Chapter 2: Rumpie


Kansas City, KS

1983

She played a wicked game. Cunning and unpredictable, her moves were; she enjoyed taking reckless risks even more than she enjoyed winning. Some of those who played against her joked that she should go pro, and then someone else would chortle, because whoever heard of a librarian poker player?

She drove a Mazda RX7 and pretended it was a Lamborghini. On Friday nights, she sprayed a purple lightning bolt down the right side of her hair, looped feather earrings through her earlobes, squeezed herself into skin-tight jeans and went clubbing with her friends. Sometimes she didn't come home alone.

But on Sunday nights, she danced in her flannel p. j.'s to the Police and Bow Wow Wow and Savuka. Sometimes, in the half-awake hours before sunrise, she imagined she was a rock goddess.

Because sometimes she couldn't remember who she was.

And then the sun would rise, she'd slide off her canopied bed, catching her foot in the sheets, and nearly falling, and she'd yank off her p. j.'s and stand in a cold shower.

And sometimes, in the corner of her closet as she reached for her winter coat, or at the back of the bus as she rode to work, or in the parking lot outside the laundromat, she would see the man of her dreams. Or more precisely, the man from her dreams: the Shadow Man, who stood straight-backed and silent, waiting for her to fall asleep. He never emerged from the shadows, never spoke—and, strangely, never caused her a moment of concern. On the contrary, she felt comforted by his presence, enjoyed his company. She never told anyone about Shadow Man; if she kept his secret, perhaps he wouldn't leave her.

She had been born twenty-five years ago in Wamego, Kansas, to Carl and Leona Hansen, a mechanic and a hairdresser. She had been a B student who partied just enough to avoid being called a geek, even when she went off to Emporia State for her library science degree. Right after college she'd accepted her first professional position at KCKPL, and there she remained. She supposed someday she'd rise into Administration. Perhaps someday she'd marry, after she'd grown bored with KC's male population.

Except sometimes she knew that wasn't her life at all. It was on those nights that Shadow Man showed up. Or maybe it was vice-versa: he showed up and then she knew. But mostly, she tried not to think about it too much.

She kept a book under her pillow. No one would find that unusual for a librarian, unless they saw the book. It was a very strange book, handwritten in a child's scrawl. Every character in it was named Rumplestiltskin, even the female characters. At the back of the book were some drawings, not good enough to be called illustrations, of a baby, a little boy and a young man. The drawings were labeled with archaic names she couldn't pronounce, except for the boy, who was "Ten." There was also a set of fingerprints, labeled with the same names. There was one proper illustration, in color, of a shaggy-haired, brown-eyed boy. This illustration was captioned in Old-English style handwriting; she thought it said "Baelsire" but she couldn't be sure.

During her lunch breaks she looked the names up in 1001 Baby Names. From the Middle Ages, they were. She skimmed fairy tales for mention of Rumplestiltskin. Then she searched encyclopedias, books on the Middle Ages, files in the Genealogy Department. The staff helped her, though there wasn't much they could do without a surname or a location to go on. She claimed the names were her ancestors'; really, though, she had no idea who they were, or when, or why she should care. It was just a way to pass the time. Curiosity, the reference librarian's disease.

Then one night at a club her gal pal introduced her to a guy who claimed to work for the FBI. Ruthie wasn't sure she believed that; guys were always making that kind of stuff up. She would've minded being lied to if she'd been looking for a serious relationship, but hey, it was the '80s and she was a liberated woman, too young for marriage. The guy could hold a conversation and dance and he bought every other round of drinks, so that was enough. They danced to "Billie Jean" and "Saved by Zero." She gave him her number and they started dating a little.

He really did work for the FBI, on the KCMO side of town. She had a thing against KCMO—like most Kansans, she thought it both gangster-ridden and pretentious—and she wasn't sure how she felt about the FBI, considering what they'd done to John Lennon, but she liked Murph okay, so she made an exception when he wanted to take her to the Nelson-Atkins or Kemper Arena, or his place.

Murph wasn't a cop or anything; he had a degree in chemistry and worked in a lab, testing stuff from crime scenes. One night after they'd seen the Synchronicity Tour and she was on a buzz, she agreed to stay the night. It was nice. As she fell asleep, she glimpsed Shadow Man standing behind Murph's bedroom door.

In the morning as he cooked breakfast she asked, casually, if Murph happened to know anyone who worked in fingerprints. He did. Just curious, she said, and started talking about the Royals.

But a few months later, she mentioned her book with its fingerprint collection. Long-long relatives, Ruthie fibbed: a half-brother from her father's previous marriage, and the brother's two kids, none of whom she'd ever met. She hoped to find these people, get to know them, though her mother would be furious if she found out. A secret brother: the dream of every only child.

