War and Millie McGonigle

by Karen Cushman

  Pete and MeToo and Ralphie Rigoletto had traded in their ray guns for driftwood rifles, and they were marching in front of our house, shouting, “Hup! Hup! Hup!” Icky pulled up and began pelting Ralphie with stones. “Go home, spaghetti eater,” he shouted at Ralphie. “You Italians are as bad as the Germans. Go back to Italy with your hero Mussolini!”

  “I’m not Italian,” Ralphie insisted. “I’m one hundred percent American. I hate spaghetti, and I don’t even know any muscle-beanie!”

  “Knock it off, Icky,” I said.

  “Who’s that telling me what to do?” Icky said, throwing a stone in my direction.

  “I am, for one,” said Pop as he came down the walk. Icky the coward ran off, and Pop took Ralphie’s arm. “You’re not the enemy, Ralphie. Be proud of being American and Italian.”

  “I love spaghetti,” Pete said, patting Ralphie’s back.

  Ralphie grinned. “So do I, really.”

  Pop and I went into the house, followed by Pete, Ralphie, and MeToo, blam-blaming and pow-powing their make-believe rifles. Lily was trying to get her doll, which she was currently calling Mrs. Santa, to hold a crayon. And Mama had just come home from a Red Cross meeting with yarn and knitting needles. “Thousands of women across the country are knitting for servicemen,” she said, “making socks, sweaters, mufflers, blankets, even knitted bandages. In San Diego there’s a group of Japanese American women, brokenhearted over Pearl Harbor, who are knitting, too. We’re all knitting to help the U.S. win the war.”

  “Do you know how to knit?” I asked her. “I never saw you.”

  “We got quick instruction this morning. It didn’t look too hard.” Pointing to a big bag of army green yarn, she said, “Lots of young people are knitting—nothing fancy. Squares to link together for blankets for soldiers. That’s what we’ll do, Millie.”

  “Do I have to?” I thought it might be sort of interesting, but I wasn’t about to say that.

  “Let me! Let me!” Pete yelled, dropping his wooden rifle and bounding over.

  “Me too,” said MeToo, a toothless grin on his dirty, freckled face.

  “I have three sets of needles,” Mama said. “One for Millie and one for me, and I thought Lily might like to join us.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Lily. “Mrs. Santa and I are drawing pictures to send to soldiers.”

  Mama gave knitting needles to Pete and me and showed us how to get the yarn on the needles and a knitting stitch. Pete tangled the yarn before he even got it near the needles. “Crumb!” he shouted. “Girls do the dumbest things.” He grabbed his rifle and ran out the door, Ralphie following.

  “Let me try,” said MeToo, pressed against my side, watching closely.

  Sure, I thought. You won’t last even as long as Pete. “Okay.” I handed him Pete’s discarded needles. “Go ahead and see if you can do it.”

  He could, and faster than me. And Mama. So the three of us settled on the sofa, knitting army green squares for blankets for soldiers.

  Soon enough Pete came back inside. “Come play with us, Lily. We need you.”

  Lily shook her head. “No way. You make girls be Nazis.”

  “We gotta have enemies or it’s no fun.”

  She shook her head again and went back to coloring.

  I finally finished a square—well, an almost-square with only a few dropped stitches. It looked pretty good to me, and better than Mama’s, which was kind of like a washcloth with buttonholes. “Here’s my square. I’m finished.”

  “Me too,” said MeToo, and he handed his neat, perfect, buttonhole-free squares to Mama. Five of them to my one.

  I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, I thought. MeToo was a natural.

  Mama and I packed in our needles and left MeToo sitting happily, turning out square after square. I walked up Bayside Walk hoping to find Rosie. I hadn’t talked with her since our “one day at a time” conversation. Did she still feel as unconcerned about the war? Were we still friends?

  There she was, sitting on a towel on the sand, wearing a white bathing suit like Rita Hayworth, her nose gleaming white from a coat of zinc oxide. Her hair—her wavy red hair, not stringy and bleached from the sun like mine—bounced on her shoulders. She smiled at me. We were okay.

  I flopped down next to her.

  “What’s buzzin’, cousin?” she asked. Rosie was much more hip and sophisticated than I was. I guessed she was asking What’s up?

