by Adam Golaski
And the May family stood and followed their cousin. No one spoke, except Dad, who muttered that a roast would really hit the spot. Cousin Mike pointed up the stairs and gave them directions to the guest room. “There’s only one guest room, I hope you don’t mind. I put a cot in for Molly.”
The guest room was very spare, and so the painted statue, set beneath a lamp, really stood out.
“What is that?” Mom asked.
The statue was of a woman, dressed in blue robes; she was unexceptional but for what she held: a silver dish with a pair of eyes on it.
“That is awful,” Mom said.
Molly found it very curious, but not awful. The woman had a very placid expression on her face, and her own eyes were where they were supposed to be. “Maybe she was a doctor, Mom.” Molly read the plaque on the base: “St. Lucy of Syracuse—that’s where we are!—‘Lucy-light, the shortest day and the longest night.’ That’s solstice.”
For a moment Mom’s disgust with the statue dissipated. “That’s right, Molly.” Her disgust quickly returned and she directed it at Dad: “I am not happy. That story was completely inappropriate. Imagine.” She turned to Molly. “You’re not going to have nightmares, are you?”
“I don’t know.”
Dad said, “He’s a priest.”
“Is that how you explain his lack of common sense? You don’t tell a story like that to a ten year old girl.”
“I thought it was really interesting, Mom.”
“I’m sure you did. Crazy Father Mike sounds right to me.”
“He’s not going to kill us in our sleep,” Dad said. “Unless, of course, he thinks you’re a demon.” Dad winked at Molly. “So maybe you should tone it down.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“Okay. I agree. He’s eccentric. Let’s try to have a nice dinner.”
“Fine. But I want to leave first thing tomorrow.”
“We’re going to leave first thing tomorrow. That’s the plan.”
“Fine.”
The May family went downstairs, and in spite of Mom’s sour mood, the conversation was convivial, being about family and school and favorite movies, and the food was excellent, as was Father Dale’s wine. “Just ten dollars a bottle. It’s a miracle.”
That night, Molly did have a nightmare, and worse, she did not wake up; her nightmare went on and on until the morning, when her mother woke her from her whimpering sleep. Molly could not remember much about the nightmare except that she waited and waited and while she waited she could not move.
Cousin Mike was sorry the May family had to leave so early. “I spent too much time away from family,” he said. And Molly was sorry too—she thought he was sad.
Dinner had gone a long way toward calming Mom down, and though she planned to leave as soon as the car was packed—and said so to Dad—she gave in when Cousin Mike insisted they have some kind of breakfast, which was eggs, bagels and bacon. During breakfast, Cousin Mike excused himself. When he returned to the table he brought a wrapped gift—“I had some tissue paper lying around, that’s all”—which he gave to Molly.
Molly unwrapped it and Dad said, “That’s not the one from the living room.”
“She can’t accept that,” Mom said.
“Sure she can. No, it’s not the one from the living room. I bought the cells as a pair—this is a frame or two further along. You see Molly, how little Maleficent has moved? I had this one in my office. Will it look good in your room?”
“Yes! Thank you!”
Mom said, “That was very nice of you.”
“And it was nice of you all to come. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner. Molly, here’s something else for you,” Cousin Mike handed her a laminated card. “I’m sure this doesn’t seem very exciting, but I want you to have it.” One side of the card depicted a long-haired, doe-eyed Jesus standing on top of a hill, arms raised. On the other side of the card was The Lord’s Prayer. “It’s a dreadful picture, I know, but the prayer’s still good,” and Cousin Mike winked at Molly’s parents. Mom didn’t like this gift at all. Dad promised himself he’d take Molly to church more often. Molly thanked her cousin, and tucked the card into her pocket.
“One last thing. I looked over some maps last night and I think I found a good route for you to take to Aunt Amy’s. I think I shaved a half hour off your trip.” Cousin Mike handed Dad a piece of paper with new directions. “Thanks,” Dad said. And the May family went on their way.
