Mad Hatter’s Day Off
Did anybody ever think to ask why the Mad Hatter was always hosting his famous tea parties?
Or better still, have you ever wondered what the Hatter’s cottage must have been like when it was not occupied with the oddest array of bouncing, bustling guests, all off their rockers, and each his own flavor of bonkers?
How does one even come to have such an odd collection of friends anyway?
We all know Hatter has gone mad, but what does that mean? Was it some illness he developed? Was it trauma? Or was he merely strange from birth?
I paid him a visit recently and was able to see first-hand a glimpse of a mad man’s most ordinary days.
I reflected on the conversation that sent me here, an assignment from my editor the week before…
“Mister White!” she had scolded me. “You need this interview.” Then, gently, “OtherLand needs this interview… Now more than ever.”
Mary Mouse had a way of knowing exactly who needed what, when, and how to get it to them.
“Please Rab,” she continued, “he’s the same man who’s party you enjoyed not two weeks ago. You have nothing to be afraid of, he’ll be glad to see you.”
Her tone took on the all too familiar motherly tone I could never say no to. I thought to myself, never has a newspaper been run by a bigger heart.
“There’s so much you don’t know about him,” she continued, “aren’t you a teensy bit curious?” I could hear the smile in her voice, she knew the magic words.
The question worked.
Despite my dread of being alone in a crazy old man’s cluttered home for an hour, I was curious.
And she was right, it was a good story. Perhaps the only story worth telling this week. The paper needed this. And so, I found myself calling on the Hatter, and making my way to his home this morning.
When I arrived, the cluttery, colory cottage appeared crooked, eclectic and charming, just as I remembered it. The way it tilted to the left while the shingles swooped sheepishly to the right… it didn’t make sense, but it fit the man who lived there just right.
Cross the threshold of that yellow pine door though, and you’ll find a more dismal chaos to be explored.
Pots, kettles, clocks, and pie – old, new, broken and fresh stacked and scattered upon every surface. Forks hung by a single thread from the doorknobs and random drawer-handles hung on the wall as hooks.
The wallpaper peeled and bubbled - red roses on white in some places and gold roses on black in others. Teacups and saucers piled five feet high upon the table, no two dishes a true match.
This is no surprise, of course.
The surprise is how darkness and shadow clung to the room, despite windows wide open to the bright midday sun.
The Hatter’s hats were on proud display, hung up or atop their boldly colored boxes along every wall… the whimsical genius of feathers and colorful folds only he could have possibly come up with had clearly set the place aglow on their own once upon a time, but today they brought no lightness or brightness to the awkward space.
I wondered to myself if they still gave Hatter any pride.
I thought back to the last tea party…
Henrietta Hound had dragged me up to the dance floor where she and Pheasant Phineas took turns twirling, stomping, and clapping alongside me. And then there was something enchanting about the way Karen Kittentail held my hands in hers, her professional dance and acting background ceased to intimidate me for a moment, and instead I found myself dancing as if with childhood friends.
For hours we played, laughed, brayed, and bounced. I don’t know that I ever had so much fun, even as a wee kit in the fluffle. The laughter flooded my heart and radiated from my body, mingling with the waves of joy from each of the others, no one was left out.
Strangers any other day, or acquaintances at best, we all became friends for one moment, here at the Hatter’s home. None of that magic touched me now, despite standing just two feet from where I’d danced that night. The cottage felt hollow now. Empty.
The giggles and mania of the tea party were long gone.
In their place, Hatter hobbled around on his cane, using any open space of counter to support himself as he awkwardly guided me to the kitchen.
I noticed he moved with his heart often parallel to mine, his large hands tending to rest in a form of surrender or giving, his wrinkled palms up and cupped slightly any time he was not leaning into them for balance. Upon my arrival, his big sad eyes had studied mine. (No doubt, I now see, gauging how I was and what he may be able to do for me.) Here’s what they always forget to tell you about twitchy little mad men like Hatter: these ones are deeply kind, with gentle hearts much larger than any queen’s head.
I averted my eyes as he moved in pain and with excruciating slowness.
Working our way through the kitchen toward the patio was a game of torment. I found myself politely pretending not to hear the cursing when he stubbed a toe or knocked a teacup to the floor, its porcelain handle breaking off and sliding beneath a cupboard. I winced at the mental image of him bending down to get it later and what his struggle would be to stand back up, probably having failed to grasp the object he went down for in the first place. I shook the thought away, but not without noting the way it would haunt me later if I did not pick it up myself.
