Author's Note: I posted this one on a now-defunct WWW board. Slightly rewritten.

One

Mama had been so excited as she dressed for the theater that evening, only to have a telegram arrive, calling Papa away. "I'm so sorry, dear," I remember him saying. And her reply of, "But… but the tickets! My cousin!"

And then Papa's fateful words: "Take Denise in my place."

Denise was me, five-year-old me. Suddenly Mama was dressing me up for an evening at the theater, all the while filling my head with all the reminders of manners that adults give to children at such last moments: sit up straight, keep your hands to yourself, don't speak unless you're spoken to.

Obviously, the last of those I quite forgot to heed later.

On the carriage ride to the theater, Mama prattled on and on about her cousin the actor whom we were going to see perform. She seemed to have memorized all his reviews — and they were wonderful reviews: "a triumph," "unforgettable," "a master of his art," "pulls it all off with the commanding presence of a man twice his years." Of course, I didn't understand what they were talking about. I would be a lot older before I realized just how amazing it was for our cousin, Artemus Gordon, at the venerable old age of twenty-one, to be playing King Lear.

I had never been to the theater before. Everything about it was magnificent — simply glorious! We found our seats and Mama continued both fussing at me with reminders of how to behave and twittering on about the reviews.

Then the lights went down and the play began. I had no idea what those people were talking about. Yes, it was English, but not any kind of English I was used to hearing! I kept plucking at Mama's sleeve, begging her to explain what was going on, but all she would say was, "Hush!"

Shortly she said, "There he is; that's Artemus!"

"Which one?"

"Shh — he's speaking."

My first impression of him was that he was big and white and hairy and old. Long white hair, long white beard. My second impression of him was his voice — deep and full and rolling like thunder. Much later, when I knew more things to make comparisons with — especially after I had heard him play his violin for me — I would compare his voice to a fine musical instrument in the hands of a virtuoso. But at the age of five when I first heard him act, I thought of his voice as a thunderstorm: now quiet and pattering, now vast and rumbling, washing over me, soaking me in all that marvelous sound.

Perhaps I should mention that I have always loved thunderstorms!

But I still didn't know what was going on. And despite all my pleadings, Mama would only hush me.

Then the voice stopped. With the thought that I wouldn't be interrupting if I asked just then, I tugged at my mother's sleeve and said, "Mama, why is that big old man yelling so much?"

Ah, well… maybe I yelled it a bit myself, for suddenly everyone was laughing.

Or nearly everyone. Mama was mortified. She threw her hand over my mouth, then shrank down in her seat, trying to become invisible.

Up on the stage, that big old man turned his head slowly, so very slowly as the audience continued to laugh, until he was facing us squarely. Then, just as slowly, he turned away again, waiting patiently for the laughter at last to die away. Waiting still longer. Waiting till the attention of everyone present was riveted on him and him alone again. Waiting even then, until the hush in the room was like a physical presence.

And then he brought forth the next line, his voice as soft as a sigh but clearly heard by all. And the play went on.

When it was over, Mama was the first one out of her seat, grabbing me, trying to slip away unnoticed. Suddenly, before we could leave our row, there was an usher blocking our way. "With his compliments, Madame," said the young man, "Mr Gordon would like to see you."

Mama, stammering, tried to beg off.

The usher would not budge, but offered her his arm, saying, "I'm to escort you to his dressing room personally, Mrs Tyler. And your charming daughter as well."

He took us backstage to a door with a star and a placard reading "Artemus Gordon" on it and knocked, saying, "They're here, Mr Gordon." From within, a voice — that voice! — said, "Come in." The usher opened the door, gestured us through, then closed the door behind us, closing us in.

And there he was: big and white and hairy and old. Long white hair, long white beard, huge bushy eyebrows, eyes that pierced right through me, so that I hid behind Mama's skirts and peeked out at him. Like a great white bear he looked! His hands were pale with old-age spots on them, and they shook constantly as they rested on the back of a chair, keeping him upright. What little of his face that wasn't covered with hair was deeply lined with wrinkles, with large bags under his eyes. His shoulders were stooped with age. And his voice, when he spoke, saying, "There you are, Camilla!" — his voice was just as it had been from the stage: room-filling and huge, ancient and weary.

