Godmother (10 page)

I sat up in bed. It was only nine
P.M.

It took me a second to orient myself. This was not the old kingdom. The silver palace had long ago been destroyed. In its place was a whole city. I breathed in and out, slowly, and concentrated on the sound of cars rushing by, the honking horns and faint sirens, the sound of a television playing upstairs. The footsteps in the hallway as one of my neighbors returned home.

I tried to think of the Pierre, of what was happening now, but my mind kept moving to the past, to everything I'd tried to forget. To me standing on the balcony wearing what would have been her dress, the whole world open and beating like a heart, ready to take me into itself. The clock chiming once, twice … The faces of the elders as they bore down on me. I had heard of them leaving the lake only one other time and even now I shivered thinking of it. The terrible sound their wings had made, fully spread and hammering above me. The sensation of falling to earth. My eyes opening onto grass, dirt, and then me standing on the ground, as if I'd been rooted to the spot, my body changed, human now, an enormous, blundering thing I'd wobbled as I tried to move, to return to them. Hunger, for the first time, pressing into me from all sides. Pressing, physical hunger.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forced myself into the present.

The Pierre, I thought, breathing slowly, concentrating. I conjured its gold-scripted name, its glittering, pale façade. I felt an urge suddenly, to go right then, get out of this crumbling apartment and into the world as it was now. It was only nine
P.M.
It wasn't too late to go and see the Pierre for myself.

I got ready carefully. I brushed my hair, tried to smooth it, and then pulled it back with a barrette. I patted my mouth with pink lipstick. I looked at myself. If nothing else, I looked like a normal human old woman. Like I should be pinching cheeks and making coffee cakes from scratch. I shuddered.

The city outside was black and draped with lights. The cars flashed in my face. I headed to Seventh Avenue and then uptown, forcing myself to look at the people passing me, to notice the giant billboards in Times Square, the store windows filled with athletic equipment and cosmetics and souvenirs. A whole different New York from the quieter, stranger one I occupied.

I turned right on Fifty-ninth Street, passing the line of fancy hotels across from Central Park, which was a dark forest on the other side of the car-filled street. The doormen I passed nodded as I walked by, gatekeepers to these secret worlds filled with men and women who could afford to pay my entire rent for one night's sleep.

I crossed the street toward the end of the park, passing a row of carriages and horses. All lined up and ready to go. The coachmen waited outside, beckoning for me to sit down. The horses stood perfectly still, their heads lowered, terrifically outfitted in thick leather, like silent monsters.

Across the street was a large spraying fountain, the Paris Theatre, all glimmering in the streetlamps. A red carpet unfurled onto the sidewalk in front of the Plaza.

I shook my head, crossed, and turned up Fifth, trying to focus on the smell of grit and exhaust. The nearby scent of roasting nuts and pretzels from a street vendor. The hard concrete under my feet. The hotel was just ahead, though
and the stone of the façade glittered in the streetlamps. As I passed under the windows, I looked up and saw ceilings painted over and curving with scenes of gods and goddesses, lights hanging down like bits of ice.

The doorman smiled at me and stood back to let me pass through. I paused, expecting to be questioned or pulled aside. The man just smiled and waited with the door open.

I remembered the palace, the complete mastery I'd had over everything in the human world back then. Flying down the great hall and into the prince's chambers, slipping in and out of everyone's thoughts, appearing to him at will, because I wanted to, because I had wanted him to see me in my human form. I was so beautiful then. I could do any-thing, be anything

I felt so much. I hadn't felt so much in years. Maybe not ever, not since that night.

I walked into the lobby, close to tears. It was almost entirely empty. Faintly, I registered the shining black-and-white floors, the paintings on the walls, the glass cases. A man sitting on a small sofa looked up at me, then back down again.

Everything felt so familiar. As if I'd been there before. I knew to turn in to a great room with painted walls, a dining area that led into other rooms and had a staircase twisting above it. I knew to turn and walk up the stairs, through the doors, and into a long hallway. Almost no one was around. Upstairs, in the hallway, it was completely silent.

