Wee Folk
by James Hanna
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
Henry put down the phone and stumbled towards the kitchen. There, he fixed scrambled eggs and placed a small portion into a bottle cap. He also filled a thimble with coffee. Returning to the living room, breakfast in hand, he tapped softly on the door to the little house.
She was wearing a bathrobe when she opened the door, a loose-fitting garment that puddled around her feet. Clearly, he had interrupted her bath and, clearly, she was not happy. She looked at him so coldly that he almost dropped her breakfast.
“Daddy,” Deborah cried, “the sunflower seeds.”
Leaving the breakfast at her doorway, he dashed back to the kitchen. The sunflower seeds. He located a package of them and poured a small handful into a saucer.
“She likes them steamy, Daddy. I gave her some last night.”
Panicked, he thrust the saucer into the microwave and hit the timer. When the seeds were hot, he sighed with relief. The plate burned his fingers when he retrieved it from the microwave, but he clutched it stoically and hurried on back to the living room. Clarissa was still standing at the doorway to her house.
“Be careful,” he warned her. “They’re hot.”
She made no reply when he placed the saucer at her feet. Instead, she bent over, gripped the rim on either side, and lifted it like an enormous tray. Without a backwards glance, she squeezed the saucer through the little doorway.
Deborah clapped her hands. “Thank you, Daddy. She’ll need a big breakfast.”
“What have you two got planned?”
“Songs, of course. And maybe a game.”
“More Whack-a Mole?”
Deborah giggled. “Don’t be silly, Daddy. I’m teaching her Monopoly.”
* * *
His envy of the girls — their quick and easy rapport — grew with each passing day. But it also annoyed him that Clarissa — although only a fiftieth of Deborah’s size — was clearly the dominant of the two. This was never clearer than when Deborah was tardy in fetching Clarissa her hairbrush, fixing her a snack, or heating up milk for her bath. At such times, Clarissa would fly into rages — furies so epic that her voice would become as shrill as chalk scraping a blackboard. Meanwhile, Deborah would scamper about in a breathless effort to placate her little ally.
One day, Henry had had enough. “Why,” he asked his daughter, “do you let her push you around like that?”
“She’s so beautiful, Daddy. I just hate to see her upset.”
“She’ll be a lot more upset when I flush her down the toilet.”
Deborah gasped. “Daddy, that would be mur-der.”
He shook his head-undeterred. The thought of an inquisition — even a prison term — was secondary to the joy he would feel in getting rid of the little bitch. But it did seem fair to warn her before flushing her down the toilet. He rapped sharply upon the door to her little house.
She was wearing a jogging suit when she opened the door and her skin, normally lily-white, was flushed and glistening. He pointed a finger at her midriff.
“No more tantrums,” he said.
She looked at him stonily, as though he were something an animal had dropped at her doorstep. Her face was now redder than a cherry tomato.
“NO MORE TANTRUMS,” he repeated, emphasizing each word with a thrust of his finger.
She continued to glare at him, her arms folded haughtily across her chest. Her eyes were so piercing, her stare so contemptuous, that he suddenly felt like a schoolyard bully. When she slammed the door in his face, he flinched: he could hear her yammering behind the door — a tirade that was only intensified by his inability to comprehend a word of it.
Utterly frustrated, he called up Jean Hargrove. “Please come and get her,” he begged.
“Why?”
“Just listen to her.” He held up the telephone then returned it to his ear. “She’s scolding me like a shrew.”
“Maybe you deserve it, Mr. Hokum. You are a bit of a hound, you know.”
“I don’t deserve this much scolding.”
“Well, you did sign a contract, sir.”
“Not to be abused in this manner, I didn’t.”
“In what manner would you like to be abused? Tell her, perhaps she’ll oblige.”
“What gives her the right? I’ve been a perfect host.”
“Not from what I hear. I hear you were watching her take a bath.”
“That was an accident. And how did you find out?”
“She complained about you to one of her little friends. A few Thumbelinas have learned a bit of English, sir.”
“Maybe they could talk to her, tell her to respect her host.”
“Maybe you could tell her. Remember your mission, Mr. Hokum: to communicate with an alien race. Let’s not lose sight of it, sir.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Are you? Then why don’t I sense any progress?”
“She won’t even speak to me. She’d rather play games with Deborah.”
“Then it’s time you took charge of matters.”
“How?”
“Figure it out. Aren’t you the mature one?”
“You called me a hound. That’s not saying much.”
“Much is not required here, sir. Just teach her a few words of English. We’ll be checking up on you at the end of the month.”
