Down the Rabbit Hole

“Listen. I love my sister-in-law to death, I really do. But she can be very cynical sometimes. I was there that day. I knew what you were doing . . . Not that you’d made the recording, but I knew it was for Cody. I didn’t think to mention it to her, but if I had I know she . . . well, she probably wouldn’t have bought a recording, I’ll be honest with you, but I do know she’d have donated money. She has a soft heart, but she’s skeptical, and so intolerant of things she doesn’t understand.”

This time Liz’s chuckle was amused. “Wait until she hears that I accidentally spam-invited everyone I’ve friended on Facebook to Tom’s birthday party.”

CHAPTER FOUR

As the picture cleared, the growling and grumbling noise came again. The sound seemed to roil around inside her like leaves in a tea cup, but Elise barely noticed. She sighed and lowered her gaze to the floor.

She was intolerant. She knew it. Mockery was another defect she’d allowed to take up residence in her life.

She knew, too, that she could wither a stone with a single stare when called for. She used to practice in the mirror to look not frightened, not helpless, less caring—for protection, to defend herself. The downside was that the same expression could come across as fearsome, aggressive or unfeeling.

She never meant to hurt anyone, but she knew she could. She’d seen furtive glances before—fleeting looks that were about her, but not meant for her to see. They hurt. Terribly. Then they made her angry.

“I’m sorry about the boy—and his brother. I didn’t know,” she said, her voice thick in her throat. “I never meant to hurt him.”

“Not meaning to hit a dog with your automobile doesn’t make its pain any less, doesn’t make it less dead.” The words slapped, burned—so much she didn’t detect the odd pitch to his new voice.

She bowed her head in disgrace . . . and would have proceeded on to feel like a miserable wretch had she not at that moment noticed she was now wearing bright yellow socks and a matching shirt—with a black zigzag pattern at the hem.

“Good grief,” she said, though an angst-filled Charlie Brown felt like a good fit just then. She turned quickly to see that her favorite president was now Dorothy Gale’s Tin Woodman. She moaned. “Great. You don’t need to tell me I have no heart—I am well aware.”

“Don’t be dense. Of course you have a heart. Everyone has a heart. Even I have a heart.”

“I didn’t mean it literally.”

“Neither did I,” he said. He turned slowly and started walking down another aisle . . . of fruit and vegetable costumes.

“No. I meant . . .” She stopped, once again distracted. “I can never remember: Is a peanut a fruit or a vegetable?”

His clanking steps stopped and he turned. “In botanical terms, since the seeds are contained within a pod, it is considered a legume, which is a fruit. In culinary terms, since the pods develop underground, it is considered to be a plant cultivated for an edible part, therefore a vegetable. The debate of fruit versus vegetable is an old one with various outcomes.” He went on in a brainy fashion, “For instance, in eighteen ninety-three, the United States Supreme Court ruled unanimously that an imported tomato should be taxed as a vegetable, rather than a fruit, which was taxed at a lower rate. The court agreed that a tomato is technically a botanical fruit, but a vegetable in its function—it’s served in salads, soups and main courses, where fruits are eaten in hand or in a dessert. It’s complicated.”

Elise frowned at him, considering. “It’s been a while, but . . . were you smart in the movie?”

“I’m hollow, not shallow.” He turned away—his steps seemed louder than before. “And the movie is based on Dorothy’s story, not mine. My story starts well in advance of her finding me the woods.”

“Really?” she asked, staying close on his heels as he turned into sporting uniforms. This was a story she wanted to hear.

“Yes. I had problems of my own with the Wicked Witch of the East long before Dorothy’s house landed on her.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. You don’t remember? Gamma read you all the Oz books when you were young.” Elise squinted, trying to recall—Gamma read her lots of stories. “And everyone knows the books are always better—and more informative—than the movies based on them.” True; she nodded. He sighed, resigned. “Anyway, I did once have brains and a heart as well. I was as human as you are . . . except that I was a character in a book.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” He turned around to face her. “My name was Nick Chopper then, and I had a sweetheart. She was a beautiful Munchkin maiden named Nimmie Amee, and I loved her very much.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. We were going to marry, but the witch decided Nimmie was to remain a housemaid. She enchanted my ax, and it began chopping off my limbs, one at a time. One by one, I got the tinsmith to replace each extremity as best he could, but in restoring my head and chest, he forgot to add a brain and a heart.”

“Uh-huh.” This part she knew.