Dorothy was dead at the age of 93, and there was almost no one left to notice. The graveyard air was gray and chill like the Kansas plains. Mr. Baum once told her that she stood out amidst the rubble of her ruined house like a flower in a garden of weeds. And to think, if the writer had not ridden by in his motor-car, had not seen her playing amidst the debris of the family's house, those wonderful Oz books might never have been written.
Gale Osterman smiled down at the coffin, a line of tears staining her cheeks. "I'll miss you, Grandma," she said softly, tossing her clod of earth on the burnished lid.
Grandma had not been her only loss that year. She'd buried her marriage in January, and her job had gone by the wayside when she'd come back two months ago to take care of the ailing old woman. She had been bitter about the former, mostly because he'd already found someone else, leaving the little black and white cat as her only companion, but now it seemed unimportant, somehow. A hand touched her shoulder, squeezed and withdrew, then another. She nodded at her well-wishers without looking up at their faces, then turned and walked away from the grave.
At least she wouldn't have to worry about money for a while. Dorothy had left her well provided for. She pulled her ancient, blue Grand Am out of the gravel lot and drove through the dreary roads to her grandmother's house. Her house now. The very farmhouse L. Frank Baum had written about, though it didn't look much the same any more. Not the tornado house. That had been completely destroyed. Gale supposed that if it hadn't been, Mr. Baum would never have stopped to ask Dorothy if there was anything he could do to help. Dorothy always said that she never knew he was going to use her for a character until he sent her the first of the books. Gale suspected that during Dorothy's lonely childhood, they became more real to her than her own boring existence. Later, in the confusion of age, she even spoke of them as if they were real, laughing about some exploit of the Hungry Tiger's, or worrying about the Scarecrow's brains. That last night, Gale had found her on the steps, looking vacant and confused. "I've got to get to Ozma," she told Gale. "Ozma can help me."
"Come on, Grandma. Let's get you back to bed," Gale said, putting her arm around the old woman's shoulders and leading her back to her room.
"You're right," Dorothy said as Gale tucked the covers around her. "My mind must be going." The words wrenched Gale's heart. She wanted to offer some words of reassurance, but what was there to say? Then, a moment later, Dorothy was prattling incoherently again. "We had such fun!" Dorothy said, talking of creatures Gale couldn't even remember reading about. "I just wanted to say good-bye."
Gale kissed her. "I'll get you some soup," she said. By the time she came back to the room, Dorothy was gone.
This was the house Dorothy's Uncle Henry had built after the storm. It was the only one on its block, and stood well back from the street, surrounded by weed-choked grounds. The barn and outbuildings, as well as much of the land, long since sold to developers as the city of Wichita spread out to encroach the area. A prime block of suburban land would be worth a fair amount, if Gale was willing to let it go. But then they would tear the house down. Within weeks the pale, characterless sea of tract housing would flow in to cover the last remaining island in this ocean of suburbia.
Inside, the house was as modern as the rest of them. The plumbing was old, but good copper pipes, and the fixtures and wiring had been redone only a few years ago. She flicked the switch, watching the room blaze into brightness. Some of the neighbors must have dropped by while she was at the funeral. A neatly banked fire burned in the hearth, and plates and Tupperware containers loaded with food, neatly stacked on the dining room table, were visible through the graceful, columned arch. Sweet of them. The cat was on the table, busily trying to get at the meat. Absently, Gale picked her up and began stroking her fur. She was such a delicate, dainty little creature that Gale almost thought of her as a little girl. "A lady does not take food until she's been invited," Gale said to her. Spooky settled down and began to purr. Though Gale could feel a knot of grief like lead in her stomach, she would rather have the comfort of one cat who loved her than the cold comfort of semi-strangers, no matter how well-intentioned. The large stack of condolence cards piled on an end table was more than enough to let her know that Grandma had been loved. It was Gale who was all alone in the world. She looked at the portrait of Dorothy hanging over the mantle. A portrait that Gale, herself, could have sat for. The same short brown hair, straight rather than curly, the rounded cheeks that tended toward roses, a little snub nose, and a thin-lipped smile. Gale was taller than Dorothy, but that was about the only difference, excepting age, and a certain brightness that Gale was painfully aware that she lacked. When her parents died, when Jesse left, there had always been Grandma. Now she was gone. Gale never felt quite so alone before. More for herself than for Dorothy, she cried herself into a fitful sleep.
