Kittridge and Cooper: Magic for the Common Man

“Funny,” my cousin Gilda remarked once the sudden sun shower had exhausted itself, “I don’t remember seeing that before.”

Like all the shoppers in Portsmouth Village on that late Sunday afternoon, we’d run for cover when the storm hit and she and I had ended up under the eave of the elegant little stationery shop. The rain had been dense enough to be blinding albeit brief - nothing more than a sun shower, really but with an awesome fierceness to it - and the quaint cobblestoned streets had fairly run rivers for a few intense minutes. 

“Come on,”Gilda said with an impatient tug at my elbow, “Let’s go in.”

Kittridge and Cooper, the scarred wooden sign in the dark window read, Magic for The Common Man.

I held back, pretty certain that before the sudden sun shower, the sign had read Kittridge and Cooper, Where Modern Cinderellas Shop.  The small cottage, totally in keeping with the romantic 18th century ocean-side mall of which the City of Portsmouth was so proud, reminded me of a mushroom with its uneven, curving lines and low slung, sloping roof. It was like something out of a fairy tale, something you might find at the end of a very narrow path after a very long trek through very dark woods. I had a wildly improbable vision of witches and unicorns, of half-man, half-beast creatures, of things that go bump in the night and turn children into pug dogs. 

“Come on!” Gilda pinched me back to reality, “Good God, we’re in Portsmouth Village in the middle of the day! This is 1959! What can happen?” 


I thought a lot could happen in a place where a sun shower could turn an upscale clothing store into a magic shop but she was petulant, stamping one small foot on the cobblestones and giving me the patented Gilda-Glare. More resistance would just provoke an argument - I’d never won an argument with my curious cousin in my life and didn’t think it was likely to happen now - and she was already at the old wooden door. If I let her go in alone, I thought dismally, I’ll never hear the end of it and if something wonderful happens, I’ll have missed it. Wishing I hadn’t noticed that no one else was window shopping or strolling through this little corner of the Village, that it appeared to be, not to put too fine a point on it, deserted, I reluctantly crossed the cobblestone street. Gilda smiled, one hand on the old fashioned door latch, the other waving me on. The old oaken door swung open without so much as a respectable creak or a groan and we crossed the threshold. A single sliver of sunlight darted past us but once inside it retreated quickly, there one minute and gone the next, swallowed whole, I thought, it’d never had a chance.

From the outside, the cartoonish, little toadstool-like cottage had seemed remarkably cozy and small but from the inside the dark space appeared to have doubled, tripled even. Not only that, I saw with some apprehension, it seemed to have sunk - there were windows, grimy and mostly obscured - but the view was street level. If someone had been passing, you’d have seen feet and ankles, maybe the bottom hem of a raincoat but not much more. Had there been steps that I hadn’t noticed, I wondered, but couldn’t bring myself to look over my shoulder and check. In places where a summer squall can change a boutique to a magic shop, there are some things it’s better not knowing.

“Come see!” Gilda was calling to me, “They have magic wands!”
“You must be over eighteen to purchase a wand,” a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere and seemed to float on the musty air decreed, “But we do have rather a nice selection of sleight of hand tricks, if I do say so myself.”

“Welcome to Kittridge and Cooper,” a second voice, equally as shimmery and insubstantial added, “May we show you young ladies something?”

The first voice had startled me badly but it was the second - so close I was sure I could feel its breath on the back of my neck - that nearly made me jump out of my skin and skitter a little frantically towards Gilda. She gave me an impatient look and a sharp Grow up! punch to the arm when I ducked behind her but it didn’t help my shivering. Peering cautiously over her shoulder, I saw two figures slowly emerge - no, materialize, almost glide - out of the half-light. They looked like eggs in formal attire, I thought with relief and surprise. Both were short, stocky, bald as cue balls and tightly tucked into their clothes - white tie and tails just like Fred Astaire except they somehow looked painted on, like elegant Easter eggs - both were smiling, stubby little arms clasped behind their backs. Identical twins, I realized, mildly disproportionate, probably eccentric, certainly harmless. Dwarfs, another voice whispered inside my head, malformed, possibly mad as hatters, surely dangerous. All the same, there was something vaguely familiar about them, something almost comical.

