“Where am I?” The sound of her own voice surprised her, having been locked in her throat for so long.
“You’re in the Back Room,” the clown said and waved his arm with a flourish, showing her the scope of the surroundings. She sat up to take a better look and immediately regretted her decision. Colors and shapes mixing and spinning before slowly settling into view. It was a surprisingly small space. In the middle was a rectangular worktable, littered with tools—hammers and saws—and a miniature lathe with what appeared to be a wooden leg pinned in place at the top of the thigh and bottom of the foot. A sack of overflowing cotton batting stood next to a glass jar half full with fine sawdust. Beaded curtains ran from the floor to ceiling to her left, covering what she remembered as the entrance to the toy shop proper. Opposite the curtain was a bare cinderblock wall broken in the corner by a wooden door to the outside, its single window covered by a sheet of brown butcher’s paper and locked on the inside by both a deadbolt and a strong chain. Along the other two walls rose industrial metal shelves upon which sat an assortment of other puppets who were lined up along the edges. Still as a statue, the clown had been holding his arm up in the air as Kay gathered her wits.
“What is the Back Room?”
“It’s where they make the puppets.”
“You are a puppet?”
“My name is Nix. At your service.” He dropped his arm and bowed deeply.
“Am I a puppet?”
A mischievous leer was pasted on his face as he rose. “That you are.”
On the shelves, all the other puppets twitched and moved, burst into applause. They clapped and hooted, waving their arms and legs, jumping for joy. Their voices were strange, out of key for adults but not childlike either, some register in between. She was frightened by their enthusiasm but not by Nix’s revelation. Long ago, she had grasped her situation. She understood that somehow she had been transformed into a puppet and was relieved to hear his confirmation.
A fat marionette, twice the size of Nix, with a barrel stomach and a giant walrus mustache launched himself from the shelf, leaving behind his wires and bars, and waddled over to her, leaping up and landing beside her. He was astonishingly spry in the way that fat men sometimes are. Offering his hand, he helped her to her feet. Nix grabbed her other hand, and they both steadied her as she wobbled on spindly legs, knees buckling once or twice. Her gaze darted back and forth between the two walls as those weird creatures came to life. Some sat in groups of two or three, feet dangling over the edges of the shelves, watching intently. Others stood leaning against the metal sides, affecting a more casual air. She counted twelve altogether, plus the two men at her sides. She wiggled her fingers, and they let go.
“Careful,” Nix said. “The first step is a doozy.”
She teetered like a toddler and nearly fell to her face. For the next steps, she shuffled forward before daring to lift her foot again.
“Bravo, good show,” the walrus man said. “They call me Mr. Firkin.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Firkin. How is this all happening?”
“We come into life of our own accord. We lucky few can move about as long as the people are not watching. Midnight to first light, we are free. Well, freedom is all relative, of course. Free within the confines of the Back Room. Free to move about, talk with one another, reconnect with old friends and meet new ones. Like you.”
She remembered that there were people who would be wondering where she was. “And we cannot leave the Back Room?”
“Why would anyone ever want to leave?” Nix laughed.
“Not on our own accord,” said Mr. Firkin. “What would people think if suddenly puppets could move like ordinary folk?”
One by one, like raindrops trailing down a windowpane, the others slid off their places on the shelves and moved toward the table. The marionettes and rod puppets marched her way. The hand puppets appeared to be gliding on the hems of their cloth bodies, silent as ghosts. Some of them leapt to the floor as Mr. Firkin had done. Others climbed the legs of the table to join the rest as they surrounded her, curious, tempted but tentative. Three of the creatures, large marionettes in nineteenth-century dresses in dark formal colors, stayed behind, whispering to one another like sisters. She counted a devil, a fairy, a hag. A black man with white hair in a white judge’s robe, and a white man with black hair in a black judge’s robe. A rod puppet dared to touch Kay’s hair and then quickly drew back her finger. A glove puppet with long ears, wide black eyes, and a sharp muzzle sniffed at her feet with his black rubber nose.
“He looks like Pluto.” She laughed.
“Well, he’s not,” said Nix. “He’s just an old dog who does nothing but bark and get into trouble.” On cue, the hound woofed twice and then sat back on its skirt, wagging a thin leather tail that curled at the tip.