The Third Fairy Tale Read online

  “Sure will. And I’ll mention what a fine young man they have for a son.”

  Ned didn’t think his straight-laced mother would be any too happy to hear that her son, who ran off without so much as a kiss goodbye, was a fine upstanding person.

  *****

  Mrs. Scoletti was a woman of extremes. A flawed creature prone to emotional excesses. Once, during a domestic squabble, she hurled a breakfast plate at his father. The dish shattered against the far wall leaving the buttermilk pancake and a half-eaten, hickory-smoked sausage plastered to the wallpaper. Bursting into tears, his mother ran from the room. Mr. Scoletti swept the broken plate into a dustpan then wiped the soggy pancake batter off the wallpaper.

  “Your mom’s a humdinger!” Ned’s father chuckled. Judging by the veneration in his tone, Ned took that as an act of charitable forgiveness. Regarding the plate-throwing incident, there were no repeat performances. Over the years, Ned had learned to accommodate his mother’s whimsical moods. To love someone was to make allowances even when their behavior bordered on flagrant nuttiness.

  In the morning they passed through Fayetteville and Elizabeth City. The endless stretches of Florida flat land were left far behind. Hattie Mae poured herself a cup of tea from a thermos and sipped at the steamy liquid.

  “I’ve got pictures.” Ned pulled two snapshots from his breast pocket and handed them to his seatmate. The first photo showed two young children, Ned’s mother and Aunt Josie, dressed in matching sailor suits. The twin toddlers were hugging each other and mugging it up for the camera. A sign overhead read ‘Manatee Cove, Fort Pierce, Florida. Home of the Sea Cows!’ The second picture showed the girls in their late teens leaning up against a palm tree.

  “Which one’s your mother?” Hattie Mae asked.

  Ned took the print and studied it for the longest time. Everything about the women - their slim build, curly brown hair and impish smiles - was identical. Ned could stare at the picture until the bus reached its northerly destination and still come away unsure who was who. “Hard to say. Maybe the one on the right. Like I said, they’re identical twins.”

  The black woman pointed to the first picture taken at Manatee Cove. “These kids sure looked happy.” She drank the rest of her tea then wiped the cup dry with a napkin before screwing the lid back onto the thermos. “I’m a God-fearing woman. Not one of those Bible-thumping lunatics you see on cable TV - the fanatics who talk in tongues and cast out demons. No, none of that fundamentalist mumbo jumbo for me!” She paused just long enough to put her thoughts in order. “While you was sleeping early this morning I prayed and asked the Lord to keep an eye on you. Then, this still, small voice spoke to me in my heart-of-hearts. It said you were sent as a messenger to mend damaged souls and heal festering wounds.”

  The temperature in the bus dropped and the driver turned on the heater. The warmth was making Ned groggy. “Messengers bring something … a message or a gift,” Ned protested. “I’m going empty handed.”

  “Yes, but what if you are the message? Your presence is what’s required.”

  To be sure, Hattie Mae Jackson was a good-hearted soul. Her intentions were pure, beyond reproach, but her logic didn’t add up; it seemed more wishful thinking than common sense. Ned was on his way to visit a relative who wasn’t expecting him. Probably didn’t even know he existed. His presence was not required.

  *****

  At noontime Hattie Mae gathered her belongings and left the bus. As the black woman was exiting, a young girl accompanied by her mother boarded. The mother settled the daughter in the seat next to Ned and found a place for herself several rows up. “Don’t bother the nice man,” the mother instructed.

  “No, Mummy, I wouldn’t do any such thing.” The girl who was rather chubby with a pendant lower lip and dark brown eyes turned to Ned. “My name is Samantha Crowley and I’m in the red reading group.”

  Ned smiled at the girl. She looked to be about six or seven years old. “Average readers are blue, dummies and sped-busers green.”

  “Sped,” Ned mused. “That would be special education.”

  The girl smoothed the front of her dress. Ned made a mental note that her fingernails were the same color as her reading group. “I got this swell book. I could read you a story.”

  Ned was hoping the chatty girl would just shut up and leave him alone long enough to digest and make sense of Hattie Mae’s last few remarks. How had she put it? Even though he brought neither gift nor message, perhaps Ned -

  “Siberian Fairy Tales,” the girl had rose up on her knees and was whispering in his ear. She was a sloppy talker and every time she hit a hard consonant, a ‘p’ or a ‘b’, a slurry or warm spit sprayed across the tight compartment.

