The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold

by Regina Doman

  Mom laughed. “Yes, something like it. But my older sisters and aunts were a little wilder in their hairstyles—teased and fretted beehives! I’d watch them do up their hair that way, and they taught me. This hairstyle is pretty conservative by comparison.”

  “I like it,” Rose breathed a deep sigh. She liked to think of her mother as a teenager, laughing and stylish and giddy. These days, their mother tended to be pretty sober most of the time—she had been that way ever since Dad died. Rose smoothed back the tiniest hair that had escaped the twist and sprayed it. For some reason, wearing her hair like her mother gave her a sense of continuity with the past. She liked that.

  Once again she ran a light finger over the twisted knots and loops of hair pinned firmly on her head, just to luxuriate. She hoped it would stay up during the dancing. “Thanks, Mom.” She caught her mother’s eyes in the mirror and smiled.

  “You look lovely, Rose.” Mother bent down and kissed her. “I wish they wouldn’t have called me into work tonight. It makes me nervous not being here when you’re out. I almost think I should have volunteered to chaperone.”

  “But Mom, I’m only going to a banquet hall, and then back to school for the after-prom. There’s nothing really to worry about,” Rose protested.

  “I’d feel better if I knew this boy. You’ll be out so late—” Mother ran a hand down her braid and frowned. “Suppose something should happen—”

  “What could happen? I know your number at the hospital. I’ll call if anything is wrong.” Rose was becoming slightly irritated.

  “Well, come straight home from the after-prom. By one o’clock. And call me at the hospital when you come in.”

  “But, Mom, suppose Rob wants to leave early to go to a party at his parents’ house? He said something about that.”

  Mother hesitated. “If his parents are there, I suppose that’s fine. But I still want you home by one. Is his number in the book?”

  “I wrote it on the refrigerator for you. I’ll be all right, Mom, don’t worry,” Rose begged.

  “Well, I’m a mother—I’m paid to worry,” her mom sighed. “Please call me or Blanche if there’s any sort of trouble.”

  “Yes, Mom.” The doorbell rang, and Rose leapt downstairs like a scarlet rabbit to answer it.

  “Hi, Rob!” she exclaimed delightedly.

  “Hi.” Rob was holding an umbrella, since a shower had started. He was wearing a white tux with a black bow tie, like a casino dealer. His hair was shiny with gel, flopping over his face, and he looked uncomfortable. And handsome.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “Sure am,” Rose said cheerfully. “Come in?”

  “Uh—the car is running …”

  “Okay.” She changed her mind about having him meet Mom. “Hold on, I’ll be right out.” She ducked back inside to get her coat. But her mother opened the door wide, exposing Rob to the light.

  “Well, hello there, Rob,” her mother said.

  “Hi, Mrs. Brier.”

  “Come inside for a moment, Rob, won’t you?” she invited.

  “Okay,” he said, a bit unwillingly. He set the umbrella down in the entranceway and stepped inside the house, looking around the living room uncertainly. Blanche was holding Rose’s best coat for her, but clearly didn’t want to be there.

  “Mom, this is Rob. Blanche, you already know Rob.” Rose reintroduced everyone, and felt awkward.

  “Rob, I’ve told Rose that she needs to be home by one. You can go to the after-prom party at the school from midnight till one, but then I’d like her back here. All right?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Brier. No problem.” Rob seemed a bit taken aback. Rose could sense he wanted to go, so she didn’t linger.

  “Good-bye Mom, good-bye Blanche,” she said, pulling on her coat. Her hands were shaking. She was leaving home, to go out on a date. Her first real date.

  “I wish I had a camera,” Mom said regretfully. “Have a good time!”

  “I’ll call you when I get home,” Rose said quickly, kissing her mother good-bye lightly, not wanting to smear her lipstick.

  Rob bounced on his foot, twirling the umbrella. Rose could hear the engine running. She quickly grabbed her purse and carefully ran down the stairs as fast as she dared in her high heels. At last, she was off.

