Mad Hatters and March Hares

by Ellen Datlow

  The little tamale girl is so alarmed by the thought that her teeth are nothing but bone (which had never before occurred to her), she sweeps the dress away from the wardrobe mistress and rushes down the hallway. Either she has shrunk or the door has grown, for when the door opens, she fits through exactly. Inside, the room is packed full of garment racks, thick as corn in a field. The wardrobe mistress thrusts a needle and a duck into the little tamale girl’s hands. Ignoring the panicked quacking, the little tamale girl begins to sew frantically. But soon her fingers are sore, the duck won’t stop flapping, and the dress itself is beginning to complain about the little tamale girl’s rough stitches. The wardrobe mistress has disappeared.

  She throws the needle down; the duck snatches it up in its beak. It and the dress hurry away before the little tamale girl can stop them. The little tamale girl says to herself: “By the pricking of my thumbs, I don’t see why I should sit here and sew feathers forever. Let the feathers sew themselves! After all that work, I’m thirsty. I saw a door marked canteen in the hallway. Canteens hold water, so surely I can get a drink there.”

  But the wardrobe door has disappeared into the racks of costumes, and soon the little tamale girl is disappeared, too, lost among the gaudy outfits that seem to go on and on forever. She fights her way through a covey of quail costumes, a fantasy of unicorn costumes, and a whole lamentation of swan suits. Regiments of military uniforms, and rude mechanical fustian. Chorus girl outfits covered in coins; white chitons; beetle-like armor made of pressed leather painted silver. The deeper into the wardrobe she goes, the more the drooping costumes seem sinister and watchful, as though they are just waiting for the proper moment to stand up and stride out upon the stage, declaiming a war speech in iambic pentameter, or fighting a swashbuckling duel up a flight of stairs, or hoofing a soft-shoe dance routine.

  “Oh, this is so tiresome,” the little tamale girl cries out, frustrated, after what seems like hours and hours. “I’ve been wandering through this wardrobe forever. Shall I ever get out? Or shall I just dwindle until there’s nothing left of me but my clothes, and then they shall be a costume, too, and I shall be gone? Bother these fiking clothes. I wish I had some candy.”

  “Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker,” a cheerful voice says from somewhere beyond the row of hanging wolfskins and double-horned helmets.

  III. Advice from a Skeleton

  And there, in a clearing of the costumes, sits the Man in Pink Bloomers upon a plaster mushroom, bony legs crossed. The long stem of a corn-cob pipe is clenched between his shiny white teeth, and pink smoke curls out of his nasal septum.

  “Please, sir, do you have any candy?” the little tamale girl asks politely.

  “I do not.”

  “Liquor?”

  “Not that, either.”

  “Then why did you get my hopes up?”

  “I have lots of hope; you can have as much as you want.”

  “But I want candy.”

  “Don’t we all? Have you got any?”

  “I don’t,” the little tamale girl says crossly. “And I don’t see why they call you the Man in the Pink Bloomers when you are a skeleton. They should call you the Skeleton in Pink Bloomers.”

  “I am the bones that flesh is heir to, little morsel. And you are very rude.”

  “I am not rude! I’m just lost. Can you tell me how to get out of this fiking wardrobe? I’ve been here for hours, and it’s growing quite tedious.”

  “The only way out is through,” the skeleton says, smoke puffing out of the chinks between his thoracic vertebrae and his clavicle. The little tamale girl chews on this baffling comment for a few minutes; it’s a tasteless phrase and makes her teeth ache. Finally she gives up and spits it out.

  “Are you here to drag me to Hell?” she asks.

  “What makes you think this isn’t Hell?”

  “It seems as though Hell would be colder.”

  “Oh, no, my dear, Hell is other people. Perhaps, since I am another person, you are there now.”

  “That’s mad!” says the little tamale girl, bored of the conversation now that it is clear she is neither getting dragged down to Hell nor getting any candy.

  “I’m not mad, but she will be if you don’t hurry up. You are very late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “Late for a hiding, I think. Are you hiding from a hiding?” The emeralds inset in the Man in Pink Bloomer’s teeth twinkle like little bats. “Or perhaps late and lamented is what you shall be if she orders your head off. What did the big tomato say to the little tomato, as it dawdled—”

  “Tomatoes can’t talk!”

