The Cinderella Theorem (2 page)

HRHMS

When I asked my mother about
the words on
The Box
, she said she didn’t know what they meant; Dad had
never explained them to her. (Although, she was probably lying.)

There
are three items in
The Box
–three tangible, mathematical facts about my
father. The first is a solid blue marble, the color of a tropical island lagoon
or something else that is blue.
[6]
My mother told me the marble was my dad’s. He was so good at marbles as a boy
that marble playing at his school stopped, because no one could beat him.

I
decided that I, too, would become skilled at marble playing. I got pretty good,
but marbles was not a game children played at my school, so I mostly played by myself.
[7]
(My mother would sometimes play with me, usually whenever she needed a break
from her characters.) But I never played with the blue marble. In my elementary
school mind, I reasoned that I would save the blue marble for the game I would
one day play with my father. (At seven, mathematical facts, like the surety of
death are not overly important.) I do, however, find considerable irony in the
fact that, now (apparently), I can play that game with my dear old dad.

The
second item in
The Box
is an antique brass doorknob my father used to propose
to my mother. He said, “I am giving you the doorknob to my heart because you
are the only one who can open it,” or something else equally sugary and
romantic. But even though romance is too abstract to be mathematical, I always
thought this was a tremendously clever way to say “I love you.” (Evidently, so
did Mom.)

The
third item in
The Box
is a letter from my father to me. It was written
the day before he “died” or whatever the new story will be. (For all I know, my
mother could have written the letter. She is, after all, a
writer
.) This
is what he “wrote”:

Dear
Future Sparrow Child:

I
wanted to take a moment to write down what I am feeling at this moment. I am
rather excited and pleased that in a few days (or maybe less!) I will
officially be your Father! I wanted to let you know that you are coming into a
wonderful family. Your mother will dream up wonderful stories to tell you, and
I will help you explore this New World of yours. We are going to have a grand
adventure together. I can’t wait to see you! I am counting the minutes until I
can be

Your
Father

Now
that Mom has given me new data to consider, I’m not sure what to think about
the letter anymore. Did he know he was leaving when he wrote it? How could he
write such a letter of excitement and then leave? And for that matter, why did
my mother say it was safer for everyone if I thought he was dead?
Was he dangerous? I lean towards a “no” on this issue.
(In my experience, which is limited, dangerous people do not propose with
doorknobs.)

There
are no pictures of my father in
The Box
or in the house for that matter.
My mom does not like to answer questions about pictures. It makes her very
defensive and bothered.
[8]
And I’ve given up looking for them in her closets or in the attic. There are
just no pictures of my father.

I had been working on a theory
that Mom burned all of them in some sort of grief cleansing after he died. But
now he isn’t dead…. Could he be a spy? Or maybe he was a tortured,
drug-addicted musician? Both of those theories would support Mom saying, “It
was safer for everyone if you thought he was dead.”

I shook my head. Speculation is
not mathematical and the trouble with looking for tangible facts about my
father in
The Box
is that the equation
The Box
sets up is this:

what I know about my father = M(1
blue marble + 1 doorknob +1 letter +1 old box)

M = what my mother says about my
father

We can reasonably conclude that
the M is tainted (by my mother’s lies) and thereby taints the whole solution,
but if you take M out, you’ll have no information at all. Multiplying by zero
equals zero. Zero stories about my dad. Just a box.

I shoved
the blue marble in my pocket. Then I put
The Box
away and checked the
clock. Almost five. Five o’clock is
always
suppertime in the Sparrow
home. I don’t know how this kind of a schedule works with a distracted mother,
but somehow it does. She always has supper ready at five, no matter what the
characters in her story world are doing.

I saw no signs of supper in the
kitchen. Nothing. I looked in the office. Mom was still busy writing. What are
the odds that on the day I find out my dad isn’t really dead, my mom also
forgets to cook supper?

I wanted to ask my mother about
supper, but I didn’t want to ask about my father specifically, because that
would be weird. I didn’t want to say, for instance, “Hey Mom, don’t you need to
be cooking something? It isn’t everyday Dad comes over for dinner.” so I said
instead:

“What are we having for dinner tonight?”

