The Confetti Man

Prelude

Glastonbury, Connecticut

February 7, 1838

To my descendants—in very particular those individuals who will herein-after be known as guardians,

On the night of December 25, 1836, a candle on my parents’ Christmas tree went awry; the parlor was quickly engulfed in flames and it soon became obvious that the whole house would be consumed. I, my father, and my brothers managed to save a few of my mother’s cherished belongings and were laboring to salvage what else we might when—I began to hear voices calling my name. Men, women, even small children ...

Rip! they beseeched. "Upstairs! Hurry. Please."

Bewildered, I ran to the second floor. But the voices led me on; to the third floor—to the door of the attic. And, as I wrenched that door open, the curtain of cosmic knowledge parted. Suddenly and certainly I knew the truth: no man truly dies until knowledge of him is lost to living memory.

Contained in that attic was the genealogical history of our Burgess family. My grandfather had devoted his life to the collection, priding himself upon its completeness—upon the fact that every single descendant of Ephraim Burgess, 1536-1624, was therein chronicled.

Standing at the base of the attic stairs, my spine tickling cold despite the rising heat, I realized that the mountain of boxes, trunks, notes and files was much more than dusty chronicles; for, the bodyless voices screaming for my aid were issuing from that collection.

They were alive in there.

And the fire was eating its greedy way toward them. Soon their names, the details of their lives—the memory that they had been, wanted and striven—would be consumed. They would truly die.

I am not ashamed to admit that, for the first time since infancy, I began to sob. I stumbled up the stairs, tried to open a window, found it stuck, smashed it out with my bare fists and hurled the first box of ancestors to the safety of the lawn.

Now me, cried some.

"No, me" cried others.

But the collection was vast indeed. Though I moved like a man possessed, I had thrown barely half of the boxes to safety when the heat reached an intensity I had not dreamed possible; smoke swirled about me, and I heard the crackle of fire in the bedrooms below.

Still I worked with a madman’s strength, trying to shut out those voices.

"Me. Save me."

And the one sweet, sad voice midst the confusion saying, John Edward. Please save John Edward.

I must have saved John Edward, for the sweet voice suddenly said, Thank you. Now you had better save yourself. And it seemed that two small hands took mine and drew me toward the window.

I resisted. Suddenly I wanted to save her.

But the hands were determined. Don’t you understand? You must save yourself. You’re our only chance.

I looked out the window; the house beneath me was a flaming pyre, and, even as I looked, flames licked at that window and roared up the stairwell behind me.

Jump, she said.

I scrambled onto the sill, ignoring jagged glass; flung myself toward the boughs of an ancient chestnut tree; was tossed from one limb to the other, downward, ever downward, till the last bough rejected me and dashed me to the snow-covered lawn.

In the bedridden months that followed, I had time to ponder. Why, I asked myself, had no one else in the family heard those voices? Why had they addressed themselves to me alone?

To make clear to you what became apparent to me, let me explain that, at the time of the fire, I was suffering from melancholia brought on by the pronouncements of my physicians and by a beastly itching. It had even occurred to me that, should I die, I would not long be remembered.

Which only deepened the melancholy. I, Professor Euripides Faversham Burgess, an individual who, at the age of seven, translated the works of Homer from the original Greek—I, who have written the greatest unpublished works the world has known—I would be forgotten, whilst idiots such as Nero and upstart females such as the Brontes would be ensured immortality by libraries and scholars who should know better!

Which—the freshness of this problem in my mind, my anger, my desire to be remembered—is exactly why my ancestors selected me as their savior, why they demonstrated so dramatically to me that one did actually continue to live when remembered—that, hence, the path to everlasting life was remembrance.

That is why they invested me with a sacred trust: the preservation of the memory of all Burgesses, past, present and future.

My first step in the preservation of that trust was to catalogue the material I had salvaged, and to begin a search of public and private records. I am proud to say that I reconstructed and thus resurrected the lives of all those lost in the fire.