  “Hurry and catsup, of course! And so you had better!”

  The Man in Pink Bloomers knocks his pipe against his bony knee, and the sparks in the bowl swirl like stars, dazzling the little tamale girl’s eyes. He tosses his pipe into the air; it turns into a tea tray and flaps around his cranium. The pink bloomers, the lanky bones, the shiny skull, the diamond inset eyes are blinking out like a drying puddle of tea, until only the jaw remains, hinging like a gate, growing wider and wider, while the rest of him fades until the lower mandible has become a threshold, and the upper mandible a lintel, and through this toothsome gate hurries the little tamale girl, saying to herself: “He needn’t have been so rude; I am going as quickly as I can!”

  “But not as quickly as you could,” says the tea tray, fluttering besides her.

  “How could I go quicker when I am going as fast as I can?”

  “How can you be quick when you are late?”

  “But what am I late for?”

  “I know you are, but what am I?” the tea tray asks. The little tamale girl tries to grab it; a bit of tea or a biscuit would be most welcome right now. But the tea tray winks away, and now another strange figure is rushing toward her down the hallway, a figure made of folded paper, all angles and edges, and every inch covered in marching black lines of type.

  IV. The Audition

  “You are late!” the stage manager shouts. “The audition is about to begin!” The paper woman pulls the little tamale girl into a room crowded with actors, all of them looking anxious, clutching their lucky charms and sheaves of scripts. Some are warming up by standing next to the fire; others are limbering up by pulling on cart shafts. In one corner, a lory and a mock-turtle are trying to untangle the lines they’ve been tossing back and forth, which have gotten all twisted up. In another, a small school of whiting are polishing their scales.

  “What is the audition for?” the little tamale girl asks a dodo who is anxiously fluffing its feathers.

  The dodo looks annoyed at being interrupted but answers: “The Oxford play, of course.”

  “Oxford play? That’s a strange name for a play.”

  “It’s not the actual name of the play, just what we call it.”

  “Why don’t you call the play by its real name?”

  “Oh, terrible bad luck to call it by its real name. Theater people are terribly superstitious, you know. So we call it the Oxford play instead.”

  “Where’s Oxford?”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s mythical,” says the dodo. “Or maybe existential.”

  “It doesn’t exist?” The little tamale girl is confused.

  “It doesn’t want to exist, that’s what existential means, silly girl. Don’t ask me why, I’m hardly a philosopher.”

  “Is the play a tragedy or a comedy?” the little tamale girl asks.

  “Both!”

  “How can it be both a tragedy and a comedy?”

  “Everyone gets their heads cut off, but it’s funny,” explains the dodo. “I’m trying out for the dormouse.”

  “But you are a dodo!”

  “I am an actor,” says the dodo indignantly. “Are you suggesting I be typecast?”

  “No,” says the little tamale girl hastily. “I’m sure you are very good at being a dormouse. And I would never cast type at you.”

  “Well, I’m sure you are v
ery good at being a girl. You certainly look the part,” says the dodo generously. “You should try out for the duchess, I should say, for you are so tremendously ugly, but since you are quite obviously green, let me give you some advice.”

  “Am I green?” cries the little tamale girl in distress. “When did I turn green?”

  “Oh, you silly girl,” says the dodo. “I mean, inexperienced, of course.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?”

  “I did say so!”

  “But you said I was green!”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  Now the poor little tamale girl’s head is spinning. Nothing here makes sense, and she’s growing quite faint with hunger and exhaustion. “But one thing is a color and the other is a state of being.”

  The dodo flaps its tiny little wings. “I am only trying to help you, girl. Say so if you don’t wish it.”

  “I do. I’m sorry, please, what is your advice, dear dodo?”

  The dodo looks around to make sure they are not being overheard and then whispers into the little tamale girl’s ear: “Don’t upstage the leading lady. She’ll have your head off.”

