Six of One (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

The Chapter Known Simply as
“Over the Rainbow”

When I was a little girl, I thought that the most beautiful woman in the world was Glinda the Good Witch, as played by Billie Burke in
the Wizard of Oz
. I can still remember the thrill of watching the movie go from sepia to color and seeing Glinda—all curly blonde hair, quivery voice, and poufy pink dress—waft onto the scene under her silvery crown.

I felt just like that again as yet another female in a farthingale came shimmering into the room. She was as lovely as a dream, just like Glinda. Of course, there were differences, most notably, a lot of draped red velvet and gold in lieu of the poufy pink and silver ensemble, but that was all for the best. Glinda’s silver-star wand was also absent, but, in its place, she wielded a gold embroidery hoop containing a partially completed piece of needlework, and on her thumb was a gold thimble. The hoop and thimble made me realize who she was, and suddenly the prospect of going back home felt like the Technicolor reverting to sepia again at the end of
The Wizard of Oz
. I couldn’t fight the urge to bask for just a moment in this woman’s charm, because the lovely figure before me was the most romantic queen ever: Mary, Queen of Scots.

Mary Queen of Scots’ life story, set against a subtext of drop-dead good looks, French fashion sense, and every advantage, almost defied belief in its farcical downward spiral: there were poets hiding under beds, adultery, explosions, kidnappings, forged letters, midnight rides, pilfered keys, disguises, foiled prison escapes, ciphered messages, smuggled notes, and even an allegedly topless appearance at an Edinburgh window one night.
I would kill to be able to grill her about it all
, I thought, but the light peeping through the arrow-slit window reminded me that my remaining time was just about nil.

“I can’t imagine what you must think of me,” I said to her, regaining my composure after what was, for me, a pretty lengthy silence. “I must have appeared awfully foolish, gaping at you like that.”

“Well, if anyone can sympathize with appearing foolish, it is I, Dolly,” she said simply. “It really doesn’t do, though,” she added, “to concern oneself
too
much with appearances.”

I took her point; however, I had no choice but to concern myself with appearances for at least another minute or two, because yet
another
woman had just made one and stood before me. There was no mistaking who
she
was: that carroty hair was a dead giveaway.

The firecracker Elizabeth had aged considerably since our last encounter; she now looked to be well into middle age. She was wearing the same outfit that she wore in the portrait of her known as
the Rainbow Portrait
. With great big orange hair, a great big orange dress, a great big Renaissance ruff, and a great big string of great big pearls, she was larger than life.

“Hello, Dolly,” Elizabeth said.

I knew someone would say it before the night was out; someone always does.

“My goodness,” she continued, “now that I see you in that outfit and French hood, you
do
look just like Catherine Willoughby. Everyone here has their hopes up because of it, Dolly, but I am not so sure. It
could
just mean that things are going to go wrong for you in a bigger way than usual when you get back home.”

“Whatever’s going to happen, I’m ready to go back home,” I answered stoutly.

Elizabeth addressed herself next to the Queen of Scots, as though she had only just noticed her.

“Hello, Cuz.”

“Hello, Lizzie-Beth,” Mary replied. “Have I overstayed my time?”

“I’m afraid you have, Cuz. I must ask you to leave now.”

“Good-bye, then,” said the Queen of Scots, blowing me a kiss as she exited the room.

Mary, Queen of Scots and Queen Elizabeth I were probably the two most famous protagonists never to meet in history. Mary plotted Elizabeth’s assassination, and Elizabeth signed off on Mary’s long imprisonment and execution, but the two never actually had a face to face encounter. Dramatists have made many a meal out of the conjectured fireworks that would have gone off if these two
had
met in real life. Schiller gave their fictional meeting 1,980 words. Unless he saw for himself the crux of the exchange put as economically as I had just seen it put, he probably would not believe it was possible to do it in under twenty-five words.

“Nice rainbow,” I said to Elizabeth, gesturing toward the blown-glass rainbow arc she held in her hand.

“I like to wear my
Rainbow Portrait
outfit when I work this detail,” Elizabeth told me.

The glass of the arc refracted the sunlight coming in through the window, making for a colorful spectrum.

“No rainbow without the sun,” I said.

“That was the motto of the
Rainbow Portrait
,” she replied. “And now it is back to the Rainbow
Lounge
you go, Dolly, by dawn’s early light.”

“Tell me how to effect my departure, please!” I begged Elizabeth. “The sun is up, and I don’t want to miss my…my…whatever it is that will get me back home.”

“Don’t worry, Dolly, there’s nothing to miss. Just listen to me now. I must give you the rules before you go. Rule number one:
Favete linguis.
”

“‘A religious silence.’ That means I can’t tell anyone what’s happened to me tonight,” I said.