In especial, the life of my beloved Morrow.

For that was her name. The John Edward for whom she pleaded was my great-great-great-great-grandfather (an amateur historian and genealogist, I discovered). Strangely enough, he, like myself, developed a flaking affliction of the skin, though in a particularly virulent form. Fearing some new contagion, society expelled him; drove him into the woods. Though his wife would not accompany him into that exile, his sister did. Morrow. Between John Edward and herself there seems to have been a remarkable bond. Probably from sympathy, she herself developed his flaking disease.

It is not known exactly what became of them. A friend who sometimes brought provisions to their cave in a Connecticut wood says thus:

I eyntered sed cave and kalled oute. None answered. I sete myselfe to wayte, and did so till nyghts-falling, but was sorely disturbed bye an strange pile of debris upon whate I knewe to be theyr bed, upon which theye were wont to huddle for warmthe. I knowe not whence this debris came, nor whate it could be, but as I sete, it sometymes appeared to me as of a shape resemblying theyr two entwyned bodys. I left, and returning in one weeke, found the provisions untouched and the debris bloone aboute the cave by an capricious draft. I did not again return, feeling it was not mete.

Ah, valiant, selfless Morrow, whose clear thinking saved my life that night, who I thus consider co-founder of the Burgess Trust. Oft, in my reading, I have pondered the doctrine of reincarnation. It must be rejected, of course; yet, in fantasy, I have yearned for it to be true. I yearn to have been Morrow’s John Edward and thus to be traveling with her spirit in some corridor of time. I yearn to meet her in the flesh. If I could, if ever I did, I swear that God nor nothing would keep me from her.

In light of my new-found love for Morrow, the next step in the perpetuation of the Burgess Trust was, indeed, repugnant to me. (I assure you I had not avoided wedlock out of any dislike for women—but simply because I considered marriage a useless encumbrance whose only delight was freely available to one such as myself.) However, finding myself in need of legitimate heirs, I selected a young lady of tender years and admirable form and paid her court. I built, as the setting for our marital bliss, a lovely home, and I have, this day, taken the young lady to wife. From past experience, I have no doubt that the first recipient of this letter is now sleeping with her in that great canopied bed across the room.

(At this point I ask that you refer to the portrait I commissioned for my wedding. The artist, one Mr. Sully, has adequately conveyed my fortunate physical attributes; though the solemn expression I, per fashion, wear belies the gentle nature and good humor which my friends most emphatically agree I possess. Unfortunately, Mr. Sully also immortalized traces of my skin affliction—which is temporary and by no means progressive, despite the unreasonable opinions of physicians. Any erroneous assumptions you might make from viewing this portrait can be corrected by examining the Doll. It bears what I consider to be a true, current resemblance of myself, and conveys those humane attributes heretofore mentioned.)

And now for the final and most important step which I have seen fit, as a good general, sacrificing the few for the many, to take. The Doctrine of Everlasting Life—which every Burgess will study, defend and obey.

You would not, of course, be human if you did not ask how I, from the grave to which I must inevitably go (though not with the shameful dispatch upon which my physicians insist) how I can force subsequent generations to obey.

Let me simply say that I have found the means. Never, dear children, doubt my ability to enforce, to endure beyond any efforts to be rid of me, to punish—and to destroy.

THE DOCTRINE OF EVERLASTING LIFE

None truly die until knowledge of them is lost to living memory. Our Burgess ancestors have expressed their desire to live.

I have expressed my desire to live.

It is assumed that future generations will express their desire to live.

Therefore

It is incumbent upon us to preserve knowledge of all persons born or married to this family of Burgess, wherever they might appear in the cycle of time.

The manner of preservation is to be by means of the stuff called paper, which, of all matter, enables us to best preserve knowledge of persons. This paper will be collected and preserved by the guardians.

I am the first guardian. My eldest child is the second guardian. The eldest of my eldest is third. And thus the Trust shall pass, from eldest to eldest, regardless of sex, so long as mankind shall survive.