"Artemus," said Mama, "I'm so very, very sorry…"

He snorted. "Hmph. Sorry! As if that changes what happened! And you!" That was aimed at me, and I instantly disappeared behind Mama again. "Denise…" he said.

"Yes sir," I whispered.

"Come here, child…"

"Yes sir." I came out slowly, hesitantly.

"No, right here to me, child," he insisted.

I obeyed, staring up at him, he staring down at me.

"And what do you have to say for yourself, girl?"

"I'm sorry, Mr Gordon. I didn't know everyone was going to hear me."

Pushing the chair aside, he leaned over me and said, "And do you know what I have to say to you, Denise Tyler — you and your apology?"

I shook my head silently.

Suddenly, to my everlasting shock, he swooped me up, laughed merrily, gave me a kiss on the check, and said to me — his voice, his entire being instantly completely young — "Why, you're forgiven!"

Still held in his arms, I leaned away from him, stunned.

"Artemus, you're frightening the child!" Mama scolded.

"I am? Sweetie, are you scared of me?"

Eyes wide, I nodded.

"Oh now, I didn't mean to do that," he said. Gently setting me back on my feet, he said, "Let's see what we can do to change that. It's probably the make-up, hmm?" Reaching up to the back of his neck, he leaned forward and all that white hair came off in his hand.

I stared at him, then ran behind Mama again. And peeked out.

He set the wig on a plaster head on the dressing table behind him, then sat on the chair and turned to face the table, watching my reflection in the huge mirror on the wall behind the table. Grabbing up a towel, he rubbed at his own hair that was now in view: thick, dark, curly, shiny. "Phew!" he said. "Gets a bit hot under there." Tilting his head to one side, he reached below his ear and began peeling away the beard. Next to come off was the moustache, so that I could now see his big wide smile. He continued watching my reactions as he continued removing bits and pieces from his face. The bushy eyebrows came off at last; first one, then the other. And now I could see his eyes, warm and brown and friendly like my Mama's, smiling at me from the mirror. "Better?" he said.

"What comes off next?" I whispered. "Your ears?"

He crinkled his nose at me and shook his head. "No, that's all the appliances, sweetheart. Next is the make-up itself." Picking up a jar from the dressing table, he opened it, scooped out some of its contents, then started smearing the stuff all over his face and hands. Then he took up another towel, wiping it all off again. Finally done, he turned in the chair to face us, threw his arms out wide, and said, "Voilà!"

I stared at him, mouth slack.

He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "Catching flies, Sunshine?"

I snapped my mouth shut, then found my voice and asked, "How do you do that?"

He held up the jar. "Cold cream."

"No. How do you make yourself look old like that?"

"Denise. We don't ask the magicians to reveal all their tricks, do we?" Then, tilting his head to one side, he made a decision. "Come over here, sweetie." Naming to me the various kinds of make-up on the table, he began applying some to my face, showing me in the mirror how quickly and completely he could change me into someone else.

"But," he added at last, after Mama and I had admired and exclaimed over his artistry, "I like the original best." And he used the cold cream to turn me back into me.

"Now, Denise…" he said. He paused, then turned to my mother and said, "Camilla, surely the child has a nickname?"

"We generally call her Nisie."

"Nisey — Neesee — Niesy… How on earth do you spell that?"

"I don't," said Mama. "When I write her name, I write her real name."

"Neessy…" he muttered to himself. "No, that's not right either…" With a laugh, he said, "Suppose it doesn't matter, hmm? I was going to ask, Niesey… no, not that either… if you would like to come meet my friends?"

"Friends?" asked Mama.

"The rest of the troupe," he said. Tapping me on the tip of my nose, he said, "They are just going to love you!"

I looked to Mama for permission, which she gave. Swooping me up again, Mr Gordon set me onto the chair, turned around, and took me up on his back piggy-back style. "Here we go, Sunshine!"