Three hours into their drive, the May family followed directions from a roadside sign to a restaurant called Diner at the Animator’s House. The signs indicated that the diner was a few miles further than Mom and Dad really cared to stray from the road—they were ever-calculating miles and time-to-go—but the signs were brightly painted and it was time for lunch. Dad guessed it was no coincidence that Cousin Mike’s directions led them past an “animator’s house,” and smiled; he was pretty sure he liked his cousin. Mom was hungry and started to imagine a hamburger, and Molly was excited, she thought she might see people drawing cartoons, “Like Cousin Mike,” she said.
Ultimately, a dirt parking lot and just one other car, a red Pontiac circa 1985, coated in a yellow layer of pollen. Not very appealing, but behind a row of empty parking spaces, each indicated with a stone marker, was the restaurant, all shiny chrome, looking every bit like an Airstream trailer, and—seamlessly attached—a little red house, presumably belonging to “The Animator.” All this was bright and very welcoming and so Mom and Dad’s worry about being away from the highway melted a little, and Dad said, “This looks pretty nice,” and Molly couldn’t wait to see if the inside was as toy-like as the exterior.
And, indeed, it was. Bright yellow and blue stools in a short row before a tall, chrome and Formica counter; a glass cake-dish with pink-frosted donuts under the lid; a couple of booths, all vibrant green vinyl (“Everything looks brand new,” Mom said); and a jukebox, a “Wurlitzer of wisdom.” Three walls of the restaurant were tile, white and pale blue checked, but one wall was shingled and featured a plain brown door—the door to the Animator’s House, the May family presumed, though there was no sign, nor any evidence that the house was open to the public. Perhaps, Molly thought, the animator lives there still, and was even then quietly making cartoons.
Mom would have preferred a booth, but Molly begged for the counter, and Dad didn’t mind and neither did Mom, not really, and when Mom thought of the milkshake she was about to order she found that she really didn’t mind. Molly saw, between a pink espresso machine and a small soda fountain, a black wire rack which displayed little books, books no bigger than cell phones, each with black covers but bound with gold tape. “Mom,” she said. “What are those?”
Before Mom could figure out what Molly wanted to know about, Mathilda—so said her name tag—emerged from the kitchen. “Hello y’all,” Mathilda said, with absolutely no southern accent. “Y’all hungry for a late lunch?” Dad nodded, a little wide-eyed and why not, Mathilda was splendidly endowed and wore her blouse open a button lower than Mom thought respectable, revealing the decorative edges of a lacy blue brassiere. Mathilda’s hair was black, really, really black, and this startled Molly—why she was startled was not clear, but she leaned against Mom and Mom put an arm around her, glad that someone else was a little off-put. Dad, being neither foolish nor crude, turned from Mathilda and said, “This is my wife and my daughter. We’re driving to her aunt’s house and we needed a break.” Mathilda smiled and that smile put everyone at ease; Dad no longer worried he would look too much and upset the waitress or his wife, Mom saw that Mathilda was a little older than she initially appeared (crow’s feet, just like her own), and Molly saw a sense of humor and—in Mathilda’s eyes—a sweet beckoning.
“What are those little books?” Molly asked.
Mathilda tilted her head a little and said, “What little books, darling?”
“Those,” Molly insisted with an outstretched arm.
Mathilda turned, and all three
watched her take several steps toward the rack, all watched her body move beneath a stiff, blue and white striped uniform, all watched as she slipped a single finger through a loop at the top of the rack, lifted the rack from the counter, bent a little and blew, “It’s a little dusty, honey,” and carried the rack to the counter. “Why don’t you take a look, sweetie, while your parents tell me just what they want.”
Molly was delighted to have the mysterious books all to herself, but she was also a little worried—what if she damaged one? Were they expensive? If you break it, so many store keepers said, you’ve bought it. What a cruel world we live in. Mathilda, without turning her attention from Molly’s mother, who was ordering a milkshake and a hamburger, said, “You go ahead, doll, don’t fuss over those, they’re meant to be bent and broken in.”
And when Molly took one from the rack, she saw exactly what Mathilda meant: they were flip-books. She took one, bent it back and let the pages go. Molly didn’t like what she saw.
