“Oh.” I was taken aback. For a moment I wondered if she was joking with me. To the movie? With you?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, arching her eyebrows. “Why not?”
“When?”
“What about tomorrow? Are you free in the afternoon, for a matinee?”
“What about Wednesday?” I asked.
“The four o'clock?”
“Great,” I said, my heart pounding. I felt ridiculous, like a schoolgirl.
“Maybe we can get a drink after, or grab some dinner. That cool?”
“That sounds fine,” I said. “Perfect, actually. I'd love to.”
“Awesome. You know, I really appreciate you being so kind to me, Lil. Most people would have just thought I was nuts, showing up like this.”
“No, they wouldn't have,” I said. “It happens to everyone. But not everyone gets to go to a ball with Cary Grant.”
“Well. That is a good point.”
I clapped my hands together. “Oh, you'll have a wonderful time. The time of your life. I just know it. And you'll need a dress, of course. Shoes.”
“And a horse-drawn carriage?” she asked, teasing me, her face sweet and open.
“Of course,” I said. “Just bring me a pumpkin.”
It felt good, laughing with her. It occurred to me that in a way this was what I had longed for back in the other world: the kind of affection and love that flickers into being out of nothing at all.
“You know, there is something that comforts me,” I said, “that you might like to see. Come.” I motioned for her to follow as I walked to the front of the store. I opened the glass case and reached in. Wondering still if it was safe to show her.
She bent down and looked at the line of books. “Such beautiful old things,” she said. “My grandmother, she had rows of books like this in her bedroom. I have this fetish for ink and parchment, you know? It's all her fault.”
“So does George,” I said. “I think he has some quills somewhere he bought in Italy, quills and ink and wax and seals.” I pulled out the Cinderella text. “This one is my favorite. Isn't it something?” I handed it to her. “It's very, very delicate.”
She took it as if I were handing her a piece of thin glass. She flipped slowly through the book, enchanted. “Yes,” she said. “This. This is the kind of world I want. You know? This.” She looked up at me, and her face was radiant now. “It's strange, isn't it? The world can seem so small, and then you see something and remember how much there is in it. Do you know what I mean? I love this book. I love it.”
“I thought you would. And then look. Here, in back.” I read the French out loud to her: “‘Tous mes anciens amours vont me revenir’”
“Tous what?”
“It means, ‘all my old loves will be returned to me.’”
“‘All my old loves will be returned to me,’” she repeated. “Do you think that's true?”
“I don't know,” I said. “Maybe. I hope so.”
IT FELT as if everything was coming together. The next day I could barely contain myself, I was so excited. I spent the morning dealing with NYU students and two young women selling fifties records and a man looking for a first edition of On the Road. George came downstairs just before noon.
“Good morning!” I called out cheerily as he poured himself a cup of coffee and ambled up to the front desk.
“Morning,” he said. “What's the story?”
“You ever see Pandora's Box?”
“Louise Brooks? Sure I have. My first crush, in fact. Some might say my first love. I always had crushes on girls with bobs because of her. Still do.”
“Oh, yeah?” I laughed out loud. “That doesn't surprise me at all.”
“You've seen the poster in my living room, right?”
“I've never been to your apartment,” I said.
He looked shocked. “You haven't?”
“Never.”
“In all this time? These … what is it, three years?”
“Almost.”
“You're kidding me,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm not very polite, am I?”
I laughed. “George, it's where you live. It never even crossed my mind.”
“True, but in all this time …”
He was looking at me strangely, confused. I knew he was seeing me in a new way. He probably had no idea why, but I did.
Because I was changing. Changing back. They were coming for me. He could see it, sense that something was different.
“Anyway, I have a vintage Louise Brooks poster over my couch that I got at an auction years ago. I'll have to have you up soon for coffee.”
“That would be nice. The film is playing at Film Forum. I'm going Wednesday afternoon. I wish you could come with us.”
“Well, unfortunately, due to my incredible generosity, it seems my sole employee has the day off.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said.
“Who are you going with?”
As casually as I could, I said, “My friend Veronica.”
“Veronica? Have you mentioned her before?”
“No, but …” I hesitated. Wondered if I should tell him about her and what I was thinking. She was made for you, I wanted to say. Thinking it made me feel whole again, almost. But what I said was “She's a new friend. Very beautiful, smart. Different. I think you'd really like her.” And then, my heart racing, “I was thinking she might be a good date for you.”
“Oh, you do?” He looked at me, amused.
“For the Paradise Ball. She's already agreed to go, as it happens.”
“Oh, has she?” He sighed, shaking his head. “You sure you don't just want to come yourself? It will be great fun.”
“George,” I said. “You need to find someone. Someone you want to be with. Trust an old lady.”
He lifted up his hands. “I hear that all the time. But I'm not at all convinced that everyone is made for relationships. I'm not sure I'm made for one. I sometimes think I would have been better off never getting married in the first place.”
“You just haven't found the person you're meant to be with,” I said automatically. “Believe me. You and Veronica will have a wonderful time.”
