Shadows of the Emerald City

by J. W. Schnarr

  “Yes, only I don’t see why people have to change it so much. Her slippers were supposed to be silver, not ruby slippers! And they left out so many parts, some of the best parts! No, the book was far better. I want to hear more about Oz. The real Oz. Would you please, pretty please, get the second one, pretty please with sugar on top?”

  “Sugar before bed, darling?”

  “Kisses, then,” she said and held true to her promise. I held true to mine. We read about Ozma and Wheelers and talking hens and all kinds of stuff, on and on and on. I guess Kansas shouldn’t have been such a surprise.

  “Kansas,” Betsy mused blowing smoke up against the porch ceiling, “Kansas.” By that time we had secretly picked up the old habit again and would end the day conspiring on the porch like we had when we were much younger and only concerned with the beginning of things. People warned us that having a sick kid can tear marriages apart, but if anything, it seemed to glue us tighter. Betsy called it bunker mentality, and that was how it felt some days; smoke ‘em if you got ‘em and let’s hear the news from the front.

  “Do you think she thinks she’ll find a way to Oz?” I asked.

  “Of course that’s what she thinks. The only real question is how we convince her otherwise. Kansas!” She exclaimed. We thought about it, debated about it. We got really good at leading breakfast conversation toward topics such as Disneyworld, petting dolphins, and hot air balloon rides.

  “Well, the wizard rode on a balloon,” Ronie reminded us. “But then he wasn’t a real wizard, he was a con-artist.” She said it with a flourish, proud of her ever expanding vocabulary.

  We weren’t conning this girl, so reluctantly, with bemused but worried smiles we agreed to arrange a trip to the geographical center of the country.

  The worst place in the world is standing in between a child and their inevitable disappointment. What can you do?

  You go to Kansas. It took about ten minutes on the internet to discover a little museum in the town Liberal, Kansas that claimed to be the home of Dorothy. That would have to do. I noticed that they had an Oz-fest in October where people dressed up like their favorite characters. They even had pictures of Munchkins who had attended in past years. I got excited and then reality settled in. We had to go this summer, not wait for October. She might not be strong enough in the autumn, I thought optimistically. Still, the place appeared to be the Oz center of the universe. I found Betsy instructing Ronie in light yoga on our bed, and announced my find.

  Ronie jumped up and down on the bed until we had to get her to stop for fear of her falling and bruising herself again. Betsy and I saw that we were both grinning like idiots, which misted us up a bit, but it was alright; we were Kansas bound.

  We flew into Wichita. The whole while Ronie looked out the window. She had been on a plane once before, but she watched the sky and the ground like an eagle. I knew what she was looking for: tornadoes.

  Upon arrival, we rented a car and drove across the city to a family resort. As we drove across the city in traffic, Ronie crossed her thin arms across her chest.

  “This is Kansas? This is not Kansas.” We assured her it would seem more like Kansas when we got closer to our destination. “We’ll see about that,” she said and gave me that side long swindler look that never failed to make me chuckle.

  We stayed in a hotel that catered to traveling families. Ronie ate free, which was good, she picked at everything, anyway, and there was more in-door entertainment than you could shake a stick at. The inside water slide made Betsy and I nervous, but Ronie got excited by the pool and the big Jacuzzi tub.

  I noticed the difference between the tanned raucous boys and girls that splashed and squabbled around us and our own reserved pale girl. Ronie daintily stepped out of her jumper. You could trace the little blue veins all through her shoulders, down to her bird like toes.

  “Are you coming, Dad?” She asked at the water’s edge.

  “You bet, funny pants.” In the water I had to resist the impulse to hold her up, like I had when she was an infant. I had taken her every summer to the reservoir back home and it was there that we had splashed and chased each other, and I taught her the joys of swimming. Watching her now, I remembered how natural she was at it. How she loved it. For a moment she was all herself, just like at the reservoir. I remembered telling her one lazy afternoon, with speed boats in the distance, how good of a swimmer she was becoming, how she could be on a swim team when she was older.

  “Really, Dad, do you think?” She said.

