Because another girl, not her, is going to get the surprise. The man isn’t even looking at her anymore. He liked her so much before, but he’s changed his mind. Her mother didn’t see him—she saw only who she wanted to see—and now everything is so damaged and ruined. It’s not going to work. “You’re making me really angry,” Ruthie tells her. “You did it on purpose! I’m going to kick you.” She shows her teeth.
“What did I do now?” her mother asks. “What just happened?” She is asking an imaginary friend who’s a grown-up standing next to her, not Ruthie. She has nothing to say to Ruthie; she grabs her wrist and marches fast down the hill, trying to get them away from something, from Ruthie’s bad mood, probably, and Ruthie is about to cry, because she is not having a good day, her wrist is stinging very badly, nothing is going her way, but just as her mother is dragging her through the door of a small barn she sees again the man with the surprise. He has turned back to look at her, so much closer now, and when he reaches out to touch her she sees that he has long, yellowish fingernails and, under his cape, he’s made out of straw. He nods at her slowly. It’s going to be okay.
Inside the barn, Kate takes a breath. It actually worked. Nothing like a little force and velocity! Ruthie has been yanked out from under whatever dark cloud she conjured up. Kate will have to try that again. The doll room, strung with Christmas lights, twinkles around her merrily. Bits of tulle and fuzzy yarn hang mistily from the rafters. As her eyes get used to the dim barn and its glimmering light, she sees that there are dolls everywhere, of all possible sizes, perched on nests of leaves and swinging from birch branches and asleep in polished walnut-shell cradles. Like the wooden animals, they seem all to be descended from the same bland and adorable ancestor, a wide-eyed, thin-lipped soul with barely any nose and a mane of bouclé hair. They are darling, irresistible; she wants to squeeze every last one of them and stroke the neat felt shoes on their feet. Little cardboard tags dangle from their wrists or ankles, bearing the names of their makers, faithful and nimble-fingered Waldorf mothers who can also, it’s rumored, spin wool! On real wooden spinning wheels. What a magical, soothing, practical skill. Could that be what she lacks—a spinning wheel? She glances down at Ruthie—is she charmed? happy?—and then looks anxiously around the room at the sweet assortment of milky faces peeking out from under tiny elf caps or heaps of luxuriant hair. Please let there be some brown dolls! she thinks. And please let them be cute. Wearing gauzy, sparkly fairy outfits like the others, and not overalls or bonnets or dresses made of calico. A brown mermaid would be nice for once. A brown Ondine. She squeezes her daughter’s hand in helpless apology, for even at the Elves’ Faire, where all is enchanting and mindful and biodegradable, Kate is again exposing her to something toxic.
But Ruthie isn’t even looking at the dolls, because now she has to pee very badly. Also, she can’t find her giraffe. It isn’t there under her arm, where she left it. Her baby giraffe! It must have slipped out somewhere. But where? There are many, many places it could be. Ruthie looks down at the floor of the barn, which is covered in bits of straw. Not here. She feels her stomach begin to hurt. It was her one special thing from the Elves’ Faire. A present from her mother. Maybe her last present from her mother, who might say, If you can’t take care of your special things, then I won’t be able to get you special things anymore. But she won’t need special things anymore! She is going to get a surprise, one that gets bigger and bigger the more she thinks about it, because she has a feeling the man is able to do things her mother is not able to do, like let her live in a castle that is also a farm, where she can live in a beautiful tower and have a little kitten and build it a house and give it toys. Also she’s going to have five—no, she means ten—pet butterflies.
The man is standing outside the barn now, waiting for her, and maybe if she doesn’t come out soon he’ll walk right in and get her. Ruthie wants to run and scream; she can’t tell if she’s happy or the most scared she’s ever been. “Noooooooo!” she shrieks when her father holds her upside down and tickles her, but as soon as he stops she cries, “Again, again!” She always wants more of this, and her father and mother always stop too soon.
The man in the cape won’t stop. The dolls in this room are children, children he has turned into dolls. Ruthie can help him—she’ll be on his team. She’ll tell the children, I’m going to put you in jail. Lock, lock! You’re in jail. And I have the key. You can never get out until I tell you. Her friends from school, her ballet teacher Miss Sara, her best friends Lark and Chloe, her gymnastics coach Tanya, her mommy and daddy, her favorite, specialest people, all sitting with their legs straight out and their eyes wide open, and no one can see them but her. She will be on the stage copying Dorothy, and they will be watching. She will do the whole Wizard of Oz for them from the beginning, and the man will paint her skin so it’s bright, not brown, and make her hair smooth and in braids so she looks like the real Dorothy. It will be the big surprise of their life!
Kate knows there must be a brown doll somewhere in this barn, and that