  “What was that?” Ned wiped his damp earlobe and leaned away from the girl.

  She waved a children's book up in the air. “Got this swell book for my birthday. Here, I’ll read you a story.”

  “Actually,” Ned grabbed the book away from her just as the girl was settling in, “I’m tired and think I’ll take a little nap if you don’t mind.” He wedged the book in the leather pouch hanging from the seat in front of the girl, but she retrieved it immediately and made a disagreeable face. He didn’t really care if the girl minded or not. The first adrenaline rush of the clandestine trip north having dissipated, Ned was exhausted. With his eyes closed, he slipped back into a protective mode, collecting his thoughts for what lay ahead.

  “You probably weren’t a very good reader,” the girl muttered. “That’s why you don’t want to hear this Russian story, but I’m going to read it to you anyway.”

  “Ninth grade,” Ned replied. “I’m going into high school next year, and I’m currently in the vermillion reading group.” The chubby girl eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t know what color vermillion is, do you?” The girl hesitated. “It’s bright red with orange highlights and a half mile ahead of your red group.”

  That shut her up. Finally. Ned closed his eyes, slouched down in the seat and was fading off to sleep when an insistent drone drew him back from the solace of an incipient dream.

  “Once upon a time there lived the Crane and the Heron,” the little girl recited in a singsong fashion as though reading exclusively for her own enjoyment. “They lived in the same bog but at the far end of it. Mr. Crane who lived all alone felt lonely and decided to get married.”

  “‘I’ll take Miss Heron for my wife,’” thought the Crane

  Her voice was tinged with a cloying, sickly-sweet quality. Samantha Crowley knew he wasn’t asleep and, even if he was, the girl could care less. “I don’t really want to hear about the Crane and the Heron. Why don’t you just read the story quietly to yourself?”

  “Well I’m going to read it to you anyway as punishment for your rudeness. I’ll start from the beginning and, this time, don’t interrupt.”

  “Once upon a time there lived the Crane and the Heron,” They lived in the same bog but at the far end of it. Mr. Crane who lived all alone felt lonely and decided to get married.”

  “‘I’ll take Miss Heron for my wife,’” thought the Crane and he went to her. He walked seven miles through the mud. When he came to the Heron he said, ‘Heron, are you in?’”

  “Birds don’t marry,!” Ned interjected.

  “Siberian fairy tale birds can do anything they want,” Samantha corrected. “Heron, are you in?” she repeated.

  “I am.”

  “Will you marry me?”

  No, I will not. Your legs are too long and your flimsy feathers too short. You can’t fly well and you haven’t food enough for two. Go away you skinny-legged Crane!”

  “The Crane went home his hopes ruined.”

  “The Heron gave it another thought. ‘It’s better to marry the Crane than live alone.’ So she hurried to the Crane and said, ‘Crane, you may marry me!’”

  “No, Heron. I don’t want to marry you. Go away!”

  The Heron went away, weeping and ashamed. The Crane tho
ught, ‘I was wrong not to marry the Heron. It is dull to live alone. I’ll go and marry her right now. He came up to her and said, ‘Heron, I made up my mind to marry you.’”

  “‘No, Crane, I won’t marry you! The Crane went away. Now the Heron thought, ‘I shouldn’t refuse him. What’s the good in living alone? I’d better marry the Crane.’ She came to the Crane, but he didn’t want to marry her. And to this day they visit each other constantly making proposals, but are not married.”

  When she finished the story, Samantha closed the book. “Well, how did you like it?”

  “Actually, it was rather depressing.”

  “So you didn’t like it.”

  “No, not particularly.” South of Fredericksburg the Chesapeake Bay loomed into view. Arlington came and went in a blur. The bus cruised the length of the New Jersey Turnpike, skirted New York and continued, full throttle, in the direction of Connecticut. Around eight o’clock that night, Ned glanced out the darkened window. The sign up ahead read ‘Providence Exit one mile’. The bus wasn’t scheduled to stop in Spaulding. Ned would catch a connecting bus from Rhode Island. He closed his eyes. It was just a matter of time now. The end of one journey. The beginning of another.