  “Yeah, any team would be psyched to have you.”

  But there wouldn’t be any swim teams, not for my little girl. I went under deep and came up beneath her. I could see her arms struggling to hold herself up and I resisted the urge to hold her again. Needing air, I came up and gave her a pinch. She splashed me, and we chased each other about a bit. Too soon, her lips blue, she went to the side of the pool.

  “That was fun!” she chattered as I pulled her out. “But not as fun as the reservoir.”

  “Yeah, funny pants, I’m with you,” I sighed and we went to get warm.

  In Dodge City we saw a cavalcade and some rodeo shows. We rode a stage coach and visited a replica farmhouse from the settler days.

  “Not too different from Dorothy’s house,” Betsy remarked. Ronie nodded and approached the tour guide.

  “Do you think we’ll get a big twister today?” The old guy with the theatrical handlebar moustache cocked his head and appraised the little sick girl.

  “Well, I sure as shoot hope not, missy,” he said.

  “Well, I hope we do, mister,” she told him. He laughed and offered her a ride on one of the local stallions.

  “With that attitude I bet you could tame the roughest widow maker,” he said. Everyone laughed. Ronie licked her finger and held it out to the wind.

  The Seward County Museum in Liberal, Kansas was where we were headed. Ronie never let us forget it. When we arrived both Betsy and I held my breath, hoping that some tornado had not ironically come through and wrecked our girl’s dreams. As we pulled into the parking lot, I was cursing myself for not calling ahead and making sure everything was still kosher in Ozland.

  Ozland was a 5,000 square foot compound building that featured all manners of animatronic characters and kid friendly museum pieces. Dorothy’s house, a replica of the house featured in the film, waited outside. A plaque said that they were raising money for a life-sized statue of Dorothy and her dog, daydreaming about what lay over that darned rainbow. They were raising money for the statue by selling 13” replicas.

  “We’ll get one, sweetie, to put right on the stand beside your bed!” I declared, but my girl was no longer beside me. She was approaching the little farm cottage, with the solemn dignity of a catholic devotee entering St. Peter’s Basilica.

  “Look at her,” Betsy said, fumbling with her camera. “Honey, could you—” she started.

  “Let her go.” I rubbed her back. Betsy took a picture of her just at the door way peering in. Later Betsy blew it up and framed it. It sits in her room over the bed to this day.

  When we got inside it took a minute for our eyes to adjust. Ronie had already captured the heart of the busty teen that was the guide and acting Dorothy, decked out in a checked dress and braids. They were hand in hand, Ronie and Dorothy, as she pointed out little details and answered questions. They stayed that way all through the cottage and then when it came time for us to leave and enter the Land of Oz, the girl left her post. Entering families gave us the wide berth people would give important celebrities or the very sick.

  “To think we tried to convince her not to come,” Betsy said.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You have a beautiful little girl there,” Dorothy told us in confidence at the end of the Land of Oz. “Does she have…?”

  “Leukemia, yeah.” I whispered.

  “Oh,” She said, and her eyes misted up. “I’m sorry.” I suddenly had the insane desire to wrap my arms ar
ound this farm girl with starry eyed dreams of Hollywood probably knocking around her head and give her a bear hug. Instead I thanked her for being so gracious; both Betsy and I did. Ronie gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek with the same patient grace that she had for anyone who was overly attentive to her.

  “She was nice,” Ronie said as I buckled her in. She looked wan and ready for a nap. “Really nice, but she didn’t really know about Oz, not really.”

  “Of course not,” Betsy said. “Who could know as much as you do, Ozma?”

  “That’s your highness to you,” she said.

  And so our little trip to Oz was over. Or so we thought.

  On the way out of town, and on our way toward the Oklahoma border, Ronie cried out.

  Insanely, I scanned the horizon for cyclones headed our way.

  “Stop, Daddy! Stop the car!”

