Down the Rabbit Hole

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?

Her laugh was soft and quick. “Luckily, I limit the number of men who cross my path, or I wouldn’t have time to do anything but compare them all.”

“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?”