Still, I did nothing, for fear of offending my host.
His shame was palpable by the time we made it to the fridge.
He was weary and, for a moment, I dreaded how long this still had to go on before we reached the patio in back where we planned to enjoy two pots of tea between us – but then it struck me that this agonizing cacophony of delays would go on for him nonstop for the rest of his life. Humbled by my spoiled impatience, I found gratitude that I would know this torment for only an hour or two. A strange idea crossed my mind: perhaps it is not so much that misery loves company as it is that human nature struggles to allow our kin to suffer alone.
Witnessing his pain in those short moments, I felt like a new man. Softened, kinder, touched in such a way that I could not go back to the chilly impatience I had arrived with. I wondered how I might show him that I held no judgment or undue pity, only admiration and respect for the life experience that must have made him this way.
I held the refrigerator door open and he dug in for grapes and cheese, and then I noticed the bread and jam on a serving board beside us; a knife sticky with plum jam lay on the ground nearby. The slices of bread were charmingly uneven and I wondered how difficult such a formality must have been for him to prepare… and the regard with which he might hold me, to go through such an effort on my behalf.
I’d forgotten for a moment that this was the same spritely little maniac who jumped like a grasshopper, sang and danced a whole jig on the picnic table, and hosted the most talked-of party in town not two weeks prior. That version of the man beamed and glowed the whole time, all of his crooked teeth showing in an open smile from behind his sparse gray whiskers. His eyes had been blue that day, not the dim gray that greeted me at the door today.
I do remember specifically not feeling so safe and seen in those manic blue eyes, though. There was a darkness to him then then, with his pupils small as if he were seeking out a target… or perhaps because he felt like a mouse trapped in a corner with nothing to lose. I wondered for a moment if such contrasting figures might also exist in me – and I shuddered, hoping not. He must have noticed, because he pulled the refrigerator door from my hand and closed it promptly with an apologetic glance in my direction.
With an uncomfortable smile, I reached to take the cheese from his hand.
“Let me help,” I insisted gently, hoping not to offend. “I’ll do this, you get the tea on.” I was eager to sit and hear the story he was about to tell me.
We finally made it to the patio where a large gold-speckled black kettle rested between us on a large crocheted doily on a raw wood table.
My teacup was a charming floral pattern of pink and yellow with a gold rim, the saucer a mismatched pastel green with gold spirals. The hatter drank from a starry night teacup, deep blue with yellow stars dotted and swirled around it. His saucer was orange with a gold edge, and a small chip on the side. The tea was a delightful surprise of flavor, a green blend with notes of pomegranate, citrus, and bergamot.
I was surprised at the quality of the bread, wondering when he’d had time to get it fresh, as it was not the stale two-day old loaf I anticipated. The plum jam we shared was unmistakably Mary Mouse’s creation; I had a jar of my own at home. She had a truly magical way of achieving the most blissful blend between tart and sweet and there was a delightful grittiness to it, like granules of sugar specifically waited to dissolve on the tongue. I smiled to think Hatter must appreciate this delicate detail as much as I do.
Hatter plopped six sugar cubes into his tea, one by one and with a great deal of focus. I watched with an amused smile, sparingly drizzling honey into my own cup, and I wondered at the thoughts taking place behind those long, wild eyebrows that reached from his weary face toward the sky. His shaky hand stirred with a tea spoon too small for him to grasp. His thumb and forefinger pinched the handle firmly – not in an aggressive way, but rather in the way one grabs something out of habit; muscle memory without much thought.
I feel most certain he forgot I was there for a few seconds, and I understood now why his parties were always tea parties.
His gray eyes hungered at the tea the way my own eyes had once taken in bourbon, little blue pills, and thin white lines. I watched as the frenzy passed, his eyes softened, and he sunk down into his chair with a long, labored exhale. Suddenly, he began to tell me his story:
When I was a boy, Mother would put tea out every day at four o’clock. Seven cups for her seven sons. I was second to youngest, but I was the smallest. They all called me The Odd One. My oldest brothers, Heron and Hector, were handymen. They could make anything out of the most useless seeming scraps of wood and it would always fetch a pretty penny at the market. Then came Jorry, James, and Jacob, the triplets. They were trouble from the day they were born. Our aunts loved to point it out, as if their nonsense were a point of pride. Trouble or not, their tricks served them well. They became jesters for the Good King and a beloved part of the royal court. Of course, that was before the Good King passed, peace be with him now and always, and the Red Queen came into play, long may she reign. Now my triplet brothers are in her service, if they live. My younger brother, Quill, died of course, at one of my mother’s lake parties. I was nineteen, he sixteen… it was an accident, of course… the lake… and it haunts me still.