“Well, we'll see,” he said. “Bring her on, then, if you insist on breaking my heart yourself. Who is she, anyway? How do you know her?” He looked over and seemed to notice me then for the first time. “You look great, by the way. Your hair is different.”
I blushed. “Thanks,” I said. “Actually, she did this. She does hair, and she sews, and she writes…. She's something of a force of nature. Owns a darling little salon in the East Village, all pink and white. And she's stunningly beautiful, but not at all self-conscious. And, more than anything, she's just so … alive.”
“Well,” he said. “A girl like that might find me a bit … on the dull side, don't you think? I mean, aside from my obvious charm.”
“Don't be ridiculous,” I said. “She'll be mad about you.”
“If you say so.” He smiled, pointing to the book I'd left open beside me. “So what are you reading?”
“The Cottingley Fairies. “I picked it up and showed him.
“Let me see.” He took the book from me and slowly flipped through it. “Oh, yes, the two little girls. You know, there's a movie that came out a while ago. And I know I've seen those photos in person. At the Frick, I think. They're pretty interesting, aren't they?”
“The photos are here, in New York?”
“I think so. Well, at least they were at one point. I don't know, really. There are a few fairy-themed pieces at the Frick, as I recall, so I might be confusing them with something else. Actually, I think they just have a few paintings they recently acquired. From the fairy craze in England. The Times had a piece on it.”
I looked at him carefully. Could he know what he was saying? “I don't think I've ever been there,” I said.
“Never been to the Frick? Really? I thought you were from New York. You should go. I think you'd love
it. It's the private collection of an old steel magnate. A mansion full of art. You can feel the ghosts in that place.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. I laughed, self-conscious. “I have heard of it. Of course. Things get a little jumbled when you get to be my age, George.”
“You act like you're a hundred years old, Lil.”
“It sure feels like it,” I said.
He paused, then shook his head, looking at me. “So. Louise Brooks, huh?”
“That's right.”
“Remember, Lil. I'm no good at this.”
“Lucky for you,” I said, “I am.”
Chapter Eight
The sun was dropping in the sky, melting into the mountains. The palace spread out under me like a silver river, the sun hitting the thousand steps that led to the front gate and the great clock resting on top of it. Turrets pierced the sky, flags waving back and forth at their tips.
I flew above it, slicing through the air, my arms outstretched and my wings spread to their full span. The clouds like mist against my face.
I could feel the excitement that afternoon as the whole kingdom prepared for the ball. It was the night everyone had looked forward to for months, during all the flat, ordinary days that made up their lives. No one had ever experienced the kind of breathless anticipation that had erupted when the king sent out a batch of engraved invitations a few months before—invitations the servants carried from estate to estate and girls hid under their pillows and inside their corsets and some families even had gilded, knowing it was the only royal invitation they'd ever receive—announcing that his son was ready to pick a wife. Every household in the kingdom had been thrown into a frenzy of preparation. Every daughter had been starved and fitted with corsets and made to dance for hours each night so that she might be the most graceful girl there. Mothers and fathers dreamed of the favors a royal marriage would bring upon them—the spoils of war, the increased land allotments, the invitations to royal hunts and festival day celebrations—and consulted astrologers and witches over which gown should be worn with which pair of shoes. Even the peasants were excited, as the king had arranged for troubadours and musicians and players to visit each village, and for vats of wine and all manner of delicacies—candy-covered nuts, roasted pheasants, flowers sculpted out of sugar—to be served in the village squares.
It was a night to burst forth in the world, to let yourself shine like some sort of star in heaven, to make men and women and even the king or queen laugh at your wit and admire your carriage and beauty. The kingdom's children were all drunk with music and drink and promise, and most would stay until the very beginnings of the dawn appeared on the horizon.
The peasants dreamed as they finished their day's work, imagining the palace's dazzling walls that were said to be coated in diamonds and pearls.
“The pearls are as big as apricots,” mothers whispered to their children as they sat in circles and cleaned wheat. “And the chandeliers are like thousands of icicles hanging from the ceiling. It is like the most beautiful winter day, when the fields are full of snow angels, except the snow and ice are diamonds and it's not cold at all.”
Noble parents told their children about the prince, how he was the most handsome man in the world and could defeat fifty men in battle while composing love poetry that would make a hardened criminal weep. Still more told stories about the palace balls: the endless dancing, the way the women would whirl over the shiny marble floors while the men pushed them out and gathered them back up again. They described the heavenly sound of the violins and trumpets, the pianos that sounded as delicate as little raindrops falling on glass. “And tonight you will see it all for yourselves,” they would finish.
I listened to them, and their longing.
I dropped down to earth, to the palace. Below me, well-wishers streamed in and out of the front gates, and the cooks hauled slaughtered chickens and pigs and hens and vats of wine and ale into the kitchens in back. Servants floated lit candles into the moat and seamstresses flew up the steps for last-minute adjustments.