  I pulled over beside an old gray weather-beaten Victorian that sat close to the road. In front hung a large painted sign from a post:

  OVER THE RAINBOW

  ANTIQUES AND OZ MEMEROBILIA

  “Oh, honey,” Betsy clucked. “We already went through the gift shop at the museum. You are tired. Let’s head out of Kansas and get some early dinner. Okay?”

  “It doesn’t look like its open anyway,” I added.

  “It’s open,” Ronie said fumbling with her seat belt. “And I need to go in there!”

  “Yes, your highness,” I said and met Betsy’s concerned look with a smirk and a shrug.

  I had to trot to beat Ronie to the door. The unwashed windows gave the place a used-up look. Dust filled the slanting sunbeams when I knocked. Nothing happened. Ronie reached past me and pressed a door bell.

  An old synthesized version of the famous song filled the porch. I winced. Ronie smiled.

  The door opened with the smell of cats and lilac powder. A wizened old woman with dark swathes about her rheumy eyes opened the door. She wore a polyester green sweater shirt and no bra. She wore torn bunny slippers on her feet.

  “Well, hello, strangers, welcome!” She smiled and revealed a mouth containing a few stained and unclean teeth. I could hear the nearly sub audible intake of breath from Betsy behind me. A dental assistant, Betsy had teeth issues. She hadn’t taken Ronie’s flaking and failing chompers easily.

  “Hello,” Ronie piped up from my elbow. “Do you know the way to Oz?”

  “Well, no darling, I don’t. Do you?”

  “No,” Ronie admitted.

  “But, I do have a lot of things I have collected about the land of Oz. Would you like to see them?”

  “Yes, I would!” Ronie said.

  “Well, all right then,” she smiled and then turned the smile to me. It did not inspire any confidence in me.

  “I’m sorry,” the old woman said. “I’m Dorothy Woodrow. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “I’m Hal Tatum, this is my wife Betsy, and this is…Ronie.”

  “You’re real name is Dorothy?” Ronie asked, breathless.

  “Yes, most call me Dotty, though, dear.” She lifted a palsied hand and patted Ronie’s rainbow colored fishing cap with it.

  “I wish my name was Dorothy,” Ronie said.

  “Well, I think Ronie is a wonderful name, beautiful, really. But tell me, is it Gillikinese or Munchkinlander?” She winked, and Ronie managed a little giggle. “Shall we?” She said, and opened the door wide and motioned toward row after row of old store shelves filled with bric-a-brac. A long haired cat jumped up in surprise and dashed out of sight. “I’m sure we have your heart’s desire lying around here somewhere, Ronie.”

  “Well, that is what we came for,” I murmured to Betsy with a shrug and held the door for her. Ronie was already walking up the aisles putting a tentative hand out here and there, to jostle a scarecrow bobble head, or trace a line in the dust covering an emerald city snow globe.

  When she turned a corner, her right knee seemed to buckle and Ronie started to fall. Some Popsicle stick marionettes rattled as she caught herself. Betsy ran to scoop her up. Ronie waved her away with a hand.

  “She’s a tired poop-shute, that she is, dear thing,” Dotty Woodrow observed.

  “She’s very sick,” I said.

  “Yes.” She said, and licked her lips. “Honey, that poster was autographed by honest-to-God real Munchkins,” she called out. Ronie nodded her head and moved on.

  She disappeared around the corner and then let out a tiny gasp.

  “Ronie!” I yelled, feeling glued down in syrup next to that old woman, that old witch. That was what I felt at the time, and I guess I still do. The woman was a witch.

  We came around the corner and found Ronie looking up at a set of old china figures. Her mouth was open and she nodded at them. Then suddenly she burst into laughter and grinned at me.

  “Aren’t they wonderful?” Ronie laughed, pointing.

