Down the Rabbit Hole

“Liz is counting on you.”


“To be Bill’s date?” This time Elise gave her a slightly longer glance over her shoulder . . . with an appalled expression.

“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-maché. 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.”