Mathilda placed a hamburger in front of Mom and a hamburger in front of Dad. She winked at Molly and set down a plate of breaded chicken fingers. “You want some barbeque sauce to go on that, or some honey?” Molly wondered if she had ordered and forgotten doing so—chicken fingers was exactly the food she’d thought of when she’d walked into the diner—but then maybe her parents ordered for her.
Dad reached in front of Molly and took a flipbook “I always loved these things.” He quickly flipped through the book and he laughed.
Molly asked for honey. She couldn’t help but watch Mathilda as she walked toward the kitchen. Mathilda’s waist was so narrow, her hips so wide.
Mathilda retuned with Molly’s honey and Mom asked, “Who is the Animator?”
“He drew those little books,” Mathilda said.
“Does he live next door?”
“Oh, no. He’s been dead for a while. The house is an homage to his memory, a museum.”
Molly looked at her plate and found she’d eaten all her food, even the lettuce garnish, and the honey-saucer was clean too (her finger was sticky she put it in her mouth), and this disturbed her, because she did not remember eating the chicken.
Dad asked, “Was he famous?”
“To a small, inner circle.” Mathilda angled her head. “Excuse me one minute, that’s the cook,” she said. Molly heard no one, and in fact, she’d not once heard a sound from the kitchen, not a pot or a dish or the chop of a knife.
Mom said, “My you were hungry. Have some of my fries.” Mom bit into her pickle. She’d not started her burger.
Molly didn’t want a French fry but she ate one and then another.
Dad said, “This is an excellent burger.”
The door to the museum opened, just a hair.
“Would you like to play something on the jukebox?” Dad held up a quarter.
Molly brightened, the little confusions fled, and she leapt from her stool.
As she flipped through the song titles, she was reminded of the flip book: a black scribble moved from left to right, flickering and twisting as it moved. Half way across, the scribble froze—pages kept flipping—too many, the book wasn’t that thick, but the scribble was caught. The scribble changed, a smudge, a fingerprint, dust, several blank pages, and finally the pages were bright red.
The quarter Dad gave Molly was gone from her hand and she heard the machine work: an arm on a 45, the record dropped onto the turntable, the needle—shush, shush—and then the tune, a familiar song, one Molly might have chosen, but not exactly, not even the version of the song she was used to. The lights on the jukebox bounced to and fro.
“That’s a funny choice,” Dad said.
The record caught; the song jumped back on itself; a lyric repeated more times than was right. “It’s skipping,” Mom said. Then the record corrected itself and the song proceeded to its end.
Mathilda, back behind the counter, topped off Dad’s coffee and, with her fingernail, tapped the metal cup that contained Mom’s milkshake: “Need a little more?” Mom said yes, her mouth full. Mom swallowed and before Molly could climb onto her stool said, “The museum is open. Mathilda says you can go right on in. Your father and I will be a little bit longer with our meals.”
The May family watched Mathilda as she walked to the museum door, already ajar, and pushed it open. Film canisters were stacked on the floor alongside thick pads of paper. “Go ahead on in,” Mom said. Molly, hesitant but curious, crossed the threshold. As soon as Mathilda took her hand from the door the door drifted back, stopped just ajar of its frame.
And Molly was in the museum. Dust-color, the dull, sticky color of pollen, gray shadowy black. Her parents’ voices—clear for a moment: Dad, “What kind of films did he make?” Mathilda, “He had a knack for children.” Mom: “A knack?” Her parents’ voices: gone.
Some museum, Molly thought. The room was quite bare. Against the far wall was a drafting table, with a lamp clamped to its side, and a metal stool. There were no bookshelves (which would have comforted Molly). Where Molly had walked were footprints, the image of the cartoon character on the bottom of her shoes—a smiling rectangle with arms and legs—stamped into the dust that covered the floor. She laughed when she saw the imprint, but her laughter soured; the friendly rectangle’s smile did not seem kind, reproduced as it was in dust. Two filthy windows offered a view of the parking lot; the light outside was low, the sky a deep and dark blue, the trees black. The May family car looked as forlorn as the Pontiac parked just beyond.
Molly lifted the cover of a drawing pad on the floor. In pencil, the words, “Emily stands still.” Molly didn’t like the image: a beetle, back split, withered wings up. Did they buzz?