Gale was startled out of sleep by the phone. Her own phone made a chirping noise, and she found it hard to reacclimate herself to the lusty bawl of Dorothy's antique instrument.
"Hello," she said into the receiver, her voice still thick with sleep and tears.
"Gale?" the voice on the other end asked, hesitantly. It was Jesse. "I hope you don't mind my calling. I just heard about your grandmother, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am."
Gale took a deep breath and let it out slowly, biting back the bitter retort that jumped immediately to mind. She didn't love him any more. She hadn't loved him for a long time. But she missed the fact of him, the connectedness, the company. She'd known for ages that her marriage was going to end, but it was supposed to happen when she was ready. Still, there was no point in fighting. They'd shared a lot together. "Thank you," she answered eventually. "I know you loved her too."
"It would have been hard not to. She was pretty terrific. Look how she made me feel right at home when I half expected her to shut the door in my face," he said.
"You? I was surprised she ever let me see you again, the way you showed up at the door. Barefoot, bell-bottoms, hair down to your waist. She sure surprised me, though. She told me you seemed like a nice young man, and she wanted to keep you around until she could figure a way to steal your hair," Gale laughed. "She liked you a lot."
"And here I thought she blamed me for getting you arrested," he said.
"I told you she didn't. She said it was important, what we were doing. That people needed to stand up to the system. Besides, I think she knew we were having fun." Gale paused. "It was fun, wasn't it?"
Jesse laughed. "Remember the time we picketed Sterling Labs?"
"I knew they said they weren't making weapons, but none of us believed them. It wasn't just me. I think I learned the words to every protest song that had ever been written," Gale said. "We did make a difference, though, didn't we? A little one, anyway. We were so committed then. What happened to us?"
"We should have been committed, you mean!" he laughed, then his voice became serious. "Like Wendy, we got too old. One day you look around and you realize that you aren't gaining very much ground, and what's more, you've got an awful lot to lose. It's the young people with nothing to lose who can afford to butt their heads against a stone wall in the hopes it will give an inch."
"Jesse," she said, softly after a short pause. "I really do wish you the best in your new marriage."
"Thanks, Gale. Believe it or not, that means a lot to me, and to Barbara, too."
She placed the phone in its cradle, and leaned back on the sofa, swathed in a blanket of bitter-sweet memories. What fun they used to have! Sit-ins at the Student Union, cheered on by the tinny voices of Oches and Collins blaring through the campus loudspeakers. Rallies at Washington Square. Falling asleep by the Washington Monument during an anti-war concert, and waking to find the whole place surrounded by cops in full riot gear, their guns aimed into the crowd, while swarms of helicopters buzzed angrily overhead like a flock of carnivorous birds. But then, they had been so in love that even the teargassings and the nights in jail seemed part of a wonderful dream. Or, maybe she had it backwards. Ending the war had been so important to them. How much of their feeling for each other was wrapped up in that larger passion? Had their love only lasted while the war raged on and there were battles left to fight? If so, they'd spent the last fifteen years or so coming down from an enormous high. At this point, she couldn't remember. She felt the cat rub against her ankle, and absently scratched Spooky on the head.
"Feelings are such funny things, Spooky," she told the cat. "I wish I could still feel that way about anything. But then, maybe Jesse was right. Maybe it was just a matter of having nothing to lose." Gale thought about that for a moment. There were few people with less to lose than Gale Osterman -- only she no longer had any causes. The more she thought about it, the more she came to realize that there was nothing out there that she cared enough about to fight for. Well, she was going to have to do something. She certainly couldn't spend the rest of her life just sitting there. Perhaps there weren't any causes left, but there was still the estate to be taken care of. An inventory would be needed for the tax men. There would be clothing to be boxed and given to charity, and she would have to decide what to sell and what to keep. "No time like the present," she said, to no one in particular.