  I looked at the dusty china figures carefully and then at the colorful oz merchandise hanging all around us and then at my daughter. She continued to gawk and stare at the quaint set of old fashioned china figures, so I gave them a closer study. A stout farmer stood proudly with his hands stuffed into his overalls. A matron, equally stout, presumably the farmer’s wife, held a bouquet of flowers. A young jack of a boy with a wicked grin of mischief balanced on one leg and was either tossing jacks or playing some rustic form of bocce ball. A very happy milkmaid grinned benevolently while she hoisted two pales of milk from a stick over her shoulders. Why was the milkmaid smiling so broadly? What wicked rendezvous was the milkmaid returning from to make her smile so? Why were the milkmaids always so happy? I wondered distantly to myself. Certainly the life of rising early in the morn’ to dodge cow kicks and meadow muffins wouldn’t cause that kind of bliss. Beside her was a cream white cow, which of course was also smiling. A ring of lacquered violet flowers entwined its neck. Suddenly my mind hearkened back to the Keats poem I had memorized for intro to Lit class in college:

  To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

  Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

  And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

  A shiver ran through me with the thought. My daughter had asked me if I found them wonderful. The truth is I didn’t. Looking at them, I felt a staleness of presence, a distinct quality of quiet despair that had something to do with the accumulation of dust and time.

  Ronie reached up, grabbed my shirt front and pulled me down so that her mouth was at my ear.

  “We have to get them out of here,” she whispered.

  “Ah, those,” Dotty Woodrow said. We both startled. Her presence and the smell of decaying lilacs surrounded us. “I was told by my mother, bless her soul, that those are authentic china people from the outskirts of Quadling country. Such a beautiful set, isn’t it?” She put a hand out again to rest it on Ronie’s head. Ronie stepped sideways under the protection of my arm.

  Betsy was suddenly flanking Ronie’s other side. I had the distinct impression that she did so protectively.

  “Are you sure, Ronie, those are what you want? There are plenty of other things that…” Betsy started.

  Are what? I wondered, less breakable? Suddenly I thought I understood the unconscious sensibilities of my little fragile girl. I thought of her swimming, pale and bruised surrounded by the colorful and dynamic children at the resort pool.

  “Yes,” she said simply and a hand encircled mine and squeezed with tenacity.

  “Well, it looks like our minds are made up,” I said suddenly and the lady grunted and turned and went off looking for a shoebox and tissue paper.

  I paid the woman too much, I knew it. Ronie’s hand kept tugging at mine, and it only exasperated my own desire to flee the dusty warren of knick knacks where this woman ruled like a witch queen from a an old storybook.

  “You should have bartered her a little,” Betsy said when we got back to the car.

  “Let it go,” I said, which was rude. But I was tired, as we all were. Ronie slept in the back sea
t all the way to the airport, clutching that shoebox in her lap.

  On the flight home Ronie sat between Betsy and I, instead of busily scanning from the window seat for signs of twisters. I assumed she wanted to feel safe after a long and tiring journey. I felt relief, but a sense of bewildering disappointment, as well. The dream trip was done and over, and all Ronie had to show for it was a shoebox full of antique figurines on her lap. She clutched it jealously too, especially after the flight attendant asked her if she could store it in the overhead compartment for her.

  An hour in and she put a sluggish pale hand on my arm.

  “Daddy, hold them for me. I’m getting too tired.”

  “Of course, sweetie.”

  “But, hold on tight, Dad, don’t let go!” And then she leaned against her mother and drifted into a deep sleep. Sitting there watching but not listening to a period drama, I clutched that shoebox tight, as if it contained my sweet Ronie’s life.

  Life entered this strange twilight spiral after that. At work, and then walking across the parking lot at the supermarket, I had this strange feeling like I was sinking, that it took a whole lot of concentration to stay on top of the ground, as if it were a thin crust of February ice over very deep and suffocating snow. I know Betsy felt it, too, but even at night when we were smoking on the front porch like bad kids, especially at night, we did not talk about it. Instead, we talked about things that had happened to us together when we first met; when we were first married. I suppose it was our way of gearing up to the time when we would find ourselves, inevitably alone again without Ronie. We felt guilty about it. I know I did. We only did it when we were out there, but then talk would come around to our childhood, or the silly things Ronie had done as a toddler, and we would be back up there using mouthwash and checking in on our little girl.

  She slept a lot, or at least I thought she did. But I wonder, because sometimes I would be tiptoeing past her door and I would hear her babbling quietly inside.