When the phone line went dead, he felt totally lost. The room was now quieter than a morgue. What was she up to behind that little door?
He looked at his daughter. “So what do I do?”
“Stay away from her house, Daddy. She thinks you’re a burglar.”
* * *
In the evenings, the three of them would watch television together. At such moments, Clarissa would perch herself upon his shoulder — not in the spirit of intimacy but to get a better view of the programs. She was captivated by American Idol and would watch the reruns for hours, memorizing tunes she would sing the following morning.
Complemented by her voice, the tunes would instantly blossom, acquiring a fullness so stunning and rare that the songs, in their original versions, seemed like rank parodies. She also liked movies — old DVDs — and would grow irritable if he failed to replay them constantly. Her favorite was Pulp Fiction.
Feeling increasingly trapped in his house, Henry spent more time at the singles bars — a futile pursuit since, whenever he brought a woman home, she would have to deal with Clarissa. Standing at the doorway to her house, her hands upon her hips, she would look at his guest as though she were urinating on the rug. He hoped the women would dismiss Clarissa as a chimera — the product of too much booze — but instead, they would dash out the door while Clarissa hurled gibberish at them.
He changed his tactics, allowing the women to take him to their homes, but the results were pretty much the same. Clarissa would be awaiting him when he returned the following morning — her gaze so intimidating, so utterly self-righteous, that he felt as though he had slighted a queen. And so, feeling like a trespasser in his own life, he would creep to the solitude of his den.
But communications were still an issue, at least to Jean Hargrove who came to see him at the end of the month. After spending an hour with Clarissa, she looked at him sternly.
“Explain yourself,” she demanded.
“She’s taken over.”
“I’m talking about language. She hasn’t learned a thing.”
“She’d rather scold my dates.”
“Can’t she do that in English, Mr. Hokum? She’s way behind the rest of the Thumbelinas. Some are reciting Hallmark cards.” She sighed, opened her cell phone, and made a notation on her calendar. “One week, Mr. Hokum. You have one week more. If she hasn’t learned something — even if it’s just one word — I’ll place her with another family.”
“I’ll try,” he replied — a promise he intended to keep. In the company of his little mistress — her relentless sense of proprietorship — he felt like an unworthy servant. And so he resigned himself to teaching Clarissa English.
* * *
The following morning, she was gone. He sensed this instantly, not because the house was silent — not even because the living room window was ajar — but because the little woman was so often incensed with him. But he did not panic until he had checked the little house, looked under the living room sofa, and peered into his daughter’s room — and his panic was very brief. Clarissa’s absence did create an uncommon sense of dread in him, but then again so had her presence. And so it was not until Deborah spoke up that he realized the seriousness of Clarissa’s departure.
“You left the window open, Daddy.”
“We needed the air.”
“Now Clarissa’s gone.”
“Maybe she just went for a walk.”
Deborah started sobbing. “We have to find her, Daddy. A cat’s gonna grab her.”
He tried to joke her out of it — “Feel sorry for the cat” — but Deborah was inconsolable. “It’s your fault, Daddy. I’ll hate you forever.”
While Deborah sobbed, he continued his search. He checked the birdbath in the driveway; he spread the hedges next to the house; he shined a flashlight into the gopher holes in the backyard. Finding no sign of her, he jumped into his car — a shiny red Porsche — and drove up and down the neighborhood streets. Deborah, sitting beside him, grabbed his arm whenever she spotted a robin, a sparrow, or a chipmunk. “There she is, Daddy.” But the tiny woman was nowhere to be seen — not even after he had been cruising the streets for several hours.
Desperate, he began knocking on doors, but none of the neighbors were helpful. One of them, an irate woman with massive forearms, even glared at him. “Waddayawant with a Thumbalina?” she spat. “I hear they suck your breath while you’re sleepin’, like cats.”
At the end of the day, completely exhausted, he phoned Jean Hargrove. “We’ve lost her,” he said.
“Lost her, Mr. Hokum? Just what do you mean by lost her?”
“She slipped out the living room window.”
“After you left it open, I assume.”
“I only wanted air.”
“And did you get some air, sir?”
“Plenty. I’ve been searching the whole neighborhood for her.”
“That won’t get you out of the woods, Mr. Hokum. She was your responsibility, you know.”
“What more do you want me to do?”
He heard her sigh deeply. “Nothing. She’ll only come back if she chooses to. It’s not uncommon for Thumbelinas to leave a home — usually it happens when they’re displeased with their host. Was she displeased with you, Mr. Hokum?”