Taking time to change into jeans, a sweater, and comfortable sandals so old and broken in that she'd no longer dare to wear them outside, she headed up the graceful stairway to Dorothy's room, and opened the closet door. A renewed bout of tears told her that she wasn't yet ready for that one. The clothes would be given away, the jewelry sorted through, and the personal mementos. Gale wasn't quite sure how much she wanted to keep, nor even where she would keep it all, if she decided to sell the house. She switched on the portable television. The news was on. A shot of kids waving signs. SAVE THE TALL GRASS PRAIRIE! one sign said. "We don't need some trailer park squatting on our national resources," a young woman said. Gale snapped off the tv, not sure why it made her angry. "They're banging their heads against a stone wall. A pity, too, 'cause they're right." Gale said to the cat, who looked up at her with her head cocked to the side as if she were trying to understand. "Shit! Why can't they leave the lousy prairie alone. It's not as if there's so much of it left any more. Why, if I was ten years younger, I'd be right out there with them, trying to keep those damned parasites from ruining what little we have left!" She sat on the edge of the bed. No causes? But once her initial bout of anger passed, she just couldn't summon up any enthusiasm. "I guess I'm just too old to enjoy sitting in the cold grass yelling at the top of my lungs," she said. She picked up the cat and ruffled her fur. "You're such a lady, Spooky. I almost feel guilty cursing around you."
She got up and looked around anxiously. This was no time to sit. She had to do something. Well, if she couldn't handle the bedroom yet, she'd start in the attic, or in that little room upstairs. Things would be less immediate there. Besides, there was a bit of mystery about that little room. Dorothy had never told her to keep out, but it was kept locked. Gale had found the key and crept up there once or twice, but she'd never found anything interesting enough to keep her locked away from. Perhaps now, now that the room was hers, she could discover its secret.
The music box let out a chorus of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," when Gale opened the lid. A strange conceit that, since Dorothy hadn't liked the movie very much. It wasn't enough like the books, and Judy Garland was much too old, the cowardly lion too cute, and the wizard too much of a fool. Still, they watched it together every Easter, and every Easter she said the same thing. "If that's me, then I should be able to sing like that!" and she'd croak out a chorus of one song or another, unable, as always to carry a tune.
Gale found the key to the upstairs room in a small white envelope inside the box, and silenced the mawkish tune with a slam of the lid.
The room was a mess, dust and cobwebs everywhere. It had been a long time since Dorothy had done any cleaning, and Gale hadn't been in the room for twenty years or more. Obviously this had been Dorothy's room when she was small. The faded wallpaper showed traces of the cheerful roses that had once adorned the walls, and the bed and vanity each had a frilly pink curtain to cover its base, matching the one on the window. Above the vanity, a dust-streaked mirror showed recent finger prints. There was a bureau off to the side, a grimy doily on its top making a nest for bottles that once contained some lavender perfume and something called floral bouquet. She sat on the edge of the bed and opened a bottom drawer. Immediately, Spooky was there, trying to jump inside. "Cut that out!" she yelled, but the cat was being obstinate, so Gale picked her up and held her on her lap. "Now listen, little girl. I've had enough aggravation for one day. I've got to get this work done, and I'm never gonna finish it if you keep getting in my way." Ignoring her, the cat began kneading on her sweater. Gale sighed. She couldn't bend over far enough to take things out of the drawer with the cat in her lap, but she hated to disturb her. With her foot, she nudged the lower drawer shut and opened the one in easy reach.
