The Cinderella Theorem Read online

  I stared at her. “You mean he’s coming over for dinner, right? He can’t be coming home, because he doesn’t live here.”

  “Lily, he’ll be here in less than five minutes. Do we really have to discuss whether he’s “coming over” or “coming home,” at this exact moment?” She started stacking her notes in different piles, a sign that writing was done for the day.

  I stomped upstairs to brush my teeth. (I tend to brush my teeth when I get annoyed.) What does she mean, coming home?

  On the landing, I stepped over the mini-vac Mom had left (through her distraction) plugged in. Most likely, this morning, when she was supposed to be vacuuming the stairs, inspiration seized her and she abandoned cleaning for writing.

  I stomped into the bathroom, annoyed with my adult role model. How am I supposed to grow up in this abnormal environment?

  Just as I finished angrily squeezing toothpaste onto my toothbrush, the shower curtain was pushed back by a fully clothed man standing in the bathtub.

  “Lily!” he said. “Happy Birthday!”

  2

  Lubcker

  I screamed and chunked my toothbrush at him. I didn’t wait to see if my aim was good; I rushed out, slamming the door behind me.

  “MOM!”

  The man opened the bathroom door. “Lily, let me ex—”

  “Stay back,” I grabbed the mini-vac off the floor and revved it at him. I could hear Mom rushing up the stairs.

  “Lily? What’s going on?” Mom stopped when she saw the man. “Matt! Welcome home!” She threw her arms around him, kissing him.

  I dropped the vacuum.

  “Lily,” Mom said as she pushed the tub-man forward a little, “this is your father. Matt,” she started tearing up, “this is Lily.”

  Will nothing in my life ever be mathematical or normal again? Not only is my father not dead, but I meet him while brushing my teeth, and my mother greets her husband that she hasn’t seen in fifteen years like he just came home from a day at the office.

  Tub Man handed a present to my mom. Then he hugged me. I pulled back a little from the hug, but he didn’t notice. He just squeezed tighter and said, “I’ve missed you so much, Lily. I’ve been looking forward to this day ever since you were born.”

  I couldn’t think of any response to this, so I stared at him, studying his features to form an equation.

  My father = a tub-loving, blonde-haired, tallish man, who is not dead, but apparently has a loose definition of what it means to be a family man.

  My mother interrupted my analysis. “Let’s go downstairs,” she said. “We’ll be more comfortable. Lily, don’t forget to put the vacuum away.”

  Tub Man beamed as he put his arm around Mom.

  I picked up the mini-vac, stuffed it in the closet and followed my “parents” to the living room. My mother sat next to my “father” on the couch. I sat in the chair opposite, processing what had just happened. How did my father get in the bathtub? If he came to our house after school, I would have heard him coming upstairs. If he had been in the house since before I got home, why did my mother act like she had seen him for the first time upstairs? And why was he in the bathtub?!

  “I can’t believe this day is finally here.” Tub Man flashed a bright smile.

  “I’m so glad we’re all together.” Mom gazed at him with the same stupid smile.

  It doesn’t make mathematical sense for her to react this way. Wouldn’t they have grown apart over fifteen years? Shouldn’t she be bitter or something? I am a reasonably intelligent person: Why don’t I understand any of this?

  “Why don’t I understand any of this?” I asked.

  “What don’t you understand, Lily?” Tub Man turned his smile to me.

  He has to ask what I don’t understand? I filtered through my questions and had just decided to ask, “Why were you in the bathtub?” when we heard a voice calling from upstairs:

  “Should we bring the dinner down, sir?”

  The fear I felt in the bathroom was back. I grabbed the arms of my chair. “There’s someone upstairs!” I hissed.

  My father, instead of rushing up the stairs to defend his wife and child from the intruder, turned to my mother and asked, “Perhaps we could do this better over dinner? What do you think, Ginnie?”

