Down the Rabbit Hole

“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.”

“Ooo?” Elise craned her short monkey neck to make out the words.

“It says you are cynical and judgmental and unwilling to balance your checkbook.” He looked as perplexed as she was.

Their eyes met and held; observant and reflective—hers wavered first.

Okay, so the checkbook thing was true. And sometimes she was a little pessimistic, who wasn’t?—aside from yoga instructors and Jamaicans, of course. But judgmental? And with that disapproving undertone?

She wasn’t very curious anymore. Elise became an Angry Bird, soaring over rows of costumes with a head-on trajectory to the far wall at the back of the store. She was about to crash and disintegrate . . . and there was no pig in sight to make her trip worthwhile.

Terrified, she squeezed her eyes shut tight, held her breath, felt herself falling and landed on her feet with a jolt.

At first, it was hard to see beyond her new bulbous nose, but the long white beard, the red jacket, the soft leather booties . . . and her still short stature left little doubt of her present emotions—or who she now appeared to be. She stomped down the aisle and around the corner to the next to confront Mr. Lincoln with her hands fisted on her hips.

“Grumpy.” The light in his eyes danced. “Perhaps you should run for Congress after all.”

“Humph.” Her eyebrows formed a near perfect V on her forehead. In a deep, rough voice she asked, “Who’d you expect? Sneezy? Dopey?”

“It is the gap between our assumptions and expectations that deliver most of the surprises to our life—and would not our lives be abysmally dull without them?”

“Hah! I hate surprises. They make life sloppy and unstable. Not for me, no, sir. A fine kettle of fish, they are.” Elise started pacing back and forth, agitated. Abe watched her until she stopped in front of him and asked, “What were we talking about?”

“I was reporting to you that there are certain people who believe you are the skeptical sort and an atrocious bookkeeper, despite your profession. But I believe it was the assertion that you are also judgmental that had you flying off the handle . . . in a manner of speaking.”