In ordinary circumstances three guardians will be living at once. Grandparent, parent, and child. They will hereafter be referred to as senior guardian, guardian, and guardian-elect. Guardians-elect and possible guardians-elect will be inculcated from infancy with a love of things paper and a zeal for their mission. Guardians-elect will be acquainted with this document at the age of sixteen or upon the death of the senior guardian (the original document to be held at all times by a reliable solicitor).

Female guardians will, at their marriage, legally add the name of Burgess as hyphenate to that of their husbands. Issue of that marriage will adopt the legal name of Burgess. Burgess family members and spouses past the age of sixteen will be acquainted with this document and will show the guardians respect and gratitude.

Aside from the active and unending search for, and storage of, Burgess data, specific duties of guardians are these:

My portrait is to be kept by senior guardians, prominently displayed. The care and maintenance of my tomb will be the responsibility of the guardian. The guardian-elect will be given the Doll, that transfer to occur on his or her fifth birthday.

This Doll has been fashioned by my own hands. It is not merely my image. It is myself. Guardians-elect can and must fondle this Doll; when not being fondled, however, the Doll must be kept in its case. (If it is deemed best for the safety of the Doll that the guardian-elect not keep it in his or her possession, the guardian or senior guardian may temporarily keep it, though this event is to be diligently guarded against and the Doll should be returned to the keeping of the guardian-elect at the earliest possible moment.)

Repairs of any kind to the portrait or its frame, to my tomb, or to Doll and case must exactly duplicate the originals.

Those are the conditions. Should they be disobeyed, should harm befall portrait, tomb, Doll or collection, all Burgesses will feel my wrath—but, in particular, the guardians. They will beg for death.

(The ninety-six-page addendum attached to this document is to be memorized by guardians-elect. It covers each and every circumstance which might arise in succeeding generations and the manner in which it will be dealt with.)

Your loving and ever-present friend,

Rip

* 1 *

Hartford, Connecticut

1953

Because she’s a pack rat, that’s why.

Morrow Burgess sat between her parents and watched the suburbs of Hartford thin to woods and fields. She hardly heard the words they were having, they had them so often—always about the same thing; Daddy’s mother and her trunks.

Now, Grace, Chester said amiably, for he was always amiable, she’s not a pack rat. She’s the senior—

Quiet, said Grace. It’s bad enough I gave in about seeing her. I will not have you repeating that ‘Trust’ drivel in front of Morrow.

Grace, you haven’t allowed Mother to see Morrow for three years now. I think I’ve been patient enough with your point of view, and it’s high time—

I know what time it is. Morrow’s five years old today, right? Don’t think for one minute you’ll get away with what you’re planning.

She put her arms around Morrow, kissed the shining dark hair.

I’m not going to let my baby be contaminated, she said. You and your relatives can keep your disease to yourselves. Then she squeezed Morrow and chucked her under the chin. Don’t squint, darling. It’s bad for your eyes.

Chester sighed.

"I wish I could make you understand, Grace. We’ve got to obey. We’ll suffer terribly if—"

Bull, Grace muttered.

Which seemed perfectly logical to Morrow, who had, herself, noticed the animal in the field beside the road.

*

Gramma’s trunks, the cause of all the bickering, were the first things Morrow saw. They were stacked to the rafters of the woodshed; the kitchen, with its twelve-foot ceiling, was a series of cleared paths among more of them, ending, at the far end of the room, in a semicircle before the fireplace. Above the fireplace hung a portrait.

Morrow halted just inside the door, staring at the man in that portrait, a hesitant smile tugging at her lips. Then suddenly she shivered. Mother touched her shoulder reassuringly.

Go on in, darling.

Morrow inched forward.

Just don’t touch anything, Mother added.

Morrow glanced at the cobwebs and dust on the trunks and boxes which directed her passage down the aisle and tried, Alice-like, to shrink herself into an even smaller girl. She wished the man in the portrait would stop looking at her like that. Studiously, she ignored him.