  My mother, instead of being confused about the voice and upset that her husband was not protecting her, answered, “That’s probably a good idea. Will they need any help?”

  I began rapidly thinking over and over again: What is happening? Who are ‘they’? What is happening? Who are ‘they’?

  “No. They should be able to handle it.” To the voice upstairs, he called, “Sure, Lubcker. Bring it on down. We’re just moving to the dining room.”

  “Who is Lubcker?”

  My dad grinned mischievously. “Lubcker is my personal chef. I asked him to prepare a special dinner for tonight.”

  That was not a satisfying answer. So as we sat down, I asked, “Why is he upstairs? Wouldn’t it have been easier to bring the food in through the door?”

  “Well…” Tub Man began to answer as the door to the dining room opened. In came a person, about the height of a five-year-old, holding a steaming dish of food. He wore all red: red shirt, red pants, red shoes that looked like they were made of cloth, and to top off the whole outfit, a red beret on top of his white hair.

  “A very happy birthday to you, Princess Lily!” He put the food on the table.

  Before I had time to respond, six more little people entered. They all had white hair and were each dressed in a different color: orange, yellow, green, blue, purple and brown. Each placed their dishes of food on the table, while wishing Princess Lily a happy birthday.

  When all seven dishes were on our table (and that was something of a mathematical feat, because the area of our table was only slightly larger than the area of the food[9]), they lined up in the order they had appeared along the wall of the dining room, like a rainbow of short people.

  The little red man asked, “Shall we stay and serve, sir?”

  My father, in no way put off the rainbow people, answered, “No. Thank you, Lubcker. We shall manage just fine tonight.”

  Lubcker bowed. “As you wish, sir.” The others left with Lubcker. The man in brown winked at me as he went. I was as confused as I imagine a non-math-lover would be in a trigonometry class.[10]

  “I’ll get some plates and silverware.” Mom jumped up from the table.

  My father grabbed two of the dishes. “These are dessert.” He left me alone in the dining room with five dishes that magically appeared from upstairs.

  “Well,” my father said, when he came back. “That was Lubcker. Does that answer your question?”

  Are you kidding me? “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “Seven small, short, whatever people appear from upstairs and bring down food. How does ‘that was Lubcker’ answer any kind of question? Not to mention you are supposed to be dead and you just show up in the bathtub! The bathtub! What is that about?”

  Mom brought in the plates, silverware, and glasses. She looked a little surprised by my outburst.

  Tub Man smiled. “Take a deep breath, Lily. Let’s go through this logically. Your first question was ‘Who is Lubcker’? That was sufficiently answered by his entrance, I think. Now, as to why he was upstairs and who was with him, it might be better for me to just explain everything, and then, you can ask questions if necessary. How does that sound?”

  “How did you get in our bathtub?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “Believe me, Lily, I understand your frustration. A lot of new things have been revealed today. You’re overwhelmed with questions. Your mother and I are going to do everything we can to answer them for you.” He looked at my mother and smiled. “I was in your bathtub because, the only way to get from my world, E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land, to this world is through the bathtub.”

  I just stared at him. What in the world (and I mean my world) is going on here? Why can’t I just have
a normal father, like a trash man, or a zookeeper, or something?

  3

  Marvelous Midas Creme

  Over the salad, I learned my father is the king of E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land.[11]

  “You see, Lily,” he said, “because there is so much magic in fairy tales, myths, and legends, the characters, places, plots, and story lines were able to channel that magic and become living as well.”

  “That isn’t possible,” I interrupted. “You’re talking about fictional characters, right? They are not alive, and therefore cannot create anything.”

  Tub Man chuckled. “Straight to the hard questions. You weren’t kidding, Ginnie,” he smiled at my mom. “She’s bright.” He looked back at me, “That’s a deep, philosophical question, Lily. We aren’t sure why they’re alive, living ‘happily ever after’ in E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land, but they are. The impossible is sometimes possible.”

