The Motion of Puppets (22 page)

“It was good to be out among the people today.”

“Not too loud,” the Good Fairy said, which Kay found ironic, for her husky voice had deepened after she had grown large and her wooden mouth creaked with each sentence.

“What a lot of kids at the parade. How I've missed seeing children.”

“Better to miss them than to have them nearby. I always dread the children. Some of them are too young and know so little that they can instantly guess who we are. Closer to nature, they know our true nature. Children and dogs. Don't get me started on dogs. Try being around dogs when you are made of sticks.”

“Still, it was like a memory from another life.”

“You should just try to forget that other life.”

Noisy springs from the passenger seats alerted them to the stirrings of the humans. The bus had turned onto the dark and bumpy side road to the farm. Lamps had been left on in the house, giving it a cheerful glow like the face of a waiting grandparent. The wheels crunched gravel as the bus slowed to a stop, and the van and the pickup soon followed and parked nearby. The night air was noticeably colder, and the smell of burning birch poured from the chimney. Weary now, the humans were much slower in reversing the day's process, unloading the puppets from the vehicles and toting them back into the barn. The blond boy asked if they could wait till morning, and the Quatre Mains cuffed him softly on the back of the neck. “Never,” he said. “Never leave these puppets alone and out of the barn after dark.”

Chagrined, the boy went straight to work, hurrying to put the puppets away. He made sure to close the barn door after the last was safely inside. When he threw the bolt through the lock with a shudder, the sound echoed in the stillness, a note of finality to the day. Whistling a few bars of a wistful melody, the boy headed for the farmhouse, the notes trailing behind. The puppets were clustered in three groups, settled into a trough and two stalls, presided over by the Queen, who loomed against an outer wall. No more shows or appearances had been planned for the season, and the prospect of a long winter inside made the mood somber and bound them in the silence of their private thoughts.

He would come find me if only he knew where to look.

 

17

The red light blinked like a semaphore. Had Egon not taken notice and alerted him to the signal, Theo might have neglected the answering machine altogether. Most people reached him via his cell phone, and he had nearly forgotten about the landline that sat next to his computer. He pressed the button marked Play and flinched at the sound of a voice from the past.

“Theo, this is your mother-in-law. Dolores. Are you home? I saw Katharine on the TV. Kay. Or something like her. Please call when you get this message.”

He listened again. Echoes of a ghost.

“Are you going to call her?” Egon asked. “Or should I?”

Their suitcases sat next to the front door, and Theo had just sloughed off his jacket and draped it on the back of his desk chair. Road weary, he wanted nothing more than a long shower and a night's rest. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Maybe in the morning. It's late, and she's probably asleep by now.”

Egon threw his hands into the air. “Are you out of your mind? Talk to the woman.”

“You don't understand. She doesn't like me. Not to play the mother-in-law card. I think she still secretly suspects me in Kay's disappearance.”

“She says she saw Kay on TV. I don't care how crazy—”

“Not crazy,” Theo said, picking up the phone.

He pictured her on the other end making her way in the chair to answer the call. After the accident, her husband had installed a phone in every room, but at this late hour, she was probably in bed, watching one of those British mysteries she so adored. Kay had often complained that her mother would not interrupt one of her stories to pick up the phone. It rang and rang. Where could she be at this time of night?

“Hullo.” With one word, the memories returned. Her voice was the synthesis of flint and haw, an old-fashioned patrician accent like the distaff child of Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn.

“Hello, Dolores. I got your call—”

“Theo, dear boy. I have seen the most peculiar thing. On the television. The six o'clock news last night. They were doing a story about a Halloween parade, what passes for local color these days. Children in costumes lined up on the sidewalks. Would you know, these giant effigies are carried down the middle of the street. Positively Catholic. Like they were carrying icons in a procession. And that's when I saw her. Kay. She was one of those…”

“Puppets?”

