“Randy, are you feeling okay?” I asked, guiding Jerry to duck his head to sit in the back of the blue car.
“Actually, I am.” He looked about as confused and unsettled as I felt.
A moment later we were driving down the gravel road, the tires grinding along the little pebbles and bits of sand like teeth chomping on rock candy. I didn’t remember any of the scenery passing by my open window: a little baby blue house with white shudders here, a garden spilling over with wild looking greens and dotted with gnomes, a dog scratching at a front door to be let in. Everywhere I looked the Real World was just doing its Real World thing. We passed an old couple, bent and stooped with age, shuffling down the side of the road with their matching walking shoes on. They smiled as we drove by. Just for a moment I wondered if what we were about to do would matter to them in the slightest; if bringing back these characters was a gift or a burden for an old, shuffling couple. If they’d even know.
“We’re here,” Randy said quietly as the car pulled to a stop; the methodical grinding of the tires crunched to stillness too abruptly. It was quiet.
“Long John, Jerry, how are you doing? Here, have some more chocolate,” I added seeing Long John’s face. We were all as ready as we’d ever be, so we walked a few houses down the street, Long John and Jerry more stable with each step, and then as quietly as we could, made our way up the little path that led to Destiny.
“Doesn’t look like she’s here,” Jerry whispered unnecessarily. The doors were all locked, there was no car in the driveway or along the street, and the lights inside were off.
Randy muttered something like “I wonder why she wrote it that way,” and then pulled from his backpack the Detective bobby pins. After just a moment of fiddling with the front lock, there was a satisfying grinding of metal, and the door swung inward. “Let’s have a poke around.”
The inside of the house was nearly as cold as it had been outside and many of the blinds were drawn; our breath hung in the air like spirits as we moved through the space. Randy immediately went into detective mode—he dropped to the floor, rolled over twice, and then on hands and knees began sneakily crawling from behind one object to another, all the while his gun steepled in his grip.
“Careful there, Randy,” Long John said, eyeing the hand gun, which was already looking more Real and dangerous. (Fiction guns are dangerous, too, of course, but they’re somehow always just a little bit cuter and less descript.)
I didn’t know what I was looking for, so I just looked at everything. I looked at the refrigerator: the pictures and magnets covering the freezer. There were several photos of Destiny arm and arm or leaning against a man, likely in his late fifties or early sixties. He had flyaway white hair, wisps of cotton atop his head, and he wore thick, black-framed glasses, which magnified his eyes comically, even in the small photos. I noticed that in the oldest-looking photos, there was humor in his smile; a glint in his eye. In the newer ones, a sort of curious befuddlement. I grabbed the most recent-looking picture to put in my pocket—we’d need to know what Albert looked like if we were going to find him around town—and saw some writing on the back.
Albert and Destiny, March 2005. Two years before.
Other photos showed Destiny and/or Albert holding the hand of a little girl; at first a baby, then two, then about four, and finally, most recently, about seven or eight years old holding a brown puppy in her arms and smiling. But in the later years it seemed to be just Destiny with the girl, or just Albert.
I ran my hand along the counter, taking in the sheer normalness of the place; not at all like the villain’s lairs we had in Fiction. The dishes were all put away: a mishmash of fine china and colorful, plastic-looking bowls and cups. There was a roll of paper towels on the counter, sitting half gone in its holder. Everything was so tidy, though; so when I moved my hand from the counter, I was surprised to find a thick layer of dust covering my fingers.
“That’s weird,” I heard Jerry say from the living room. I walked, wiping my hand on my jeans, into the room beyond. It was much as it was before: the floral print couch beneath the window to the garden, though the garden was looking noticeably more brown and crunchy with the colder weather. The little coffee table before it was cleared of magazines and tea things, and instead, shone matte with accumulated dust. The toys I’d seen on the floor were gone.
“Look at this,” Jerry said after I’d finally finished describing. He was holding out a white envelope, bulging with papers, postcards, photos, and more envelopes. He held one such envelope out: it was addressed to Destiny Stein in Ashby de la Zouch. The return address was from Albert Stein—in Los Angeles. The top of the envelope had been torn away recklessly, and inside was still tucked a little folded up piece of paper.
Dear Destiny,
I hope you are doing well. Madeline and John came down from the Bay last weekend; they said to send you their love and best wishes for a speedy recovery. We all want that. I also spoke to Dr. McKinnon yesterday and he told me he hadn’t seen you in quite some time. I do hope that you’re continuing with his suggestions. I don’t mean to pressure you, but if we are going to make this work… Well, you’ll have to get better. And me. I know I have some work to do, too.
I’ve been doing some real soul searching here in L.A. I know you hate this city, but it has really inspired me. When we first met, I wrote stories all the time. I know you remember because you despised it. At any rate, I always felt there was something just there under the surface waiting to be written—and then it was like it vanished. Here in L.A. there are so many films, so much creativity! I’ve started a screenplay. I know you’ll hate it, of course, but I can’t help but think of you and smile when I write it. It is about a scientist named Faith.
