âMay we come in?â
âUh, sure.â Emily regained her poise. With a toss of her honey-tressed head she turned, leading the way past a vast parlor and a glassy dining room to the informal living room, where a group of teenage girls clustered in front of the large-screen TV. âYouâre going to have to wait until we watch the end of this movie,â she told Buffy.
Thumping along behind her, Adamus lifted his head, saw the image of Winona Ryder flash before him, and screamed. Simultaneously, several of the girls turned bored heads, saw him, and, no longer bored, screamed as earnestly as he did. Some of them scrambled away from him, but as far as Buffy could tell, he did not notice. Squatting on the Oriental carpet (a tax shelter) in his tux, he was staring raptly at the screen as Winona, in charming dishevelment, closed in on her lover.
âThatâs just my momâs frog,â Emily said. For just a nanosecond Buffy heard a hint of little-girl approval in those two important words âmy mom,â and she was so touched thatâstanding there in her clownish storytelling outfit, pigtails bow-tied with fluorescent-pink shoelaces, black sweatshirt puffy-painted with dancing pigs, wide black pants edged with multicolored braidâshe glowed like the ever-ingenuous Winona. Her child had smiled; her frog, like a two-year-old in front of Sesame Street, was temporarily pacified; life was good.
Right on cue to pop her bubble, Tempestt came flitting in, carrying snack mix and drinks on a lacquered tray.
Tempestt, in a froth of curls and a ruffled silk romper. Even if Buffy hadnât detested her already, the romper would have done the job. âOh, good, Madeleineâs here!â Tempestt announced, dulcet to the max. âThis is Madeleine Murphy, our storyteller. Such an interesting puppet! Are we all ready for some stories?â
âSure,â one of the guests responded in tones of existential ennui.
âSpiffy-diffy,â added another equally morosely. The movie had ended. Sluggishly the kids rearranged themselves in a semicircle on the carpet, facing Buffy sullenly.
It was Emilyâs party, Buffy reminded herself. Smile. Be good. And tell one hell of a good story. But not for the first time she wondered, why had Emily invited her? Storytelling as entertainment was not Emilyâs style.
Give it your best shot.
She told them the one about the ghost of Toad Road. Did the voices, the sound effects, the gestures, the thrilling scream. They listened with reasonable attention and clapped politely when she was finished. But before she could begin her next story, Emily asked, âBut what about the frog? When does he get to talk to us?â
So that was it. Emily didnât really want a storyteller at her party. She wanted Addie.
Damn.
âIs he going to tell us a story?â
Clueless in that regard, Buffy said, âAh, uh, ah, he, uhââ
Emily leveled her midnight-blue eyes at Adamus and asked him directly, âAre you the frog from the frog-prince story? The one with the golden ball?â
Adamus looked back at her. Then he stood up and walked forward on his long, green hind feet. And despite the fact that he was a mere two feet tall, he advanced with such presence, such statesmanship, that Buffy stepped back. He took her place and faced the damsels fair, his courtiers clad in denims from the Gap.
âSweet Princess Emily,â Adamus addressed her. âLovely maidens. I am not a frog. Or, I was not always so. I was born a prince. I am Prince Adamus dâAurca de la Pompe de la Trompe de lâEau.â
The damsels did not all appreciate the solemnity of this moment. Most of them giggled or sat stolidly. But, seated on the carpet at his feet, Princess Emily gasped and gazed.
Tempestt laughed and clapped. âOh, how clever. It really looks as if the puppet is doing the talking!â
âShut up,â Emily whispered without
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus