
"Hello?" She tried to keep her voice even, but her pulse knocked against her throat making it quaver.
She pounded again. Why weren’t they answering?
Again, she grabbed hold of the handle and pulled. It rattled but still didn’t give. Keren started back to her car, just as a shadowed image appeared on the other side of the glass.
A kid? Keren didn’t care. The presence of another person immediately soothed the panic rushing along her nerves, but her pulse continued to hammer at her temples.
"What’s the password?" the kid asked, not making a move to open the door.
"Password?" Keren’s thoughts scattered at the question. It took her a moment to remember why she was there. "Oh, I have an appointment."
The kid continued to look at her. Why weren't they opening the door?
"No one gets in here without the password." The kid, a girl, shook her white-blonde ponytail in defiance. She reminded Keren of someone but she couldn’t remember whom. When she didn't give the password, the girl’s expression sharpened to suspicion. Panic rose in Keren again, pushing aside everything but her desperation to get some place safe.
If the kid didn’t open that door -
"Is everything okay, Kizzy?" asked a tall man with kind gray eyes; he rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
"I remembered what to do, Dr. Oath," said the kid, now identified as Kizzy, puffing out her chest with pride. "Just like you told me. Everyone who comes to the door needs a password to get in."
"That’s very good." Dr. Oath nodded his approval. "You must always ask for a password, when I’m not available. However, I’m here now and everything is fine." His fingers squeezed Kizzy’s shoulder the way Keren did with Sawyer whenever reassuring him. "But if I wasn’t, not only must you ask for a password, you must also inquire as to what their name is."
"I do?" Kizzy’s upturned nose lowered as she sent Keren another quizzical glance. "What’s your name?"
"Keren." She swallowed down the last fragments of her earlier panic. No one had made an effort to unlock the door yet, but something about the doctor settled the anxiety tightening her stomach muscles. "Keren Joel."
"Just as I thought." His smile was deep with anticipation and, oddly, approval. "Allow Ms. Joel to come into the theatre, Kizzy."
"Thank you," Keren said, when she stood on the protective side of the glass entrance.
"May I go play with Tenny now, Dr. Oath?" Kizzy asked, polite now.
"Certainly, Kizzy." Dr. Oath tipped his head, barely disturbing his spiked auburn hair.
As earlier, Keren had the distinct feeling of déjà vu, but it vanished the moment Kizzy skipped away down the hallway, whistling with childish enthusiasm. Upon closer examination, she’d realized Kizzy was actually a grown woman masquerading as an older child. Her petite stature and high-pitched voice had easily backed up the impression of a pre-adolescent girl.
"Was that part of your program?" Keren asked him, her breathing even now.
"What?" Dr. Oath’s vague response gave Keren the impression he’d been distracted by something.
"The password act," she said, clarifying.
"Yes." He cleared his throat then swept his arm out toward an open door, ushering her through it. "One variation of it. It's performed every time a new client arrives here. We use it as a means to reinforce the program’s important steps with parents and their children."
"I see." Keren let that bit of information soak in, as he waved her into one of the plain cloth chairs positioned in front of an old oak desk.
"Peanut butter," he said, sitting behind the desk and dropping what looked like a lump of gnawed pencil into the garbage can.
"Excuse me?" She felt lost in the conversation, disoriented by her reaction to the locked door.
"That is the password for you and your child to give Kizzy, when you bring him to meet with me."
"I see." And she did, but just barely. Now that they were both sitting down, she had a better view of his face.
Dr. Oath was a very attractive man: mid-thirties, tanned, slim without being too thin. The lines around his mouth and eyes confirmed he smiled a lot. She approved of people who smiled. However, she didn’t get the feeling he laughed much.
She scoffed at herself. Really? Psychoanalyzing the psychologist?
"A password is extremely important to a frightened child, Ms. Joel." He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk and clasping his hands together. "It’s a tool to give them back a sense of power, a sense that they aren’t helpless in a world that can be overwhelming far too often."
"Hmm, yes." She eased her purse to the floor, considering the information. "I never thought of it that way before."
"It’s the little things that add up the most," he said, offering her a gentle smile. "Do you have any questions before I give you a tour of the theatre?"
"Just one." She nodded, scratching at the freckle cluster under her eye. "Where did you get the name Kizzy?"
3
Some people smoked when stressed: Jared gnawed pencils. He'd just rid himself of his last casualty but, in light of Keren’s question, his fingers inched towards the top desk drawer where he kept a cupful of sharpened pencils.
Why had he called the main character of The Gingerbread House Kizzy?
At the time, when he’d been writing down ideas for the Gingerbread House script, the name Kizzy seemed appropriate for the precocious star of his play.
"Never mind," Keren said, giving her head a quick shake, backhanding the air as if to cancel the question. "It’s none of my business."
"But it's raised your curiosity," he said, pointing out the obvious. He watched as she rubbed her cheekbone: a trait he’d forever associate with the girl he’d known years ago.
"Well, you see." She swallowed and then smiled, as if to cover her nervousness. "That was the nickname my best friend had given me, a long time ago. Kizzy." She repeated it, sounding puzzled. "In fact, a lot of things about this room remind me ..."
Jared held his breath, as she glanced about his office. He didn’t need to look around to know what she'd see: things like the model train set, it was the same one she’d helped him put together one Christmas and now it sat on the shelf beneath his window. The alphabetized bug collection they’d spent one summer garnering bumps and scrapes to assemble. He still carried the scar on his elbow, when she’d dared him to net what turned out to be a hornet.
And her purple and pink polka dotted safari hat. Not even Peggie touched that last item; no matter how much she pleaded.
Her gaze settled on his face again, her china-blue eyes wide with shock, before she reached for the pile of business cards resting on the desk between them. She took one, read it and then returned it. The only change in her face was her color. She’d paled. Her freckles stood out in stark contrast to the white of her flawless skin.
"You've changed your last name." It wasn't a question.
"Can you blame me?"
"No."
He took a pencil and put it to his lips. When he’d first started writing the script, he’d imagined the different ways she might react to his pet project.
Project? His teeth bit into the pencil, tasting lead and paint. He’d built a shrine to the one moment in time that had driven a wedge so completely and thoroughly between them; the agony of the memory made him catch his breath every time he thought about it.
He’d anticipated her initial hostility, and then, later, tears of regret that they’d lost touch. However, shadows shifted through her blue eyes. Her remote and stony coldness hadn’t been on the list of probabilities. The Kizzy he’d known never reacted with anything less than raw emotion.
Guess things changed.
"Well, Dr. Jared Oath," she said in a voice he’d only heard once before; and back then it’d felt like a punch in the gut. "Aren’t you going to give me a tour of your theatre?"
"Of course." He stood and beckoned her to follow him to the door.
Keren took a moment to remove her coat and to salvage her composure. Her first inclination, upon discovering Dr. Oath’s true identity, had been to run out the door. But that'd be cowardly and not fair to Sawyer.
It wasn’t every day she met up with someone from her past, especially not someone who’d been her best friend. Why hadn’t he told her who he was, when she’d arrived earlier? They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years, but she hadn’t changed that much. She still had blonde hair - granted it’d darkened over time - and the same freckles.