Tin pointed at the gap in the trees. He looked around, a little worried. She had the look of someone seeing a ghost. But he followed her gaze and saw nothing.
Nothing but trees.
“You going or not?” he said.
He wasn’t seeing it and that was the point. There was no path. No hat. She let go of the tree and reached out until the fence tingled her fingertips. Just beyond it, the ground was undisturbed, the snow white and perfect. She kept her eyes cast down as she stepped through, felt the electric tingle pass through her head.
The hat appeared.
It was inside the fence, on the path, on their footsteps.
“Whoa!” Corey shouted. “Where… where…”
He was searching the area like a boy who just had the lights turned off. Arms out, eyes wide, mouth opened wider, he began to panic. He followed her footsteps and snatched his hand back when it grazed the fence.
“Right here,” she said.
He jumped back. Somehow his eyes got wider. She put her arm through the fence and he made a sound more like Pip than a teenage boy. He was staring at her hand and covering his mouth. She wiggled her fingers and he reached out slowly. She yanked him through the fence.
“You were… where did you…” Hands on his knees, he tried to catch his breath.
Tin pointed at the gap in the trees. He stood up and looked again. And then he got it. The tower was generating a field that was back-reflecting more trees. No one would see what was inside it.
“This is more than a fence,” she said. “He was hiding.”
The wind fired snowflakes through the trees.
Tin lifted her arm as she entered the tower’s dead circle. Her cheeks were still slightly rubbery from the fall; the frigid air stole her breath. Corey huddled behind her.
“He went that way.” She pointed.
Wallace had walked through an open field and kept walking. Once sloping turf, now it was trees. But once upon a time, she would have been able to see Toyland from the tower, the rigid walls, the half-dome loft where someone was watching him.
Why was he hiding? And why did he leave?
Corey pulled the hood over his face and trudged into the cover of the trees. The dormant branches swayed over them. Hunks of frozen snow fell into the understory, crashing through the branches in powdery displays. They hurried past the amphitheater, their footsteps from earlier already filling in.
Oscar was at the car. He was bent over the trunk. Suitcases were next to him.
Corey waddled like a panicked penguin. Oscar caught sight of them and began waving.
“Your dad.”
“I know.” His chin chattered. “I know.”
He detoured toward the car. Mom was coming out of Toyland, bent over and fixing the pant leg on her snowsuit. The area where they were planning a snowball fight was still trampled but quickly filling with fresh snow.
“What’s Oscar doing?” Tin said.
“Oh.” Mom was startled. “I didn’t see you coming. There was another noise in the house. This time the power’s out. We’re going to head back home before the weather gets bad. We should get there by morning.”
“Noise?”
“It was under the house, felt like a tremor. It might have been an earthquake.” Mom wrapped a scarf around Tin’s neck and tucked it into her coat. “Go inside and pack your things. Check the bedroom you and Pip were sleeping in and look in the bathrooms, okay? I’m going to help Oscar shovel out the car. Pip’s inside.”
She pulled the green hat from Tin’s coat pocket and flipped the white fuzzy trim. She didn’t seem alarmed or notice anything that was out of the ordinary. It was just a hat. Tin snatched it before she could put it on her head.
“It’s my fault.”
“What?” Her mom put a warm hand on her cheek. “This is nobody’s fault, hon. We’re all together for Christmas. It doesn’t matter if it’s driving or camping in an old stuffy house. And we’ll come back another time, maybe this spring when we don’t need power. We’ll pitch tents, find a stream to fish, all that fun stuff. All right?”
Tin stared at the hat in her hands, regretting how she’d snatched it away. More than that, she wanted to tell her. Why was she keeping it to herself? Because I’m not even sure I believe it.
There was no point in telling her now. They were leaving. Tin would put the hat back where she found it and forget all about it. Be a normal family.
“Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”
Mom kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back. And keep your coat buttoned up. It’s cold out here, hon.”