The one on the right took a small step forward and made a formal but stiff bow. 

They don’t bend, I thought distractedly.

Of course not, Gilda thought back snappishly, They’re eggs!

I would’ve told her not to be rude but then I understood that she’d spoken only in my mind. I didn’t have time to reflect on this before one of the little men began to speak aloud.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the egg-shaped little man said somewhat grandly, “I am Kittridge Solomon and this is my brother, Cooper.”


“Cooper Solomon at your service,” the one on the left said and made the same stiff bow, “How do you do.”

Tweedledee and Tweedledum, I suddenly thought, from Alice in Wonderland, how had I not seen it before. Would a monstrous crow be next, I wondered, or was it already here, keeping the little shop so shadowy and dark. Except that it wasn’t, I suddenly saw, it had brightened considerably since we’d first come in. I could now see the cluttered shelves and the dusty display cases quite clearly. There were empty birdcages, mannequins in capes and wizard hats, stack upon stack of leather bound books, small wooden cabinets and oversized chiffarobes, baskets of small powder packets and an entire section of vials full of assorted colored liquids. The last seemed to have a life of their own, rocking and churning like waves on a miniature ocean. They shone with fluorescent backlighting, the colors blending and glowing like a tiny lightshow. Gilda took an uncertain step in their direction and one of the brothers stepped smoothly to intervene.

“Let me show you our herb collection,” he said softly, “I’m certain we have something to intrigue you.”

“But first, we must have tea. To your very good health,” the second brother added, “Nothing puts you right like a good herb tea.”

I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t seen the tea table before but there it was, small and rounded and set for four with a small, copper tea kettle cheerfully whistling among the plates of scones and individual iced cakes.

“Such a treat to have company,” the first brother said kindly while the second held Gilda’s chair then mine and smiled agreeably.

Gilda allowed herself to be seated but she was frowning at the seemingly sudden appearance of the tea table. Never one to take the long road when a short one would do, she came directly to the point. “So,” she asked casually, “Is this real magic?”

The brothers exchanged a glance, half amused , half carefully discreet.

“Spells, potions, herbs, enchantments,” one said serenely, “Not for everyone, oh, my, no.”

“Yes,” Gilda insisted, “But is it real?"

“It is,” the other brother said, “If you believe, naturally.” He poured more tea from a kettle that I was sure should’ve been empty by now. “And if you’re of age, of course.”

“Of age?” I ventured, surprising myself with my own boldness.

“Of age,” they said together, “Eighteen, to be precise. Oh, my, yes.”

By the time we’d finished our tea, the shop had turned dim and shadowy again. In the yellowish and hazy streetlamp light seeping in from the windows, the harmless, egg shaped brothers began to look less like Tweedledee and Tweedledum and more like characters from some dark, unkind fairytale. It was, Gilda and I thought together but separately, time to go. We politely bid the brothers goodbye and they each bowed, thanked us for coming and saw us to the door.Back on the cobblestone streets of Portsmouth Village where the sun was high in the sky, it was inexplicably bright and warm and crowded. There was not the slightest trace of a recent rain. 


“Let’s go in,” Gilda was saying, nodding toward the odd little magic shop where only a time warp moment before there had been a clothing boutique with a fairy tale-ish name. There was a sudden heat shimmer in the air, a fraction of a second when I closed my eyes and sensed the earth shiver, nearly vibrate. It sighed. Deeply. Almost audibly. When I looked again, I saw a simple painted cottage with window boxes of wildflowers and a garden gnome on each side of the door. An etched wooden sign hung above the door.

Kittridge and Cooper, it read, Where Modern Cinderellas Shop.


The display windows were full of cartoon figures in pinafores and Little Lord Fauntleroy suits. A colorful red haired Raggedy Ann doll sat astride a brightly painted rocking horse, Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs were having tea with a mermaid. A unicorn slept by a quiet pond near a willow and a green-faced witch on a broomstick was silhouetted against a yellow paper moon. Rainbows and stars hung together, suspended by almost invisible filaments of wire. Cinderella herself was stepping out of a royal coach on the arm of a handsome prince. And in the corner, two identical egg-shaped little men stood motionless under the shadow of a giant raven.

I pretended not to notice when one of them winked at me.