Mama trailed after us as he took us all through the backstage area, introducing us to actors and actresses with wonderful names, and stagehands and crew with incomprehensible job titles. To each and all, he introduced me as, "My little cousin Denise — the little girl with the very big mouth!" And amazingly, he seemed to be very proud of me and how I had brought the whole play to a grinding halt.

Eventually we returned to his dressing room, where he at last swung me back down to the floor. "Camilla," he said, "would you and Denise care to join us?"

"Join you?"

"Yes, dear cousin. Most of us don't bother to eat before a performance — and some of us can't — so we go out to eat afterward. Care to join us?"

"Artemus, it's very late. Denise needs to…"

"Oh, surely Niecie can stay up once in a while… Oh! That was perfect! Niecie — spelled as the word niece with an i before the final letter. And," he added, hunkering down to look me in the eye, "as you are Niecie — how would like me to be your dear ol' Uncle Artie?" He smiled winsomely at me, his bright brown eyes twinkling.

I nodded. He had completely won me over. Slipping my arms around his neck, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. And that's when it happened.

I leaned back, staring solemnly into his eyes. And he, looking into mine, read my heart there, smiled at me, then whispered, "Well. I love you too, Niecie."

…

And from that day forward, that's what we were; he was my uncle and I was his niece. And I loved him with all my child's heart.

That particular night, though, after dubbing us uncle and niece, he wrapped his arms round me, looked up at my mother, made huge puppy-dog-eyes at her, and said, "Please, do join us, Camilla."

"Well…" she said slowly, "I suppose…"

"Wonderful!" he beamed. Releasing me, he popped up to his feet, said, 'Give me a moment to get out of these," indicating his King Lear robes, "and into my street clothes." He then disappeared into the dressing room, shooting me a wink as he closed the door.

A few minutes later he came out again, looking freshly scrubbed and smelling marvelous. He was dressed in evening clothes, with a gorgeous silk vest and bowtie and a richly ruffled shirt. Settling his hat on his head with a flourish, he held out one hand to me, the opposite elbow to my mother, then escorted us out the stage door to join his friends.

It was a merry crowd that descended on the restaurant a short walk away. The maitre d'hôtel came forward and Uncle Artie told him, "The Gordon party. And we have two extra, please." Bowing, the maitre d'hôtel led us all to a huge table. Uncle Artie sat at the head of it, placing me at his side and Mama on the other side of me. Later, much later, I would come to realize that wherever Uncle Artie sat would inevitably become the head of any table. Even in the company of his fellow-actors, Uncle Artie always stood out, the self-appointed entertainment committee of one, the life of every party, the master raconteur.

All the evening he told tale after tale, getting his whole being into the stories, his voice swooping and swelling as needed, captivating me completely. And except for when the demands of his narrative called for double-armed gestures, he kept his left arm loosely draped around me, occasionally grinning down at me and giving me a little squeeze. I was Uncle Artie's little girl, and I loved every minute of it.

He ordered my meal for me. I had no idea what he was ordering; he spoke in French, and it sounded beautiful. When the meals arrived, he told me again, more slowly, what he had ordered for me. He also shared with me a few items from his own plate — in particular, he passed over something on a skinny fork, informing me it was called escargot. "What do you think of it?" he asked me.

"It's chewy," I replied, sounding a bit dubious.

"Artemus, don't play tricks on her," Mama scolded.

He just smiled and squeezed me close again. "Now, Camilla, I would never hurt my Niecie." With a wink, he whispered to me, well after I had swallowed, "Feed her snails, yes — but never hurt her."

"Snails! Ugh!" He laughed uproariously as I took my little hand and swatted him. "Hey! Hey! Truce, Sunshine!" he cried. Tilting his head, he then made the puppy-dog-eyes at me. "You forgive me, Sweetie?"

I couldn't stay angry at him, not even if I tried. "Yes, Uncle Artie."

He hugged me, kissing me on the top of my head. Then, looking round the table, he called out, "Anyone order grenouille that we can share with Niecie?"