Hey, sweetheart, the father said, I'm home. Sorry I'm late, traffic. You're fine, the mother said, you're not late at all. Let me get into other clothes and I'm yours to command, he said. Good, she said, good, but I think I've about got it. We just need to set up. Oh, and balloons. Okay, I'm really glad you're here for that.
The mother made a strawberry lemon cake and a caramel chocolate cake and the father made the peach ice cream the twins said would be yummy with both. The older sister did everyone's hair and nails, which was much better than playing any party games they could think of, and the middle sister made sure everyone had a turn and a friend and got reasonably equal amounts of loot from the pinata. The oldest brother nearly missed the whole thing, as the twins had feared, but before they even had a chance to notice and to wail about it, he came rushing in to do the magic show for the end. He turned little red balls hiding under cups into lemons and then into mice. He turned one red sponge ball squeezed in a little guest's hand into sixteen red sponge balls and then into a shower of glittering, sugared candies. He made the flame at the end of a match disappear by blinking at it and then he made it reappear by blowing on his sisters. He made the wrappings from the presents vanish and reappear as suckers in the guests' pockets. He made straight hair curly and pink hair orange. It was a wonderful party.
As darkness fell, the middle sister gathered the guests in front of the television with pillows and blankets and the oldest sister turned on a Federation of Magical Kingdoms Princesses Club movie for the guests to watch in the hope they might be calm by the time their parents arrived to take them home. Calmer, anyway. The oldest brother went out into the garden under the trees and picked up scraps and cups and bits of pinata dragon and stuffed them into plastic bags. He should make the trash vanish, his father observed as he watched his son through the kitchen window. Nothing ever vanishes, the mother replied, it always goes somewhere. How about into the trash cans? his father asked. Well, I think he's accomplishing that, the mother said. The father went to help his son with the trash bags and the mother went into the living room, into the semi-darkness of the movie, to check, to count, to plan the transfer of guests back to their parents, and to sit down for a moment. But she didn't sit, she never got past the checking, the counting. She scanned the children, frowned, scanned again and then worked methodically across the room. Back. Again. She walked carefully across and among the little bodies and pillows and blankets strewn about the on the floor, drawing no attention, making no fuss. She went quietly out the door and into the kitchen. Then she ran.
How can they be gone? the father asked for the forty-ninth time. How can they just be gone? Dad, the oldest boy said, it's not that they are gone, it's that they are most likely here and we just can't find them. Don't you remember? the older sister said, we talked and talked about this before they came, that we'd have to be so careful. Didn't you see them at the party? the middle sister asked, they're tiny. They're absolutely tiny. No, the father said, I can't remember seeing them. You're sure they were here? he asked the mother. You're sure they came? Of course I'm sure, the mother said, and you never saw them because they are so small. You never looked that closely. Why would we invite children too small to see easily? the father demanded as his family hunted and searched. Why would we do that? We've discussed this endlessly, the mother said. The twins love them and you work with their father. I do? he asked, amazed, and then stopped short. No! Those children? I don't work with their father, dammit, he whisper-shouted, I work FOR their father!
They had looked under all the chairs and tables. The oldest boy worked over the garden, carefully turning up every leaf and branch. The mother checked in all their shoes and pockets and all the way under every bed. The girls handed out more treats to the guests and discretely searched under arms and legs and in pillowcases. The father, grim and careful, went through the trash bags. They met in the kitchen, tired and worried and confused. Some of them were panicking. I don't know what to do, the mother said, I'm sick, I just feel sick. You don't think, the older sister said, you don't think something...I mean, like a cat or-- No! the oldest boy said, they're fine. They're here. They're probably asleep. We just have to find them. Remember that grandma and the cookie jar? the older sister asked with an intense sort of shudder. That is not even true, her brother was looking at her with distaste, that is a myth. Will you stop even saying things like that? It isn't helping. Excuse me, your highness, the older sister said, I was only asking. What if we offer them something really wonderful? the middle sister asked. She was trying to cry softly. Make it a game? Carry a prize around and pretend the first hidden person to fly out gets it? That won't work, sweetie, the mother said holding her, because they can't fly. That's right, the older sister said, worried, I remember. They don't fly. They don't fly? the father said, his face turning a strange color. They don't fly? We invited minuscule children who don't fly to our house for a birthday party? Why would we do this? Are we all insane? DAD! everyone said, and he said, Stop, every one of you. I know. We discussed it. Be quiet a minute. Let me think.
When they went to bed the sisters were still asking their mother about it. But how? they asked and asked, how did he think of it? How did he ever know? It's a family story, the mother said, and it suddenly came back to him. His great-grand uncle. The first time, I believe, it was an accident, but Uncle soon realized what a useful spot that was. Used to hide like that and people thought it was so cute when he was small. And Uncle was, you know, very, very small, but he did grow. He was in and out and in and out of there and it was all charming and fine until one day he realized he couldn't get out. That he never would get out. It was just awful for everyone and your father never forgot that story. Yes, she said, a terrible story and a man wrote it down in a book. That man took the sad, outlandish stories he had heard and put them into a book, hid them there under a little fun and nonsense. We have the book, if you'd like to see it in the morning. People don't tend to read it clearly, his book. Too few of them seem to see any sadness. I couldn't ever understand that, myself. I always thought Mr. Lear simply told the stories as they were, as they happened, as they were told to him. He never even tried to make them over, the mother said. Such sad little tales, all of them, and quite, quite true. She tucked the covers around the sleeping twins, told everyone good night, went out and shut the door carefully behind her.
In the tea kettle, the middle sister said, climbing into bed, I can't believe it. We're so lucky to have a smart dad. Even if he never listens when we talk, the oldest brother said. He found them, the middle sister said, ignoring her brother, he went straight to the tea kettle and there they were. And just in time, the older sister said. Imagine what might have happened. No, the oldest boy said, his hand on the light switch, don't even imagine. I thought they had vanished, the older sister said, squinching down deliciously under the covers. It was a cool night. No, the brother said, no. Nothing ever vanishes. It just goes some place else.
There was an Old Man who, when little,
Fell casually into a Kettle;
But, growing too stout,
He could never get out,
So he passed all his life in that Kettle.
-Edward Lear, True Histories of Families of My Acquaintance in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales: Rhymed and Retold by the Author; Distractions for a Summer Afternoon
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