Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“Is that part of the deal, then? Do you have to keep changing?”

“I do. So do you. It’s just part of life. We do it to handle the pain and the strife.” Her stare was vapid. He chuckled. “Come on, get in gear. You’ve nothing to fear. Together we’ll figure your way out of here.”

“God, that’s annoying.”

“I know and it’s slow. It’s a tough way to learn. Just follow directions; it’s your turn to turn.”

“My turn to turn . . . into that? I don’t think so.”

“I’m already taken, there’s just one of me. First feel it—then think it, and soon you will see, it’s all up to you as to who you will be.”

She squinted at him, thoughtful. It was startling to realize how clearly she was thinking inside her not-damaged, not-insane, not-hallucinating but clearly not-normal state of mind.

“So, I decide on what I’m feeling and then I think about it—and I’ll change. Like you do.” She looked him up and down. “What on earth were you thinking?”

“Of you, that’s who. To get your attention and to add some dimension. What you feel is the deal; you must know it is real.”

“If this really works will you change into something that doesn’t rhyme or talk in riddles?”

“If you will it, I will.”

“Okay.” Elise looked down, searched for her strongest emotion—and when nothing changed, she lifted her gaze back to his. “Is this a joke?”

“Think and blink.”

She blinked instinctively, several times, before she could stop thinking about blinking and settle down to concentrate on what she was feeling. It helped to not look at him . . . or his big hairy cat feet. Her lids slid slowly over her eyes to close them out.

“No better than that, for the Cat in the Hat?” There was disappointment in his voice.

She opened her eyes and gasped at the black and white convict stripes that covered her all the way down to the ugly low-top, canvas, triple-Velcro prison sneakers on her feet. She huffed out an astonished laugh and glanced at his annoyed expression.

“What. It worked. I feel like a prisoner. What did you expect?”

He put his hand over his heart. “The real questions you keep, have answers more deep. The better you ask, the shorter the task.”

“If it takes me more time, will you run out of rhyme?”

His cat brow furrowed darkly; she grinned at him. He folded his arms across his chest, clearly expecting her to try again, to do better.

“Okay. Okay.” Elise closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them. He was scowling at her. Following his line of vision downward, she pressed her lips together at the sight of a ball and chain latched to her ankle. She snorted laughter through her nose; then released it with great amusement.

“The longer it takes, the longer it takes.” He turned and strode away. She watched him turn another corner, saw him glare at her over the partition and then followed the sight of his hat getting lower and lower like a setting sun.

“No. No. Wait.” She started forward; her ball rattled and clanked against the chain as she dragged it along behind her. “I’ll try again. Come on. Give me another chance. I think I’ve got it now.” She bent, picked up the ball and carried it like a baby. It was heavier than she thought it would be. She was a little out of breath when she caught up to him.

“Neeh . . . What’s up, doc?”

Elise stared at Bugs, lounging casually, chomping on a carrot, and then slowly closed her eyes. In less than a hiccup the weight in her arms changed shape.

“Oh!” To her great delight she wore a jacket and pants of tobacco brown canvas trimmed in red, with a matching trapper hat and russet boots. She had a rifle cradled in her arms . . . which she automatically lowered and leveled straight at him. “I want to weave, wabbit.”

His gaze traveled slowly from hers to the Elmer Fudd rifle and back again—it held a challenge. Unfortunately . . . or fortunately . . . she wasn’t about to take even a toy gun for granted, and so rotated wide of her target and pulled the trigger. A cloud of gray billowed upward as a cork popped from the muzzle, landing on the floor between them.

Their eyes met through the smoke—dancing and twinkling. They laughed.

And just like that Martin had gently and cleverly gotten her out of her prisoner frame of mind and broken the precarious ice between them. He could have killed her at any time, she realized. Maybe not with a lightsaber, but certainly a sword . . . or his bare hands . . . and yet he hadn’t once touched her.

“I’m beginning to wike this,” she said.

Nodding, he pushed himself into an upright position. Reaching out, he took hold of the rifle barrel and gave it a gentle tug—she released it to him. He put it and his carrot on the floor, and when he stood up he was Abraham Lincoln . . . stovepipe hat in hand.

Always described as being a tall man didn’t really cover the extent of his height, in Elise’s opinion. He was bend-your-neck-back tall. He was stare-at-the-top-button-on-his-vest tall. He was . . .

“Pwesident Wincoln. Howwy cow!” Elise covered her mouth immediately, appalled.

His smile was close-lipped and gentle. All manner of emotions existed in his fine eyes as they changed from gray to a golden-green hazel. Sadness and kindness were most notable . . . until amusement sparked.

“Martin.”

“Feeling not quite yourself today?” he asked, making his voice soft but clear and Lincoln-like—once again immersing himself in the character. She shook her head. “Go ahead, take a moment and gather your wits. I am in no hurry at all.” While searching the inside of his hat, he added, “I have no gun to my head today.”

She gasped softly at his wordplay and he looked up . . . then down. It was his turn to be startled. He swept his gaze over her, nodded once and muttered, “Interesting.”

Elise looked like Curious George. She sighed, dismayed. “Ahhh.”

“Take heart. We are in a costume shop, after all—magic and make-believe live here. And who would not be curious in a situation such as this? At least you are not the cat that curiosity killed.” The president smiled. “And while I died before reading the book, I understand the intensely curious Alice of Wonderland was foul-tempered and exceedingly bossy, which I would have found tedious in the extreme. So all in all, an inquisitive monkey is not so bad.”

“Ooo-ooo ah-ah.”

Mr. Lincoln grimaced. “Yes, I see. Conversing will be difficult. But perhaps, just for a moment or two, I can speak and you can listen.” He paused. “It would never work in the Congress, of course, but I believe you’re a different breed of monkey.”

She rolled her eyes and he chuckled.

“So, shall I come down to you or will you come up to me?” Martin or not, she couldn’t ask Abraham Lincoln to sit on the floor. She pointed up with her thumb. He reached down to wrap his long fingers around her hand and gave it a little yank—the ability to quickly climb a president’s body came with the costume, apparently. He seemed willing to hold her in his arms, but she couldn’t have borne it—she sprang to the lip at the top of the partition, squatted and curled her toes around the dowel below. They were almost eye to eye now—she just a smidgeon higher.

“Are you comfortable?” Bemused and tentative, she nodded. While he looked inside his hat once again she scanned for an exit. Her disappointment was unexpectedly bearable.

Mr. Lincoln removed and replaced several different-sized pieces of paper and at least one envelope from the lining in his hat until he found the note he was after—then he set it on the floor.

Rising slowly, he read the memo, clearly perplexed. “I must be honest with you; I am surprised by this report.”