  “That’s not possible. The laws of physics are concrete. They don’t change. A ball is always going to fall downwards. It is impossible for it to fall upwards.”

  “Except in space,” Tub Man argued. “If a place exists where gravity doesn’t work the way it does on Earth, can’t there be a place where what I’m telling you is possible? For the sake of our discussion, let’s just assume that what I’m saying is true and possible.”

  “Fine,” I took a deep breath and realigned my thinking.

  Math, however lovely and wonderful, could not explain this situation to me. No equation was going to balance out the things my father was saying. No equation could explain tub travel. And if I couldn’t form an equation to explain something, then I simply needed more data. Solid questions were the only way I would be able to gather enough information to understand this bizarre birthday dinner conversation.

  “Who is E. G. Smythe? Why isn’t he the king?” I asked.

  “E. G. Smythe is not a person,” Tub Man explained. “E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land is an anagram for ‘fairy tales, myths, legends.’”[12]

  “Oh,” I said. “That actually makes sense.”

  My parents smiled at each other, thrilled their ‘Little Lily’ was finally catching on.

  “So, you’re the king?” I poked at a cherry tomato.

  “I’m not just the king, Lily.” His tone was serious, and he lifted his chin. “I’m the Protector of the realm. Fairy tales, myths, and legends only survive for two reasons: The first is that they are loved and reread and retold. The second is that, since the very creation of E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land, someone from the Sparrow family has been their protector. I am the only protection against our enemies in Uppish Senna.” He paused, “And, as my daughter, Lily, one day you will also be the Protector of the land.”

  The tomato I had been trying to stab skidded across the table. “I’m going to do pure mathematics research at a major university or be a code breaker for the National Security Agency.” I’m not going to not be a brilliant mathematician so I can sit around in the world through the bathtub protecting stupid Rapunzel and her seven dwarfs.

  “Lily,” Mom began in a patient tone, “the day that you take over the Protectorate is still a long way off. It’s not like you’re moving to Smythe’s SFL tomorrow.” She laughed.

  I learned two key points from this motherly speech:

  (A) Smythe’s SFL must be a shorter way of saying E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land. And

  (B) While I am sure that my mother meant to be helpful in making this comment, she was not. It sparked a new and scary thought in me: if I’m not moving to Smythe’s SFL tomorrow, when am I moving there?

  My father continued, “Exactly my thoughts, darling.” He smiled at my mother, who began serving the next course: mashed potatoes, pork chops, green beans, and biscuits.

  After taking a bite of pork, and wondering how my father knew what my favorite meal was, I asked, “Why haven’t I seen you for fifteen years? Why did Mom tell me you were dead?”

  My father sipped his iced tea. “There is an ancient law in the oldest records of Smythe’s SFL concerning the heir to the throne. It says:

  ‘If both be Smythe, you can live with.

  If one be not, then you cannot–

  Until the time of fifteen years,

  Has passed away like drying tears.

  Else the babe will never see

  The salty land of Smythe’s E. G.’

  “Basically, the law says that if one of the parents of the heir is not a Smythian, then the heir and the Smythian parent must be separated for fifteen years. Otherwise, the child will never be able to enter Smythe’s SFL. Since it was so vital that (a) I remain in the land to protect the characters, and (b) you be able to come in as heir later, we felt this was the only option.”

  What? What kind of law is that?

  However, on the brighter, mathematical side of things, I enjoyed the way my father delineated his points–(a) and (b). That’s a very mathematical approach to arguing. But on the negative side, he did appear out of nowhere in my bathtub.

  “So, you had to live in the Salt Land—”

  “Smythe’s SFL,” Tub Man interrupted.

  “Whatever,” I continued, “you had to live there and not see me until I was fifteen or else I wouldn’t be able to come later?”

