Rebecca Curtis Reads “Hansa and Gretyl and Piece of Shit”
The New Yorker: The Writer's Voice - New Fiction from The New Yorker
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The Cat's Dead
In the small hours, Gretel convulses, she realizes that the cat's dead. She tells herself that, in her sleep, she must find a solution. But she's like a worm squirming on asphalt. Her father clumps downstairs. He's red-faced. What's that noise? A whistle, she says. I blew it. We'll cut it out, he says. Your mother and I are sleeping. The Gilbroy's lost their stereo, their jewelry, and all their walkmans.
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