Come here, Morrow, said a brusque, brittle voice. "That dark hair of hers must be from your side of the family, Grace—though her eyes are ours, exactly Rip’s blue. She’ll be quite presentable if they ever come uncrossed."

The lady who had spoken sat in one of the rocking chairs beside the crackling fire. Her hair was white, and she had spectacles. But she wore blue jeans and loafers with pennies in them, and her wiry body wasn’t old like a gramma’s should be.

In the other chair was the lady who must be Uncle Abel’s wife, Jenny. Morrow’s gaze went directly to the shriveled legs; then, quickly, she pretended she’d only meant to study the floor. (The yellow linoleum at least was shiny and clean.)

I had polio last year, Jenny told her with a sweet smile. I know it’s not pretty, but please don’t be afraid, darling.

Morrow tried to smile back. Was polio the Burgess disease Mother was always talking about? She’d always assumed it was having crossed eyes like herself.

Come here, Gramma said again. She held out a hand, stained with ink and dirty with dust.

Grace was spreading a sweater on a chest in order to sit down. She nodded to Morrow to go ahead.

Still Morrow hesitated. Her daddy, she saw, didn’t seem worried about catching anything. After giving Gramma the suitcase of data he’d collected on the Rhode Island Burgesses, he’d cleared a space at the table and removed his hobby materials from a satchel: selected paper, a bottle of mucilage, shellac, and a model Packard of papier-mâché. Humming, he was now at work constructing its windshield.

What’s the matter with the kid? said Uncle Abel. She deaf? Or just not too bright?

Grace hissed and started to speak.

Morrow beat her to it. She turned on the man who looked exactly like Daddy—twin brothers, but Uncle Abel’s face was twisted and mean.

A-b-c-d-e-f-g—h-i-j-k-l-m-n-o-p—q-r-s-t-u-v-w-x-y-z! And I can count to a hundred too, so there. She gave even the portrait a look of triumph, and was rewarded by appreciative laughter from her mother.

Gramma laughed, too. Uncle Abel looked at Chester’s Packard and ran out of the room.

Still laughing. Gramma rose from her chair.

Don’t pay any attention to your uncle. Morrow, he’s jealous of anything to do with your daddy. Well now, it’s time you met Rip.

She extended a dusty hand and took Morrow’s unwilling one.

Rip, this is Morrow.

Morrow looked around the room, then saw that Gramma was looking at the man in the portrait. She stiffened.

Say hello, said Gramma.

His cold blue eyes were waiting as, reluctantly, and at close range now. Morrow looked up.

He wore a red velvet jacket with green pants, a vest, and a tie like a scarf. Funny clothes; but he wasn’t the least bit fat or anything, so he looked—wonderful in them. He was handsome, too, and his hair was so blond it was almost silver.

For an instant, staring upward. Morrow reexperienced the expectant warmth that had flooded her when first she’d seen him across the room—as though she’d sighted a long-lost friend who would return her smile at any moment.

Then the cold returned. For the eyes remained frigid, the mouth unrelentingly set. The creases that on others would have been laugh lines and good-natured crow’s feet were seen to be only harsh.

On top of that, so close, Morrow saw something that aroused her squeamishness over disease and contamination as even Jenny’s wasted limbs had not done.

His skin, every visible part, was—flaking.

She took a step backward, afraid that some of the flakes might flutter down and touch her; but strangely there didn’t seem to be any on his collar; certainly none had fallen as far as the mahogany arms of his chair.

She was startled by Gramma’s prodding touch.

"Say hello, sweetheart. He’s your great-great-great-great-grandfather Euripides. He loves you."

Morrow swallowed.

Will he answer back?

It’s nothing but a picture, said Grace, he’s been dead for over a hundred years. Say hello— she gave Gramma a stern look—and then your grandmother will be satisfied.

Morrow’s gaze traveled to Rip’s extended hand—which held a tiny pyramid like the ones in Egypt she’d seen in a book—then up the massive gold-leaf frame to the strange canopy containing another pyramid.

