The Miniaturist
by Shauna Checkley
part 1
Sitting on a carved-up wooden park bench, Cynthia was glad for the shade provided by a nearby tall, overhanging elm tree. Though clad in a white tank top and jean shorts, she still felt hot. But the summer heat wasn’t the only source of her discomfort. She stared in disbelief at her cell phone also.
yo ho
Is it possible to troll a troll
toothpick r u there
But as the messages darkened, having become increasingly vitriolic over the summer, Cynthia decided to shut her phone down. To hell with ’em. I don’t need that crap!
She felt a mix of hurt and anger as she stared at the miniature screen as if it were a tiny portal to Hell. Whether from complete strangers or those known to her, the texts stung as cruelly as the insects she swatted in the park.
But most of all, she felt disappointed. Dismayed by her thin, gangly appearance, by a summer that was long and hot and unfulfilling, by a life that didn’t deliver the promise of romance and adventure that she had supposed it would. Still, she persevered. She moved on.
She left the cyber world as surely as she had left her summer job two days earlier, at Burger Barn. Between raging customers and bullying co-workers, she had felt a latent anxiety rise to a fevered pitch, come to an ugly head like some teenage skin blemish.
Yet in the near distance, like a sprawling Bedouin encampment, she saw an outdoor craft fair that she just remembered was being held that day. Curious and hoping to find a happy diversion, she took one last swat at a stalking wasp and hurried towards the fair.
Once there, she sauntered along, stopping to admire the wares at each booth. Jewelry. Pottery. She moved about like one lost in a peaceful dream. But there was one craft booth that captivated her immediately. It was near midway through the fair, a miniaturist exhibit with tiny doll houses, dioramas of home life.
Cynthia forgot all her woes and became entranced as she visually inspected each piece, appreciating both the detail and the overall effect. The miniature scenes of homes especially delighted her. Their creator had wired them for light. So ethereal was the glow that it gave them a feel of abstraction. She had the sense of hyperreality as if she were staring into a special space, surreal, and other-worldly.
Finally, though, her absorption attracted the attention of the artisan manning the booth. The vendor was a middle-aged man, graying and slightly stooped but possessing large, silver-gray eyes that matched his hair and looked almost luminous in the sunlight. “Like what you see?” he remarked “It’s a very rewarding hobby.”
Cynthia looked up, smiled, nodded. They chatted. Yet even as they talked, Cynthia found it nearly impossible to take her eyes off the quaint, little scenes, especially the Edwardian drawing room and 1950’s Americana.
Cynthia remembered that she had a purse full of money. Though typically broke, she had cashed her last paycheque a few days earlier. She forgot that her mother had instructed her to save her money for school expenses in the Fall. On impulse, she bought all the needed parts to recreate the posh and homey-looking Edwardian scene.
This can be my summer project! As I’ve been without a hobby for so long this can fill the void, she rationalized. Wincing, she recalled all the admonitions from parents, teachers, seemingly everyone, over her heavy cellphone usage. Maybe they’ll all get off my back now.
Smiling, Cynthia watched as the vendor carefully wrapped each item: tiny wing-back chairs, old-fashioned love seats, rocking chairs, mini-rugs, grandfather clocks in tissue paper, and then with a loose layer of bubble wrap slid over it. She anticipated hours of fun and, most of all, the beauteous finished product, mastery over the muses, accomplishment at last. It reminded her of the long-lost days of simple childhood crafts: popsicle-stick extravaganza.
“I’ll give you my business card, if you have any further needs,” the vendor said. He handed her a rather artsy looking card with silver and gold flourishes and curlicues.
“Thanks.”
“That’ll be two hundred dollars.”
Cynthia paid him. Her brief moment of exultation was cut short, however, by the sight of her biological Father standing at a booth a few feet away. He looked as unkempt as ever. With dusty and crusty clothing and a ragged beard, he looked solidly like the street person that he had become since a descent into madness and substance abuse had felled him early into his union with Cynthia’s mother.