Unlike the rest of the room, the drawer was surprisingly clean. There was no evidence of dust or bugs. It was almost as if someone had come in daily and just cleaned the inside of the drawer. The only thing inside was a small piece of stone. An inch and a half long, about the size of a hotel soap, with rounded edges. It was a flat, greenish-gray, but faceted around the edges like a gemstone, and in the center was a raised oval containing the word OZ. Something about it had the feeling of an earlier part of the century. It was sweet to think of Grandma saving mementos from her all too brief moment in the sun. It fit very comfortably in the palm of her hand, and she studied it carefully. "Just look at this, Spooky. You live with someone all your life and you think you know them and..."
Suddenly the bed gave way beneath her, but rather than landing on the soft familiar mattress, something hard and lumpy smacked her on the back. She did not feel injured, except for the scratch that Spooky made jumping hurriedly from her arms, but something was wrong. Instead of flat white ceiling above her, there was bright blue sky, puffed with clouds. Nor was she surrounded by the debris of her house as she might have expected. It was all very confusing. Oh, there were houses around her, but they lined up neatly on either side. No houses like these had ever been built in the Kansas suburbs. For one thing, they were dome-shaped, like very large outdoor ovens. Much smaller than the houses she was used to, they were made of some unusual material, too, all painted a bright green, with very neat shutters and doors of a deep emerald hue. Before her, marble steps led up to what surely must be a palace. She wasn't sure just why she thought that, since at home she might have said library or museum, but palace it was, without any doubt. She felt her head with one hand, checking for lumps or sore spots. There weren't any. Finally her eyes found the one familiar thing in the whole scene, and she scooped the cat up into her arms.
"Spooky," she said rubbing her under her chin and grasping at the phrase she always used in puzzling situations, "I don't think we're in Kansas any more."
"No shit, Sherlock!" the cat replied.
"Did you... say something?" Gale asked, dropping the cat in surprise.
"Ouch, that hurt," the cat said.
"You did speak. I heard you," Gale said.
"Nah! You just hit your head, and you're having hallucinations." Spooky laughed as Gale felt her head again. "Okay, don't be silly," Spooky said. "Of course I spoke. Can't you tell the difference between dreams and reality? I always can."
"Yes, that is, I usually think I can, but if I'm awake, what's going on? What is this place?"
"Hey, I just learned how to talk. I haven't had time to read the encyclopedia! It's pretty strange for me, too. Just go with the flow." And with those words, Spooky sat down and began to lick her foot.
Gale looked at the stone still tightly gripped in her hand. Oz? No, it couldn't be. Oz wasn't real. Her grandmother had told her so, and she should know if anyone did. Besides, it didn't look much like the illustrations. Still, where else could she be?
Just then a fanfare sounded. The palace doors opened wide, and a strange troop came marching out. There was a girl with green hair, and a boy all dressed in blue with a tall, pointed hat on his head. Some strange fellow seemed to be wearing a bag on his head, and another wearing, of all things, a pumpkin. But when a lion and a tiger broke free from either side of the group and came bounding down the steps toward her, Gale took a large step backward and wound up, once again, lying on her back in the cobblestone road. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited to be devoured.
"Why, you aren't Dorothy at all," someone said.
Gale opened one eye just a crack, then suddenly both eyes sprang open, and in spite of all the oddities around her, she found herself smiling. What a pretty little girl it was standing before her. A bright, apple-cheeked child who might have stepped right out of an N.C. Wyeth illustration. Her eyes were bright green and her long golden hair hung down her back in unbridled curls. She looked to be about twelve years old, at Gale's best guess, and still carried a chunky padding that wasn't quite fat. But it was her outfit that seemed the most incongruous. Like a child dressed up for some Edwardian costume ball, she wore a long, flowing dress of indeterminate color. Around her head was a slender gold circlet, almost the same shade as her hair, but this was bedecked with faceted gems, topaz, amethyst, sapphire, emerald, ruby. Gale was no expert, but they certainly looked real, as did the ones on the slender scepter in the girl's hand. Was the girl royalty, or merely playing a game. Either way, Gale decided to humor her.
"Your majesty," Gale said, getting to her feet, trying hard to keep the note of amusement out of her voice.
"I am Ozma," the child said formally, "but the real question is, who are you?"