Mom continued writing for a moment, then realized I
had spoken, “I don’t know, whatever your dad brings home.”

I stood shocked for a moment. Let me see if I have my
facts straight: a man I have never met, a man who has been “dead” my whole
life, is bringing home my special birthday dinner. HE is bringing it HOME?
To
our home?
We have a leaky faucet that has lived here longer than he has. This
is
not
his home. Home implies permanency.

Mom looked at me. “Why are you staring like that,
Lily?”

“What do you mean ‘he’s bringing dinner home’?”

“Try to understand, Lily.” Mom patted my arm and spoke
slowly as if she were talking to a three-year-old or a crazy person. “Your dad
is coming home for your birthday, and he is bringing dinner with him.”

I stared at her. “You mean he’s coming
over
for
dinner, right? He can’t be coming
home
, because he doesn’t live here.”

“Lily, he’ll be here in less than
five minutes. Do we really have to discuss whether he’s “coming over” or “coming
home,” at this exact moment?” She started stacking her notes in different piles,
a sign that writing was done for the day.

I stomped upstairs to brush my
teeth. (I tend to brush my teeth when I get annoyed.) What does she mean,
coming
home
?

On the landing, I stepped over the mini-vac Mom had
left (through her distraction) plugged in. Most likely, this morning, when she
was supposed to be vacuuming the stairs, inspiration seized her and she
abandoned cleaning for writing.

I stomped into the bathroom, annoyed with my adult
role model. How am I supposed to grow up in this abnormal environment?

Just
as I finished angrily squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush, the shower
curtain was pushed back by a fully clothed man standing in the bathtub.

“Lily!” he said. “Happy Birthday!”

I screamed
and chunked my toothbrush at him. I didn’t wait to see if my aim was good; I
rushed out, slamming the door behind me.

“MOM!”

The
man opened the bathroom door. “Lily, let me ex—”

“Stay
back,” I grabbed the mini-vac off the floor and revved it at him. I could hear
Mom rushing up the stairs.

“Lily?
What’s going on?” Mom stopped when she saw the man. “Matt! Welcome home!” She
threw her arms around him, kissing him.

I
dropped the vacuum.

“Lily,”
Mom said as she pushed the tub-man forward a little, “this is your father. Matt,”
she started tearing up, “this is Lily.”

Will
nothing in my life ever be mathematical or normal again? Not only is my father
not dead, but I meet him while brushing my teeth, and my mother greets her husband
that she hasn’t seen in fifteen years like he just came home from a day at the
office.

Tub Man handed a present to my
mom. Then he hugged me. I pulled back a little from the hug, but he didn’t
notice. He just squeezed tighter and said, “I’ve missed you so much, Lily. I’ve
been looking forward to this day ever since you were born.”

I
couldn’t think of any response to this, so I stared at him, studying his
features to form an equation.

My father = a tub-loving, blonde-haired, tallish man,
who is not dead, but apparently has a loose definition of what it means to be a
family man.

My
mother interrupted my analysis. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said. “We’ll be more
comfortable. Lily, don’t forget to put the vacuum away.”

Tub
Man beamed as he put his arm around Mom.

I
picked up the mini-vac, stuffed it in the closet and followed my “parents” to
the living room. My mother sat next to my “father” on the couch. I sat in the
chair opposite, processing what had just happened. How did my father get in the
bathtub? If he came to our house after school, I would have heard him coming
upstairs. If he had been in the house since before I got home, why did my
mother act like she had seen him for the first time upstairs?
And why was he
in the bathtub?!

“I
can’t believe this day is finally here.” Tub Man flashed a bright smile.

“I’m
so glad we’re all together.” Mom gazed at him with the same stupid smile.

It
doesn’t make mathematical sense for her to react this way. Wouldn’t they have
grown apart over fifteen years? Shouldn’t she be bitter or something? I am a
reasonably intelligent person: Why don’t I understand any of this?