I thought of Maybeth and Gladys and Lucibell and the other young fairies, all of them scattered through the kingdom to do their parts, whispering into the ears of young men and women, guiding them to their fates. The prince was not the only one destined to find a spouse this night. And here I was, tasked with the most difficult and prestigious job of all, and I wanted no part of it.
I knew he was standing in front of his mirror, adjusting his suit. I felt him inside of me. Thinking of me. He had spent nights tossing in his bed, wondering at the way I'd appeared to him, wondering if he would see me again. “I am right here,” I whispered, and let the words make their way into him. I could taste him. I could feel him just as clearly as I could feel the air pushing against my face, the water droplets forming on my cheeks.
I could see myself in his thoughts. My human, physical self and the way I'd appeared before him and lifted my lips to his. I was giddy with happiness, despite everything, and I let myself sink into his thoughts more deeply, until I could feel the way his blood moved faster as he imagined holding me, dancing with me at the ball, tracing a line down my neck with his lips. I knew it was wrong, but I just wanted one more moment with him. Soon enough I would go to Cinderella and fulfill my duty, return to my own world.
I did not want to move, even when I knew it was time, when I could just start to hear the clip-clopping of the horses and squeak of the carriages as they raced through the early evening toward the palace, carriages in which splendid young women sat dressed to the nines, their hearts pounding and cheeks flushed, their fluttering hands smoothing their hair and eyebrows and dresses.
Finally, I forced myself away from the palace, from his thoughts, and into the air. Over the fields and past noble estates, over forests and rivers, my heart breaking as I moved from him to her, rushing toward fate … until I landed on a branch outside her window. My palms against the bark. The air chilly against my face, excitement and energy rushing from the house in waves.
For a moment I was suspended between worlds, selves.
And then I bent down and peered into her room.
She stood in front of the glass. Tears on her face as she heard doors slam, her stepsisters and stepmother rushing down the stairs and to the carriage outside. She had spent the last few hours helping them get ready. Carrying dress after dress from the closets to the bed, helping her sisters step in and out of each one. She had helped them string jewels through their swept-back hair and around their necks. She had brought them tea and water, listened as they dreamed about the night in front of them—who would be there, which girl the prince would choose to marry. She had told the stablemen and coachmen to prepare the carriage, ordering that they leave precisely at 7:30 P.M., one hour after the ball was set to begin.
I fluttered about the windows, slipped through the tree branches, and waited.
I watched her stepsisters and stepmother emerge from the house. Like exotic birds in their elaborate gowns and jewels, their hair stacked on their heads like layers of cake. The older sister in bright gold and purple, a brocaded dress that flared out at her hips and trailed behind her for several feet. The younger, more beautiful sister in a diaphanous light green, the mother festooned with diamonds and rubies, which wove through her hennaed red hair and dripped down into her impressive cleavage.
“You all look ravishing, ladies,” the coachman said, smiling, as he held open the carriage door.
“Really?” the older sister said, stepping into the carriage, glowing with more happiness than she would ever feel again.
The mother swatted her backside with a jewel-coated fan. “A young lady never sounds desperate for a compliment,” she said. “Not even from the king himself.”
The younger sister snickered as she followed her mother into the carriage, the coachman shutting the door behind her.
As they passed under me, I felt their longing so strongly I became dizzy with it.
I rested my back against the bark,
recovering, peering through the leaves, watching the carriage turn off onto the path that led to the castle, and all the while, a lump in my throat. A feeling like I couldn't breathe.
Finally, I left the branches and the tree, and passed through the window into her room.
“I am your fairy godmother,” I said, as my body transformed and filled out.
She turned. A strange cold feeling ran through me as I watched her. I could taste the sadness on her. And yet she was made for him. He was her destiny.
Her face dropped open. She was luminous, even then. “You,” she whispered.
“I am here,” I said, “to send you to the ball.”
I SPOTTED her on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Houston, unmistakable with her tall boots, her bright, sweeping hair, the shimmering dress and pale skin that looked even paler in the sunlight. Her sleeves were short and I could see colorful designs snaking down her arm. As if she were from another world. She was standing in front of a food cart, gesticulating to the man behind it.
“Veronica,” I called out as I approached.
When she turned, her face lit up, and she smiled widely. “Lil!” she said. “You caught me. I'm starving.”
The man was loading a pita full of falafel, onions, and white and red sauces.
“I can't believe you're going to eat that,” I said. “You look as if you live on air.”
She shrugged. “Well. Pregnancy does that to a gal.”
I looked at her in shock.
“I'm kidding!”
The man wrapped the concoction in foil and handed it to her. “Mmmm,” she said exaggeratedly, taking the food and paying him. “I love sloppy street food. One of my favorite things about this city. Where I come from, you'd have to make a real commitment to get food like this.”
“It does smell good,” I admitted.
We walked slowly toward the theater as she took a big bite and handed the overflowing pita to me. I took a small bite, trying to be delicate.
“I don't think there is any better way to bond,” she said. “We might as well be blood sisters now.”
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