I do sincerely hope that you are getting my letters, as I haven’t heard back from you in some time. Your granddaughter misses you, of course. I expect Madeline and John will bring her along when they come to visit next month.
I hope we can make this work.
I still love you,
Albert
The letter was dated about two months before. Jerry poured the contents of the envelope onto the floor and together we looked through the pile—smaller, withered looking envelopes stuffed with more letters, dating back as far as two years before. There were pictures of the same little girl on the refrigerator; she might have been five to eight in the pictures. Sometimes she was in Albert’s lap; sometimes sandwiched between a couple in their thirties, both with dark brown hair. Other letters said similar things: I miss you, I hope you’re doing okay, please contact Doctor McKinnon, I want to make this work. It was clear that Albert hadn’t been around in at least a couple of years—likely because Destiny, you know, was a psychopath.
“Did you notice these, too?” Jerry asked. I looked up and realized he was no longer looking at the letters with me but had moved over to the bookshelf along the wall. Like everything else, it was covered in a thin layer of dust, gray snow, silencing everything. He was pointing to a spot on one of the shelves. I crawled over on my hands and knees; even threw a roll in to see if it made me feel more the detective, but it just hurt. I guess people don’t do this sort of thing in the Real World.
“What? These books on Greek Mythology?” I was looking at, not one of the shelves, but five of them, completely filled with books on Greek Mythology. There was an old hardback copy of The Odyssey, next to it, Iliad, and several books simply called things like “Greek Mythology” or “Ancient Greece.” In a row were the paperback copies of all the Percy Jackson books, Greek Gods, Hades, Cupid and Pscyhe, and one called Gods Behaving Badly, which I knew about because their flat was near one of my favorite cafes in Fictional London. On and on the titles went – Zeus On a Good Day, Circe’s Many Beasts, Tales of the Greek Heroes—they took up nearly the entire bookshelf.
“I thought Destiny hated all things not science,” Randy said. Apparently he had been leaning in reading the titles just over my shoulder; so of course when I jumped a
bout a foot at his voice, I banged my shoulder into his jaw.
“Thorry about that, Peter. Ow,” he pointed unnecessarily at his mouth. “I bit my tongue.”
“I think she does,” I said. “But maybe these were her husband’s.”
“Hm. Somehow I don’t think so,” Randy said. He leaned over and plucked one of the books from the bookshelf and read the publication date: it was published just five months before. He pulled out another one: published the previous year. And another, and another. Many of the books were newly published, and those that weren’t had at least been looked at recently—you could tell because of the freshly dog-eared pages. Of course the bookshelf like everything else had a thick, soft layer of dust on it, but the books themselves looked like they’d been read in the last couple of months at least.
“From what I could see poking around upstairs,” Randy said, still looking at one of the books, “Albert hasn’t been in the picture for at least a couple of years. And as to where Destiny is now, I’m not sure. But it looks like she hasn’t been here since the last time we were out here.”
“Do you think she got spooked and ran when she heard we were coming back? You know, from her little bird, or whatever?”
“Could be.”
Down the hall, I could hear Long John’s Louisville slugger clanking along the warped wooden floors. Step, drag, step, drag…
After a pause, he continued on his way into the room.
“You ever see this before, Peter?” he asked holding out a framed photograph. Vaguely I remembered framed photos lining the hallway on my brief trip through the house before, but at the time my mind had been on other things—like, you know, not dying. I shook my head. As he brought it closer, I could see that the photo was not a photo at all, but a very detailed drawing: it was a portrait of Jenny.
“I can’t believe it.” I stepped forward and took it from his hands; I cradled it in my arms looking down at it like something living. It was the closest I’d been to seeing Jenny in months. My heart ached in that physically painful Real World way.
“May I?” Randy asked politely, holding out his hands. He took the frame from me and flipped it over, taking off the back. Inside, the framed paper was much thinner than I thought, and folded up around the edges. On its back it said:
Portrait of girl from dreams
January
There was no year; no further description. Just Portrait of girl from dreams. And in that moment, I knew what we had to do.
“Okay, I want you all to start searching the basement. We’re looking for anything that might help Alan and Bob; any sort of serum or antidote to whatever it is she cooked up the first time. Also, I’m pretty sure you won’t find it there, but maybe there’s a portal. I don’t even know what that would look like—in Sci Fi, I hear they’re just big holes of swirling space hanging in the middle of the air. While you guys do that, I’m going to use the computer in the kitchen to book some flights.”
“Peter, don’t you think we should try to find out where Destiny went?”
“I have a pretty good idea,” I said. “And that’s precisely where we’re going, too.
“Guys, we’re going to L.A.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Nearly eighteen hours later, Princess Babroulbadour, Geppetto, and Tootles, Curly, and The Twins arrived haggard, hungry, and horrified at Los Angeles International Airport. Not only had they never flown on a Real World airplane, but they had never flown on a Fictional airplane at all. Like many classic characters, these six mostly stuck to the worlds they knew within the Book World, and so got around by boats, carriages, elephants, or jumps in time and new chapters in the story. So when they were forced into the giant, metal contraptions and into seats (“peasant seats!” exclaimed the Princess), they were more than a little bit nervous.