Then she showed him the book. A clean set of prints, Murph said; Mike could easily run them through the database, look for matches. Could, but couldn't—policy, you know. No playing around with government equipment. Well, sure, the library had the same rules, so she put the thought aside, didn't bring it up when Murph introduced her to Mike at the Christmas party, didn't mention it even when she and Murph started playing poker with Mike and some of the other guys and gals from the office.


Life was fun. She was happy. But then the dreams started coming more frequently, and she'd see Shadow Man in daylight: in the grocery store, at the movies, in the wings at a concert. Then in one twilight dream he stepped out of the shadows and glowed. Literally. His skin was covered with gold glitter; his fingernails were painted black. He had these funky contact lenses that made his eyes look like gold coins from a pirate's chest. Punk and Goth and New Wave all at once, a rock chick's heartthrob, except for his set of twisted, rotten teeth.

With a smooth singular move he perched cross-legged upon her bookcase. He was smiling a weird smile: smart ass and father at the same time. He just sat there, watching and waiting. She had to come to him. So she kicked off her sheets and went, fully aware she was still dreaming, except her bare feet felt cold, and when she had reached him, she could hear him breathing.

In his lap lay her book, open. She tore her stare from his amazing eyes just long enough to glance down, as he wanted her to: on the left page was the story of a girl called Rumplestiltskin IX—crazy! On the right page was the story of a small boy called Rumplestiltskin X. She'd read these stories enough times to know them by heart: IX had grown up to be a wealthy importer, a happy wife and mother. She had been called "Rumpie." The story of Ten was only three paragraphs long. Unlike the other stories, neither of these tales had a conclusion.

Having fulfilled her obligation to be polite, she brought her gaze back to those remarkable eyes. What rock chick could care about an old book of stories that didn't even make sense when right in front of her was this leather-clad, golden-eyed, glittering rock god? Rotten teeth aside, of course.

He turned his head to the side, looking at her askance.

"Shall we talk a while, then, 'of castles and kings and things'?" She said that. She had no idea why—she was dreaming, after all.

He turned the page to those badly drawn sketches: a baby, Amiria ("industrious," 1001 Names translated); the young man, Leofwin ("dear friend"); the little boy Ten. Her mouth fell open and she looked back up to the rock god, and hated him. All the way down to her toenails, she hated hated hated him.

He had taken those babies away from her.

She woke up panting, "You." Her jaw ached. Her fingernails had cut bloody half-moons into her palms. Still more asleep than awake, she heard herself say, "I will never forget I hate you."


Shadow Man kept coming, night after night. One night she threw a shoe at him. Other nights, she turned her back on him. He kept coming.


She and Murph sometimes had dinner at Mike's. Mike's heritage was in barbeque; his family had their own special sauce, passed down through four generations. Mike lived with Jason, an FBI trainer. When she saw them in their dark suits and short hair, she felt stifled by Establishment, but at home, Jason in his Led Zeppelin t-shirt and Mike in his stained "Kiss the Cook" apron, they were as laid-back as Murph. So much for stereotypes: a librarian ought to know all about judging covers.


When Mike first introduced her to Jason, her heart stopped. Jason looked a spooky lot like the guy in the drawing in her book. She decided she liked him even before he said hello. Not a heart-throb kind of like—Jason was Mike's—but a childhood friend kind of like.

So she shared her secret with them, as they had shared their secret with her. She told them the truth about the book, but not in front of Murph. She didn't want her boyfriend to think she was nuts. She told them about Shadow Man, to explain why the book mattered. She showed them the fingerprints and drawings.

Jason chewed barbequed chicken and thought about it. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then said, "That's a viable set of prints, there." He chewed some more before making up his mind. "Next month I'm teaching a class, Beginning Print Analysis."

Mike set down the bowl of potato salad he'd intended to pass around.

"I always need examples for the cadets to analyze," Jason shrugged.

Mike winked at Ruthie. "More potato salad, Little Sis?"


"I got matches." Jason squirmed on Ruthie's couch. "On all four prints." He glanced at Mike, as though seeking guidance, but Mike stared out the window. "What I want to know is, how'd you get my prints in your book?"

Mike turned around. "Tell her rest, Jase."

"The set of adult prints that are marked 'Rumpie'—" Jason halted.

"Who, according to your book, is the wife of Leofwin—which is the name written under Jase's fingerprints—" Mike added.

Jason hung his head. "The 'Rumpie' fingerprints are yours."

Mike spun on Ruthie. "What's going on here, Little Sis? This some kind of scam or are you just mental?"


