Hush Little Baby by Suzanne Redfearn Page A

want to hear the story?”
    “Yes, tell your story.”
    “No more sarcasm?”
    “No more sarcasm.”
    “Fine. So the father explained that he would be terrified for his daughter to be the lion’s wife; one accidental swipe or slash and she would be killed.
    “‘But I would never hurt your daughter,’ the lion explained, ‘I love her.’
    “Not intentionally, but in a rage or by accident you might. Your teeth and your claws are so sharp.’ As the father said this, an idea came to him. He was in quite a pickle. If he denied the lion’s request, the lion would kill him and his daughter, and if he agreed, his daughter would be married to a dangerous lion.
    “‘Perhaps if you had your claws and teeth removed,’ the father suggested, ‘maybe then I would allow you to marry my daughter.’
    “The lion eagerly agreed and, a week later, returned with his teeth and claws gone. ‘Kind sir, now may I have your daughter’s hand in marriage?’ he asked.
    “The father laughed and shook his head. ‘Now you may go. You have no teeth or claws and I am no longer afraid. Leave my daughter alone.’”
    My dad puffed on his cigar and turned up the music.
    I turned the music back down. “That’s it. That’s your story?”
    “Yeah, that’s my story. Get it, the father tricked the lion into defeating himself. It was brilliant.”
    “It’s horrible.”
    “What do you want? It’s a story.”
    “I want a different ending. Here’s my ending. The father tricks the lion, but it’s too late. The daughter’s already in love because no one’s ever made such a sacrifice for her, so she goes with the lion. And they live happily ever after and never see the father again. The end.”
    “That’s a terrible ending.”
    “It’s a better ending than yours.”
    We drove the rest of the way in silence, and the story was forgotten by the time we reached our destination, Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter home—Taliesin West. The sun was low as we pulled into the parking lot. The fading orange light and long shadows concealed the compound’s age, same as my dad’s, and the masterpiece looked almost new. That was Frank Lloyd Wright’s genius; like a fortune teller or a time traveler, he created the future before it happened, or maybe, it’s arguable, he simply created the future.
    Our tour guide was a woman with gray hair, a wide nose, and a name tag that declared her “Edna.” And when she warned us in a firm voice not to leave the group and not to take photos, my dad winked at me.
    At the entrance, Edna pointed out a porcelain diorama of five Chinese men painted in garish teal and plum and blue, and I couldn’t decide, looking at the laughing men, if they’d won a war, won a game of Cujo, or had won nothing at all and were simply drunk. Wright had bought the piece along with eleven others from the clearance basement at Macy’s in San Francisco. He got a great price because the sculptures were damaged. The dioramas were sprinkled throughout Taliesin and showed Frank’s admiration for Asian art. They also illustrated how broke the architect was at the sunset of his life.
    When the group moved on, my dad and I set off on our own. Our quest was never mentioned, but we both knew we were going to find the other dioramas. Of course, this was easier said than done. We needed to avoid the tour group, avoid security, and avoid the resident architects who lived and worked on the site. We found four before we got caught the first time, then another three before we were chased by a fat security guard to our car.
    The first diorama of my own set was given to me by my dad a year later on my twentieth birthday. It’s the third scene and not one of the ones we found during our visit. It’s one of the more perfect pieces; only a small chip is missing from the second column of the pagoda.
    I found a pair a year later on eBay after looking through at least ten thousand pieces that weren’t what I was looking for. And together, over the past