“Mom?”
Her mother did not answer.
Molly went to the door, and peeked out into the diner. Her parents were sitting at the counter, eating their hamburgers. At the far end of the diner, the jukebox boiled with colored light.
“Molly.”
“Mom?”
But Mom was eating, pushing food into her mouth with her index finger.
“Molly.”
Mathilda was on the ceiling, tucked into the peak, partially obscured by ceiling beams and shadow. She clung upside down, her head thrown back, her black hair long, her pale throat exposed. Molly did not scream, but put her hand into her mouth and bit down—honey and dust. Mathilda scuttled across the ceiling without taking her eyes from Molly. Briefly, Mathilda was directly above Molly, head at an impossible angle, and Molly spat out her hand and said, “No.” She was sure Mathilda would drop down on top of her, press her face into Molly’s own. And Mathilda’s face was no longer beautiful, but distorted, muscles taut, teeth bared to the gums. Mathilda did not drop from the ceiling, but crawled to the place where the wall and ceiling met—just above the door to the diner.
Molly shouted, “Mom!”
Mathilda said, “Mom.”
Molly shouted, “Mom! Dad! I’m in here!”
Mathilda said, “Mom. Dad. I’m in here.”
The door to the Animator’s House opened wide, and Molly’s parents walked in. “You didn’t let me finish my burger,” Mom complained. Molly thought her mother meant that she had interrupted her mother, but Dad said, “You’re a slow poke.” Molly shouted, “Look behind you,” and she pointed up at Mathilda, who jiggered on the wall. A noise like dishes stacked. Dad turned around, and looked out into the diner. “No, up, Dad, on the ceiling.” But he only peered out and said, “Mathilda? Don’t clear away my wife’s dish.” He turned to Mom. “Huh. I thought I heard Mathilda out there.” Mathilda’s eyes shifted left to right.
Mom and Dad walked past Molly. Dad asked, “Is she out at the car?” Mom went to a window, “I can’t really tell. These windows are filthy.” “Nice museum,” Dad said. Molly couldn’t tell if her father was being sarcastic or not, but what upset her most was his disinterest in her, and that her parents had not noticed Mathilda, clinging to the wall. Molly screamed, as loud as she possibly could.
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“Well, I don’t want her walking around in a parking lot when it’s so dark outside.”
Dad said, “It has gotten dark, hasn’t it?” Then, “Okay, yeah, I’ll go out. Why don’t you have your burger wrapped up.”
Dad left the museum, passed right under Mathilda, and Mom did too; Molly—afraid to get close to Mathilda—hung back but watched her mother through the half-open door. Mom sat at the counter and said, “Mathilda?”
Mathilda on the ceiling said, “Mathilda.”
Molly watched her mother take a bite from her hamburger and saw that it was not a hamburger but a clod of dirt. Mathilda stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Just washing up,” she said. Mathilda was also on the ceiling in the museum.
Mom asked, “Can I get this wrapped up?”
Mathilda on the ceiling said, “Can I get this wrapped up.”
Mathilda behind the counter said, “Why of course. I’m glad you enjoyed our humble fare.”
Mom offered a weak smile.
Dad came in from the parking lot. “Honey, I don’t see Molly out there.” He addressed Mathilda, who stood with Mom’s plate of dirt: “Have you seen Molly?”
“No. No I haven’t. Didn’t she go into the Animator’s House?”
Mathilda, on the ceiling said, “Didn’t she go into the Animator’s House.”
Dad said, “I thought so, but she wasn’t in there when we looked.”
Molly made a dash for the door, but Mathilda, quick as a millipede, banged the door shut. Molly cried out and stumbled back—the windows, she thought—and then she saw that the stool at the drafting table was occupied.
An ordinary looking man, a little thin, perhaps, bald, in fact, sat on the stool with his back to the drafting table. “Hi,” he said, as if nothing at all terrible were happening.
Molly glanced at the window and saw her parents, looking around the parking lot, hands cupped to their mouths, presumably calling out her name, but there was no sound in the museum, except Molly’s breathing and an occasional click, click from Mathilda, her long fingernail on the shut door.