His eyes closed, lips puckered, and he twitched from his ears to his knees before he muttered, “Let us speak no more of such things.”
I had no idea what accident Hatter spoke of, or that he had brothers at all.
I sat in uncertain silence, trying to remember my interview questions when suddenly, with a wild gleam in his eye, Hatter began to twitch. He let out a hysterical giggle as his body shook and shivered in waves.
The madness went on for several minutes while I watched in stunned silence.
His left arm reached toward the sky with all five of his scrawny clubbed fingers outstretched, until finally, he sucked in sharply, drawing his limbs in and sinking back down in his chair. He sighed, casually sipping his tea and looking past me into a wonderland of his own imagination. I could sense our interview was over, and I was only more confused.
Seeing the struggle it caused the fragile man to offer the slightest of hospitalities, and his frustration and shame at all he could no longer do, I found myself feeling grateful that he had accepted my interview at all. Despite the gossip and judgment he could only ever attract in the public eye, and in spite of his pride and attention to detail, Hatter chose to entertain and engage with the public. Did he know the cruelty he risked?
He pushed through pain and confusion (and inevitable embarrassment given his outbursts) to create joyfully chaotic, spectacular parties that made all feel seen, appreciated, well, and welcome. What a joyous gift he offered, despite the way he seemed to be resented or else forgotten entirely on any day he did not offer flamboyant fantasy at his own expense.
I reflected on my ways then: the rigid posture I kept, my stony gaze, the way I refuse to be seen if I’m not at my best. (Even then, I prefer to stay in the shadows and tuck myself quietly into corners; going unnoticed is something I am quite skilled in.) I’d call out to any party if I had even the slightest hair out of place. Hatter, though, was entirely bonkers, and showed up nonetheless. I shuddered at the thought of my own future.
If Hatter was so brave and still so unappreciated after his decades of success in the public scene, how lonely would I be in my old age?
At least Hatter had these parties to surround him with friends and those who saw a glimpse of the colors he could see. If I did not get over myself, I would have nobody around me at all. I’d be a true recluse. Any magic I made or discovered, I would be the only one to ever know of. Is that the root of madness – to be the only one who knows what you know?
“Anywhoo,” Hatter continued, startling me from my thoughts. “When I lost my brother, I went a little mad, believe it or not.” The Hatter’s tone left me frozen, wondering if he knew he was still quite mad… He didn’t seem to be joking…
“I went to many a doctor and even a crone or two, trying to treat the madness. Most of the antidotes to madness did little more than give me gas or make me sleep… One though, seemed to slow the runaway trains in my mind. No more swinging, mother told me, from one extreme to the other. Or at least, the extremes I swung between were slowed. I lived in the space between the extremes rather than at the poles, and slowly I made my way back and forth, back and forth. This appeased mother, she declared me cured so long as I kept up on my pills. I did for a long while.
But after a time, I came to realize I was worse off than before. I had my extremes still, but they moved so slowly that I could not accomplish anything at all. See, success is simple stuff, just a matter of moving in one direction long enough… but without the racing high, my distracted mind got the better of me in every endeavor. In the end, I believe it was the pills themselves that really broke me. My own pattern, I knew how to live with. I knew days would come when I could get it all done. But this new prolonged one?
I wasn’t sure what to do with it, or with myself. There were no days of wild success. Only the normal day, on and on, again and again. Forever moving in slow motion toward an end I would never reach.
In time, the slowness made me useless. I gave up the steady work I’d been trying to do, unable to keep the days and times straight enough in my mind to even show up as an apprentice when I was due, or prepare supper for myself each evening. Ashamed of my incompetence (for believe me, nobody wanted me to succeed with carpentry more than I did, nobody wished I was on time more than I did. It just couldn’t be done, like pressing opposing sides of two strong magnets together and making them stay), I walked away from the apprenticeship. It was then that I turned to hatting. It was another accident, you see. I moved into a closet in my mother’s home, and found all sorts of old fashions. I began to play with the fabrics and materials, and met a retired hatter by chance who had boxes of old feathers, ribbons, and dyes… When I sold my first hat, I used the profit to buy new materials, and I got back to work. It was the one thing I could do… I couldn’t forget to do… and it seemed to help me carry my own weight. It even made the girls look at me on occasion. It took twenty-six years, but I finally saved up enough to buy a cottage of my own and get out of my mother’s closet. I didn’t mind the closet though. I barely noticed anything that wasn’t hats and mother’s tea parties.”