  “How can a stage have an up if it is flat? Shouldn’t you say: don’t sideside stage or overstage instead?” the little tamale girl whispers back.

  “In the theater right is left and left is right,” the dodo said indignantly. “Honestly, you seem to know nothing about the theater. I don’t even know why you are here at this cattle call.”

  “Cattle call?” The little tamale girl looks around. She sees a lizard, and a white rabbit, and a lory, and a mock turtle, and a caterpillar, a cove of little oysters and a whole flamboyance of flamingos milling around, but no cattle. “I don’t see any cattle.”

  “Oh, you are too tiresome! I must go talk to my agent! Break a leg—” And with that bewildering command, the dodo flounces off.

  The little tamale girl says to herself: “Actors are so queer, and touchy, too. But I do not want to be a little tamale girl all my life, so perhaps I should be an actor instead, a little faery star, and dance upon the boards, and have miners throw gold-dust upon me, so I shall be famous, and I can retire a rich old lady and leave all my money to animal welfare. I wonder if I should audition for the dormouse, too? It would be a start; anyway, I don’t know what other parts there might be. I hope the dormouse has not many lines, as I have a terrible memory. Sometimes I cannot even remember my own name!”

  The actors are now clustering around the end of the room—growling, barking, chirping, howling, bellowing, and quacking excitedly. The stage manager has returned, and with her the rabbit the little tamale girl had seen placing the trunk in the crossroads. She sees now it’s not an actual rabbit, but someone wearing a rabbit costume. The rabbit’s eyes glow with a coldfire pink light.

  “That’s the spirit of the theater,” says the dodo, who has returned to the little tamale girl’s side. “He hardly ever comes to auditions. What an honor!”

  “The audition is about to begin,” the stage manager shouts, and this causes the flapping, stamping, shaking, stomping, and wiggling to start all over again.

  The stage manager says, in her papery voice: “As you know, we are putting on the Califa premiere of the Oxford play. We shall be casting today for the dormouse, the mock-turtle, and the dodo.”

  “What about the axe?” squeaks a lizard.

  “That part has already been filled by the Man in Pink Bloomers,” the rabbit replies, and the lizard puffs its throat out in disappointment.

  “What about Alice?” shouts the lory.

  “Of course, our lovely leading lady shall play Alice.”

  There’s a nervous shuffling among the actors, and a voice, the little tamale girl can’t tell whose, says: “Bit old, ain’t she? Alice is a just a girl.”

  “It’s the lead,” the stage manager answers nervously. “And she’s the leading lady.”

  “But she’s too old for the part—”

  “Now, now,” says the rabbit, consulting his pocket watch again. “The decision has already been made—” His speech is interrupted by a sudden rattling drumroll. The actors gasp and begin to look at each other uneasily. The stage manager begins to crumple and the rabbit’s ears flatten.

  “Oh, no,” says the dodo. “She heard, and now she’s coming. Heads are going to roll.”

  The dodo clutches the little tamale girl, who whispers: “Who is she?”

  But before the dodo can answer, the drumroll ends and a fanfare begins. The actors fall flat on their faces.

  “Well, I shan’t do that,” thinks the little tamale girl, “or I shan’t be able to see who is coming, and perhaps ask for an autograph. Besides, the floor looks awfully dirty.” So she remains upright, even as the dodo tries to pull her down.

  The press agent, carrying a megaphone, steps through the door. He assumes a power posture and shouts through the megaphone: “She’s the four-time winner of the Margo Channing Award for Theatrical Excellence, two-time Ticonderoga Critics Circle Award winner, three-time Oscar nominee; official face of Madam Twanky’s Maquillage; Member of the Order of the Beamish Empire; United Factions Ambassador; star of Diamond Legs, Daddy’s Boy and the Tony Award–winning musical The Road to R’lyeh … YOUR LEADING LADY!”