Tin stomped her boots before opening the door. Mom had started down the steps. The snowman was all the way by the trees, stick arms poking out, charcoal eyes looking back. It was a long ways from where they built it.
“What’s wrong?” Tin said.
Mom forced a smile. “Nothing. Get Pip ready, okay?”
She jogged around the corner. The car was running. Oscar was shouting something to Corey. Tin stepped inside and pried her boots off. Somewhere, Pip was singing. Tin pulled her damp socks off.
Barefoot, she searched the kitchen for food. Mom had already emptied the refrigerator and cupboards. Boxes were on the long table. Tin broke off a gingerbread wall and ate it. It was hard and the icing was crumbly. She took a section of the roof with her.
Gingerman was gone.
Pip was in the lobby. The song she was singing…
The Christmas tree was still in the lobby, the branches sad and heavy with pine cones and broken strands of popcorn. A fresh log was snapping in the fireplace. Pip had pushed the couch in front of the fire, the back of her head visible, her legs swinging underneath.
“Once upon a time,” she said in her singsong storytelling voice, “a long, long, long, long, long time ago, a toymaker was born.”
Toymaker.
There was a sound of a stiff page turning. Tin imagined a picture book on her lap, the illustrations having nothing to do with the story.
“He looked like all the rest of his brothers and sisters, but that wasn’t what made him special. No one really knows who the toymaker will be, a boy or a girl, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s the heart that makes him or her special. But this toymaker was special in a different way. He fell in love and left.”
Tin felt something in her pocket. She thought, for a moment, an ember from the fire was in her coat. It was the hat.
“This toymaker grew up like all of the rest of his brothers and sisters. He was no different when he was a baby, snowballing in the summer and ice sliding in the winter. He laughed like they did; he grew fat and hairy like they did. He slept in the ice when he was tired, and sang songs when he was happy. His body was short and round, but his heart was twice as big.”
A page turned.
“Every year, once a year, they all came together to celebrate when it was darkest and the sun didn’t rise. Together, they would build and make; they would put their love into whatever they were doing and wrap their best efforts. They only did it for one reason. They did it to give. They had so much joy and love they couldn’t contain it all, so they put it in their work and they gave it to the world. Isn’t that nice?”
Her feet flutter-kicked beneath the couch.
“But the toymaker wasn’t good at building. I know, right? That wasn’t what made him special. It’s not the toy that makes a toy special, did you know that? When a toy was finished, they took it to the toymaker and he made it special. He put something in it just by touching it. The toymaker’s big heart gave it love.”
This wasn’t like her rambling stories to Monkeybrain. It sounded more like one Awnty Awnie would tell. Like Gingerman. Tin took a step and barely felt the floor.
Someone was on the couch with her.
“No one could explain how any of the toymakers did it. They were scientists. They said there was an explanation for everything. Sometimes it just took time to understand a pheno… phenomeh… phenememnom.”
A page
turned.
“But it had been like forty thousand years and no one could still explain how toymakers did it or why there was only one alive at a time. So they used a word to describe it even though the old ones didn’t like that word. Magic. The toymaker was magic. But it seemed simple enough; he just loved so much that his love went into the toy so it could spread around the world. That wasn’t magic. It was just magical how he did it. Because no one else could make toys special like that. Like you.”
Another chill nearly swept Tin off her feet. She teetered as she came near. Pip had a leather book on her knees. It looked like the journal from Awnty Awnie’s footlocker. Monkeybrain was on her lap.
There were other toys, too.
They were next to her, lined up and patiently staring at the book. One of them was Piggy. There was also a wooden soldier with an open nutcracker mouth, a plastic baby doll with a bonnet, and a brown teddy bear.
They’re listening.
“Pip? Hey. What are you doing?”
“Telling a story.” She turned a page. It was blank.
“You have new friends?”
“Mmm-mm. Baby Doll, Soldier and Clyde. You already know Piggy. Soldier is on guard, but he’s nice. They said hi.”