“Yes, a puppet, a great big puppet. I just caught a glimpse of her, but I would recognize her anywhere. The dead spit. How could they have known what she looks like without seeing her? Mind, it was a very stylized face, but I could tell by her eyes. Like I was looking at my own girl again. You must think me an old fool, but I had to call someone. Where have you been?”

“You miss her,” Theo said. “I miss her, too. I see her face everywhere.”

“No, no, nothing like that. This was made to look just like her. Have you any news?”

He hesitated a beat, uncertain whether to tell her. “Nothing solid. I just got back from Québec, as a matter of fact. I met with the police, but they are no closer than ever, though there may be a new clue. Do you remember if she had a pair of heels in a kind of robin's-egg blue?”

“Shoes? She had so many shoes. I suppose it is possible.”

“They found two shoes, one with a broken heel. I think they might be hers, the pair she was wearing the night she disappeared.”

On the other end of the phone, she paused a few beats. Her face would be contorted in that same gesture Kay made whenever she began to cry. Like mother, like daughter. He wanted to reach through the line and hug her by the shoulders, he wanted to tell her the whole story about the Quatre Mains shop, but he dared not raise her hopes. Or confuse her with Egon's half-baked theories.

“I cannot bear to think how she might have lost them.”

“They're not entirely sure they are hers, and I can't know—”

“Might I ask you a favor? Could you track them down? The puppet people. Maybe they know her, used her as a model for that giant doll. Uncanny resemblance, took my breath. It was the Vermont station on the television. And the parade was just down the road in Bennington. Yesterday. The television people might be of help in finding who is responsible.”

“Dolores, I don't know—”

“Not for me, Theo. For Kay.”

“For Kay,” he said at last, and with a promise to call again soon, he made his good-byes.

Like a jack-in-the-box, Egon popped up from behind the sofa as soon as the conversation ended. He had been eavesdropping and bore an eager expression on his face, a startling visage since Theo had completely forgotten that he was there. “What gives,
mon ami
?”

“Her mother was watching local news on the TV last night, and she saw a story on a Halloween parade with giant puppets in a little town in Vermont.” Theo spoke slowly as if trying to convince himself of the story. “And one of them looked just like Kay.”

“That could be her,” Egon said.

“But these weren't small, they were big puppets. Giants.”

“Yet she swears that one of them looked like Kay? Big or small, you must follow every lead.”

Theo ignored his remark. “Dolores wants me to see if I can find the puppet makers. Her theory is that they must have used Kay as a model, but I don't know. Could be that she just imagined the resemblance. She's been subconsciously looking for Kay all this time, and any scant similarity might trigger a reaction. Obviously, she's projecting her grief onto an unrelated situation. I've done it myself, a thousand times. Thought ‘there she is.'”

“And you sound ready to disbelieve anything and everything. You think it is a mere coincidence that we find all this evidence in a puppet shop? Maybe your mother-in-law is seeing things, maybe she is, what did you say, projecting? But, if it looks like a puppet and acts like a puppet, then she must be a puppet. Fire up your laptop. Let's do a search.”

The video hadn't been uploaded on any of the feeds from the Burlington station, but after watching clip after clip of parades, they chanced upon a homemade version of the Halloween march through Bennington. Ninety seconds of shaky cam, children mostly, the videographer interested in the variety of costumes, and finally a continuous long shot of all the puppets come to town. A barrel-shaped man with a walrus mustache, a devil, three sisters in Victorian costumes, a juggler and a straw-headed girl, an old witch. And for just a few seconds, there she was, the one who looked like Kay, here and gone, and then a creature made out of sticks and branches, and at the end of the procession a queen twice as tall as the rest.

Theo rewound and froze Kay in a single instant, soft focus, bright exposure, but undeniably a stark resemblance. The face turned briefly toward the camera, blank and static features, but the maker had captured her heart-shaped face, the flare of her nose, wide mouth and full lips, the color and texture of her hair, and, just as her mother had seen, a certain life in her eyes. They watched over and over, hoping for another view, a different angle, a close-up that would verify the identity, but it never materialized. Just a fleeting glimpse to study at different resolutions, a few frames to arrest motion.

