Mirror Mirror.

There's wonder in forgotten things

Goldie had been hung on worse walls, in worse places, but none had ever made him feel as frustrated. It wasn’t the room. The furnishings were worn with time, threadbare but dignified. Tastefully eclectic. Well-crafted pieces and authentic antiques. As a gild-framed mirror, Goldie felt he fit the milieu. No, it wasn’t the room, it was Rose, his current owner. Goldie longed to talk to her, to guide and advise. If only she would ask.

But of course, she did not. The good ones never did.

Goldie thought a lot these days about his previous owners. He’d hung for centuries in the drawing room of a stately French chateau. On October 7th, 1307, Philp the Fair asked who plotted against him. Six days later, he slaughtered the Knights Templars. The dauphin, Charles VII, asked who the people loved most. Then allowed Joan to burn at the stake. But Henry Navarre? He never asked about his enemies, and the good king, who brought peace and stability to the realm, was assassinated. And Napoleon— say what you will about his many faults— never asked anything of Goldie, although he knew he could. Napoleon refused to use magic. His success and failures would be his own.

During the Great War, Goldie’s wise counsel to General Joffre kept him from being burned for heat. When the Germans came again, he was crated and shipped off to America for his protection. Goldie’s world went dark, and he slipped into decades of ennui. A brief period of light when he was hung in the entry of a boorish Kansas City mansion. (Kansas!) The height of indignation, until new owners redecorated and his gilded frame clashed with “the clean lines of contemporary design.” He was removed to a warehouse full of dusty junk. That’s where Rose found him.

“How much for the tacky mirror?” She’d asked the proprietor.

Tacky? How dare you! Goldie was incensed.

“Can’t take less than ‘fiddy.” The proprietor brushed crumbs from his beard as he butchered the King’s English.

“Look at the dust on this thing,” Rose countered. “I’ll give you twenty. You can finally get rid of it.”

Get rid of me? Goldie was apoplectic. Legendary statesmen, powerful women, desired my presence! I am not to be ‘rid’ of! But of course, his cries went unheard, for he suffered two curses: The first, to always speak the truth, no matter the consequences. The second, to be silent, unless he’d been asked.

The deal was made. Rose carefully wrapped Goldie in a blanket, hefted him to her car.

“You’re not tacky,” she said as she slid Goldie into the trunk. “That idiot doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it. There’s something about you, I can tell.” Goldie cast a different eye to his new owner. Though this Rose was a bit rough around the edges, she did know style.

He hung now in Rose’s parlor, which she referred to as her living room.

Every morning, she would lean in, apply her lipstick, and say “Mirror, mirror, on the wall….”

But Rose never finished the incantation. She never asked who was fairest, or who was her competition, or who was plotting against her, though he sensed she knew there was something more to him. The way she peered not at herself, but into his depths. He hadn’t felt that seen in centuries. He longed to return the favor but was afraid of the truths her query would reveal. This was not a feeling he was accustomed to.

He found he looked forward to Rose’s return each evening. There was a kindness about her he began to crave. Each night, she’d settle into her early 20th-century Thonate Brothers rocking chair and announce to the room (to Goldie?), “Aunt Margret is ninety today, I must call.” Or, “Nelly had her baby. Let’s call Jim and check in.” He listened, enchanted, as she calmed and soothed and supported. As she cheered and encouraged. “Oh me?” She’d say. “I’m fine. Tell me about your…” and steer the discussion away from her. In all of Goldie’s centuries, he’d never witnessed such a thing. People always wanted to talk about themselves. Always.

He desperately wanted to know if Rose was indeed fine. Always harried, dark circles and sallow skin. When Goldie had first met Rose, all he could think was beige. He felt bad about that now, quick to judge, to condescend. So very French. This was a woman who worked hard, was working toward something, was running from something. But what? He could not know these things, could not counsel, unless she asked.

Curse my curse! He grumbled. I can not help if you don’t ask.

***

“Mirror, mirror on the wall…,” Rose said, rousing Goldie. She peered at her reflection from several angles, sighed, resigned. “Ray is stopping by. With his new, young wife, Lolitta. That’s her name. Could not be more cliché. Wait till you see her.” She was speaking to him. Not at him, but to him. Goldie tingled with the pleasure of connection.

“To think I left it all behind for him. I was a fool. But,” She looked around at her fabulous pieces, “Kansas City is a gold mine, for an art historian like me. These pieces, left in garages, pawn shops.” She leaned closer. “In warehouses.” A conspiratorial smile on her lips.

“Days at the office, nights at the diner. I’m exhausted, but —" A bell rang. Rose took a deep breath, stepped out of view. She returned, Ray and his Lolitta in tow.

“I see you still have a taste for junk,” Ray said.

Junk? That Louis XVI chair? That Chesterfield sofa? Bah!

“Yes, a taste for junk, Ray. That’s why I was with you.”

Yes Rose! That idiot doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it! Goldie’s appreciation for Rose overflowed. Beige. Who said you were beige? And then: What are you up to? He was almost giddy with anticipation. She had a plan, didn’t she? Rose just had to win.

“Look, I’ll get right to it.” Ray hitched his pants. “The missus wants this place. You gotta go.” Lolita clung to Ray’s arm, staking her claim.

“Ray, this is my home. Please.” Rose’s eyes glistened with incarcerated tears.

“Yeah, you been livin’ here, but my name is on the deed. You’ve had plenty of time to get on your feet. I haven’t asked you for rent, have I? I’ve been more than fair.”

No No! Rose, don’t give in!

And as if she heard, Rose squared her shoulders, stood taller. Gave Goldie a quick smile, then turned steely eyes to Ray. “I want what I put in. Give me that and I’ll be out this week.”

“Do it Ray. You promised me a house.” Lolita’s pout indicated a long cold night for Ray. Backed into a corner, he agreed.

“Fine.” Ray took out his checkbook.

“Good.” Lolitta put manicured hands on leopard print hips, surveyed her new domain. “My black velvet sofa comes next week.”

Goldie’s heart broke with this final injustice. Velvet. Now that is tacky.

“I don’t have much. Just a few pieces of furniture. And this mirror.”

Oh oh! Goldie could barely contain himself. A plan afoot all along! Clever girl! The house, a 70’s 70s-style ranch, was nothing. But it held a veritable treasure trove of stately, rare finds.

“This ugly thing?” Lolitta laughed, admiring her image. “I think my grandmother had this same mirror.” She leaned into Goldie’s reflective surface. “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

Goldie felt the long-dormant rush of omniscient understanding, his power of speech awaken. His curse allowed him to see not just the interlocutor’s past and future, but that of all those associated. An intricate structure, Lolitta the cornerstone of a momentary edifice of history.

“Let me be clear,” his bass tone resonated, filling the room. Two mouths hung open, the third a triumphant smile.

“There is but one most dear.

A pretty face may open doors,

but that can apply to politicians and whores.”

Ray stood paralyzed by fear and awe. Rose beamed with pride, clasped her hands, white knuckles showing the effort it took not to whoop and holler.

Lolita stomped and jabbed an angry finger at Goldie. “Did that mirror just call me whore? Me?”

Goldie could not keep pride from his voice:

“Some things abandoned and forgotten,

are in fact truly rotten.

But there are rare gems,

a mirror, perhaps, or a friend,

that for any who took time to look close,

would see the magic right under their nose.

To truly be fair, you must honestly care.

Not for yourself but for your brothers.”

His spirit soared as he declared his final statement:

“And from all I have seen, I must come clean,

Rose is the fairest of all the others.”