Uninvited

By Mary Jane Beaufrand

These are the stories I don't tell, about the frogs that stayed frogs, the comatose princess whose hero never made it through the thorns, the bouncy ball unrecovered at the bottom of the lake; the straw which, no matter how much you spin, simply will not turn to gold.

I rarely go out in public with my real face. People who see it describe me as beautiful and terrible at the same time. They recoil from me in my shining glamour more than when I walk through villages hooded and with warts on my chin.

I am the enchantress.

Everyone lines up to have me as a godmother. I accept each godchild with my jovial face, the one with the double chin and spectacles at the ski-jump of my nose. I choose to be flattered by so many godchildren. I try not to look at their parents' furtive glances as they come to my door with babes swaddled in clean linen. They are afraid of what will befall their precious bundles if they don't ask. They know better than to leave me uninvited.

I don't punish unjustly, nor do I reward on a whim. My magic is not that strong. I may change the outward appearance of a thing only. Inside each outward transformation is still the thing itself. It is up to those enchanted to break the spell.

This morning Beauty comes to my door with her two princes. One of them, the eldest, has a black eye. She often brings them to me to kill time after soccer or archery that she may volunteer at the local hospital or run a shelter for at-risk youths. For her and her princes, it doesn't matter which face I put on. Hers are good boys. A bit active, maybe, but better active than overmedicated, I always say. And yes, they have destroyed a few of my potions in glass bottles, and destroyed my favorite cloak by trying to make an indoor tee-pee with it, but I have nothing which is not replaceable. And what they destroy they make up for in kind--picked wildflowers, cotton balls glued to construction paper Santas. These mementos mean more to me than anything I could concoct.

Today, Beauty removes her cape and ushers the princes in to sit by my fire. This one, this beauty, has never been afraid of me. She is afraid of everything else.

Please, she says, you have to change my husband back into a prince.

Her story is a sad one. Ten years ago her husband, then a beast, kidnapped her and made her stay in the castle with him until she fell in love. But this is where the story went wrong. She fell in love but the beast didn't transform back into a prince. She married him anyway because sometimes he had nice manners and she loved the castle, loved being waited on by enchanted silverware. She told herself she could live with only half a dream fulfilled. The other half? I never knew how to tell her: if he didn't transform it was because he didn't really love her. Or perhaps he did, but only after a fashion. He clearly loved himself and his beastly ways more.

I sigh and shake my head. I offer her a latte. I ask my pet dragon to entertain the princes, which he does by belching loudly and making armpit noises.

I've told you what you must do, I say. You must leave the castle. Or get him to leave.

You say it like it's an easy thing, she says. But you've never loved the wrong man. You've never had to leave your home. We're comfortable there. I don't want to take the princes away from their routine.

And that is why your husband remains a beast, I say. He knows he doesn't have to change as long as you accommodate him.

I just want my life back, the beauty sobs into her hands.

I want to tell her it was never really hers--it was only an illusion of a life. But now is not the time. I grow weary of these visits. The tearful litanies of his little meannesses.

You may stay the night here, I say. I'll send the pumpkin and mice for your things.

At midnight the beast comes hammering at my door.

Beauty! he calls.

My eyes pop open. I lie still in my bed, willing him away.

He hammers louder. Beauty! Honey! Papa Bear misses you. Please come out. We can talk about this.

Ssssh... You'll wake the princes. You'll wake the enchantress.

It's Beauty's voice now. She's on the front stoop.

How are the boys? Do they miss me?

You should know how the boys are. One still has your clawmarks.

Please, Honey, I just want to see my family. Can't you just come home?

Not this time, Beast. Do you even understand how serious this is? If the princes' teachers see the marks, they'll take him away from us. Not you: us.

There are sounds of horrific sobs, plaintive howling.

Stand firm, Beauty, I will her through the chilly night air. Don't waver.

You have to move out, Beauty says. Take your antlers and your machine shop and your stuffed ferret and go.

Where? Everyone will know. How can I show my face at soccer games?

You don't go the princes' soccer games. Why should that be an issue?

I miss you all so much...

After one night? I find that hard to believe. You're often in Black Forest hunting for months at a time. You don't miss us then. Go to your lodge. Stay there. And another thing: you need counseling. I think you may be bi-polar. At the very least you need techniques in anger management.

All right, if it will win you back.

We'll see, Beauty says.

I don't listen any more. Pay no attention to his words, I mumble to myself, through hissed breath. Instead, look closely: are his hands still misshapen claws, good for ripping flesh? Are his teeth still fangs? When he really means it, he will transform.

I have a horrible thought. I throw a robe around me, the blue one with the embroidered stars. I go into the guest room where the princes are curled around my pet dragon for warmth. The guest room is at the back of the cottage. If the princes hear their father, they give no indication. They snore softly.

I stroke their hair and breathe whispers of running water and blooming meadows and drooling, galumphing pets in their ears. They are handsome the way their father was before his enchantment. Curly yellow locks and burgeoning athletic shoulders. The archery lessons are really paying off. I stroke the hair of the oldest, the one with the black eye. I gently pull back his lip.

I think I know even before I do what I will find. His canine teeth are starting to grow long and pointy, like fangs. I inspect the backs of his hands. Already they have a downy pelt.

It is at once better and worse than I thought. Worse because it is unexpected. In all the afternoons the princes have spent in my cottage, playing with the potions when they think I'm not looking and tossing Frisbees for the dragon, I'd never bothered to look closely at them.

But now that I realize the transformation is almost upon them, I wonder that it has only progressed so far. Beauty must be the hero in their story. After each missed soccer game, each tugged earlobe, each time they are called stupid, she must have set them in her lap and had them read to her in the firelight. She may have given them milky chamomile tea and whispered to them. No, the beast is wrong. You are good. Think of all the things you've done: the archery bullseyes, the soccer goals, the swimming trophies, the citizenship medals. She must've whispered and petted and plied with soothing tonics, until their teeth receded to their normal size and the coarse fur back to a downy fluff. You do not have to be like him.

I sneak back into my room. From the patio come the piteous sounds of Beast howling. Beau-ty.

Go home now, Beast, Beauty sighs. We will talk again in three months.

There comes the sound of a door closing and outside the beast's cries recede to a snuffle as he slouches off into the moonlight.

There is nothing more I can do for Beauty and her children but pray. And so I do. I glide to my cauldron and run a pointy fingernail around the surface of the liquid within. I add a little Eye of Newt and poof! Offer up a smoky prayer to the gods. This time, I beg to forces unseen, let him be sincere. This time may he finally turn into a prince.