  Blanche watched at the door until the car was gone.

  “Well, there she goes,” Mother said, a little hopelessly.

  Blanche leaned on the doorjamb and wondered idly what it was like for a mother to watch her daughter go off on her own into the world for the first time. She wished she could offer her mother more support. But after all, she wasn’t much older than Rose, and she didn’t feel very grown-up at all. Not tonight.

  Mother turned back into the room, but Blanche remained behind for a second, watching the cars go by at the end of their street, which was freckled by the light patter of rain. At last she closed the door silently and went inside.

  An hour later, she sat alone at the kitchen table, listening to the rain chatter on the roof. Mom had left for her emergency shift. Rose was off on her fairy tale adventure with Rob. There was nothing left for her to do, except sit and listen.

  I’ve been reduced to the status of an ear, she thought. Which reminded her that there was the report on Vincent van Gogh to work on. “But if I do, I might end up feeling suicidal myself,” she murmured. Crossing into the living room, she threw herself down on the couch to stare at the ceiling.

  “It’s not as though I really wanted to go with anyone from school anyhow,” she muttered to herself, and sighed. With a listless hand, she picked up her library book. She was trying to read, and avoid thoughts that would make her feel sorry for herself, when the doorbell rang, startling her. She flew off the couch and bounded to the door in half-fright. Once she had opened their apartment door she peered out the peephole of the house door to see who was outside.

  It was Bear.

  He had never come to the house when she was alone. Immediately, her suspicions about him the first night he had come to their house flooded her imagination. And then there was his strange behavior with the chalice at the flea market. Had he stolen it? Who was he really? Could he really be trusted? All these thoughts swirled through her mind in an instant, and then memories of his frequent evening visits to them, their lively conversations about poetry and dreams, their surprising trip to the opera, their mysterious visit to old St. Lawrence Church.

  And she remembered the feeling that had come over her then: that Bear was harboring some poignant, unexplained grief that was somehow connected to the abandoned church. With this last thought, Blanche cautiously opened the door.

  “Hiya, Snow White,” he grinned at her. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” she said hesitantly, “I guess.”

  She let him brush by her and sit down on the couch, shouldering off his wet coat. As she re-bolted and locked both doors, she realized that she had lost her solitude in his coming. The thought made her a bit resentful, although three minutes ago she would have been glad for company.

  “Where’s Rose?” he asked, leaning back on the couch.

  Why was her tongue sticky? “She’s at the prom.”

  “Prom? What prom?”

  “The senior prom. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Bear squinted at her. “I thought she was a junior.”

  “She went with a senior.”

  “Ah. Who?”

  “Rob Tirsch.”

  “Oh, yeah. The smart-talking guy on the subway.”

  Blanche smiled. “That’s the one.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “There’s dinner and dancing, and then an after-prom party from midnight till eight in the morning at the school. But Mom said she had to be back by one.”

  “So where’s your mom?”

  “She’s working till three o’clock this morning. This should have been her night off, but they needed her unexpectedly.”

 
; He whistled. “That’s lousy.”

  “One of the other nurses is sick.”

  “Thank God I’m not a nurse. I don’t know how your mom does it.” He leaned his head back to touch the wall and stared at the underside of a picture frame. She leaned on the back of the rocking chair, biting her nails and staring at the floor.

  “What are you doing home?” she heard him say.

  “Doing my term paper.”

  “You’re a senior, aren’t you? Why aren’t you at the prom?”

  Did he have to sound so patronizing? Blanche thought. Wasn’t it obvious why she wasn’t there? But she merely shrugged, as though to say she didn’t care.

  Bear must have seen her eyelashes fluttering, though. “You don’t feel bad about not going, do you?”

  Did he expect her to deny it? She was silent, studying the edge of the chair cushion.

  He heaved himself forward and leaned on the cushion of the rocking chair, looking up at her, thrusting his face into her vision and smiling. “Hello? What’s going on in there?”

  She just stared at him. Finally she said very softly, “Why don’t you just shut up?” She turned and walked upstairs to her room.

