Maybe the Moon

shake, Rumpelstiltskin is delicately described as “a little man” rather than an evil dwarf. Such liberal revisionism is progress only if one prefers complete invisibility to outright scorn. I’m not sure I do.
    The legend was pretty much as I’d remembered it, with the poor dude getting his usual bum rap. When he’s banished at the end, having stomped himself completely into the ground, his only crime has been to establish an adoption contract and attempt to abide by its terms. The real villain of the piece, if you ask me, is that venal bitch of a miller’s daughter. Following the dwarf’s instructions, she spun whole rooms full of gold for the king, eventually luring him into marriage, knowing from the start that the fee for Rumpelstiltskin’s services was her firstborn child. Then she has the gall to act wronged when he comes around to collect. No wonder he sends her out to learn his name; she’s treated him like a complete cipher, someone whose feelings count for nothing. The book doesn’t say that, of course, but it does let you know that littleguy couldn’t be bought off for all the gold in the kingdom. He valued human life above all else, which was why he wanted a child of his own so badly.
    Call me a nut, but I think there’s a real story inside the fairy tale, which would make for a fascinating movie: a crusty, cantankerous but entirely human old dwarf, living on his own in the woods and longing for single parenthood.
    When I explained all this to Renee, she said: “Yeah, but most people are used to the old story.”
    I told her this was the old story, just another way of looking at it.
    “Yeah, but, you know…it’s no fun if he isn’t…”
    “A turd.”
    She giggled.
    “It’s not funny,” I told her sternly. “Dwarfs are always the bad guys in these things—vicious, vindictive little bastards who live under a bridge and eat children for lunch.”
    “Really?” she asked meekly, trying to look serious but making a total mess of it.
    “I know you’ve noticed it, Renee. Name me one nice dwarf in a fairy tale.”
    After a moment of serious pondering, she screwed up her face and said: “Dopey?”
    If there had been beer in my mouth, I would have spewed it at her. “ Dopey ?”
    “Well, I don’t…”
    “Good, Renee. Dopey. Good answer.”
    She stared at me, slack-mouthed, apparently wondering how badly she’d fucked up.
    “That’ll look fabulous on the poster,” I said, retaining my acid tone. “ CADENCE ROTH IS DOPEY .” I knelt on my pillow and imagined a review for her. “‘Not since Linda Hunt’s Grumpy has there been such an Oscar-caliber performance.’”
    When Renee finally realized I wasn’t mad, she giggled in relief and bounced once or twice on the sofa. “I didn’t know we were talking about a role for you .”
    “Since when are we not talking about a role for me?”
    “Well, I don’t see why Dopey is any sillier than Rumpelstiltskin.”
    “It is. Trust me. It’s myth versus kitsch.”
    I’d lost her completely.
    “It doesn’t matter,” I added hastily. “It’s all just speculation.”
    “Did you talk to Leonard about it?”
    “About what?”
    “Rumpelstiltskin.”
    “There’s nothing to talk about,” I said. “There isn’t even a script. It’s just a concept.”
    “Oh.” She rose and headed for the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. “Want some popcorn?”
    “Sure. Thanks.”
    “Is it on your diet?”
    “If I don’t have butter.”
    “Oh.”
    “Butter it,” I said.
    She giggled and ducked into the kitchen.
    “I need my animal fats,” I yelled after her. “I’ve been working too hard.”
    After we finished the popcorn, Renee offered me a foot rub, which I accepted without protest. I lay on my pillow on the living room floor, stomach down and feet toward the ceiling, while she sat next to me with a squeeze bottle full of pink lotion. It was sheer heaven. (If you’d like some inkling of this experience yourself, start by imagining a massage from someone whose hands can engulf your entire foot.)
    During the rub, Renee kept up a running commentary on Lorrie Hasselmeyer, a new employee at The Fabric Barn. As near as I can make out, Ms. Hasselmeyer is the only woman at the store who outdoes Renee in the doormat department—romantically speaking—which, presumably, is why Renee can’t stop talking about her.
    “She’s just so desperate,” she told me.
    “Mmm.” I was a little more involved in the massage than in the