I’ll spare you the details of how we stared into space in agonizing silence after that, he in and out of his own little world and I wishing for a polite way to run out the door.
Suffice it to say the interview ended with a grateful pat on Hatter’s shoulder.
Uncertain of how to address it, but feeling the need to say something I told him, “thank you for your service, Hatter.” I gave him a sad sort of smile, and he returned it, looking like the saddest child I’d ever seen. I knew he feared the darkness sprawled before him, and he knew I would spend the rest of my days trying to get this memory and thoughts of his dark, cold cottage out of my head that evening, anything to drown out the noise of what awaits a madman at the end of his days.
The true tragedy of the Hatter’s story isn’t in his ailments or the twisted tendrils of fate that made him who he is.
We all have our sad moments and difficult times. Suffering is as inevitable a part of life as the common cold. The tragedy of Hatter’s story is in the way that we feel alone and ashamed of it. Death and dying are a part of life, they’re what we all look forward to, unless we are one of the rare few who die a quick, unexpected death.
If we are all to grow frail and clumsy, uncontrolled and out of place in our own bodies (and many of us our minds as well), what else is there to do but to love on another through it all?
I learned how to give a gift beyond any coins the day I visited the Hatter.
The gift I learned to give is to hold space. To honor the suffering of another without pity or fear getting in the way of the connection… and not because they weren’t there. Of course I felt pity, of course I was afraid. I was deeply uncomfortable most of the time, but what I felt most of all in the final moments I spent with Hatter was a strange sense of at-homeness. Despite the way we barely knew one another, and our extremely unalike circumstances, I felt as if I belonged. It may even be truthful to say I felt love, for my heart was throbbing toward the gentle old madman and I wanted nothing more than to ease his burden and give him any peace I could for every moment I was with him.
When I returned to my ride that day and made my way down the winding road home, autumn leaves falling with the whispering breeze all around me, I made a promise to myself that I would have courage in the future. Where things felt difficult and my heart grew timid, I would exude kindness.
No anxiety was worth creating another lonely old madman; I could be strong enough to hold the space, and brave enough to share in my own fear so as to not become a lonesome madman myself.
By chance, I crossed Mary Mouse’s path on my way home, and I remembered with a smile that it was her plum jam Hatter had gone out of his way to procure and present to me. I stopped and greeted her with a smile.
“Madam Mouse, how do you do?” I asked her, bowing grandly.
She beamed up at me with an open smile, her eyes full of life. It struck me then how very little I knew of what lie beyond the small yellow door to her home, despite working with her every day for two years now.
“Very well,” she replied. “And yourself?” Her words always carried honesty and kindness. How had I not noticed before?
“Dandy,” I told her, squinting a little at the feeling of a new word in my mouth.
She looked startled at my playful word choice, and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. It was all out of character.
Even more out of character was the way, for once, I didn’t feel as if I was running late.
I slowed my stride. “Did you know,” I spoke proudly, “that our dear Hatter serves your plum jam in his cottage? He just served it to me and it was unmistakably delightful. What is your secret?”
Mary Mouse turned pink from her shoulders to her brow. “Oh, my,” she squeaked. “I just take care, is all.”
“I just take care, is all…” I repeated softly… Of course she took care.
She was in the homes of every character in town in the form of her paper and her plum jam. Even those who didn’t like plums or reading the news had a jar or two in their pantry shelves and a delivery on the doorstep every Wednesday morning. And of course Hatter had both on his kitchen counter; he needed her caring most of all.
“It’s your caring he needed most,” she spoke softly, reading my mind. “Your writing, your willingness to be with him. Your curiosity... I’m proud of you.”
I shook my head, a little ashamed, but before I could speak the little yellow door opened, and an angry voice barked from it, “MARY! GET IN ‘ERE!”
She glanced toward the door and her already small frame seemed to shrink to an impossible size, though nothing changed physically.
Blinking the worry from her eyes, she looked up to me with a warm smile, and suggested she best be going.
With a knowing glance, we parted ways, and I found myself understanding better what made Mary Mouse so good at just taking care.