“Okay.” They were dusty and the fur was matted. “Where did you find them?”
Pip flipped the pages and hummed her song, this time without the words. It was the one from the 1930s commercial. She pointed at framed pictures on the walls and laughed.
“I know,” she said. “But it’s cold now and snowy. We’ll come back in summer and then we can play.”
Tin held onto the couch and followed where she was pointing. The toys on the couch were also the ones in the photos. Maybe there is only one pig.
“Pip? Where did the toys come from?”
“They live here. They said thank you, but you’re not the toymaker. Neither was he.” She flutter-kicked at the photo of Wallace. “That’s why he locked them up.”
I’m not the toymaker? “Locked up?”
“To keep them safe,” she sang. Silly.
“I don’t understand, Pip. Safe from what?”
Her eyes were searching; then she dropped the book to cover her mouth. The leather cover slapped on the floor. She stifled a giggle and turned her eyes to Tin.
“Piggy likes you.” The pig was turned toward her. “She wants you to hug her. She likes that.”
Pip held the pink piggy with both hands. Tin took it from her. The fabric was soft and cushiony. It smelled old and musty.
“Where did you get the book?”
“Piggy had it.”
“Piggy?” Tin cleared her throat. “Where did you get it, Pip?”
“I didn’t get it. Piggy got it. Ask her, not me.”
She held her breath. Seconds went by; then she picked up the book and was humming again.
“Pip? Can you hear them talk?”
“Yes. I can.”
“I mean, do they talk out loud? You know, with voices?”
The book tipped and her eyes shifted in thought. “No. It’s here.” She patted her head. She heard them in her thoughts, her imagination. A small bit of relief melted Tin’s anxiety.
“They said you growed up,” Pip said. “You can’t hear because you think too much. That’s what happens to adults, they get too much thoughts and can’t hear anymore. It’s not bad to grow up,” she sang. “They said it happens to everyone, even to me too. But I won’t let it.”
She looked at Clyde the Bear. Her mouth was open, her eyes intensely listening.
“Clyde said we have to grow up, but that doesn’t mean we have to forget. That’s what the toymaker does; he reminds us how to listen. That’s why they’re sad.”
“Sad?” Tin braced herself on the wall. “The toys are… they’re sad?”
“Because Santa can’t find them. They don’t want to stay here, Tin. They’re not supposed to.”
“Why… why can’t Santa find them?”
“Because he can’t see them.”
The grippy texture of the wall kept her from sliding to the floor. The tower is hiding them.
“Do you want to hear them?” Pip’s tone was serious. Tin didn’t like that sound in her sister. It was too adult. Wasn’t her.
“They said you have to wake up to hear.”
She put the book down and hopped off the couch. They were all looking at Tin now as Pip danced over and put her hand in Tin’s pocket. She held the green hat with an earnest look in her eye.
“They want you to see them.”
“I… I do see them, Pip.”
There were sounds of the car revving up, the tires spinning. Oscar shouting for Corey to push.
“You want me to put on the hat?” Tin asked.
Pip nodded.
She took it from her, felt the heat vibrate through her hands and into her wrists, into her forearms. Fill her body. Just one more time, because they were about to leave anyway. Besides, she wanted to put it on. She wanted to know more of the story. She wanted to see.
Her scalp tingled.
Wallace was at the workbench.
He was taller than before. His beard was full and tightly trimmed, mostly brown with vague streaks of gray. A small pair of round glasses was perched on the end of his nose.
His eyes were blue.
The green hat was folded on the bench. The tools were out along with patches of fabric and spools of thread, containers of glass eyes and plastic buttons. The design of Pando was pinned to the wall, less faded than when she’d seen it.
“I know, I know.” He looked right at Tin.
Her heart went up a gear. But he was looking through her. Behind her, the workshop was cluttered but orderly, a chaotic collection of materials without cobwebs or layers of dust.