“That’s right, Dolly.”

“They wouldn’t believe it anyway.”

“Probably not.”

“Rule number two?” I asked.

“There
is
no rule number two,” she answered. “We say that rule number one is rule number one because it is so important. It is the only rule.”

“Okay, I’ve got the rule thing down. What do I do next?” I asked.

My rainbow friend lifted the hem of her skirt to expose the toes of her tawny slippers and looked at me expectantly, so I did the same, exposing my own red shoes.

“Mercury had winged shoes, and so do you!” said Elizabeth, directing her handheld rainbow to my feet. “They will wing you back to the real world. You just have to click your heels together three times and say—”

“I think I know what to say, thank you! It’s just like
The
Wizard of Oz
, right?”

“Wizard? What wizard?” she asked. “My mother, Ann Boleyn, has mentioned wizards she knew from her coven, but I don’t recall the name ‘Oz’ being among them.”

“
The Wizard of Oz
is a children’s story,” I explained. “The heroine travels to a dream world after a knock on the head. While there, she learns valuable life lessons from the friends she makes. When it’s all over, she clicks her ruby slippers together three times, says ‘There’s no place like home,’ and
presto
—before she knows it, she’s back home in Kansas.”

“I must admit, it does sound very like what we have always done here,” Elizabeth said. “Someone must have broken rule number one. When did this tale originate, Dolly?”

“At the turn of the twentieth century,” I answered.

“Not so very long ago, then,” she replied. “Penned by one of our former lady visitors, perhaps?”

“No, penned by a gentleman named L. Frank Baum.”

“Was he a married man, Dolly?”

“Yes, he was.”

“A good husband?”

“Yes and no. They say that he and his wife made a happy couple, and he even dedicated the story of
The Wizard of Oz
to her, calling her his good friend and comrade. I don’t think it was a very easy life for her, though. Baum was a dreamer, not at all a practical man. He moved his family from town to town for years, changing jobs, investing in crackpot schemes, and going bankrupt. I think his poor wife even had to take in sewing at one point to make ends meet.”

“Mistress Baum’s Christian name?”

“Maud.”

“Well, we did have a young lady here by that name at around that time. Maud’s mother was a strong-minded woman, she told us, and objected to her marrying the young man she was in love with because he was just such a dreamer as you describe. Apparently, her mother was overruled, and Maud married him anyway. Is it a
very
famous story, Dolly?” Elizabeth inquired.

“The story
is
very famous—and very well-loved, especially by the young at heart.”

“Well, then, I’m sure I would have liked it. The poets all said I was ageless, that I defied time. Do you not think so, too, Dolly?”

The mature Queen Elizabeth I, impressive as her outfit was, displayed the ravages of time in face, hair, figure, voice—all the places that time usually takes its toll on a woman. Not wanting to tell an outright lie, I avoided a direct answer.

“Speaking of time makes me think of past, present, and the future yet to come. And
that
makes me think that perhaps you had a Mrs. Dickens here as a guest once, too,” I said.

“Why is that?” asked Elizabeth.

“Because another popular story just came to mind, about someone who visited with specters and learned from them how to make better choices and lead a more fulfilling life.”

“Another
very
popular story?” asked Elizabeth.

“Yes,
very
popular. It’s been told every Christmas since the middle of the nineteenth century.”

“Mrs. Dickens’s Christian name?”

“Catherine. Her maiden name was Hogarth. Her father was a journalist. That’s how she met her author husband, Charles Dickens.”

“We had a few Catherines here around that time, but there is one I remember quite distinctly. After her interview with the wives, she suggested they join hands and pray together. ‘God bless us,’ she said. ‘Every one!’ The wives so appreciated the sweet and simple thought. Do you suppose
she
was the one who married Mr. Dickens?”

I told Elizabeth that I was quite sure that she was.

“Well, since my companions and I are still here decades later, marrying him evidently was not the best of decisions on her part,” said Elizabeth.

“Well, she was the wife of quite a famous man, and that has its compensations,” I said. “Unfortunately, once she’d gone so far as to give him ten children, she received the mistaken delivery of a bracelet meant for his eighteen-year-old mistress. What do you say to that, Elizabeth?”

“I say, ‘Bah, humbug!’ to that, Dolly!”

“Well, with that being said, I can only conclude that Mrs. Dickens also broke rule number one and spilled the beans about you upon her return to earth,” I said, breaking the news as gently as I could.

Elizabeth took this in stride. “Well, at this juncture, we’ve no time to cry over spilt beans or spilt milk. The only important thing now is to get you back home.”

“Wait—there is one other important thing!” I said to Elizabeth. “Suppose it turns out that I
am
the guest you have all been waiting for; the one who makes the right marital decision and sets you free? If you all find your way to your heavenly reward because of me, will I be permitted to know it?”