Cynthia hurried away before he saw her. Still, she remembered the snow globes he used to buy her from the Dollar Store every season, Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s day, winter scenes, a cutesy, kitschy collection of her own wee world. What has become of it? And him, too? She felt a deep pang within as she turned away.
She clutched her bag and hurried to the bus stop. Gotta get outta here before he sees me! Yet she stood there, trapped in her own mental storm like a figure in a shaken snow globe, blizzard unleashed.
Cynthia was a high-strung girl with a nervous perfectionism that spilled over into most everything. She fussed over hair that she judged too frizzy, arms and legs that were gangly and thin, parchment-white skin that refused to tan, only burn and peel and freckle in huge masses that looked like unruly smears. It gave her an uneasy sense that her life, like her body, was just not going as planned.
She often carried her insecurities over to her other endeavors. She hated to perform or compete. She was mortified by the prospects of standing out, be it at school or anywhere. Being called on to speak or do a “solo” of any kind filled her with a nearly exquisite terror.
Her recent stint at a summer job did nothing to allay her fears, either. She was friendly but didn’t make any friends. The others seemed to arrive in ready-made cliques and pairs. The work itself felt like appalling drudgery, utterly nonsensical waste, especially the dumping of coffee every ten minutes and perfectly good food jettisoned into the dumpster at the end of every four-hour shift. For it was then that she felt like she had descended into some microscopic pittance of Hell, that proverbial speck in the bucket that comprised a whole universe.
Finally, her mood brightened again when she saw the bus approaching. Thank God! The silver vessel shone brightly under the hot summer sun. But no sooner had she sat down then she heard the ping of an incoming message.
ho dawg where r ya
Outraged again, she shut her phone off. I won’t be going back on it for a long time.
Yet as she glanced about her on the bus, she saw that mostly everyone was online, staring deep into their screens as if under enchantment, as if bewitched by some miniature magic mirror, beguiled, alone.
Cynthia was an anomaly on and off the bus. She was her own person. Unlike the throngs of screen-agers about her, she decided that she had had enough bullying and abuse. It really only was as electronic version of the snubs and jeers from her peers that she had to endure at school.
Blessed with a huge imagination, she often escaped into it for long sojourns into fantasy, flights of fancy so accommodating to a twenty-year-old girl. Just as she supposed her mother and stepfather Jerry did with their road trips and cruises, their jaunts away from everything.
* * *
“Supper’s ready,” her mother called when Cynthia came in through the front door.
“Hey, look what I got. This is so cool. It’s my new hobby,” Cynthia said and presented the bag at the supper table.
Her mother nodded. Her stepfather Jerry eyed the bag suspiciously.
They were eating a rather bland looking casserole dish, noodles in some sort of cream sauce.
“What’s all that?” her mother queried.
“It’s a model box and all of the accessories needed to recreate this old-fashioned looking scene. I just bought it at the craft fair downtown.” Cynthia’s voice rang with enthusiasm.
The adults exchanged glances.
“How much was all that?” Jerry demanded.
“Uh-hh,” Cynthia faltered.
“I hope it wasn’t a lot. I know those fairs are expensive,” her mother began. “Was that from your last paycheck? And why did you quit your job? That’s not a good way to build a resume when you are just starting out.”
Suddenly, the bag felt very heavy in her hands. Cynthia stared at them helpless, silent.
“How much?” Jerry repeated
He had a smear of food on his mouth that made him appear foul, feral. Blood-red ketchup stain.
Cynthia gently set the bag on the floor. “Like, I dunno... two hundred or something.”
As she filled her plate, she looked up to see her mother and Jerry exchanging frowns.
“That wasn’t your whole cheque, I hope? Remember you’re supposed to be saving for school in the fall,” her mother reminded her.
Cynthia took a few tentative bites. She drank her glass of milk down in one gulp. “So, what if I did! You guys are talking about going on a cruise.”
Copyright © 2023 by Shauna Checkley
