'Here we are, trapped in the amber
of the moment.
There is no why."
~~Kurt Vonnegut~~
I stood in the darkness and watched them moving together, arms and legs
intermittently intertwined, grins, grimaces--frowns flashing, eyebrows
twisting--silent but for the clashing of their bodies. Eyelids fluttered down
over bulging eyes, only to slide open again, looking too wise, too smart.
The performance ended, the dusty footlights on the outdoor stage going dim.
Everyone turned away, back to the sound and excitement of the midway, except for
me. I wanted to meet the puppeteer, the man who so masterfully pulled those
strings.
He was busy putting props away, his black suit coat draped over a chair,
muscles playing across his shoulders under the white broadcloth of his shirt as
he packed first one dummy and then another into their cases. He was a
severe-looking man, abrupt in his movements, his hurried packing, his
stiff-necked turning making me inexplicably uncomfortable. A cigarette dangled
from his bottom lip. "You want something?" he asked, looking me up and
down. He turned away, humming tunelessly, the music drawing me, pulling me.
I moved closer. "I'd like to learn more about the marionettes."
He smiled, looking back at me over the top of his shoulder, his eyes
shining as he pivoted and came to sit along the edge of the stage. He took one
last drag on his smoke, then tossed it away in the darkness. All the people
were gone now. "Per—perhaps I should be going," I said, stepping
back, feeling nervous. But he reached for my arm, his mouth a moue of
disapproval.
"No, no, ma petite, come sit beside me and ask your questions. I will
answer if I can."
So I—hesitantly at first, growing braver as the evening died—asked him
about his job and the dolls he controlled so expertly, while he discovered the
curls behind my ears, and how the silky auburn hair there wrapped his fingers
like a baby's fist.
He confided how much he loved his dolls, how his craft, his talent, was
ancient and had been passed down from father to son. He told enthusiastically
of growing up in the Pyrenees , honing his
skill at country shows alongside his grandfather. Between the stories, he
hummed that tuneless music, his face glowing as he talked about the next town,
the next show, his life on the road exactly what he wanted to do, how he wanted
to spend his time.
I scooted nearer, seeking his warmth, the treasury of his thoughts. His
arms came around me in the hour before dawn, his lips, his strength, pressing
me urgently onto the boards of the small stage, his puppets forgotten, watching
us solemnly from their cardboard suitcases.
It never was an interest in marionettes that drew me to him, but rather all
those lovely muscles beneath that white broadcloth shirt. They dwindled,
though, when he took a desk job at Hanley's Insurance so we could stay right
here at home. I haven't heard him hum in thirty years, but he makes a decent
living. Me and the kids are fine.
Once in a while he'll go up into the attic and just sit up there on an old
chair, the four suitcases at his feet, tears licking at their dusty tops as he looks
out the dormer window facing north.