“Yes, you will, Dolly, and it’s sweet of you to be thinking of us. Mary, Queen of Scots is in charge of that detail and will get word to you somehow if we get our happy ending. No more delay now! On your way! Goodbye, Dolly, and Godspeed. You know what to do now.”

I took a deep breath. “There is,” I said, as I clicked my heels three times,“no place like home!”

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Déjà Vu All Over Again” or “Something
Old, Something New”

“Hello, Dolly.”

“What?”

“Well, hello, Dolly. It’s so nice to have you back!”

The fellow I was conversing with had such a nice, strong voice. I wished I could see his face clearly, but everything was hazy.

“Dolly, promise you’ll never go away again. You quite frightened us all to death,” said the nice, strong voice.

“Away? Yes, I
did
go away, didn’t I? And I was gone for quite awhile.”

“It only
seemed
like a long time, Dolly. It’s been just a few minutes, really.”

“What do you mean ‘a few minutes’? I’ve been away all night!”

“It only seems that way, you silly girl.”

“I can see the sun starting to come up through the window. It must be dawn,” I insisted.

“It
is
dawn, Dolly. You’ve forgotten that it was pretty damned late already when you passed out.”

The combination of the strong voice with some strong language made for a very erotic wakeup call, and I was able to see the outline of the Mystery Man through the haze. I hated to fawn, and it was not like me to be drawn to brawn, but I thought the man had the nicest chest and shoulders, just right to lean one’s head on. I worried that my trip to limbo had made me a bimbo; I hoped it would be only temporary but figured I may as well enjoy it while it lasted. Eventually, though, all good things must come to an end, and the siren stylings of cousin Kath supplanted the strong, masculine tones.

“Dolly, we thought we’d lost you! Thank
goodness
there was a doctor in the house!”

“Thank goodness I
found
the doctor in the house and brought him over here when I did,” said Molly Rose.

“It’s fortunate that he was able to start CPR compressions so quickly and get her heart started again,” added Kay, Harry’s first ex. Little did she realize that he had started my heart going in more ways than one.

“I’m amazed he could find her heart at all, with the lighting in here being so dim,” added Jane, Harry’s ex number three and the resident expert on ‘dim’.

“The right man will know where to find your heart without looking!”

“Who said those words?” I asked. “I feel like I’ve heard them before somewhere.”

“
I
just said them, Dolly,” said Kath. “I don’t remember ever saying them before, though. It was just me being impressed with the medic’s Advanced Cardiac Life Support skills.”

“Yes, that rocking motion from the hips as he was doing the compressions certainly attracted
my
attention,” added Kitty, Harry’s ex number five.

“I admire how brave these emergency responders are, doing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on just anybody,” said Harry’s neurotic daughter Mary. “The thought of all those germs skeeves me completely!”

“Well,” the Mystery Man said, “it was a funny way to steal a kiss, but I enjoyed it all the same!”

Hearing those words gave me that déjà vu feeling again—or maybe it was hearing that strong, masculine voice saying the word “kiss.”

“I’m glad you found it bliss to kiss an unknown miss, even if she was remiss about
returning
the kiss,” I said to him. “You know how it is when you lose consciousness unexpectedly.”

“She’s rhyming again!” said four voices in unison. “That means we’ve got our Dolly back for
sure
!” The Marias, bless them, could not have been sappier or happier.

Kay, Harry’s ex number one, was the first to ask a rational question. “Doctor, what brought you to the Rainbow Lounge at such an odd time as this in the first place? You came in the door only a few minutes before Dolly passed out; it was well after four a.m. by then. That was a bit late to be starting your night, wasn’t it?” she asked suspiciously.

“It was
very
late for me to be starting my night. I have never been much of a night-lifer. I am out cold by midnight, for the most part. Been that way all my life—early to bed, early to rise, you know.”

I thought I was having a frisson of déjà vu again, although I could not entirely rule out the “early to bed, early to rise” imagery as the cause of my agitation.

“Well, Dolly can thank her lucky stars that you were out late
tonight
, Doctor,” said Anna-Belinda.

“It’s funny you should say that,” the man said.

That déjà vu feeling was coming over me every time I heard him speak.

“It absolutely was ‘the stars’ that brought me here tonight,” he continued. “I have driven at breakneck speed from quite far away, and, midway here, my GPS stopped working. Fortunately, it is a very clear night, and, using the astronomy I learned while I’ve been in the tropics, I was able to orienteer my way here to the Rainbow Lounge—and to Dolly. The stars in the sky blazed the way, but it was the thought of her eyes that really brought me here. You see,” he said, turning his gaze to me, “your eyes are lodestars, Dolly.”