“Is that her?” Egon asked.

Theo stared at the screen. Nearly six months had passed. Pressing his fingers to the glass, he traced the shape of the paper face. He wanted it to be her. He wanted a way to find her.

*   *   *

Some nights the whole barn seemed alive. The voices in the middle of the night came soft and loud, sudden, or in long slow whispers. Voices from other floors and chambers, places no one dared to go. Most of the time, the sounds were mere gibberish, but on occasion, a stray word or phrase floated in the air. A man would holler “radio” at odd times. An older woman said quite clearly: “I do not care for celery.” Footsteps would bend a floorboard now and then, and once the faint melody of a waltz overlaid with many people dancing in a faraway loft.

They were not alone.

The Queen had commanded them to stay out of the other rooms to not risk encountering anyone other than their own. At first, the random noises disconcerted Kay and the other puppets. They had been used to being the only presence moving about in the middle of the night, whether at the toy shop in Québec or the little theater in Montreal, where any sudden sound indicated that humans were nearby and meant they had to return to their places and pretend to be inanimate. Here in the barn, however, the voices suggested that others of their kind prowled the halls and spaces beyond, like strangers in a graveyard. Only, of course, the Quatre Mains puppets were the new arrivals, the real intruders. The others had been here long before, years, perhaps decades. They huddled together in the stalls, afraid of what might be out there. On Halloween, three nights after they had been locked away, the whole place rang with laughter, sometimes joyful and raucous, but sometimes lit with madness.

Noë inched over to Kay, pressed her body close, and sought the comfort of her hand. Bare patches in the straw thatch on her head gave away how she had been pulling at her hair, and dark circles, powdery as charcoal, appeared on the paper skin beneath her eyes. “I don't like this place.”

“You're just not used to it,” Kay said. “The strange noises.”

In the corner, Mr. Firkin rocked back and forth to build the momentum necessary to stand. He was fatter than before, his torso round as a barrel, and it took three tries to get to his feet. Excited by the sudden motion, the little toy dog leapt from the feet of the Old Hag and barked encouragement, and heads turned in the ranks of the sleepy puppets. Waddling across the room, Mr. Firkin deposited himself before the huddled pair, hands on what passed for hips. His great mustache bristled like a porcupine as he chewed on his words before speaking.

“Fear of the unknown is the greatest of fears, and the imagination often makes a tempest out of what proves to be mere drizzle. There is nothing to be afraid of in these squeaks and creaks. Why, those are our kinfolk above and beyond. Actors and performers like us. I am surprised at you girls, jumping at your own shadows, cowering at mere reflections.”

Noë squeezed Kay's hand. “This barn is a big place. Who's to say what's in the other rooms?”

“Shall we go investigate? To help assuage the tremblies? If you are reluctant, I could volunteer Nix or the Devil. Everyone's wary of the Devil, and I'm sure they would give him a wide berth.”

At the mention of his name, the Devil sauntered over to join the conversation. Like a coquette, he batted his long black eyelashes and affected an unbecoming innocence. “Did someone mention my name?”

“Why yes,” Mr. Firkin said. “As a matter of fact, I have an important mission for you. It is high time we get a better sense of the surrounds and introduce ourselves to the neighbors. If you would be so bold, could you scout for us? Find out what or who are on the other floors and chambers and report back to us? You may take Nix if you are at all concerned for your safety.”

“Not a problem,” said the Devil. “Ever since we came here, I have been curious about those poor souls. And I go by myself. No need for clowns.”

From his perch on a water trough, Nix shouted, “I resemble that comment.”

A small convex mirror hung on a post by the door, and the Devil went to work, preening. The other puppets milled about, talking in low tones about the idea of sending him to investigate the forbidden rooms. Two camps formed: those who dared and those who fretted. In the end, all deferred to the Queen, who had been silent, content to watch and listen from on high. As a matter of courtesy, the Devil presented himself to her, bowing obsequiously from the waist, and rising with a grin splitting his new face.