  Now he would leave.

  She buried her face in a pillow when she heard him knock on the bedroom door. She froze, pretending that she was ages away from here, light-years away, on a leaf on a frozen pond in a far-off field on an asteroid floating through outer space, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but white ice and white sky, feeling nothing.

  Stillness.

  She heard his heaviness creak on the board before her door and then nothing. It was impossible to tell if he had gone down the hall or down the steps to the living room or out the door. She didn’t move, just allowed the pillow to fill in the crevices of her face and keep the tears inside. Her insides were totally still. Perhaps her heart wasn’t even beating.

  Softly the murmur of a piano crept through her pillow, into her consciousness. A distant melody, as though someone were caressing the keys. Was someone outside playing the “Moonlight Sonata” on the radio?

  A jarring lower note roused her. That was no professional pianist. Was it … could it be her piano?

  All at once she sat up, listening. The progression, the last rising scale—she slid to her feet and stole across the room, straining to decipher the notes, which were trickling away as she moved—

  She opened the door. Silence, except for an echo. By the time she reached the living room, the last note had vanished, but the walls rung with an invisible motion. Bear was lying on the sofa, watching her.

  “Blanche, why don’t I take you to the prom?”

  It was impossible to dissuade him from the idea. “It’s your prom, you should go,” he kept saying. At first she said, no thank you, then, “I don’t have tickets.”

  “We’ll just go to that after-prom party you said they were having at the school. That starts at midnight, right?”

  “I don’t have a dress.”

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “I know you girls have stuff.”

  She didn’t have any shoes. “So what? Wear sneakers. We’ll go casual.”

  What was he going to wear? “Leave it to me, I’ll find something.”

  But there wasn’t enough time—“It’s not quite ten. We have until midnight. That will give us both enough time to get ready.”

  Only once she said, “But I don’t mind not going.” He just looked at her and said flatly, “Liar.” She didn’t try that one again.

  Slowly he worked on her: she would go and get ready and he would be back in an hour and a half to take her. It was no use trying to discourage him. “Okay, Cinderella, I’m going to get something to wear—you get into your glass slippers and I’ll be back by 11:30.”

  He was out the door into the rain before she could say no again. She stared at the still-vibrating door.

  The closet door slid open, and the light found the dress. The sea-green one Rose had decided not to wear after all. The satin showed through in places where the sequins had unraveled, but it was still pretty. Blanche, dripping from the shower, studied it on the hanger, and a pit grew quaking in her stomach. She wasn’t going to admit it to Bear, but she had never been to a formal dance in her life. Once she had been to a fancy wedding in eighth grade, and had worn her mother’s mauve silk dress, but that was four years ago. That was kid stuff, anyhow. Prom night was the night everyone dressed in the latest styles and drove in limousines. She was sure that a home makeover and a thrift-store dress would never cut it.

  It’s quarter to eleven now. I should just tell Bear I can’t go. Sorry. I’ll make you look stupid. Sorry. I just don’t want to. But he was being so kind…

  Her stomach turned over. The girls in class would look at her with their black-lined eyes and smile sardonically, thinking: There’s Blanche, trying to fit in. No way! She rebelled. Why should she go and make herself a target to those leering looks, those rolling eyes?

  But then there was Bear, coming back soon, ready to take her—he wanted to take her. He didn’t know she was terrified of Lisa and Eileen. All he knew was that he didn’t want her sitting home and crying on her prom night. Maybe he just wanted to do something for her in return for her family taking him in—like a clumsy uncle who forgets how old you are and buys you a Barbie doll on your sixteenth birthday. You have to remember it’s the thought that counts and tolerate the gift.

  Well, if it will make him feel better... With shaking hands she reached for the dress dangling from the wire hanger.