  The obnoxious girl fell asleep leaning her head against Ned's shoulder. She dozed with her mouth open, leaving a line of drool snaking down to the wrist. As the sun was climbing over the horizon she opened her eyes and asked, “Do you know why the Gopher has a short tail and the Elk a long muzzle?”

  “Not really, but I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me.”

  She opened the book to the spot where she had left off. “Once, an Elk was arguing with the squeaky taiga Gopher. The Gopher said. ‘Summer should be two times longer than it is now.’”

  “The Elk disagreed very strongly with her. ‘Oh, no! I don’t like summer at all. It is too hot and there are too many flies and midges in summer. There should be no summer at all. It would be much better.’”

  “The squeaky Gopher answered, ‘If winter lasted all year round, there would be so much snow that you wouldn’t be able to run quickly. And man would be sure to kill you.’”

  “’Kill me? You rascal!’ the indignant Elk stomped on the Gopher, but she managed to escape and hide herself in her hole. Only her tale was left under the Elk’s hoof. The Elk, sulky and angry, stretched his muzzle and fixed his eyes on the hole. But the Gopher never appeared.”

  “Summer had passed but the Elk still waited for the Gopher. But the Gopher didn’t want to meet with the Elk any more. The Elk kept waiting by the hole. Rainy autumn had ended. Winter came along and covered everything with snow. And now again noisy spring had arrived, and summer was approaching.”

  “Only then did the Elk understand that the Gopher would not come out to argue with him, and he left.” “Since that time the Elk’s muzzle is long and sulky, while the Squeaky Gopher’s tail is short.”

  No sooner had Samantha Crowley finished the second fairy tale then her mother stood up and began pulling down their luggage from the overhead rack. The bus arrived at the Providence, Rhode Island bus terminal. Ned thanked the child for her Siberian fairy tales, collected his bag and left the bus.

  *****

  Everything in downtown Providence was shut down except for a cold snack bar. A couple of college kids were gabbing away. When the girl said ‘car’ it came out ‘cahhr’. A cardboard box became a ‘bwox’. “When’s the next bus to Spaulding?”

  The ticket agent pointed over Ned’s left shoulder. “Tough luck! You just missed it by ten minutes. There won’t be another until 7 a.m.” Ned laid a bill on the counter.

  “One way or round trip?” the ticket agent asked.

  “Round trip.” Ned took his overnight bag and settled in as far from the door as possible. The boy caught a chill back in New Jersey where the temperature dropped to 50 degrees, and now his throat was sore, rough as 50-grit sandpaper. The temperature outside had dropped another degree or two since the bus arrived. Hungry and cold, he was worn out from the trip. Maybe if he rested the chill would run its course and he’d be in better shape for ....

  What word was he searching for?

  Reunion, perhaps? No, you can’t reunite with someone you only met except in a Polaroid snapshot. Well, whatever it was, the event was imminent. Since the decision to come north two weeks ago, Ned had rehearsed this scene a hundred times or more in his overheated brain. He’d head straight to the house where Aunt Josie lived, ring the doorbell and announce, “Hi, I’m Ned Scoletti. Mary-Ellen’s son.”

  Nothing more. Short and sweet!

  Let his aunt play her hand, make the first move. Either Aunt Josie would welcome him graciously or treat him with the same callous indifference that caused her to pull a Houdini vanishing act so many years earlier. Hi, I’m Ned Scoletti. Mary-Ellen’s son. I want you to bare your soul and explain why the identical twin sisters in this fading picture hate each other so.

  Ned swallowed hard; his throat had swollen shut. God, I’d give anything for a bath and a decent meal. He glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. The small hand was edging up on midnight. Seven more hours and he would be back on the road. But the trip to Spaulding was a lark. A mere hour and fifteen minutes. Then a taxi to 105 Eddy. And then...

  Hi, I’m Ned Scoletti, your sister, Mary-Ellen’s boy. Hi, I’m your nephew, Ned, newly arrived from Fort Pierce, home of the manatee sea cows. You don’t know me, but I just traveled up the Atlantic Coast on a Greyhound Bus to ....