  But first her entourage: A newsprint of reporters, fedoras pushed to the back of their heads, scribbling furiously in their notebooks; the critic, swaggering his cane back and forth, and stroking the Persian lamb collar of his velvet coat; four little pages rolling out a red carpet, and a personal assistant carrying the leading lady’s coat, purse, and several shopping bags; a handler with four pink Labradoodleborgies in jeweled collars, yapping furiously; three nannies herding six children, all of whom look spoiled, surly, and jaded; two hulking bodyguards, bulging with muscles and tattoos; another assistant with a latte in one hand and a green juice in the other; a personal trainer carrying ten-pounds weights in each hand; the husband, carrying an album of press clippings. And finally the leading lady herself, wearing black stockings and an oversized black tunic with the words TEAM DESMOND printed on it.

  “Who spoke? Who said I was too old for the part?” the leading lady demands furiously.

  The actors grovel, looking sheepish, all but the sheep, who looks terrified. The stage manager has crumpled into a wad, and even the rabbit looks worried.

  “I shall cut off ALL YOUR HEADS if the guilty party doesn’t come forward at once—” To show she means it, the leading lady takes off her sunglasses. The assistant snatches them out of her hand, cleans them quickly, and then hands them back. She points the sunglasses at the quivering throng. “Do not test me! I will have all your heads, just as I had the head of that blasted Bosley Crowther when he called me more overrated than a porno at a children’s film festival!”

  The actors grovel a bit more, then the group parts and the lizard is ejected. It grins nervously and wrings its hat in its hands. “I cry your pardon,” the lizard says, “I didn’t mean anything by it—” The poor thing drops its tail in distress.

  “OFF WITH HIS HEAD!” the leading lady cries, and puts her sunglasses back on. The bodyguards step forward.

  “Nonsense!” bursts out the little tamale girl, before she can stop herself.

  The leading lady turns in the little tamale girl’s direction and takes her sunglasses off again. “Who are you?” she demands. “And what business is this of yours?”

  “Now, now, dear,” says the leading lady’s husband timidly. “She’s only a child, dear.”

  “Get off, Norman!” the leading lady says. “Do you think I am too old to play Alice?”

  “I haven’t the slightest,” says the little tamale girl. “For I have never even heard of this play, so I don’t know anything about this Alice. But you are only as old as you feel, as they say, and with age comes wisdom, as they say, and age before swine, as they say, and age makes waste, as they say.” Although that last one didn’t sound quite right.

  “I feel sixteen
if I am a day,” cries the leading lady, who looks more like thirty-five to the little tamale girl. “So you see, this clever girl agrees with me! Can you sing, clever girl?”

  “Yes,” the little tamale girl shouts.

  “Sing out then, sing out!” the leading lady orders.

  The little tamale girl folds her hands over the front of her pinafore and sings:

  “Sweetly braise the baby in the frying pan

  Oh, it’s so delicious, the little milk fed man

  Sauté it with some mushrooms

  Stuff it in a bun

  Squirt it with some catsup, yum yum yum!”

  “And you can cook, too!” declares the leading lady. She turns to the rabbit. “Give her a part, do you hear me?”

  “Of course, of course, dear,” the rabbit says, wringing its paws nervously.

  While the little tamale girl has been singing, the other actors had taken advantage of the distraction to scarper, and now the room is empty, floor littered with torn paper, dropped gloves, fans, banana peels, sandwich wrappers, pencils, and the poor lizard’s dropped tail, still wiggling. The leading lady doesn’t notice the mess; she storms away, the entourage falling in behind her. The tamale girl follows, wondering what will happen next, but all that happens is that the leading lady chatters on about a dishwater cleanse, and then she gets into a row with her press agent over an article in The Califa Police Gazette alleging that she dyes her hair (which is patently true, unless she was born with purple hair), which ends with the press agent being dragged away by the bodyguards.

  “If I stay here, I shall be next for sure,” thinks the little tamale girl, and she takes advantage of the ballyhoo to pursue the bear exiting stage left.

  “She’s going to demand his head soon enough, and then without any good press, no one will be safe,” says the bear glumly, when they are out of earshot. “I’ve heard there’s a troupe in Ticonderoga putting on a revival of The Road to Bali. You can come with, if you want; I heard your voice, and we’d make a good team. We could work up a ‘Hoot Mon’ routine, and I bet we’d have Hope and Crosby sewn up. Do you play the bagpipes?”