The Friendship Doll

by Kirby Larson

  Specimen-quality shell, junonia, orig. Sanibel Island, Florida

  Maury’s Manual of Geography, by M. F. Maury, LL.D, published 1870, (University Publishing Company)

  Japanese-style doll (Yoshitoku Doll Company)

  Total Due: $250.00

  PAID IN FULL

  MISS KANAGAWA

  After a long slumber, I feel daylight on my face again. When I was removed from my trunk, I sought out Brigitte. But the Bleuette doll was nowhere to be found. After a moment of gathering my bearings, I realized I didn’t sense any other dolls around me.

  Instead, I was surrounded by what looked to be the debris left after a high tide: piles of shells in assorted sizes, from no bigger than a child’s fingernail to those that could barely be contained in a grown man’s two hands; mottled beach stones, some as rough as a stormy sea and some as smooth as the glass in a Japanese fisherman’s float. There were shelves filled with things I had no names for. And in every slice of space not occupied by any of these items, there were books. And books and books! An endless number of them, stacked and shelved and stacked some more.

  I surmise that someone will be returning to this room; I do hope it’s someone interesting. Otherwise, my time here will be deadly dull. Because, though I am skilled in many ways, I cannot read. No doll can. Well, Miss Japan once told the story of a doll who, when fully awakened, found she could read. But Miss Japan was one to chatter like the wagtail perched in a cherry tree in spring. Such a story surely falls in the category of those about flying dragons and empresses whose kites carry them over palace walls.

  So here I am with nothing but beach flotsam and paper bricks for company. Compared to these, the Madame Alexander dolls were charming social companions. I cannot understand how I will resume my duties as an ambassador in this place. But any samurai knows that life is a balance between understanding and mystery.

  Until the way is revealed to me, I will be patient and steadfast.

  For as long as is needed.

  MIRACLE, KENTUCKY—1937

  Willie Mae Marcum

  “No sense sticking your nose out the front door every five minutes. Miz Junkins ain’t coming.” Ma switched baby Franklin to the other breast, burping him quick in between, before he started caterwauling loud as the wind outside. “Not in weather like this. Raining pigs and chickens the way it is.”

  “Come help me with the wash,” Marvel said to Willie Mae. “You could scrub awhile.”

  Willie Mae’s conscience tugged her away from the door. Marvel was getting over the grippe, her face still as white as the paste Miz Junkins used to patch up the worn-out books she brought. And Ma was surely right. November had slipped in all icy-like, and the trail down Cut Shin Creek was steep as a mule’s face. Miz Junkins’ horse, Maisie, was as sure-footed as they come, but it wouldn’t be sensible to take chances. If she got hurt, she’d lose her government WPA job, and then who would take care of those three little ones of hers? Not Mr. Junkins. He’d left a note on the kitchen table that he was headed to California for work but had sent no word—nor money—these past six months.

  Willie Mae took her big sister’s place at the basin. The lye soap stung her chapped hands as she pushed Franklin’s diapers down and up, down and up, over the crenulated surface of the tin washboard. All she could think as she scrubbed was that babies were work, pure and simple, and that was why she planned never to birth any.

  “Suits me fine anyways. Her not coming,” Ma said. She had finished nursing Franklin. Her pats on his back produced a prodigious burp. “Every two weeks that library woman shows up and then I gotta spend the next fourteen days prying that speckled nose of yours out of some foolish book.” Ma rocked Franklin all herky-jerky in the hickory rocker. “You be a good boy, Franklin, and fall right to sleep. I got piecing to do.”

  “Here, Ma. I’ll cozy him.” Marvel took the baby as well as Ma’s place on the rocker seat. Ma situated herself closer to the kerosene lamp, where her quilt lay wrapped in a frayed white sheet to keep it clean. Since Mr. Pritchard over to Wisdom told her he’d pay twelve dollars for any quilt she made, Ma had turned into a whirling dervish of a quilter.