  “Not much. Just hanging around,” I told her.

  “Me too. Don’t you love vacations?” she asked. “I was sick of school. Since the war started, it’s like a zoo there. Guys squabble about who will enlist first and who’s too chicken and what they’d do to the enemy but wind up shoving and fighting each other instead. And the girls stand around and giggle.”

  “You’re telling me about zoos. Icky and his buddies act like idiots, marching around with black combs held under their noses, pretending to be Hitler.”

  Rosie shook her head. “That makes quite a picture. I’d like to laugh but it’s not funny.”

  “No, it’s mean. Even grown-ups are doing dumb things. Danny Fellers says his dad sits in his car with a loaded shotgun every night looking for anything suspicious. I think some poor alley cat will get his tail shot off.” I turned over on my back, chewing on my lip in thought. “Sometimes I pretend the U.S. is at war with Ireland and I’m considered the enemy to see what that would feel like. But I know it’s only make-believe. I can be sorry for Japanese and German and Italian kids, but I can’t really feel what they feel even when I try.”

  “Guess you’re just lucky Ireland hasn’t dropped any bombs on us.”

  “Do you still not worry about the war coming here? Aren’t you afraid?”

  Rosie rubbed suntan lotion on her legs. “I can’t do anything about it. I’ll just wait and see what happens.”

  “But what happens could be awful.”

  Rosie shrugged. “I’m just not a worrier.”

  “What about your mother? Are you at least worried about her? That she might…well, you know, die?”

  “She’s been sick most of my life. I’m pretty used to it.” Rosie lay down on her towel. “But sometimes I get angry with her even though it isn’t her fault she’s sick. Doesn’t seem fair, does it? But I can’t help it.”

  I remembered Pete and his anger about the Lone Ranger dying. And now Rosie. Was it possible to love someone and be angry with them at the same time? I frowned and changed the subject. “You’re fourteen, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well, I’m tired of reading cheery kiddie books from the library. I need to learn more about death and suffering and war, but I’m not thirteen yet, so I’m confined to the baby section. If you’d check out some adult books for me, I’d be ever so grateful.”

  “Sounds awfully grim, Mil, but I guess I could do it as long as I don’t have to read them, too. What books do you want?”

  I chewed my lip. “I’ll have to think and make a list.”

  A shriek like a siren rang out from the Fribbles’ house. “Rosemary Fribble, get in here now. Your mama needs you.” Rosie frowned, waved, and went.

  At dinner, Edna announced that she was applying to be an air-raid warden.

  “What’s an airy dwarden?” Lily asked.

  “They tell people what to do if bombs come. And make sure no light is shining during blackouts. They’re important. People have to pay attention to them. And they wear armbands, helmets, and whistles.” Edna smiled. “I’d like to be important.”

  Mama and Pop looked at each other. “Edna, is that wise?” Mama asked. “You have been…you know…you aren’t…”

  “I know, I know. I forget things, lose things, do stupid things. I think I have a screw loose in my head. But I’m tired of being useless. I’m sure I can do this. The Civilian Defense volunteer-training people will teach me. And I really want that
whistle.”

  Pete whooped. “I want a whistle, too. And a helmet. I know what to do if bombs come.”

  “You don’t,” Lily said.

  “Do so. Shoot back and then hide.”

  I laughed. Pete had all the answers.

  A Santa Ana wind screamed all night, blowing sand against the windows and rattling doors, making everyone tense and irritable, so when Lily came into the big bed early in the morning, making it much too crowded, and started snuffling about her stiff neck, I was having none of it. “Can it, Lily. Don’t be such a baby,” I said, and turned over to go back to sleep. Lily crept back to her own bed, moaning and whimpering.

  “Mama! Lily’s making so much noise that Cousin Edna and I can’t sleep.” In truth Cousin Edna was sawing logs on her side of the bed, making much more noise than Lily. “Come and make Lily be quiet!”

  Mama cooed softly to Lily before turning to me. “Lily is awfully hot. Get some cool cloths for her head.”

  I grumbled my way into the bathroom and wet a washcloth for Lily. Still, her fever stayed high all morning, and she moaned louder and louder, grabbing for her neck and twitching her legs. Her Shirley Temple curls clung limp and wet to her head.

