He must be wondering where I am.
Some students from the college near town had been recruited to assist in the pageant, girls in dreadlocks, sandals, and skirts. A barefoot boy, a pair of young apostles in matching beards. Gathered around in a half circle, they listened to a quick tutorial from the Quatre Mains and memorized their parts, how to move, where to march. They selected their favorites, fumbling with the puppets as they sought the right balance, testing how to make them move, clapping their great hands together with a swing of the rods. At the head of the line, Deux Mains took on the part of roly-poly Mr. Firkin. The Quatre Mains had the Devil, the college girls the Three Sisters, a boy for Nix, a girl for No?. The Irishman was beneath the Old Hag, the farm girl was Kay, and the second beard was the Good Fairy. On either side Stern and Finch lifted the colossus of the Queen, and on they marched, at Firkin’s whistle, down an easy hill and onto the Main Street proper.
Dressed in their Halloween costumes, schoolchildren from across the county had been bused in for the occasion. They sat on the curbs, wide-eyed. Behind them on the sidewalks their parents, some with babes in arms, and their teachers stood for the procession, mingling with the shopkeepers and the townsfolk gathered for the annual festivities. From the little witches and ghosts, skeletons and monsters rose a bright cheer as the puppets swung into view, and the marching band from the high school broke into “The Teddy Bears’ Picnic,” heavy on the brass and percussion. Trimmed in black and orange, the whole town pulsed with joy and surprise. Each dog they passed erupted into barks or whimpers, as if they could tell what was behind the still and placid faces. On the corner where the two major roads intersected, a camera crew from WCAX in Burlington jumped into action, and as Kay moved closer, she could hear a blond woman in a jack-o’-lantern sweater report on the proceedings, gushing at the flair of the Good Fairy, her voice rising an octave at the majesty of the Queen.
They came to the end of the parade at the town parking lot, the children in full pursuit. Arms and shoulders aching from the trek, the college kids shed their puppets, but the puppeteers stayed in character, the Devil babbling strange spells, Mr. Firkin twirling like a top, and the Old Hag reaching out with spindly arms to wrap each munchkin in a terrible embrace. Hoofing it with her cameraman, the reporter stopped to interview the Queen.
“Last show of the season,” the Irishman told her, as he stepped out from beneath the puppet. “We’ll start again in April. Can’t have these paper folks out in the winter elements.”
Squeals of laughter rang out, and toddlers wandered in crazy circles. Kay sidled over to a clutch of third graders, the girls and boys wary at first, but with the adults’ urging, one dared to approach and touch the hem of her paper skirt. The rest of the children, seeing no danger, swarmed over, posing for pictures holding the puppet’s oversized hand. One bespectacled girl smiled at her through a mouth of teeth and gaps. “Is she real?” she asked. Kay bent closer to better hear her. “Are you alive?” The farm girl shook Kay’s head from side to side and slunk off to another gaggle of children. The thrill of performing and the chaos of strangers filled her with a long-forgotten delight. She felt almost human again.
He is probably looking for me.
As the afternoon began to fade, busloads from the more rural areas left first, and the local parents with small children headed home. The Irishman, Stern, and Finch hiked back to the vehicles, and the college kids piled into a jalopy and headed back to campus up on the hill. A few gawkers kept the puppeteers company, asking questions about how such creatures are made. The Deux Mains passed out flyers for the shows to come next spring after the mud season had passed. Heaped together like corpses for a common grave, the puppets were largely forgotten, remnants of the day’s festivities, but of no more consequence than the Halloween decorations.
On the long ride home, Kay watched the sun disappear and reappear as it set over the staggered mountains, the branches of the trees at the crests breaking the red light into shards of fire, until all at once night arrived and the windows of the bus settled into black, and a million stars came out above the sheltered country roads. The old engine huffed and gurgled over the hills, and Finch switched on a classical music station on the radio, and the farm girl and the towheaded boy stretched out sleeping on the pair of long benches behind the driver’s seat. With a tilt of her head, Kay could reach the Good Fairy’s ear. She chanced a whisper.
“It was good to be out among the people today.”
“Not too loud,” the Good Fairy said, which Kay found ironic, for her husky voice had deepened after she had grown large and her wooden mouth creaked with each sentence.