Mike moved out a few days later: it was just too weird. But eventually he decided that if there was an answer, he wanted to be in on it too; besides, after ten years, he considered himself fully invested in Jason's life.


"What about the other prints, the small ones?" Ruthie asked.

"Good idea," Mike snapped his fingers. "If we find those kids, maybe we'll figure this thing out."

"I dunno. It's kinda unethical. Definitely a violation of policy." Jason squirmed.

"Yeah, but don't you need to know?" Ruthie pushed.

"I do. Two to one, you're outvoted." Mike slapped a hand on the kitchen table, making the butter dish rattle.

Jason frowned, but he reached into his jeans pocket for a slip of paper. "Anna Marie Garber, age 2. Abandoned at a hospital in Washington State. Living in a foster home in Salem, Oregon. No birth certificate was ever found for her. Garber's the foster family's name."

Ruthie blanched. "Are they—good to her? Do they love her?"

Mike and Jason looked at her strangely. Jason resumed his reading. "Jeremy Crittendon, age 9. Lives in a foster home in Boise, the Davises. Mother died of a drug overdose. Father unknown—Jeremy's birth certificate doesn't list a father."

"The son of a bitch! I hate him! Hate, hate, hate him!"

Mike set a hand on Ruthie's shoulder. "You okay, Little Sis?"

She shrugged, startled at her own outburst. "I don't know why I said that." She'd never hated anyone in her life.

They sat there in silence in Ruthie's kitchen.


She used Phonefiche to find their addresses, the Garbers and the Davises, and she took off a couple of days to fly to Boise with Mike. As they sat in a rented Ford outside the Davises' tri-level, Mike remarked, "You know how weird this is?"

"Yup."

"You know how much trouble I could get into if my supervisor ever found out I did this?"

"Me too. There he is."

A group of kids played freeze tag in the front yard. Two of the boys looked about the right age, but she knew right away which one was Jeremy. He looked just like the kid in her drawing, the kid called Ten.

Mike took a couple of photos. They watched until the kids went inside, and then they came back the next day and watched some more. Jeremy looked healthy. But he wasn't with his family.

Jason picked them up at KCI. She couldn't wait: she showed him the photos as soon as they found him at the gate, and she studied him for a sign. Jason swallowed hard, but all he would say was, "Yeah, he looks like the kid in your book."

"Jase," Mike grabbed his arm, "he looks just like you did at that age."


Jason went with her to Salem.


"What do we do now?" he fretted on the plane back to KC. "They're okay where they are—"

"But they don't belong there."

"It's just a coincidence. Gotta be."


She was a twenty-seven-year old poker-playing reference librarian from Wamego, Kansas, who used to dream about meeting rock gods. Now she was throwing shoes at shadows and spying on families. She really needed to grow up before she did something totally nuts. She threw the leather-covered book in a dumpster and let Murph give her an engagement ring.

A few nights later, Shadow Man returned. This time he came to her. Sat down on her bed, shook her awake, thrust the book at her.

"I hate you." She pulled the sheets over her head.

"I destroyed your family to save my own." His voice was nasal and accented.

She sat bolt upright. "This is nuts."

He thrust the book at her again, and this time she accepted it. She awoke with the book under her pillow, where it belonged.


She was a poker-playing reference librarian who sometimes couldn't remember quite who or where she was, and it was time to put her cards on the table. She sat her fiancé down with their mutual friends Mike and Jason, and she told Murph what she had done. She showed him the book and Mike's photos of Jeremy.

After a lot of yelling, she wasn't engaged any more.


Jason threw a yellow legal pad onto the dining table. The pad knocked over a salt shaker; Mike snatched the shaker up, shook a few grains into his hand and tossed them over his shoulder before fetching a sponge. "CPS has removed Jeremy from the Davises'. He's now with a family in Orlando."

"Why?" Ruthie picked up the pad and tried to read Jason's handwriting.

"By request of the Davises. They said they couldn't handle him." Jason dropped into a chair and ran a hand across his mouth. "Compulsive liar, they said. He's been telling the other kids that he's an extraterrestrial. Kids at school bully him for it; the Davises' other foster kids are embarrassed by him. He's on his third psychotherapist as well."

"He must be miserable," Mike commented; he and Jason exchanged an understanding glance.

"Isn't there anything we can do about it?"

Ruthie's question remained hanging in the air.


Above the mantel of her imitation fireplace, Ruthie hung five red stockings that Christmas. The names she'd written on the sparkly Santa tags were Mike, Jason, Ruthie, Anna Marie and Jeremy.