  Since Garland’s polio, Mama had been inspecting us daily for headaches, muscle pains, and fever, and now I could see the panic in her face. Was Lily getting sicker? Was it polio? Could Pete catch it? Or me? My heart thumped.

  On his way to work, Pop dropped Pete at Ralphie’s house to keep him out of germs’ way. I stayed at home in case Mama needed me, still in my pajamas, looking at the Sears catalog. I hadn’t decided what to do with my jingle prize money. Oarlocks? A new book? Or something fun like a harmonica or a music box that plays “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”? Worrying about what to choose kept me from chewing at my nails and thinking about getting polio.

  At noon, Mama, her voice low and tight, said, “Millie, go to Bell’s and ask to use the telephone. I know it’s Sunday and they won’t be open but Mr. Bell will let you use it. Call Dr. Peterson and ask him to come see Lily right away.”

  I jumped into slacks and a sweater and ran. What if it was polio? I imagined Lily in a big metal tube with only her head sticking out. Do people with polio die? What if Lily died? Would I have to add her to my Book of Dead Things? I shuddered. Sure, Lily was a pill, but I didn’t want her to die. And did I have to call her that so often? She couldn’t help it that she was pale and sickly and took so much of Mama’s attention.

  Mr. Bell was happy to let me use the telephone. Dr. Peterson was out of town, but a Dr. Conway was covering and would be along when he could. While we waited, Mama and I worked together cooling Lily down when she burned and warming her up when she shivered. It wasn’t much but it felt good to be doing something.

  Lily’s complaints came in croaks. Her throat was sore, her neck stiff. “Lily, if you just get well,” I told her, “I’ll be much nicer to you and I won’t call you a pill anymore.”

  Finally Lily fell into a restless sleep. Mama put her arm around my shoulders.

  “I’m sorry that Lily is so sick,” I said to her. “I know she is your favorite and—”

  “My favorite? Why would you say that?”

  “It’s always Lily first in everything. Lily gets a bed to herself. She never has to run to the store or empty the garbage or help make dinner. And when you call us, it’s Lily and Millie and Pete. When you talk about us, it’s the same—Lily and Millie and Pete. Lily is always first.”

  Mama’s face crumpled. “I guess you’re right,” she said softly. “I always think of you three that way: Lily and Millie and Pete. I see you, Millie, standing there, their hands in yours, protecting them, being there for them to lean on and hang on to.” She squeezed me hard. “Millie, in the middle, the rock, keeping them safe. I count on you, Millie, my beloved oldest girl.”

  My throat tightened. Was I getting sick, too? But I was merely holding tears in. Beloved? Me?

  “I once saw a picture of a medieval cathedral in England,” Mama went on, “two slender towers, one at each side of a tall central section that looked solid and strong. It reminded me of you children, Lily and Pete flanking my tall, sturdy Millie. I wrote a poem about it.”

  Like a medieval cathedral,

  Two spires leaning against the center,

  The anchor, the mainstay, the linchpin.

  Safe because they stand together,

  Strong because they stand together.

  My Lily and Millie and Pete.

  That did it. Tears pushed their way past the lump in my throat. I gulped and sniffled, hugged Mama, and hurried outside before my blubbers woke Lily. Was I beloved? Did Mama really count on me? Why didn’t she tell me more often?

  What with blackouts, siren tests, rumors, and bookmarks and pincushions for presents, it had been a weird Christmas, but the bay seemed untroubled. A crowd of sandpipers, in San Diego for a winter vacation, tottered on their long, spindly legs in search of insects for dinner. An oystercatcher pranced past with a sand crab in its red beak. They didn’t know or care about the war, about Lily’s sickness, about polio and money troubles and Jungle Gardenia. Sometimes I wished I were a bird.

  When I finally returned to the house, the doctor had come. I waited outside, worrying. Was it polio? If so, was it my fault for not keeping the Book of Dead Things better? Did I not write enough McGONIGLEs in the sand? I was getting a little bored with it all, but would I disappoint Gram and put us at risk if I stopped? What would life be like without Lily, Lily with the blond curls and silly doll? I thought I’d like to be sisterless, but it turned out I was wrong. And I was scared.