Hello, Rip, she said, not meeting his eyes; Mother, she was certain, was wrong about him being dead.

That’s a good girl, said Gramma. Now come and sit on the floor beside me. I’ve some things to show you.

"What things?" said Grace.

Gramma smiled.

Just some mementos, Grace, and she picked up a box from beside the chair. This, Morrow, is something you should remember. When you’re big, you’ll want to read what’s inside, because it’s all about the lady you’re named after.

She’s not named after her, said Grace. I just thought it was a pretty name, that’s all. It never even occurred to me that—

"Her name is Morrow and she’s named after our Morrow."

Gramma held the box reverently. It was covered with light-gray velvet, and there were clusters of pink velvet rosebuds on it. It seemed to Morrow one of the prettiest things she’d ever seen.

He made it himself, said Gramma, looking up at the portrait.

Morrow looked up too, then turned away, shocked. Rip’s eyes were still upon her, but from this angle they seemed not half so cold as they’d been a minute ago.

And here I’ve got some old-fashioned valentines, said Gramma. You may touch them and play with them if you’re very careful.

Glancing at Grace for permission. Morrow took the first lacy creation. Gramma handed her another and another, telling her the story of the Burgesses associated with each card. The room was cozy with the snapping fire, Gramma’s gentle voice, Jenny’s sweet smile. Morrow almost forgot Rip hovering above her; she barely heard Mother’s occasional deprecating remark.

Then there came a thumping.

Gramma sighed; Jenny shrugged.

Abel backed in from the hallway, dragging a refrigerator packing crate.

You think that Packard’s so good, Chester, take a look at these.

He unwrapped the first papier-mâché object from its tissue paper.

Chester smiled indulgently.

The Cardiff Giant. Nice, Abel. But, of course, there’s not much detail involved.

Abel smiled too.

"You think I’d show the best thing first? Look at this. The Hindenburg in Flames. And this. The Empire State Building—every door and window. And how about this, huh?"

Chester maintained his polite smile.

Who is it?

Abel’s face crumpled.

"I know, said Morrow. Shirley Temple."

Abel turned, grateful; then something funny happened to his face.

Like father, like daughter. Thinks she’s so smart. He dived into the crate and backed out, pulling—the Titanic, complete with iceberg, lifeboats, and people drowning in the sea.

Chester stared, unable to feign indifference.

"Better than anything you’ve ever done, said Abel. Even Mother says so."

Now, Abel, said Gramma, "I said it was as good as anything Chester has ever done."

Abel kicked at a trunk, walked to a corner, and sat down with his back to the room.

Grace yawned.

Lord, it’s stuffy in here.

It’s the fire, said Jenny. My legs get cold without it. Abel, open a window.

No, said Gramma. I can’t stand drafts. Why doesn’t Abel take Grace out to see my roses.

Grace and me don’t both leave this room at the same time, said Abel. We know what you’re up to.

That’s right, said Grace. For once Abel and I are in accord.

Gramma shrugged. Then she clapped her hands.

I know. I’ll pour us some of that nice apple brandy.

She disappeared through the trunks, down the path to the cupboard.

This will be just the thing, she said as she distributed the glasses. Brandy’s a stimulant.

She raised her own glass to Rip; smiled down at Morrow.

To the eldest of the eldest on her fifth birthday.

Firelight played over Gramma’s white hair and made her spectacles sparkle. From the neck up. she looked just like a Gramma should look.

Bottoms up, said Gramma, and drained her glass.

Tch, ten, said Grace, but she took a healthy sip.

*

Half an hour later, Morrow followed the direction of her Gramma’s flashing spectacles and saw, to her amazement, that her mother was sprawled across the trunk, asleep.

Chester, Gramma whispered.

Chester looked up.

Mother, you’re wonderful.

Now listen, you two—

Hush, Abel! said Jenny. "Please don’t interfere."