  That white sheet put Willie Mae to mind of Mary Rose. Ma had worn a groove in the floor, rocking that child when she was a baby, all the while singing hymns and such in that cherry-sweet voice of hers. That was before the mine accident where Pap’s back got all stove-in and his insides were hurt so bad. It wasn’t two weeks after Pap’s funeral that Mary Rose got the fever and passed over herself. Ma didn’t sing anymore, not even the smallest lullaby to baby Franklin.

  “You need something to read, Willie Mae, you could read Theodore’s letter again.” Marvel’s mind wasn’t as quick as some her age, but her heart was bigger than the entire state of Kentucky. She knew how much Willie Mae loved to read, loved words, and encouraged her every which way. Ma frowned but didn’t say anything on account of it being Marvel doing the suggesting. “It’s still there, in the sugar bowl.”

  This was a safe spot for Theodore’s letters, now that sugar was on the list of the many groceries the family couldn’t buy. It was a good thing Theo sent them stamps from time to time or they’d never be able to write him back.

  Willie Mae wrung out the last diaper and pegged it to the line strung across the room. What with the steam from the wash water and the damp from the diapers and the cold wriggling its way around the rags stuffed in the broken windowpanes, the room felt clammy as a grave. Willie Mae dried her hands and tugged her sweater tighter. Three years ago, when she was a chubby eight-year-old, she could barely button it around her. After the last few years of slim pickins at the table, the sweater hung on her like she was wearing one of Theodore’s. She fetched the letter and began to read it aloud: “My dearest family—”

  “That’s about my favorite part,” Marvel interrupted. “We are dear to Theo, ain’t we?” Shivering, she wrapped a corner of the quilt Ma was piecing around her bony shoulders.

  Ma looked up from the squares of blue shirting. “If that boy says something, it is so,” she said. She sighed before bending over her work once more. “He’s as honest as the day is long.”

  “My dearest family,” Willie Mae read again. It was a comfort to her, too, to see those words on the page, and to taste them in her mouth. Reading them twice was as sweet as getting a whole peppermint stick all to herself.

  I think you would find me quite handsome in my new beard. I’m so good-looking that folks keep mistaking me for that movie star Basil Rathbone.

  Marvel laughed. “Think of it—our Theo a movie star.”

  Ma harrumphed and bit off a length of thread. She handed the needle to Marvel, who quickly threaded it. Ma’s eyes had weakened so, she couldn’t see to do that herself anymore.

  Some of the fellows here have spent more time in an office than out of doors and so whimper like kicked dogs at the end of the workday. Me, I suck up all the fresh air here in Oregon that I can. Fresh air was in short supply in the mines. The work I do ain’t all that much different—I’m still swinging a pickax—but it’s where I’m doing it that makes all the difference. If you precious ones was here with me, I’d say I’d found heaven on earth. But a CCC camp’s no place for women. Our new barracks are so small there ain’t room enough to cuss a cat without getting a mouthful of fur. But we manage.

  Willie Mae was thankful for Theo’s CCC job. The Civilian Conservation Corps—even the name sounded important. She did wish President Roosevelt hadn’t sent him so far off. Seemed to her there were trails could be built and trees planted in Kentucky, same as in Oregon. Theo said his six months away would slip by, but to Willie Mae even one day without her big brother was too long. She couldn’t wait until his time was up and he’d come home.

  Last night, this ol’ Tennessee boy commenced to playing on his guitar, and the next thing I knew, a bunch of us was singing ‘Pretty Polly,’ and ‘It Rained a Mist’ and ‘Old Smokey.’ It made me feel like I was back home, all of us singing together l
ike we used to.

  Your loving son and brother, Theodore Wilson Marcum

  The twenty-five-dollar allotment check that had come with the letter was already spent. Thanks to it, there was a ham shank simmering in the pot with the soup beans.

  “I bet Theo sings circles round those other boys,” said Marvel.

  “I bet he does,” agreed Willie Mae.

  Ma didn’t say anything and Willie Mae couldn’t read her face. For a long time now, Ma had been a mystery, not giving one clue as to what was going on in her thoughts.

