Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Her fingers grazed a female Noh theater mask—beautiful in its flawless simplicity and mystery; steeped in history and tradition. She once read that they were an optical illusion; that the neutral expression of the woman changed to fear or sadness by angling the head down and to joy or happiness by lifting the chin up toward the light. She wanted to see it for herself, and lifted the mask off the hook, looking for a mirror.

“I don’t understand,” Molly said. “Max is really nice. Roger and I both like him . . . a lot . . . We liked John, too. He was charming. Not so much the one before Max—Dillon? But we told you that; we were honest with you, weren’t we? I’m telling you: Max is a sweetie. He’s really smart and he’s funny. And I think he’s serious. He likes you. You can see it when he looks at you.” She glanced over as her sister-in-law stepped up to a strategically located mirror among the masks. “Why do you keep pushing these guys away?”

Elise covered her face with the mask.

“It’s safe.” Darth Vader’s empty, echoing voice came from behind them. Elise screamed and dropped the mask; it shattered on the floor as she turned. He stepped lightly from his perch—she screamed again, jumped and pressed closer to . . . Molly wasn’t there.

“Ah, God! Where’s . . . What’s happening? Where’s Molly? Who are you?” Frantic, she managed to scan the area without actually looking away. “What have you done with Molly? Don’t hurt her . . . or me. Please. What’s going on?”

“Sorry.” It wasn’t just the voice changer in the mask that made his apology sound flat and hollow. “Startling you was going to happen no matter when I did it—so knowing the answer to her question seemed as good a time as any to introduce myself.”

“What?”

“Which what? What is the answer to her question? What are the answers to the five questions you just asked? Or what is my name?”

“What?”

“I said, which what? What—”

“Who are you?”

“Call me Martin.” He did an about-face, stepped over the broken Noh mask and started walking briskly away, black cape billowing. “You smash it, you trash it. I’m not cleaning that up.”

“What? Wait a second.” Jumping the shards and overriding every instinct telling her it was a bad idea to follow him anywhere, she did so. He didn’t seem intent, or even interested, in doing her harm . . . plus, there was no one else around. “Where’s Molly? What have you done with her?” She wondered if the helmet was soundproof; she spoke louder. “I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Anger was inching up on her fear. “Is that it, then? That’s all I’m getting? Your name?”

“That’s a lot.” He took a sharp right turn on the far end of the military uniforms. Rounding blindly behind him she came up short—Zorro turned to face her. “But I will give you so much more, querida mea , if you let me.”

“Wha—” She took a step back, gaping at the flowing black Spanish cape, the flat-brimmed sombrero cordobes and the black cloth Domino mask that covered the top of his head from eye level up . . . from his sparkling and seductive gold-green eyes up. “Am I dead?”

“No, bella damisela .”

“Stroke?”

His grin was roguish . . . and dazzling, set in a strong dimpled chin. Any other day she might have said it was sexy; that his soft Latin accent was dreamy—but clearly it wasn’t any other day.

And truth be told, the pencil-thin mustache was distracting. How hard was it to shave and shape something like that? How long did it take him? And the obvious question: Why bother? Come to think of it, didn’t Don Diego de la Vega have an identical ’stache? Who wouldn’t notice that? A peculiarity like that on the face of both men? No wonder . . .

See? Distracting.

“So, it’s a brain tumor, then—a big one.” Elise sighed, downcast. “Inoperable?”

“Physically, you are perfectly well.” With a wicked twinkle in his eyes, he added, “And perfectly safe. Molly, too.”

“Where is she?”

“Where you left her.”

“Where’s that? Take me there.” He sidled by in front of her, then swept off in the opposite direction. “No. Wait. You said physically.” He slowed to a stop. “I’m well and safe physically. So mentally . . . I’m screwed. Insane. I’m hallucinating.”

“No.” He turned to her, took a few steps back in her direction. She found it comforting—he wasn’t trying to elude her. “No, you are not hallucinating—not exactly. Candy’s Costumes is, let us say, an unconventional establishment.” He studied her. “You are more astute than most, I will say that about you. That is surprising, considering your lack of self-awareness. And you are not screaming and weeping—that is another good thing, querida mea .”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, you know.”

He turned again and slowly ambled off—slowly, as if he was inviting her to follow.

“Of course,” he said. “But you have no idea how hard it is to get tearstains out of these costumes. And also, the only apparel suitable for someone with puffy eyes and a red nose are clown suits or the two-piece Rudolf, which requires a second person, and I am sick of being the ass-end of a reindeer.”

A smile twitched across her lips—she couldn’t help it.

He veered left into a relatively short collection of animal costumes—moose mask, beaver head, alligator face . . . fur. Where was he going? What was he looking for? She stretched her spine, searching for a way out—the dividers were too high. And each end of the aisle opened to another wall of costumes. Who knew there could be so many?

“And clowns, as you well know, are inquietante . . . disturbing. Very disturbing.” Yes, but how did he know she thought so? “Truly, I am worn to the bone by the time the crying stops. They are exhausting—men and women alike. And then we must waste more time on the inevitable confusion and reluctance that quite naturally accompanies a journey such as this—all of which you seem to be handling well, mi belleza .”

“Thanks?” He was bound to pass a door eventually, right? “So, where are we going on this journey?”

“That’s up to you.”

“Back to Molly.”

“Possibly. Eventually.”

“No, I mean: back to Molly. If this journey is up to me that’s where I want to go. Back to Molly.”

From somewhere deep in the bowels of Candy’s Costumes came a muffled growling noise—caged beast or ancient furnace, it was hard to tell. A disturbing, worrisome sound no matter its source, though Zorro seemed unconcerned.

“Then let us begin. We must hurry.” He swerved left again at the end of the rack. She followed.

“Ah!” Elise came face-to-face with a giant Cat in the Hat—very authentic looking and much taller than Zorro. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes! And, I guess, you must know what this means. We mix your dreams and my schemes, with some baffling talk. But before you can run, you must first learn to walk.”

“Rhymes? Seriously?”

“For as long as it takes, and with lots of mistakes.”

“That’s not makeup . . . or a mask.”

He did a couple of facial contortions and then waggled his brows—it looked pretty real to her. “It’s a magical face, like this magical place.”

“Are you . . .” She couldn’t make herself say it, and so took another track. “Are you still Martin? Can . . . can I still call you Martin?”

“Or Bill or Will or Jon or Don; if you want me to I’ll try them all on. But if one is the same as all the rest, Martin’s the one that I like the best.”