Ozma? So this was Oz. Whether it was real or a delusion, she'd have to wait and see. "My name is Gale Osterman. I know this is probably going to sound silly, but I honestly have no idea where I am or how I got here."
"You are in the Emerald City of Oz. As to how you got here, I brought you." The girl drew herself up and her tone grew imperious. "There has surely been some mistake, for I thought you were my friend Dorothy Gale from Kansas. And now I must ask you how you came to be sitting in her bedroom and using the stone I gave her? Once I am satisfied with your answers, I will gladly return you to from whence you came."
Gale's eyes filled with tears. Could this really be true? All the stories Mr. Baum had written, was he really only reporting on Grandma's actual life? But Grandma never said anything to lead her to believe... Gale thought about it for a moment. Would she be able to tell anyone? Would anyone believe her? No! Even she didn't quite believe it yet, and it was staring her right in the face. She really thought that she must be dreaming. Still, it didn't feel like a dream. The air was cool against her cheek, and gently perfumed with some strange flowery scent she'd never smelled before. The scratch Spooky had given her arm still stung like a son-of-a-bitch, though the blood had clotted over already.
"I'm waiting for an answer," Ozma said, a note of suspicion creeping into her voice. Behind her the man with the bag on his face was looking more and more like an animated scarecrow, and surely the pumpkin-headed thing with its twiggy arms and legs had never been a man.
"Dorothy Gale was my grandmother," Gale said at last.
"Was?" Ozma said, and Gale explained. Ozma paled and her eyes filled with tears, as did those of the lion and tiger, the girl with green hair, and everyone else that Gale could see. Even the scarecrow and the pumpkin, with their bright, fixed smiles, looked somehow shaken by the news.
"Come," Ozma said softly. "Let us go into the palace where you can tell me all about this before you leave." She led Gale up the marble steps and through two beautifully crafted doors studded with emeralds. A hodgepodge of chairs were being set up in the hall even as they arrived, and, as they selected two seats right next to each other, an elaborate tea tray was wheeled into the room. "I hope you will forgive me for serving the tea out here. I know that it is not so comfortable as the dining hall, but The Gump will certainly want to hear what you have to say." Ozma pointed to a head mounted on the wall above the hearth, and the head nodded in reply.
Gale began her narrative, and, while she spoke, a cup of tea and a plate of cakes were provided by the girl with green hair, who was now wearing the uniform of a kitchen maid. "I suppose she was trying to get back here at the end. Oh, if she'd only told me. If I'd only known that you were real. Why didn't she ever say anything?" Gale said, more to herself than to the assembled crowd.
"She told me," Spooky said with a sniff, as she finished off the last of the big bowl of milk given to her. "I tried to tell you. I tried and tried, but would you ever listen?"
"Now, now, mind your manners," Ozma reprimanded the cat. Gale stiffened. What right did she have to sanction Spooky in that snotty tone? The cat had said nothing wrong. She started to say something, then decided that to do so would make her as rude as her hostess. She banked down her emotions and listened to Ozma speak.
"She couldn't tell you," Ozma said. You see, after Mr. Baum wrote that book, so many wanted to come here. We couldn't have them all. It seemed that the only thing to do was pretend that Oz was a place he'd made up. We all agreed never to tell anyone. Dorothy promised to tell Mr. Baum all about her adventures here as long as he promised never to tell the truth."
"That part was my idea," said The Scarecrow. He pulled off his hat and pointed to his scarred and lumpy head. "It was easy for me to think of it, since I have the very fine brains that the Wizard has given me. Good brains are very important, don't you think?"
"And now that we've heard your story, I'm afraid that it's time to say good-bye," Ozma said.
"Wait! There are things I'd like to know, too," Gale said.
"What sort of things?" Ozma asked.
"Why, about Grandma, of course. What was it like here for her, and why did she leave?" Gale said.
