Posted on January 24th, 2013
I almost ran the light.
I knew about the mask. She had been wearing it when she walked out of class. And, while it wasn’t a whole hell of a lot more expected then than when it was peering back at me over my shoulder in the rearview mirror, there was something about the context of its reappearance in the moving car that was authentically unsettling.
“Where did you get that mask?” I asked my little girl, all dressed up for kidnapping an heiress or a bank robbery, whichever occasion might present itself first.
“Art,” she said. “The teacher wasn’t in her usual room so she said she didn’t want to do anything too fancy.”
Peaches’ cats are everywhere. She draws them, reads about them and told me just yesterday that she is composing a persuasive letter to me in order to secure a kitten for her birthday. (I haven’t seen it yet; she says she has only completed the rough draft thus far.) How did I not anticipate this final stage, the one in which she becomes a cat herself? It’s just like The Fly only without the gross parts and Jeff Goldblum when he was hot and married to Geena Davis.
I asked Roy to take a picture of her in situ and then I asked her to leave the mask at home. It seems safer that way.∗