Shelf-Made Man

Chapter 12

Chapter

Twelve

A s you know, Tobias, my first husband was an artist and quite a few years my senior. Unfortunately, he died young, leaving me a youthful widow. I missed him deeply. I still do. But in December of 1953 I was visiting a bookstore that had recently opened. I thought I might purchase some books as a holiday gift for my dear friend Dorothy. Your grandmother, Tobias, and I am so sorry that you two never had a chance to meet.

When I arrived, I discovered that they were doing a poetry reading. Kerouac, perhaps? I can’t recall for certain. I stayed to listen and, while I was there, met a fascinating man named Olve Lange. We went out for coffee. Then dinner. Then drinks. By the time we parted, it was very late and I knew I was in love.

We saw each other every day for a week. We went to parks, to the cinema, to galleries and museums. We had wild sex—well, you don’t want to hear about that, I’m sure. I adored my first husband, but I’d never felt as closely connected to him as I did with Olve.

The one problem between us, however, was that while I had told him every detail of my past, he’d shared almost nothing of his. I didn’t push—I assumed he’d experienced something painful. But it’s difficult to have a true relationship if both parties aren’t open about the important things.

Olve and I went to Ocean Beach. We sat on a blanket I’d brought and he told me the most extraordinary tale. He said that he was from a world similar to this but not identical, that he was a wizard, and that he’d come here some years ago to study our world. He’d grown quite enamored of San Francisco and decided to stay.

Naturally, I found it difficult to believe anything he was saying, at first. But Olve was an earnest man. I’d never known him to lie, and he seemed entirely in possession of his faculties. And then, well, he told me that his powers were weak here because most magic doesn’t operate well in our world. Nonetheless, he was able to do a small thing, there on the beach. He took a handful of sand and murmured over it—and as I watched, it fused into a glass heart. I wear it still, on a pendant around my neck.

How could I doubt him after that?

I asked him once if he could bring me to his world for a visit. But few beings can cross that barrier. Wizards and trolls are among them, and since I am neither of those things, I had to remain here .

Although my Olve remained in our world, he used his abilities to peek in at activities in his original home. Sometimes he would pop over to deal with some matter. He rarely divulged much about these missions, and I was fine with that. My own world was complicated enough.

After one of these expeditions, he returned home with you, Alfie—in doll form, of course, because he wasn’t able to transport you otherwise. He told me that you had been in extreme distress and the only way he could save you was to bring you here. For some years afterward he tried to restore you to your true form, but he failed. It quite plagued him.

And then one afternoon he traveled to his home world—and never returned. To this day I don’t know what happened. I thought perhaps he was killed trying to save someone else. I married again eventually—twice, in fact—but never stopped missing him.

In any case, life does go on. But one more odd thing happened. Thirty years ago, the Count and I were enjoying a glorious spring at his ancestral castle. We had so many wonderful parties there, with all the most delicious food and wine, and everyone dressed in the latest fashions, and views across the terraces to the mountains.

It was very late one night after one of our parties. The guests had all gone home or, for those staying with us, had gone to sleep. Though the Count was in bed, I was restless and roamed the halls. When I wandered into the conservatory, I found a woven basket, and inside that basket was a large baby—with remarkably bushy hair—staring at me solemnly. A note was pinned to his blanket, and although the handwriting was scrawled as if the author had been in a great hurry, I thought perhaps it looked a bit familiar.

Although I long ago lost the note, I remember it well: Abandoned by parents after battle. Nobody to care for him. I can’t—and can’t return. Please find him safe home.

I knew this child was a troll. Olve had described them, you see, and as I said, only a select group of beings can cross worlds. I also knew from Olve that trolls had a terrible reputation. But this was a baby who had no one. How could I fail him?

Coincidentally, or perhaps nothing is truly coincidence, my goddaughter Isabella had been seeking to adopt a child. She’d been unsuccessful in this regard because she wasn’t married. I told her everything I knew about this baby. She flew to Italy and from the moment she set eyes on him, she loved him. “He deserves a family,” she said. “He will grow up to be a fine man.”

And she was right.