"Princess Dorothy was well loved here in Oz. All of my subjects adored her and thought her quite beautiful. She was one of my very best friends. But you see, the people of Oz live under an enchantment. Once, long ago, a passing wizard put a spell on us. We do not grow old and die like other people. We thought that when someone from the outside came here to live, they would be under the spell as well, but that was not quite true. The spell seems to work only partially on people from the outside world. Princess Dorothy did not age as quickly as she would have in Kansas, but eventually she did grow older. Soon she came to an age where she wanted things that she could never have here. A husband, children."
Gale furrowed her brow. "But why couldn't she marry here? Was there no one here for her to marry?"
"Think," The Scarecrow said, pointing again to his well-stitched head. "Dorothy was going to get older, which no one from Oz ever would. If she married a man of 20, someday she would be an old woman and he would still be 20. If she had a baby, and I'm not sure folks around here can still have babies, no one seems to do it any more, but even if she could have a baby, it would be a baby all its days."
"Ugh," Gale said softly. "I can see where that might be a problem."
Ozma stood up. "And now I'm afraid that it really is time for you to go."
"Oh, do I really have to? I'd love to stay for a little while. Can't I see a little more of this lovely land?" Gale asked.
"We've stopped allowing foreigners," Ozma said. "It never seems to work out very well."
"Forgive me for disagreeing, Ozma," Scarecrow chimed in, "but she is not a foreigner, she belongs here," He waved his arms with such fervor that wisps of straw flew out of his sleeve and scattered across the floor. He paused to look it, and shrugged. "Dorothy always said I was the only person she knew who was constantly knocking the stuffing out of himself," he said to Gale, then turned once more to Ozma. "After all, you made Dorothy a Princess of Oz. If Gale is her granddaughter, then doesn't that make her a princess too?"
"Scarecrow is right!" a flat mechanical voice boomed out. From somewhere behind her, a metal man clomped forward to stand before Ozma. Not the Tin Woodman, for tin was silver in color and this man was a deep, burnished gold. Gale thought about it for a moment, trying to remember the books she'd read so many years ago. Tik-Tok? Was that his name? He did not look much like the Neill illustrations as she recalled them, being more angular and much less cute, but then, neither did most of the others. Ozma looked somewhat older, the Scarecrow shorter, Jack Pumpkinhead almost scary, more like a creature from Halloween IV than a children's book character.
Tik-Tok continued to speak, discoursing at length about right of succession. "You were accepted as ruler because your father had been King before you. If Gale's grandmother was royalty, then she truly is a Princess of Oz."
"I must think about this. Oh, I wish the Wizard had never left us," Ozma said, looking more like a child than ever. Yet there was something strange about that, Gale realized, for despite her apparent age, this "child" was probably well over a hundred years old. "At least I can see no reason why, as Princess Dorothy's offspring, you can not be allowed to stay for a while. As to your royal status, I must consult with my advisors. In the meantime, you are welcome to use Dorothy's apartments."
Jellia Jamb, the green-haired girl, now in a different uniform, showed up almost immediately and led Gale to a suite of rooms. Not since touring the Royal Pavilion at Brighton had Gale seen such ostentation. The walls and ceiling were painted with scenes of the surrounding countryside, only the plants and animals were none that Gale recognized. The moldings and friezes were elaborately carved and gilded, the furniture heavy with large wooden claws for legs, each holding an emerald as big as her fist, and every piece covered in deep, green velvet. Flounces and ruffles adorned the edge of the bed, which was piled high with comforters and pillows, and every square inch of space on table and shelf was covered with ornaments, vases, pictures, and every sort of bric-a-brac. Mirrored closets lined a whole wall in one room, and there were several bulging armoires and bureaus. The carpets, walls, and furniture were all slightly different shades of green, likewise the wood, and, as a small nick in one piece seemed to show, that was its natural color. Gale wondered what sort of tree it had come from.
Copyright © 1994 by Susan Casper
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Dorothy always told her granddaughter Gale about her adventures over the rainbow in the land of Oz. Now Dorothy has died at the ripe old age of 93. But while combing through her belongings, Gale finds that perhaps the stories weren't all fantasy after all.