Sitting patiently on shelves were rows and rows of toys. There were soldiers and stuffed animals, baby dolls and dinosaurs and robots. Every possible toy from long ago, sitting and watching.
“Patience,” he said.
Poised in front of the Pando schematic was a pink little piggy. Her stubby little legs were out, the snout wide and soft. The black beady eyes caught the light.
“All right, little fella.” Wallace put on the green hat and peered through the spectacles. “Ready, then?”
Nothing had changed that she could tell. But the workshop rustled as if a rogue breeze had found a way through an open window. Wallace reached out with stubby fingers and squeezed the little piggy.
Something happened.
Tin thought the light had flickered. It looked like Piggy blinked. It happened again, only this time the snout crinkled and the arms wriggled and the legs too. The line of thread stitched beneath her snout curved upward.
She sprang off the bench.
“Hohohoho.” Wallace laughed and wrapped his beefy arms around the pink little piggy. “There, there, little fella. I love you, too.”
There were cheers and laughter.
Tin turned, her eyes misting. The shelves were moving. The toys were jumping up and down, back and forth, hugging each other, clapping their padded arms and legs, stamping their tools. They bounced across the floor, leaping onto the bench and, one by one then all at once, grabbed Piggy in a big, soft embrace.
It faded into a mix of watercolors.
Tin wiped her eyes.
Monkeybrain was on Pip’s shoulder. His head next to her ear. He was smiling.
So was Piggy.
The stuffed pig sprang off the couch and hit Tin like a firm pillow. A warm gush flooded her eyes. The watercolors were back. And all she could think of was how beautiful it felt, how perfect everything was just as it is. And then she heard the words. They were tiny.
A thought that whispered between her ears.
10
“You’re never going to believe what just—” Corey stopped inside the front door. “Uh, am I interrupting something?”
Tin was in a full Piggy embrace. She was larger than a normal stuffed animal—her s
tumpy legs wrapped around Tin; her snout was buried against her collarbone. She was so warm and soft.
A toy that hugged back.
Pip was playing with Monkeybrain, holding his lanky arms up and pretending he was dancing on her lap. Mom and Oscar came inside and shivered. All three of them were in coats and gloves and stocking caps, a snowy brine crusting their cuffs and dusting their pants.
“Change of plans.” Mom stripped off her gloves by the fire. “We’re staying for Christmas.”
“Yay!” Pip cheered.
“Dug the car out,” Mom said, “then there was another rumble. Didn’t sound like an earthquake to me. Whatever it was, a tree fell across the drive. We can’t get around it without some work. And that’s not happening till the storm passes.”
Oscar joined her at the fireplace. Corey approached with eyes on Tin.
“Come on.” Oscar tugged on Corey’s sleeve. “Let’s stock up the firewood before you get warm.”
Corey reluctantly followed. Mom was blowing into her cupped hands. She rubbed Pip’s head as Monkeybrain did his dance.
“Plenty of food,” Mom said. “Plenty of firewood. We could stay another month if we had to. It’s like camping indoors, that’s all. And we got presents.”
She tickled Pip. A torrent of laughter trickled out. Monkeybrain did a limp flip. There was no sparkle in the eyes. No smile.
Did I imagine that?
“Santa will find us,” Mom said. “Don’t worry, hon.”
“No, he won’t,” Pip sang.
“Oh, don’t be a lump of coal. Santa sees everything.”
“Not here, he doesn’t.”
Mom shook her head and mouthed to Tin. What’s wrong?
“You don’t think that sound was an earthquake?” Tin asked.
“If it was, it wasn’t much. The tree looked like beavers were gnawing on it or something. So go unpack. We’ll be here a couple more days.”
Mom pulled the green hat over Tin’s eyes. I’m still wearing it!
“Where’d you find the toys?” She held Piggy out like a newborn.
“One of the rooms,” Tin said.
Mom picked up Baby Doll and gave it a hug. Tin wondered if she felt it hug her back.
Toyland- the Legacy of Wallace Noel Page 9