  When it comes down to it, all you really need to do to get ready for a dance is put on the dress, if the dress is fancy enough. She found it easy enough to repair the raveled sequins with tiny safety pins—Rose had done the same thing. Then, after she struggled for five minutes desperately to zip the dress shut, almost dislocating her shoulders to grab the tiny zipper—God forbid Bear should come before she was in it! —and finally mastered the last quarter of an inch of the zipper—there really wasn’t time to fret over any other details anyway. Hair—she blow-dried it, brushed it down, and decided she couldn’t really do anything else with it, unless she were to curl it and spray it for three hours. That was the good thing about having boring hair—it could look simple and dramatic. Her golden key necklace and her Sunday watch would be sufficient jewelry, and she didn’t dare to experiment with any makeup—she might smear something and end up having to rub her face red trying to get it off. Nope, just blush (a necessity) and lipstick. Nervously she applied the lip color and re-applied it, and thought that it looked too dark. Finally she wiped almost all of it off and decided she would go plain-faced.

  Shoes she agonized over. Her black flats looked too drab and her brown flats looked dumb. Finally, she took out her Chinese slippers and put them on. They had blue and pink flowers with green leaves embroidered on the toes, exactly the color of the dress. Blanche thought she looked silly in it, but it was a lovely gown.

  She jumped when the doorbell rang and nervously went to answer it. It was Bear, wet from the rain, but in a…tuxedo.

  “Where in the world did you find a tuxedo at this hour?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  He grinned at her over the white shirtfront. “A buddy of mine has an uncle who used to own a tuxedo shop. His uncle gave him this suit. I thought it might fit me.”

  “It looks great,” Blanche said sincerely. Unfortunately, his dreadlocks still looked…dreadful. He had tied them back, but they looked like a fuzzy mane.

  “Does my hair still look gross?” he asked, catching her glance.

  It did, but she could never say that.

  “Can you grease them back?” she asked hesitantly. “Rose has gel.”

  “Nah. There’s not much you can do with dreadlocks,” he said, obviously not too concerned, and clearly happy with his prowess in attaining the tuxedo. “Hey, you look great.”

  She blushed. “Thank you.”

  She swept the floor with the flowered tip of a shoe, not knowing what
to say. Bear had tried his best, but he still looked hairy and wild. She had hoped somehow that evening clothes might transform him, but no. This would certainly be a Beauty and the Beast night. As if I’m Beauty, she scolded herself as she went to get her coat. Well, they would still be themselves—her in Chinese shoes and him with the dreadlocks.

  Suddenly, in a sweet breath of excitement, she didn’t care a bowl of sugar. It would be an adventure, going out with Bear. Who cares who sees us or what happens? Resolutely she put on her Sunday coat, but suddenly teetered on the verge of a decision. Mother’s Irish cloak was in the back of the closet. It was grey tweed, but it would cover her dress perfectly and would be good in the rain. Besides, her Sunday coat was tight in the sleeves. She shrugged it off and threw the cape around her shoulders. The hood almost blinded her, but she didn’t care. Feeling more comfortable, she ran to get her purse (and the blush) and went to meet Bear, who was waiting by the door.

  “Shouldn’t you call your mom?” he asked her.

  “Oh—yes.” Hurriedly she went to the phone and dialed the number for the hospital. Her mother came to the phone quickly.

  “Mom, it’s Blanche. There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that Bear came over and he wants to take me to the prom.” She talked rapidly, thinking how bizarre this was.

  “Bear? Oh, that’s wonderful, Blanche. Certainly. That’s very kind of him.”

  “Yes.”

  “What time will you be back?” Mother asked.

  Notice: “What time will you be back?” Not: “Be back by this hour.” Mother trusted her more than she trusted Rose. Maybe there was a difference between eighteen and seventeen after all. “I’ll ask him,” Blanche told Mom.

  “What time will we be back?” she asked Bear.

  “Any time you want to leave the dance,” he replied solemnly.

  That might be pretty soon, she thought. “He said any time I want to go,” she told Mother.

  “Well, I’ll trust him to get you in at a decent hour. Tell him Rose is supposed to be home by one. Good news: they might let me go home early, so maybe I’ll be home when you and Rose get back.”