“Why
don’t I understand any of this?” I asked.

“What
don’t you understand, Lily?” Tub Man turned his smile to me.

He
has to ask what I don’t understand? I filtered through my questions and had just
decided to ask, “Why were you in the bathtub?” when we heard a voice calling
from upstairs:

“Should
we bring the dinner down, sir?”

The
fear I felt in the bathroom was back. I grabbed the arms of my chair. “There’s
someone upstairs!” I hissed.

My
father, instead of rushing up the stairs to defend his wife and child from the
intruder, turned to my mother and asked, “Perhaps we could do this better over
dinner? What do you think, Ginnie?”

My
mother, instead of being confused about the voice and upset that her husband
was not protecting her, answered, “That’s probably a good idea. Will they need
any help?”

I
began rapidly thinking over and over again:
What is happening? Who are ‘they’?
What is happening? Who are ‘they’?

“No. They should be able to
handle it.” To the voice upstairs, he called, “Sure, Lubcker. Bring it on down.
We’re just moving to the dining room.”

 “Who
is Lubcker?”

My
dad grinned mischievously. “Lubcker is my personal chef. I asked him to prepare
a special dinner for tonight.”

That
was not a satisfying answer. So as we sat down, I asked, “Why is he upstairs? Wouldn’t
it have been easier to bring the food in through the door?”

“Well…”
Tub Man began to answer as the door to the dining room opened. In came a
person, about the height of a five-year-old, holding a steaming dish of food. He
wore all red: red shirt, red pants, red shoes that looked like they were made
of cloth, and to top off the whole outfit, a red beret on top of his white
hair.

“A
very happy birthday to you, Princess Lily!” He put the food on the table.

Before
I had time to respond, six more little people entered. They all had white hair
and were each dressed in a different color: orange, yellow, green, blue, purple
and brown. Each placed their dishes of food on the table, while wishing
Princess
Lily
a happy birthday.

When
all seven dishes were on our table (and that was something of a mathematical
feat, because the area of our table was only slightly larger than the area of
the food
[9]
),
they lined up in the order they had appeared along the wall of the dining room,
like a rainbow of short people.

The
little red man asked, “Shall we stay and serve, sir?”

My
father, in no way put off the rainbow people, answered, “No. Thank you, Lubcker.
We shall manage just fine tonight.”

Lubcker
bowed. “As you wish, sir.” The others left with Lubcker. The man in brown
winked at me as he went. I was as confused as I imagine a non-math-lover would
be in a trigonometry class.
[10]

“I’ll
get some plates and silverware.” Mom jumped up from the table.

My
father grabbed two of the dishes. “These are dessert.” He left me alone in the
dining room with five dishes that magically appeared from upstairs.

“Well,”
my father said, when he came back. “That was Lubcker. Does that answer your
question?”

Are
you kidding me?
“Are you kidding me?”
I asked. “Seven small, short,
whatever
people appear from upstairs and
bring down food. How does ‘that was Lubcker’ answer any kind of question? Not
to mention you are supposed to be dead and you just show up in the bathtub! The
bathtub!
What is that about?”

Mom
brought in the plates, silverware, and glasses. She looked a little surprised
by my outburst.

Tub
Man smiled. “Take a deep breath, Lily. Let’s go through this logically. Your first
question was ‘Who is Lubcker’? That was sufficiently answered by his entrance,
I think. Now, as to why he was upstairs and who was with him, it might be
better for me to just explain everything, and then, you can ask questions if
necessary. How does that sound?”

“How
did you get in our bathtub?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“Believe
me, Lily, I understand your frustration. A lot of new things have been revealed
today. You’re overwhelmed with questions. Your mother and I are going to do
everything we can to answer them for you.” He looked at my mother and smiled. “I
was in your bathtub because, the only way to get from
my
world, E. G.
Smythe’s Salty Fire Land, to
this
world is through the bathtub.”

I
just stared at him. What in the world (and I mean
my
world) is going on
here? Why can’t I just have a normal father, like a trash man, or a zookeeper,
or something?