I’ll go get it, said Gramma. You explain to Morrow, Chester. And, vaulting over the nearest trunk, she disappeared down a hall.

Morrow? said Chester.

Morrow was staring at the spot where she had last seen her gramma.

Your grandmother is about to present you with the most treasured of the Burgess heirlooms. I myself’—Chester glanced at Abel—as the eldest child of Rip’s eldest direct descendant was given this heirloom the day I was five."

Abel kicked another trunk.

Morrow frowned.

Then why does Gramma have whatever it is?

Aha! cried Abel. Why, Chester? Why?

Chester pasted another paper onto his Packard.

Because, Morrow, your mother ... exerted pressure shortly after we were married, and I had to ... board it with your grandmother for its own safety. That is allowed.

Abel was pacing.

I did a better job collecting than you, Chester. Half the collection in this house is mine.

He turned to Rip.

"It should have been me that got the Doll in the first place, and it’s me that should get it now. Not her."

He pointed at Morrow, his eyes pleading with Rip.

"With a mother like Grace she won’t be able to collect."

Gramma trotted back into the room.

You know his rules, Abel. I’m sorry too, Grace makes it difficult, but Chester is two minutes older than you and there’s no way to change it. Now, Morrow—she was holding something awkwardly behind her back—you’ve got to keep this hidden from your mother, and you’ve got to keep it safe, or Rip will get you. That’s all you need to know just now. When you’re older we’ll explain the rest.

Mother, please, said Abel. "Isn’t it possible the doctor got us mixed up and I’m the oldest? I know Rip will understand if you give me the Doll."

Morrow’s worried face brightened.

A doll?

Abel, said Gramma, there’s been enough damage done already. Nothing’s happened to us yet, because technically we haven’t violated the rules, but the Doll started flaking the day Grace made Chester bring it here—the portrait, too. If we don’t stick to the rules now he’ll flake worse and call down the curse, starting with me.

With a flourish, she produced the Doll.

Morrow’s anticipation faded. She backed away.

It wasn’t a doll at all. It was him: the man in the portrait, with the same clothes even. He lay in a box just like a coffin, but with a glass lid; over his head was the same funny pyramid thing as over the portrait.

Gramma opened the lid and took him out. He seemed not to be held by her hand, but to dance in midair.

Isn’t he wonderful? said Gramma. See his smile?

Morrow saw it. She kept backing.

Take him, said Gramma. Hold him.

Morrow couldn’t. He was flaking, too—not just his hands and face, but everything, the flakes fluttering to the floor, gathering like confetti Morrow had seen in the mud after a cousin’s wedding. His glittering blue eyes were fastened upon her.

I don’t want him, she whispered.

Yes you do, said Gramma.

No she doesn’t, said Abel.

You’ll have so much fun with it, said Daddy.

Morrow took shelter behind a chest. Gramma followed, thrusting the thing at her.

Mother Burgess, said Jenny, perhaps it would be best—

Gramma knows what’s best for her little sweetheart.

Morrow escaped, scrambling over trunks to cling to her father.

Daddy!

Baby, please, said Chester, trying to pat her, but awkward with the mucilage on his fingers. Be a nice girl and mind your Gramma.

Just take it in your hands, urged Gramma.

Morrow backed around the table; Gramma followed.

If you don’t want to take it home, I’ll keep it for you. Cuddle it just once.

No! Morrow sobbed. I’ll get the disease.

Abel had been shaking Grace.

Wake up! Come on, Grace. Grace! They’re making her take the Doll.

Grace’s eyes opened, looking fully as crossed as Morrow’s. She shook herself, focusing on the sight of her daughter, now backed into a corner by her grandmother. Morrow’s hands were behind her back, and she was screaming as she tried to dodge the flakes falling from the Doll. At least give it a little kiss, Gramma was saying.

Grace was sure it was only a dream, but she rose and staggered to the rescue, handling Gramma more roughly than she might have had they both been awake.

