Jack and the Beanstock 2.0

Hello.

My name is Theresa. My husband, John, and I live in our quaint home in the suburbs located just a few miles west of Chestertown. I spend my days taking care of him as he is becoming quite the old man. In the morning, I rise at about 6:00am without an alarm and head straight for the kitchen. I scramble three eggs with our homemade butter and spread them atop a warm and delicate piece of bread which I usually bake on Sunday afternoons. I pour a tall glass of our pasteurized whole milk and scurry back to our bedroom to surprise John (although it is not much of a surprise anymore). He thanks me, although it never seems completely genuine, and scarfs the whole meal down in two-and-a-half bites. Then I am back to the kitchen to clean up after him. Do not get me wrong, I love John, but every now and then I become weary from all my chores and start to regret past decisions. Anyways, I carry on throughout the day cooking and cleaning for John with barely a second free to catch my breath.

Three Wednesdays ago, however, was far from this normal routine. At about 7:00am as I was cleaning dishes I heard a knock on the front door. When I opened the door and cautiously peered my head outside (as we rarely expect visitors), I found that nobody was on our doorstep. I closed the door and proceeded with my chores. Not two seconds later I heard a knock again. When I opened the door this time I heard a very high-pitched voice squeal: "Hello Ma! I'm down here! My name is Jack and, well, I'm very poor. My mother and I are very poor. And very hungry. Yes, we are very hungry. In fact, we are starving. I was just wondering ... could you perhaps spare me some food? It would really be a great favor. And I - I could take care of your cows for a week if you gave me a loaf of bread." Well this little thing must have been two inches tall. He probably thought that John and I were giants! Anyways, I told him because he was so sweet I would give him some bread and milk and that his labor was of no need here. Jack thanked me greatly although all I gave him was about an inch thick slice of bread and an ounce of milk.

While Jack was thoroughly enjoying our food scraps, I heard John making his way towards the kitchen. I hid Jack in the oven because whenever John meets someone he always repeats his father's favorite saying and it tends to frighten children who do not understand the humor behind it. He must have heard him anyways though because his deep, gravelly voice bellowed throughout the kitchen: "Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!" "Your nose must be mistaken. I am the only one in this kitchen." I said, in failing hopes of stopping the repetition. "Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!" John swung open cabinets and peeked under the dinner table in search of Jack. He looked everywhere except the oven. When John finally gave up and decided no one was here after all, he gave me a stern look and said, "Why, it's lunch time, isn't it?" and trotted off back to bed. I grabbed some pre-cooked potatoes, two large slices of bread, a lump of butter, and a tall glass of milk. I threw it all on a plate and delivered the meal to my husband. When I returned to the kitchen to rescue Jack from the oven, I could not find him nor could I find our stash of gold that we stored on our dinner table.

Four days after this mystery, Jack returned. He stuck with his story again and I fed him again, perhaps because I felt badly for his having the stature of an ant. We talked about his life and he told me that he traded his cow for magic beans which grew into a beanstock that eventually led to our house. I thought either he was taking drugs or I was going crazy, and there was much more evidence for the latter. I continued to listen to his story before - "Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman!" Into the oven Jack went. "Sweetie, no one is here but me. You must be smelling the blood of an Englishwoman." John's reply was a simple grunt combined with "Lunchtime." Just like on Wednesday I fixed him a lunch of potatoes, bread, butter, and milk. On this day, though, John decided he wanted to devour his lunch at our dinner table while he played with his hen. About two years ago John bought this hen. It was so amazing. When John said "Lay," oh how that hen would lay. That would have been magical enough - just laying eggs on command. This hen was something else: it laid golden eggs that were worth about a fortune a dozen. So John ate his lunch and between each chew he would say "lay" and out would pop a golden egg. After lunch, John returned the hen to its cage on the counter and sauntered back to bed, leaving me to all the cleaning again. I washed the dishes, swept the floor, and organized our cupboards. When I turned around, the hen had disappeared and after checking the oven, I found that Jack had too.

I ran to our bedroom to tell John what had happened. I told him everything: how the boy was two inches tall, how he told me he and his mother were struggling, how I fed him, and how I thought it impossible that he could carry the gold and the hen with his size. John was much less angry than I thought he might be, providing I let a thief into our home. He told me that the boy would be back. When I asked how he knew this he told me that greedy people don't just stop being greedy once they get things. I nodded as if I understood but I was still unsure if Jack would be back.

Two days later, John was eating lunch at the dinner table and asked me to get his golden harp. This was another of his treasures. His father gave him the harp when he bought his first house and it was, just like the hen, magical. If John told it "sing," by golly that harp would sing. It would play music of all genres: classical, jazz, and more. When John finished his lunch, he started off in the direction of our bedroom as I began cleaning. Then we both heard a thump outside the window. We rushed outside to see that John's golden harp had entrapped Jack when he tried to steal it and ultimately it proved to large for him to carry. John, being the rule enforcer that he is, decided upon a punishment for Jack: ten years in the empty hen cage with only food scraps for meals and only water to drink.

Now that John has something to look after for himself, he has become a much more cheerful man. We plan to live happily ever after, at least for the next ten years.