The Motion of Puppets(65)

The boy nodded and gestured toward the barn and the bus.

“We’ve come a long way,” Mitchell said. “Do you think we might see the puppets?”

The boy looked confused and did not say a word.

Egon stepped closer. “Is there a grown-up around? Someone in charge we might speak with?”

The boy shook his head.

“Would you mind opening the door?” Theo asked. “Could I bother you for a glass of water? A chance to use your bathroom? We mean no harm, we’ve just come to see the puppets.”

With a push of his hip, the boy opened the storm door and made way for them to enter. Hanging on the walls of the foyer were posters from past shows. The puppet adaptation of Kafka’s The Trial, with a sad effigy behind bars. I, Claudius, with the puppet emperor raising a bloody fist. One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, a tortured line of puppets marching through the snow. The boy led them into the living room, where even the furniture appeared handmade and primitive, and bade them sit.

Theo made the introductions. “I’m Theo Harper. These are my friends Egon and … Dr. Mitchell. We’ve come from New York City to see the puppets.”

The boy nervously shifted his glance from side to side.

“How about you, boy?” Egon asked. “Got a name?”

“Drew,” he said at last. “We’re closed.”

“Hello, Drew,” said Mitchell. “Are your parents around? You’re not here all alone?”

He snapped his fingers, hiding his hands behind his back. “She’s here. But she don’t like to be disturbed during the day, not while reading.”

“Your mother?”

“Don’t have no mother. No father neither. They took me in.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mitchell said. “Who took you in?”

“The puppet makers.”

From the upper floor, a door opened and then slammed shut. Heavy footsteps in the hall. Drew looked toward the staircase. “Now you done it. She’s gonna be mad. Watch yourself.”

A lanky young woman with long red hair hanging in a single braid came stomping down the stairs and stormed into the living room. When Mitchell rose out of habit, Theo and Egon aped his etiquette.

“Sit down,” she said. “This isn’t 1893. What can I do for you gentlemen? I am sure Drew has told you—like I asked him to—that the museum is closed for the season, so if you come to see the puppets, you’ll have to come back in six months, sorry to say. And if you’re here for something else—I can’t imagine what that something might be—out with it. I was trying to read.”

Mitchell dared to speak. “We were just telling your brother—”

“Not my brother.” She laughed.

“Drew, here. We came all the way from New York just to visit the puppet museum.”

“You should have read up about us on the Internet, then you’d have known we are closed November first to April first. Cold up here in Vermont. Would have saved a lot of trouble.”

Egon picked up the case. “We’re with a big talent agency in Manhattan and have heard great things about your work.”

The girl looked down upon him with disdain. “No exceptions.”

“Is there someone else we could talk to?” Egon asked.

“You could talk to the puppet master. His farm, his puppets. But he isn’t here.”

“When will he be back? Later this evening?”

“Can’t say.”

“Does he have a cell phone?” Egon asked. “We could make an appointment.”

“No phone,” she said.

From the rocking chair, Mitchell said, “Surely you could just let us have a quick peek, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

She tugged her hand along her braid. “Barn’s locked. Don’t have the key.”

Behind his fist, Drew snickered a wet guffaw.

Through the picture window, the red barn glowed softly in the late afternoon mist. She would not be persuaded, and they would have to find another way. Theo stood suddenly and announced they were leaving. “We’ll check back tomorrow after we’ve had a good night’s sleep. And if you see this puppet master, could you please tell him we are in the area and are very much interested in his work?”

“I’ll tell him about you New York people when I see him, but we really aren’t interested in that sort of thing.”

“Thank you for your hospitality. We’ll see ourselves out.”

They drove around a bend until the farmhouse was just out of sight, and then Theo had Mitchell pull over and shut off the engine. In the gloaming, they backtracked down the country lane, sneaked in behind the bus, and made their way to the barn. Egon tried the handle to the front door, but it was locked as the girl had said.

“There’s got to be another way in,” he said softly, and they walked along the perimeter, the grass wet and spongy under their feet.

A wooden fence abutted the silo standing at the barn’s western end, and behind it the grass had been worn away and a few slabs of granite jutted forward to make a ledge. Enclosed by the fencing, a pasture gradually sloped fifty yards to a small stream that marked the end of the property. Beyond the stream, the land rose through a forest of birch and pines that led to the road at the base of another mountain.