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By Root 556 0

trying to get Leon to join in. He was supposed to work the Beast, which he’d never even fitted on his hand; and he’d had to be told the plot during the drive over. He claimed the only fairytale he knew was “Cinderella.” Now he ignored the puppets and paced restlessly up and down, sometimes pausing to lift a curtain and peer out into the garden. It was because of his parents, Emily thought. This house resembled his parents’ house, which Emily had once visited during semester break. The living room had that same stiff, icy quality, with the pale rugs that no one seemed to have walked on and the empty vases, the ticking silence, the satin striped chairs, where obviously no children were ever allowed to sit. Mrs. Tibbett, even, was a little like Mrs. Meredith—so gracious and honeyed, her hair streaked, her mouth tight, with something unhappy beneath her voice if Leon would only hear it. Emily reached out to pat his arm, but then stopped herself and curled her fingers in.

The doorbell rang—a whole melody. “It’s a goddamned cathedral,” Leon muttered. The first guests arrived, and Melissa Tibbett, a thin-faced, homely child in blue velvet, went to greet them. These children were all five years old or just turning six, Mrs. Tibbett had said. They were young enough to come too early, with their party clothes already sliding toward ruin, but old enough, at least, not to cling tearfully to the birthday presents they’d brought. Emily supervised the opening of the presents. Mrs. Tibbett had vanished, and the two men seemed to think that dealing with the children was Emily’s job. She learned the names that mattered—the troublemaker (Lisa) and the shy one who hid in corners (Jennifer). Then she settled them in front of the puppet show.

Victor was the father. Emily was each of the daughters in turn. Concealed behind the scrim, she didn’t feel much stage fright. “What do you want me to bring you, daughter?” Victor squeaked.

“Bring me a casket of pearls, Father,” Emily piped in a tiny voice.

Leon rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

“What do you want me to bring you, Beauty?”

“Only a rose, Father. One perfect rose.”

She could see the outlines of the children through the scrim. They were listening, but they were fidgety underneath, she thought. It made her nervous. She felt things were on the verge of falling into pieces. During the father’s long scene alone in the palace, she saw Mrs. Tibbett’s fluttery silhouette enter and stand watching. What a shame; she’d come during the dull part. “Oh. A table has been laid for me, with lovely foods,” the father said. “And look: a fine gold bed with satin sheets. I wonder to whom this belongs.” Mrs. Tibbett shifted her weight to the other foot.

Then the Beast arrived. Emily expected him to roar, but instead he spoke in a deep, chortling growl that took her by surprise. “Who’s gobbled up all my food?” he asked plaintively. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” (Oh, Lord, she hoped he hadn’t confused this with “Goldilocks.”) “My lovely bed, with the satin sheets to keep my hairdo smooth!” he groaned.

The children laughed.

An audience. She saw him realize. She saw the Beast raise his shaggy head and look toward the children. Their outlines were still now and their faces were craned forward. “Do you know who?” he asked them.

“Him!” they cried, pointing.

“What’s that you say?”

“The father! Him!”

The Beast turned slowly. “Oho!” he said, and the father puppet shrank back, as if blown by the Beast’s hot breath.

After the show the maid passed cake and punch around, but most of the children were too busy with the puppets to eat. Emily taught them how to work the Beast’s mouth, and she had Beauty sing “Happy Birthday” to Melissa. Mrs. Tibbett said, “Oh, this was so much better than last year’s ‘Punch and Judy.’ ”

“We never do ‘Punch and Judy,’ ” Leon said gravely. “It’s too grotesque. We stick to fairytales.”

“Just one thing puzzles me,” said Mrs. Tibbett.

“What’s that?”

“Well, the Beast. He never changed to a prince.”

“Prince?” Emily said.

“You had her living happily ever after with the Beast. But