I walked down the hall. Past room after room, all seeming to open into other rooms. Mirrors lined the hallway, so I could not tell what was real, what was being reflected. Above me, glass and crystal dripped down, and the ceiling
curved, laced with patterns and swirling shapes, paintings of ancient scenes.

At the end of the hall was a large room and, past it, the grand ballroom. I walked inside.

Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, like antlers coated in ice, attached by gold ribbons wrapped around wire, and elaborate bows. Stacks of gold chairs, hundreds of chairs, lined the dance floor. Mirrors and glass reflected everything. At the other end of the room was a stage, framed by curtains. I stared at it, imagined an orchestra spread over it, the sounds of strings and air.

It was eerily quiet, silent except for the dull buzz of lights. I stepped forward, my feet padding along the thick carpet.

I imagined him, Theodore, waiting for me. It was hard to remember, that night of the ball. It had been so long, and I'd heard and seen so many other recountings since. I had had no way of knowing, back then, how that night would live on not only in my own memory but in all the world's. How history would remake it, twist it into a happy tale that would set girls to dreaming centuries after.

It should have been like that.

I remembered the first time I'd come upon George's collection of fairy tales at Daedalus Books, the rows of carefully preserved gilded-edge books he kept in the back of the store as well as in the case up front. I had sat on the ground and pulled out the books one by one, marveling at the drawings inside, which showed small winged creatures propped against leaves, riding acorns, dancing in groups in the grass. They wore caps on their heads and had tight gauzy outfits sheathing their fingerlike frames. I had heard fairy
stories, of course, seen the cartoons, but I had never seen the kinds of intricate drawings that filled the old volumes George collected. My heart had burst open. It was as if my past had been scooped out for me like fresh fruit. None of them looked exactly like us, but the fairies were close enough to what was in those books, or at least we could have been. If I had really wanted to, I could have slipped a leaf about my shoulders and let it dangle to my feet like a robe. I could have swept up my hair from my shoulders and tied it back with a flower stem.

Then I pulled down another book with the Cinderella story lavishly told and illustrated, and laughed with my head flung back when I saw the drawings of her, at how absurd it all was, at her yellow hair. It had been years since I'd really looked at how the story had been passed down. I wanted to take the artist aside, talk some sense into him: Cinderella's hair was like starlight, I would say, not yellow like corn. It was just like silk starlight, moon hair that swept down her back and actually glittered. I had been horrified, in the human world, when I'd first come upon the ridiculous fairy godmother so popular in the books and, later, the movies— her plump round body like a sack of apples, the hanging swinging double chin, the silly upturned smile that pushed out her cheeks like a chipmunk's. She even had gray hair swirled up in a bun.

Fairies were beautiful, I had wanted to explain. Fairies were perfect creatures who could move in and out of human form but who were naturally tiny, so small that a sensitive human would almost always see only a speck of light when we passed, if anything at all. Groups of fairies, gathered around a flower or a lake, would appear to the
human eye like a cluster of lights, like the night sky strewn with stars. It was amazing that the girls in Veronica's fairy book had captured fairies the way they had, in photographs, but there was no doubt that the figures in the photos were my own kind. That they had chosen to show themselves to the human world. To me.

I knew I was in New York, in the Pierre Hotel, on Fifth Avenue across from Central Park. I knew where I was, who I was, what I had done, and how much time had passed. I always knew how much time had passed.

Even so, I could almost feel his hand slipping around my waist. I could hear the orchestra starting up, the marble floor sliding under my feet. I felt so full. Like I contained universes inside me. I closed my eyes, twirled around once, then again. I felt his breath on my neck and his palms on my waist.

“Theodore,” I whispered, and for a moment I was right there with him, the scent of gardenia wrapping around me. My heart breaking open. I let myself feel it, the pure beauty and pain of it, of giving myself over to him and leaving my own world behind.

When I opened my eyes, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror, just a glimpse as I whirled by. My hair like autumn leaves, like flame. The dress flowing down my body to the glass slippers that sparkled from my feet.

THE NEXT
morning I got to the bookstore at eight. I spent a few minutes tiptoeing about, listening for any sound from upstairs. George had been busy the day before; I saw boxes of books piled by the register for me to deal with throughout the day.

