Down the Rabbit Hole

“No . . . Well, yes . . . but not entirely.” She took a deep breath. “She’s hired the nice little dance band that played at Patty Morrison’s wedding—she got lucky there, because they’re super busy. But since so many people will be dressed as characters of some sort, she thought you might be willing to play piano between their sets.”

“Me? Why? How does she even know I could?”

“We’ve talked about it. You know, about your lessons and how much the boys love it when you play ‘Happy Birthday’ for them. And it wouldn’t be anything huge. A few short snippets of show tunes and funny little character jingles like . . . Oh! ‘Muppet Babies, we make our dreams come true. Muppet Babies, we’ll do the same for you,’” she sang quietly. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “No, I hate that one. Reruns, every afternoon at one thirty—sticks in your head until you want to blow it off. But maybe ‘Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you?’” She chuckled. “Or Batman!—everyone knows the lyrics to that one: ‘Nana, nana, nana, nana.’” Suddenly, her right fist shot into the air. “‘Thunder, thunder, Thundercats, ho!’ Best ever. Super motivational for little boys under the age of six.” She went back to the fantasy fashions. “I don’t know what I’d do without it. Maybe ‘Tomorrow’ . . . there’s bound to be at least one Annie there. The Pink Panther . . .”

Elise’s expression was frozen in horror.

Piano lessons were her special treat for sticking with her day job—revenue officer for the IRS. Someone had to do it. The lessons were an indulgence, not a new career choice, and not for public consumption. She was doing pretty well, and proud of it, but she could barely play for family—she’d practiced ‘Happy Birthday’ so often she could also play it backward.

“Short snippets of show tunes? Have you lost your mind?”

Molly finally turned to face her. “I only said I’d bring it up and see what happens—and I can see it isn’t happening. I pretty much assumed it wouldn’t, but Liz . . . well, you know how she gets carried away sometimes.”

Elise barely knew Liz. Liz was Molly’s friend. She’d only agreed to go to the party because Molly had insisted and she’d had a date—at the time.

Now she didn’t—so she wasn’t.

Oh sure, there were worse things than a blind date. And there were more embarrassing situations than tagging along with your brother and his wife to a party—like having your credit card declined during a rush hour at the Piggly Wiggly or mistaking your boss’s daughter for his son or producing a freight train fart in church—but honestly, who wouldn’t avoid all those things given the choice?

A wall of masks caught her eye. Hundreds of masks—from plain domino masks like the ones Green Lantern and the Lone Ranger wear to intricate and beautiful Venetian Carnival masks that looked like works of art. Gaudy half-face Mardi Gras masks to full-face rubber head masks of Freddy Krueger . . . and others more horrifying. Feathers and rhinestones. Glitter and lace. Plastic, ceramic and papier-mâché. Some were universal, others more specific . . .

She reached high to retrieve one with a six-inch nose. “This would be a good one for Jeremy.”

Molly turned, confused. But only for a moment.

“Oh, right. Pinocchio. The liar.” Her voice had an edge to it. She crossed the aisle to the action/adventure outfits. “You’re talking about the Jeremy we haven’t seen or heard from in almost three years? The Jeremy you married—the one who wanted to give you the world and then lied and cheated on you before he finally left you up to your eyeballs in debt? The Jeremy who could, at this very moment, be burning in hell for all we know, and yet he still manages to destroy every chance you get at a happy, healthy relationship? That Jeremy?” She yanked a dress from the crush of clothes and snapped, “Princess Leia?”

Elise bobbed her head. “With Luke, Han or Darth Vader . . . or a Stormtrooper?”

They both looked at an endcap display of the fallen Jedi knight and shuddered at the thought of how effectively Roger’s voice would resonate from inside Vader’s mask.

“Not Darth,” they agreed.

Elise shrugged; there were better costumes. Not one that would involve the grizzly hockey mask of Jason Voorhees—which she quickly diverted her gaze from—but maybe something more wistful, like Erik’s mask from The Phantom of the Opera.

“Jeremy’s gone.” Molly’s voice went gentle and concerned. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know that.” What about a Catwoman or V mask?

“Do you? Or do you compare every man who crosses your path to him?”

So what if she did? Who wouldn’t? People aren’t graded and tagged like cattle at auction. It was more like buying baskets from a snake charmer—who knows what’s inside?