Luckily, all was well on the flight, minus one outburst from Princess Babroulbadour shouting at the flight attendant for daring to offer her peanuts from a bag—and it was only once they had arrived in L.A.X. did they realize what a gigantic mess this Real World might be.
“Excuse me.”
“Coming through.”
“Get out of the way!”
The six were huddled together in the middle of the terminal, crowds and crowds of people—just people, no creatures, or ghosts, or fairies—buffeted them to the side like they were bags left in the middle of the floor. There were people with mohawks and piercings and tattoos; people with big hats, sunglasses, and long flowing hair; men wearing skirts; women wearing (to the Princess’s horror) slacks and t-shirts. They saw several people surrounded by other people with flashing cameras, shouting things like “Miss Roberts, Miss Roberts! How’s the family? Where are you going?” while even more people looked on in wonderment.
They stood and watched all of this, astonished at just how fast everyone moved, how much was going on, until finally, a little squat man wearing a blue uniform marched his way over to them.
“Hello, hello. You all must be from out of town. Where are you headed?” When he smiled at them his chin doubled up and his cheeks dimpled deeply.
“Um, yes, hello, sir,” Geppetto said stepping forward. His hands were shaking as he fumbled in the backpack slung over the crook of his arm. He pulled out the sheet of paper with the author names and addresses. These six were simply to find the writers for Disney. “We need to find the writers for Disney.” He hastily folded the paper and tucked it back into his bag as the uniformed man was craning his neck to look at it.
“Oh, I see,” he said, taking a step back and looking at the group of them. “You all are going to Disney! Don’t you worry; we get this a lot here. People hired from all over the world for their likeness to the characters. Let me guess—you’ll be playing Geppetto, and you three—clearly some of the Lost Boys. And you, of course, will be Princess Jasmine.”
“Excuse me?” the Princess said, stepping forward. She towered over the little man.
“Oh, perhaps Snow White or someone else then. You all just have that Disney, shininess to you.” The six exchanged one of those “How does this guy know about shininess?” looks, but the man paid it no mind, perhaps thinking these were just more strange foreigners come to work at Disney. “I can help show you all to the shuttle; it leaves every thirty minutes for Disney. Do you have a place to stay yet?” They shook their hands simultaneously. “Oh well, not to worry. It’s the off-season now before Christmas, so you won’t have much trouble finding a place near the park.”
Thinking a park nearby sounded nice, the six characters gathered their bags them and followed him down the hall and out toward baggage claim and the exit.
It wasn’t until they were in one such shuttle, crammed three to a row, backpacks in laps, did they discuss what had just happened. It had never really occurred to them that they might be recognizable in the Real World—even doing their best to fit in there.
“I suppose we still do look a bit shinier than the people out here,” Geppetto said, his voice low. The only other people in the van were the driver and a family of four—three in the first row, and one in the passenger seat—who seemed to only speak Chinese. Still, they were cautious not to be overheard. “Everyone out here looks… so real.”
“Even the fake-looking ones,” the Twins said at once, gazing out the window at several tanned, big-breasted, blonde women.
“What I must admit I never thought about,” Princess Babroulbadour said, lowering her voice even more so they all had to lean closer, “is that even though, according to Peter, some of our dearest friends—in my case, Aladdin, in yours, Pinocchio,” she gestured to Geppetto, “and in yours, Peter Pan,” to the twins, “even though they were erased and their stories and entire histories vanished at once, we are still here.”
“Spin offs,” Toodles said quietly. He hardly ever talked, and many times when he did it was utter nonsense. But he was right. Curly jabbed him with his elbow and then slapped the seat in front of him, causing the little girl in the front seat to turn aroun
d curiously.
“He’s right,” Curly whispered excitedly. “Us Lost Boys had tons of stories written all about us and Never Never Land. Never heard a no one named Peter Pan—but there always did seem to be somethin’ missin’ from our books. The Cap’n was always so desolate and bored. Never had much to do; got tired o’ us always messin’ around with him.”
“Wasn’t really the best books,” the Twins both said at once.
Geppetto was nodding, remembering his own story back in his literary life. He had been a puppet master; a masterful one at that. There’d been that cricket and a whale… but they were right. It was a story all about him; his early life and his career. But there did seem to be something missing.
“I always wanted to fall in love,” the Princess said more to herself than anyone else. She was gazing out the window; the van had pulled out of the airport miles ago and they were inching slowly, slowly, along a freeway with thousands of other cars. “I never did. My story was very short: my father forbade me from leaving the palace gates, I ran away dressed as a peasant, and saw the town beyond. There were old, decrepit, and stooped women carrying baskets on their heads; children stealing fruits and goods and being chased and shouted at; and there was… something missing. I looked for it, but it never showed up. I just wandered the streets until eventually the palace guard found me and brought me home to my father. I think now that that missing thing was this man Aladdin. I wonder what his story will be like—what I’ll be like in it—once it is written.”
The Actual Account of Peter Able Page 13