I made coffee in back, smelling the earth scent of the beans as I measured them and poured them into the filter. I swept the floors quickly, gathering the dust at the front of each row, then scooping it up mound by mound into a dustpan. I lifted a stack of books onto the front desk to sort through, and all the while my heart pounded in my chest, my excitement and nervousness mixing together until I thought I would scream.

Having a purpose, something to look forward to. It made everything different. I felt like I was years younger. It was almost a shock to look down at my same wrinkled hands and arms. The other world was so close, just beyond my reach.

When I was sure it was safe, when I was sure I hadn't heard a sound from upstairs and there was still plenty of time before the store opened, I went into the back room and fired up the computer. I'd learned to use a computer a couple years before, when George started listing books online. I liked being online. It was the closest I could come to how I had felt once, when I could dip into any human dream or thought I wanted.

With trembling fingers I pulled Veronica's card out of my purse and typed in her website address. The page loaded, all pink and white and black with swirls along the edges. “Veronica Searle, Hairdos and Designs,” it said across the top, and underneath was a series of links. There was a photo of her, in black and white, her hair long and wild around her perfect pale face. Even posed and staring off into the distance, she had that fairy energy to her, and I could almost see her spreading wings and flitting over the water.

I clicked on the link that said “About.” Another photo of
her came up, next to the same swirls and colors. Her hair platinum blond in this one, swept up to the side. She was wearing a floor length dress that flared at the bottom and holding a cigarette in a long holder. She looked aloof, glamorous, until you looked more closely and saw the small smile on her face. I felt like laughing, too, just looking at her.

“I have cut and dyed hair since I was a kid playing with Barbies,” said the words written in curling letters on the side of the page. “I used to paint their hair with watercolors and clip it with my mother's cuticle scissors. When I was eighteen, I packed my bags and came to New York, and I've been cutting hair professionally ever since. I worked at the Pink Sink for seven years before taking it over and making it mine all mine. I also design wigs, work on photo shoots, and sew and knit like a crazy woman. And I'm obsessed with old things. I love everything vintage. This may make my apartment smell like mothballs, but I can give you the best finger curls or beehive in the city.”

I was riveted. It was like reading a diary.

I clicked on the link titled “Cut and Color,” which took me to a page with a photo of her in a salon, next to an old-fashioned bonnet hair dryer. On the right were her hours and prices and a description of the hair color products she used. “I promise to make you gorgeous!” it said. I laughed. “Your hair is my canvas. I only use the amazing products I use on myself. And nothing but the best touches these tresses!” An array of photos swept by on the bottom of the page, in a mini filmstrip. Photos of Veronica and girls like her. Chameleons, girls who could be anything they wanted, without a fairy to help them.

I clicked on “Extensions” to see another page full of bright photos. Humans with hair shooting off their heads like geysers. I covered my mouth and laughed. They were so beautiful! I recognized Veronica on the lower right, her hair bright blue and twisted on the top of her head.

I thought about my plan, the one that would bring two lovers together and redeem myself for what I'd done. Their fates, entwined. If I squinted, I could see George there next to her, adoring, a thick book in his hand. They will balance each other, I thought. He will calm her. She will bring him to life. I knew that I was meant to be her fairy godmother, that somehow she had been sent to me, and to George, and that it was my task to ensure that both of them met the destinies I could see so clearly. I knew this. I knew it with a certainty I hadn't felt for years.

The room was dark, the early morning haze just starting to seep in to the back of the store. I felt as if I was in her mind and thoughts.

On a whim, I opened my e-mail program and typed in the e-mail address listed on the website. I typed: “I am your fairy godmother. I am here to send you to the ball.” I smiled, imagined her bending over a screen the way I was, her face immersed in the pale light. Reading the words the way Cinderella had heard my voice in her ear. My finger hovered over the mouse, ready to press “send.” I'd only opened this account to buy some items online, shortly after George had shown me how to use the computer, and I loved the idea that I could sit alone in this hushed room and send a message into space, to her. What would Veronica think, receiving such a message from lillian99? Could I make a new account for your_fairy_godmother? I laughed and deleted the e-mail.