We’ll wait in the car, she told Chester as she steered Morrow out the door; for she was certain that, before the dream started, they had come to the farm in a car.

By the time Chester came trotting from the house, the air had relieved Grace of any semblance of sleepwalking.

"She drugged me. And you allowed it."

Now, Grace—

She was terrorizing Morrow, you allowed that, too.

Grace stared at him, her head shaking spasmodically.

Chester! Oh Chester.

Her voice lowered to a whisper.

"Do you know what you are? You’re an unfit father."

Chester drew in his breath and turned hurt eyes to Grace.

"Some people would say that it’s you who’s unfit, Grace ... Please don’t scream, Morrow, darling. Mommy and I are talking."

Why shouldn’t she scream? said Grace, pulling Morrow to her breast. I feel like screaming, too.

Tears filled her eyes.

God, what a fool I was to marry you. What a fool to think I could change you. I wish I had the guts to get a divorce—but I don’t. Just get us out of here. That mother of yours is never going to see Morrow again.

Oh, Grace. Baby.

Chester ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

Do you think you’re the only one that’s thinking of Morrow’s welfare? he said, and his eyes filled with tears. You think I don’t love her, too? Grace, you know as well as I do what can happen. My grandfather defied Rip’s doctrine and—Lord—you saw what he looked like when he died.

It was exfoliative dermatitis, the doctors said so.

"It was Rip’s curse. Please, Grace. Let me go back and get the Doll. If Morrow doesn’t take it today, the curse will—"

"Stop spouting that superstitious trash in front of Morrow! I’ll tell you about curses. You took the Doll, didn’t you? And your mother took it. Well, I can’t imagine two people more thoroughly cursed. So is Abel, so is Jenny. And so am I, God help me! Well, I’m not going to let it happen to Morrow. Take us home."

Grace—

Or else!

They rode home in silence broken only by Grace’s shudders and Morrow’s whimpers.

And that night Morrow had the dream for the first time.

*

Caroline, what’s a curse?

It’s when you find a mummy. They live in pyrmids, I saw a movie. If you find one, it kills you.

Caroline was Morrow’s best friend, and always right, since Caroline had naturally curly golden hair and blue eyes that didn’t cross.

Rip was sort of like a mummy with his flaking, Morrow decided. He lived under pyramids. And after last night’s dream, it certainly seemed that he meant to kill her.

I’ve decided I want the Doll, Morrow told her mother later.

Grace was ironing.

No you don’t, darling—dirty old thing, remember how it scared you? And it’s given you bad dreams. I’ll get you the Patsy Perfect we saw in the store.

I want Gramma’s Doll.

You just think you do.

"But I’ve got to take it. Because if I don’t—"

"Has your father been talking to you? You may not have the Doll, Morrow, and that’s final."

Morrow burst into tears. Did Mother want Rip to kill her?

Grace set the iron on end.

Don’t cry, darling, it’s not good for your eyes. Did you do your exercises today? No? Well why don’t you go up to your room and do them, then. Remember, little boys don’t like little girls with crossed eyes.

Morrow went to her room but she was crying too hard to do exercises. If only she knew where Uncle Abel’s farm was, she could walk there, get the Doll, and hide it. Mother would never know.

Then she realized. She could make a Doll of her own. Rip would know how sorry she was about not taking his Doll, and he wouldn’t kill her or make her have that dream anymore.

She got Daddy’s mucilage, newspaper, and colored wrapping paper, then went back to her room. She tore the paper into pieces the way Daddy did, gluing one piece to another and another to another.

Everything went well for a while; the thing got bigger. Then she lost control. Everything, including her, seemed smeared with mucilage. Little pieces of paper gathered on her hands and arms. The doll stuck to her; when she tried to detach it, it came all to pieces.

Hot tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision. She reached up to brush them away and part of the new doll came with the hand and stuck to her eyelashes. She reached up with the other hand to get it off and became further entangled; her eyes were stuck shut, paper and mucilage got into her nose. Unable to breathe, she began to scream.