  When I finally went inside, the doctor was leaving. No, it wasn’t polio, he said, but a very bad flu, a serious issue because of Lily’s lung troubles. “Keep her in bed and quiet,” he said. “Push liquids to keep her hydrated.”

  Mama hugged me in joy and relief. Not polio! I felt a sort of release. The day seemed a bit brighter. Even the wind had stopped. The doctor repacked his bag and walked toward the door. “I charge five dollars for a house call on a Sunday, and I prefer to be paid on the spot straightaway.”

  Five dollars! Mama paled. “Dr. Peterson always left a bill and we paid when we could.”

  “I prefer not to bill but to be paid, as I said, on the spot.” Dr. Conway stuck out his hand.

  Mama fumbled in her purse. “I don’t have enough at the moment, but…”

  The doctor frowned, and Mama’s face turned red.

  There was no other way. I sighed and got my five-dollar bill—my precious jingle-prize five-dollar bill, my harmonica and music-box and oarlock money—and gave it to Mama to pay the doctor. She squeezed my hand, and I felt a little less resentful. And a bit proud.

  The new year can’t come soon enough, I thought as I tumbled into bed that night. 1941 had ended badly. But Lily would be okay, and I’d hold on to that.

  I buttoned my jacket as I left the house. It was winter in San Diego, which meant sixty-two degrees, and a cool morning breeze blew in from the sea. A group of octopus fishermen were on the beach, shouting and digging and laughing, and I waved as I kicked through the mud looking for dead things. The mud provided bits of broken clamshells, a bird foot, and a hermit crab hiding in a snail shell, and I sketched them in my book. I tossed the shells and the crab back into the water, where they belonged. The bird foot I buried in the sand. I tucked the book back into my jacket pocket and gave it a few pats.

  The radio said the Japanese had invaded Manila in the Philippines. I didn’t know where that was but it sounded too close for me. I scrolled a McGONIGLE in the mud and then, just to be sure, wrote it again. McGonigle.

  On Bayside Walk I saw Edna, off to her first Civilian Defense volunteer training wearing a hat with a gold feather perched on her black hair and, in honor of the special occasion, extra Jungle Gardenia. “I hope I get my whistle today,” she said as she t
eetered on her high heels up the walk.

  It was nearly noon when I returned, and the house was quiet. Lily was still in bed, surrounded by books, crayons, and a plate of toast crusts. Pop was at the Navy Exchange, Pete was at Ralphie’s, and Mama, who was now working a twelve-hour night shift at Consolidated Aircraft, was just waking up and coming into the kitchen. Lily jumped up and threw her arms around Mama’s waist. “I miss you, Mama,” she said.

  “And I miss you, chickadee.”

  “Stay home, Mama. Don’t go.” Lily held up her doll. “You can play with her if you stay.”

  “It’s a war, Lily-billy. We all make sacrifices. Mine is missing my babies.”

  And mine, I thought, is having to take care of these little nuisances when both Mama and Pop are gone. But I didn’t say it out loud, and that was an even greater sacrifice.

  “What’s for dinner?” Pete asked Mama, munching on half a cheese sandwich as he entered the kitchen.

  “Dinner? You’re still eating lunch.”

  “I need to make plans.”

  “You’ll have to ask your father,” Mama said. “He’s the cook now. For the duration of the war, I’ll be making airplanes, not dinner.”

  “Pop’s cooking? Then I’m going back to Ralphie’s. They’re having beef stew.”

  “Have you been invited?”

  “I will be. I just need to look cute and hungry.”

  And he was gone again.

  “Sometimes I think he’s my phantom son, not really here, just a whiff and a memory.” Mama finished her coffee with a sigh.

  Lily and I were doing homework at the table when Mama left. “I need help, Millie,” Lily said. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  “This what?”

  “This! Add 37 and 85. I know 7 and 5 are 12, so I write down 12. And 8 and 3 are 11, so I write down 11. Then what do I do? Add 12 and 11? Or should I add 3 and 7 and 8 and 5?”

  “Neither. Start again. Remember what you’ve learned about the ones place and the tens place?”