  “Exactly,” he said. “It’s a very ancient law, likely created to discourage royalty from marrying outsiders. Plus, it sets up a very “fairy tale” scenario: a new parent, forced to never see his child for fifteen years, a secret princess, all the waiting and hoping. It’s what good fairy tales are made of. So your mother lived in the castle with me until it was almost time for you to be born. Then, when it was unsafe for her to still be in the kingdom, she came back to this house.”

  “Oh,” I said, resisting the urge to make an equation out of this. “Has the, uh, ‘door’ to Smythe’s SFL always been through the upstairs tub?”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Tub Man answered. “It can be anywhere. We chose to have it from this house, because this is where you and your mother were going to be living. When my father was the King-Protector, the door was in the attic of his favorite theatre. My grandfather entered this world through the janitor’s closet at a county courthouse. But the strangest entry of all was my great-great-great-grandmother’s portal. She came in through the hold of a ship. She could never be certain where she was going to arrive. She would be off the coast of Jamaica one time and in the middle of the Pacific Ocean the next.”

  I interrupted. “You’re saying that the hold of a ship is stranger than the upstairs tub?” I rapidly created an equation:

  Regarding strangeness in arrival areas from E. G. Smythe’s Salty Fire Land:

  the hold of a ship > upstairs tub.

  “You think the tub’s stranger?” he asked.

  I just looked at him. “What if I had been going to the bathroom instead of just brushing my teeth? What if someone was in the shower when you wanted to portal yourself to the real world?”

  “Oh!” My father said suddenly, understanding what I was meaning. “On the Smythe’s SFL side, there’s a dial that tells you when the upstairs bathroom is occupied and what the person is doing.”

  “What the person is doing?”

  “In general terms, Lily.” My mother jumped in. “The settings on the dial are for shower, toilet, washing face, and brushing teeth.”

  “What if I was changing clothes?” I asked. I am sorry, but I do not think that a dial on a door explaining what I am doing in the bathroom is conducive to a happy home environment.

  “Then the dial would just say other.” My mother said patiently, stacking our empty plates. “People in Smythe’s SFL do not use the door without permission from the King, and never unless the door says unoccupied.”

  “Or brushing teeth.” I mumbled a little sarcastically.

  “I was so excited about seeing you, that I portaled over anyway.” His face crumbled like an unsound theorem. “I didn’t think that—”

  “Of course,
you didn’t,” My mother said, quickly. “I’ll get dessert. Lily, Come help me.”

  I excused myself and went into the kitchen.

  “Lily Elizabeth Sparrow,” she began.

  I sucked in my breath. By all mathematical laws, three names is bad news.

  “I know that this has been a very stressful day and that you are confused, but you are not going to make your father feel bad because he came in through the tub while you were brushing your teeth.” She said all this while furiously filling three bowls with cake and ice cream.

  I made a huffing sound. “I’m in trouble because you lied to me all my life, and my father appeared magically in my bathtub, followed by seven little rainbow people carrying food, calling me princess, and—”

  “Lily,” my mother interrupted. “Try to understand. This has not been the ideal birthday or the ideal situation for you. We know that. We know that you are confused and that things seem very odd, very strange, and very unmathematical. But you can be confused and still have a good attitude. Now,” she handed me a bowl of ice cream and cake, “Happy birthday.” She carried the other two bowls into the dining room, leaving me in the kitchen.

  Back in the dining room, my parents were smiling and eating ice cream. I sat down and noticed that everyone had a different kind of ice cream. I looked at my cherry vanilla. I looked at my father’s chocolate. I looked at my mother’s cookies and cream. There had only been one carton of ice cream in the kitchen that my mother dipped from.

  “Why are there three types of ice cream and only one carton?” I asked.

  My father smiled brightly. “It’s Marvelous Midas Cream. Do you remember King Midas from the story?”

  “Sort of.” I have to confess that, although my mother is a writer of fiction stories, and my father is apparently the ruler of a magical fairy tale world, I know almost nothing about fairy tales. In my recollection, I think Midas could spin straw into gold or something.