“I guess I was too much hound for her.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Hokum. Probably, you weren’t enough of a hound. Thumbelinas are satisfied only with blind devotion.”
“So where will she go?”
“She’ll probably adopt another family. There are plenty of people who would love to have a Thumbelina in their home.”
“What if she doesn’t like them either?”
“If she doesn’t like them, she might give you another chance.”
“When is that likely to happen?”
“Maybe in a week or two — if she doesn’t like them. That will give you an opportunity to make amends.”
“Become her slave, you mean.”
“If you want to put it that way, yes.”
“I do want to put it that way.”
“I’ll make a note of it, Mr. Hokum. Let us know if she shows up.”
* * *
Three weeks passed, and Clarissa did not return. Deborah, true to her promise to forever hate him, went to live with her mother full-time. She left while he was out on one of his prowls. Returning home, he saw a note upon the coffee table — a note with his ex-wife’s scrawl. He picked up the note and read.
Henry,
When I left you, I had hoped you might grow up a little. But it seems I’ve overestimated you once again. So now it’s a living Barbie doll. How did you get involved in something so sick? And don’t try to say it was Debbie’s idea, she calls you an oinker behind your back.
Weren’t your other toys enough for you? The speed boat, the sports car, that damn swinger’s network you made me join. Did you have to get involved with a fickle little alien? And did you have to let Debbie fall in love with her? You know how attached she gets to stray things. But stray things wander off, Henry. You of all people should know that. Really, I’ve never been more disappointed in you.
The damnedest thing is you will have to fetch her back. Debbie is heartbroken — she cries every day — and I’m left to pick up the pieces once again.
I’m furious with you, Henry, so please don’t try and phone me. Your daughter will be staying with me until further notice — or at least until that ridiculous pixie is found.
He put down the letter and started making plans. Since further searching seemed useless, it was time to seek distractions — ways to ease the time until Clarissa might deign to return. Thank Heaven for his toys.
He continued to cruise the nightspots, picking up women at random. In defiance of Clarissa, her rare and uncompromising beauty, he grew less selective: it was now easier to overlook platinum blonde hair, starched face-lifts, and sagging boobs. Solace, not beauty, was the point after all: the warmth of a cocktail, the glow of muted lights, and the thrill of anticipation before he moved in for the kill.
And his pickups, recognizing him for the hound he was, did not grow cross when his conversation lapsed and his eyes wandered fleetingly around the bar. “You’re a one-nighter, slick,” one of them remarked before he took her home, “but one-nighters are the best of all.”
And so, in the absence of his little mistress, he had himself a ball.
* * *
She came back on a Sunday morning, awakening him with the musical lilt of her voice. The song was coming from the living room, where he had left the window open. And the song was so captivating, so stunningly rich, that he barely recognized it as “Baby One More Time,” a Britney Spears number. She must have learned it wherever she had been staying. Probably there had been a teenager in the house and they had not gotten along.
He crept into the living room, careful not to make the slightest sound. He could hear the water running in her bathroom: a lyrical tinkle that mingled so perfectly with her voice that she might have been a siren perched upon a river bank. But not even a siren could have sung a song so beautifully. It therefore seemed a sacrilege when he picked up his telephone and dialed Jean Hargrove.
Jean answered him on the first ring. “Yes, Mr. Hokum?”
“She’s back.”
“I know that, sir. I can hear her.”
“Am I out of the woods?”
“Has she learned any English?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then you’re not out of the woods, sir.”
“Give me a break. She’s been gone for three weeks.”
“You’ve had your break, sir. I’ll be over in one hour. If she’s not speaking some of our language — even if it’s just a word — I’ll be taking her with me.”
He hung up the phone, grateful for the delay — grateful that he would have another hour to hear her sing. And her last trilling note had just faded away when he heard the knock on the door. A moment later, Jean Hargrove was standing in his living room.
“Well, Mr. Hokum?” He face was expressionless, like that of an executioner, and she was carrying the shoebox with holes. Her eyes followed him as he rapped tentatively upon the door to Clarissa’s house.
She answered the door in her bathrobe. She looked weary and ruffled, like a housewife recovering from a hard day — but the curlers in her hair and the cream upon her face in no way diminished her startling beauty. She watched him coquettishly as he patted himself upon his chest.
“Henry,” he declared.
She smiled, a smile more dismissive than spontaneous. Obviously, she was in a hurry to return to her bathroom. Shaking her head, she drew a deep breath. “Oinker,” she piped.
The water kept tinkling.
He looked at Jean Hargrove and smiled. “There you are.”
Copyright © 2024 by James Hanna