  The Providence bus reached Spaulding well before noon. When Ned slung the backpack over his shoulder, the nylon bag felt as though it was weighted down with rocks. Worse yet, he was giddy, lightheaded. Ned couldn’t seem to keep his mind clear for more than two seconds at a time, his thoughts flitting about distractedly in his feverish brain. “Eddy Street,” Ned asked a cabby pulled up at the curb near the center of town, “can you take me there?”

  The driver stuck a beefy arm out the driver’s side window and pointed at a red brick building. “Eddy Street’s over by the YMCA. You can walk there faster than I can drive.” The cabby looked him up and down. “Been jogging?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re drenched with sweat.”

  Ned ran a hand over his neck and his fingers came away wet. His shirt collar was soaked through. “I just got a bad cold, that’s all.” Halfway up the street he located a tidy, cedar-shingled ranch house with a sun porch. Strange! After the short walk from the taxi stand, his legs had gone haywire - all weak, wobbly and totally uncooperative.

  Hi, you don’t know me, but I’m... Well, who I am isn’t really all that important. Oh yes, I’m your nephew, Ned, newly arrived from Arlington, Virginia. No, that’s where Hattie Mae Jackson, the kind-hearted black lady who hears whispery voices in her heart-of-hearts, left the Greyhound Bus. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m Ned Scoletti from Fort Pierce, Florida, home of the manatee sea cows. And I’m here because ... because ...

  He knocked twice. When the door opened, Ned groped aimlessly for the rehearsed lines but his mind was a sieve that couldn’t hold a drop of rainwater much less a coherent thought. “Can I help you?” the woman asked.

  “Mom!” It was more an undeniable statement of fact rather than an open-ended question. His usually sturdy legs felt like a pair of pasta noodles cooked al dente.

  The woman laughed, making a breathy, musical sound. “I’m a mother, but most definitely not yours. Who exactly are you looking for?” The woman was standing no more than two feet away but her robust voice, which seemed to emanate from the far side of a distant universe, quickly faded away to nothing.

  “After traveling two solid days on a bus,” Ned protested, “you think I wouldn’t know my own mother?” Those were his last words before he slumped forward into the cedar-shingled ranch house at thirty-five Eddy Street, collapsing on Aunt Josie’s living room rug.

 

  When he opened his eyes fifteen minutes later, Ned was sprawled out on a couch. A yo
ung girl with jet black hair and a Metallica T-shirt was leaning over, scanning his features like a tattered roadmap. “Who are you?” Ned asked weakly.

  “Wrong question.” The girl wormed a digital thermometer under his tongue, waited for the beep and raised it to her pale brown eyes. “A smidgen over a hundred,” She called over her shoulder and a moment later a woman who resembled his mothers in every way imaginable entered the room.

  “You gave us quite a scare, Ned Scoletti.”

  “How’d you know my name?”

  Aunt Josie waved the Polaroid pictures in the air. “These prehistoric prints fell out of your pocket following your less-than-graceful entrance.” Ned tried to sit up, but his aunt gently eased him back down. Someone had placed a pillow under his head and draped a light blanket over his chest.

  Hi, I’m Ned Scoletti, your sister, Mary-Ellen’s boy.

  Someone handed him a bogus script - the one titled ‘Ned Scoletti’s slapstick arrival at Josie’s place’. More hilarious than a three stooges, TV marathon! Regardless how inelegant, he had arrived, and Ned was situated dead center in the proverbial eye of the storm. Ground zero! Aunt Josie bent down, cupped his face in both her hands and, as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world, gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek. “Already spoke to your mom back in Fort Pierce. She said some lady called from Virginia to say you, pulled a Jack Kerouac and were on the road traveling north.”

  So Hattie Mae did contact his parents.

  “We’ll keep you here a week or so until you’re physically well enough to travel then put you on a plane out of Logan Airport.” Aunt Josie felt his forehead. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I grabbed an éclair at the bus station.”

  All the while, the raven-haired girl gawked at Ned like some freak in a carnival sideshow. Eyeballing him through narrow, slitty eyes, her pokerfaced expression never changed. Aunt Josie turned to the girl. “Go to the market, Heather. Pick up some pork chops and baking potatoes. There are plenty of vegetables in the bin. After his ordeal, your Cousin Ned’s earned a meal fit for a king.”