Grace came running—then stood frozen in the doorway.

Paper and mucilage. Just like Chester.

Blinking back tears, Grace cleaned up the mess; rocked the child until she grew quiet. Then, to distract her—anything to make her forget papier-mâché and that accursed Doll—she tore two tiny pieces from a newspaper and stuck them to her forefingers with spit.

Look, she said. One is Jack, and the other is Jill. Fly away Jack.

Morrow straightened up in surprise.

Fly away Jill.

Jack and Jill were gone. Mother’s fingers had moved, and they were gone.

Come back Jack. Come back Jill.

Just as magically, they reappeared on Mother’s fingers.

Morrow grabbed two scraps of paper.

Show me. Teach me.

Mother laughed.

You won’t be able to do it, sweetheart. Your fingers are too small, and your coordination—

I can! lean!

So Mother showed her. But Mother was right.

Don’t let it upset you, darling. You’ll be able to do it when your hands are bigger and your eyes are better.

But Morrow was upset. She’d made a terrible mess with the mucilage, and now she couldn’t make Jack and Jill fly ...

It all got tied up in her mind with the Doll. It was because she was so clumsy that Mother wouldn’t let her have it. Mother knew how precious that Doll was; she was afraid Morrow would break it.

But Morrow had to have it.

She went to Daddy. He’d lost his job at the library the day after Morrow’s birthday and was thrilled to know that Morrow had changed her mind; for reasons she didn’t understand, he thought he’d get his job back now. He got in the car and went to Gramma’s.

But Daddy wasn’t smart when it came to being sneaky. He came home with the case hidden under his coat; it made a big lump.

He and Mother had a lot of words, about jobs and curses and the terrible itching Gramma had developed. Daddy finally got in the car and returned the Doll, came back, and resumed his reading of the want ads.

And Morrow never even got a chance to touch the Doll, to tell it she loved it.

There was only one thing to do. She had to prove to Mother that she wouldn’t be clumsy with the Doll. She had to get good with the Jacks and Jills fast.

Because the dream kept getting worse.

So she practiced every day, alone in her room or with Mother.

It’s so easy, Mother kept saying. (The fact that Caroline had done it right on the very first try made things even worse.) "If you’d just pay attention ... No! Look, you’ll never do it right unless you do exactly what I do. Two pieces of paper just this shape, just this size ... No, no, no!"

One day, exhausted by Jacks and Jills, Mother changed the game. She took a newspaper, folded it, and cut it into a chain of bouncing, picket-fence people.

Morrow’s efforts produced elongated bodies with banana-shaped heads.

Not quite, dear. Watch again, and don’t squint, it’s bad for your eyes.

Scissors; scrunch, scrunch.

Now you try it.

Scissors; scrunch, scrunch.

Don’t cry, dear, that was much better, really—they look almost like my people. And it doesn’t matter anyway.

But it did matter.

Morrow saved each Jack and Jill, each string of paper people. Alone, after eye exercises, after praying to God and Rip to please give her more time, she continued to practice.

Please fly, Jack. Please fly, Jill.

Scissors; scrunch, scrunch. Scissors; scrunch, scrunch.

Each incorrectly shaped Jack and Jill finally disintegrated, soggy with spit. The picket-paper people grew weirder and glomerated in Auschwitz piles on Morrow’s dresser.

And the dream continued.

She would start up the stairs, then notice that the upstairs was dark. There’d be flickers in that darkness—hundreds of tiny, luminescent scraps of paper floating downward; one would brush her leg and her skin would begin to crawl.

And then she would see him, Rip’s doll, but life-sized, coming toward her.

She’d back into the hall, calling for Mother; but the hall was neck-high with water. Frantic at her slow motion, the Confetti Man chasing, she’d fight her way to the kitchen. Mother would sweep her into her arms—and she was saved.

At least that’s the way the dream started.

Halfway down the hall and somewhere in Morrow’s seventh year, the water turned to mucilage.