"CPS moved him again." No one asked who "him" meant. "Another family in Orlando. Another therapist. He got into a fight at school and broke another kid's nose. He's started running away."

Ruthie and Jason made a spying trip to Florida.

"The Garbers threw a birthday party for Anna Marie. Of course no one knows her actual birthday, so they just picked one. They hired a magician and a clown."

"That's great." But Ruthie's voice belied her words.

Mike brought up the curse word: "Adoption?"

Jason shook his head. "The Garbers have given temporary homes to nineteen kids over the past eleven years. They've never adopted. Never kept one more than two years. They don't want to get attached."


"The Gueseys"—Jeremy's current caretakers—"got busted last night. Cocaine possession. When CPS came in for the kids, they found signs of physical abuse."

"Jeremy?"

Jason hung his head.

Ruthie jumped to her feet. "I'm taking those kids. They need me; they belong with me."

"A single woman can't adopt children," Jason murmured. "No matter how much she loves them." He turned away, pretending to busy himself with the trash can.

"I have to take those kids," Ruthie snapped. "If CPS won't give them to me, I'll take them."

"Oh no, Little Sister," Mike said gently. "Don't be jumping on that train of thought. We can do this legally. Together." He opened the manila envelope Jason had carried in; inside were some photos that told Jeremy's story. Mike picked up one of the photos and carried it over to Jason. Leaning on Jason's shoulder, Mike whispered something, then showed him the photo. With a shuddering sigh, Jason dropped the trash can and accepted the photo.

"We know a lot of lawyers," Mike told Ruthie. "Let's make some calls."


They were huddled around Ruthie's kitchen table. Ruthie poured them lemonade, but she spilled some because her hands were shaking. She hadn't slept well in weeks. When she tried, Shadow Man appeared. When she threw shoes at him, he threw photos of an abused little boy at her.

Mike broached the subject gently. "Ruthie. . . what if Jase and I apply for the adoption?"

"What?"

"We're a couple," Mike remarked. He set a hand on Jason's arm. "We've always wanted a family. Here it is. They need us; we need them." Mike spread his hands.

"They're my kids," Ruthie objected.

"Of course they are. We'll do this together. One mom, two dads, two happy kids."

In a low voice, Jason warned, "No one's going to give us custody."

"Well, why the hell not?" Mike roared. "We're an adoption agency's dream: a long-term, stable relationship, college-educated professionals with good incomes, good health, a big house in a good neighborhood with an elementary school not three blocks away. Hell, all we need's the swing set in the backyard."

"We've been over and over this." Jason turned away.


They were giving out little boxes of raisins—Mike didn't approve of giving kids sweets—to the trick-or-treaters that came to their door: Mike in a Superman costume, Jason as Green Lantern, Ruthie as Batgirl. When they'd distributed the last of the raisins, Mike snapped off the porch light and shut the door.

Jason had been in an unusually upbeat mood this evening, despite having brought home another manila envelope. As Mike poured the wine, Ruthie eyed the envelope suspiciously. "Another CPS report?"

"Nope," Jason grinned, and Ruthie's scalp tingled, as though a rusty memory had just been accessed. She'd never seen him grin before—smile, but never grin—but it seemed familiar just the same. Homey.

Jason upended the envelope and shook it. Various forms—the blanks filled in with Jason's handwriting—fluttered out, along with a business card. Ruthie picked up the card. "Mr. Gold, Attorney at Law." Strong, simple letters etched in—of course—gold. No address. She didn't recognize the area code in the phone number.

"He's in Maine. I've been communicating with him through a friend. He specializes in difficult adoptions."

Ruthie sat down hard, nearly missing the seat. "He can help me." There was no question in her voice.

"Us," Jason corrected. He pulled a chair close to Ruthie's, taking her hand. Still in their Halloween costumes, they would have looked silly to an outsider. Jason extracted a pair of photos from the stack of papers that had fallen out of the envelope. "Ruthie. . ." His eyes filled and he had to blink before he could continue. "When I look at these pictures I know: these are my kids. Yours and mine. And I want them to be Mike's too."

Mike drew up a chair too. "These kids need all the love they can get. We'll raise them, all three of us, together."

"Gold says he can arrange it. You'll have legal custody."

"And you'll have a home with us, if you'll accept it. We'll remodel the top floor, add a fourth bedroom," Mike said. "And a swing set in the back yard."

"It'll take some adjustment, but we'll make it work." Jason laid the photos in her lap. "What do you say, Ruthie? Do you need time to think about it?"

"I say, congratulations, gentlemen: it's a girl and a boy." Ruthie raised her wine glass in a salute. "Thank you, Mr. Gold, whoever you are. I love, love, love you!"