  Willie Mae folded up the letter and put it back in the sugar bowl. The house grew so quiet, the only thing she could hear was the baby snuffling in his sleep and the hiss of the kerosene lamp. “Shall I start some corn bread?”

  “That’d be a help.” Ma didn’t look up from her stitching. “The wood box need filling?”

  Willie Mae peeked at the box beside the stove. Marvel had taken over the job of keeping it filled since Theo had gone away, but seeing as she was still puny from the grippe, Willie Mae would take a turn. She pulled a shabby coat from a peg by the front door. “Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Ma nodded absently. Marvel’s head bobbed as she rocked the baby, asleep now herself, by the looks of it.

  Willie Mae jumped over the puddle at the bottom of the steps and allowed herself one longing look down the road. She wished so hard to see Miz Junkins and Maisie coming along that she conjured up their images. Then she looked again—this was no daydream. It was real.

  “Miz Junkins!” Willie Mae waved her arm till it like to fall off.

  When horse and rider drew near enough for conversation, Miz Junkins said, “I couldn’t disappoint my best customer.” She slid off Maisie’s back, threw her reins over the front porch rail, and undid her saddlebags.

  Dripping, Willie Mae clomped back up the steps and pulled open the front door. “Ma! Look who’s here!”

  Ma’s brow wrinkled, but she set her quilt aside. “Marvel, you get on up and let Miz Junkins have a seat. Willie Mae, see if there’s coffee left in that pot.”

  “Don’t stop stitching on my account, Laralee.” Miz Junkins set down her saddlebags to take the cup of hot coffee from Willie Mae and swallow a grateful sip. “And, Marvel, you stay put.”

  “Sit here, Miz Junkins.” Willie Mae pulled over the stool Pap had made. Though she was dying to see what treasures those saddlebags held this visit, she minded her manners.

  Ma took Miz Junkins’ patched wool coat and hung it over the open oven door. “We need to get you dried out and warmed up. Willie Mae, go fetch the rail fence quilt.”

  Willie Mae ran to the bed she and Marvel shared, snatched off the quilt, and hurried back. She handed it to Miz Junkins, who wrapped it around her shoulders. Willie Mae plopped down at her feet.

  “I finished this.” Willie Mae handed back The Windy Hill, the book she’d checked out two weeks earlier.

  Miz Junkins took another sip of coffee, then set the graniteware cup on the table to take the book. “How did you like it?” She tucked it back in one of her saddlebags.

  “I liked it fine.”

  “That answer’s as thin as stone soup.” The librarian smiled. “The truth won’t hurt my feelings.”

  Willie Mae hated to appear ungrateful when Miz Junkins traveled so far to bring books she thought Willie Mae would enjoy. But maybe they were good enough friends now to tell it straight. “I suppose some would like to read about living in fine houses with butlers and rich uncles, but that isn’t my fancy. I long to read about someone like me and my kin.”

  “Well, Miss Willie Mae Marcum, that sounds like a mighty fine idea.” Miz Junkins smiled again. “Maybe you will have to write that book someday.”

  “Sarah, do not put any more foolishness in that girl’s head.” Ma bit off another hank of thread. “It’s bad enough she reads them books. Heaven help us if she gets her mind stuck on writing them, too.”

  Willie Mae ducked her head so Ma wouldn’t see her face. Because if she saw it, she might see that it was too late to stop the foolishness. Willie Mae dursn’t let herself think on it, but every story she read made two or three sprout up in her own head. She wrote them down on any spare scrap of paper she could find—the envelopes Theo’s letters came in, labels steamed off the lard pails, even the insides of saltine boxes—and hid them in an empty sugar sack under her mattress.

  Miz Junkins finished her coffee. “I brought you A Little Princess today—but next time, I’ll see if I can round up a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. That might sit better with you.” She rummaged in her saddlebags. “Oh, and I brought a Ladies’ Home Journal for you, Marvel. Not even a year old!” She buckled up her bag. “I best be on my way. Thank you for the coffee and the quilt. I do believe the warmth will stick with me clear till I ride into my own yard.”

  Willie Mae went out on the porch and watched while Miz Junkins buckled the saddlebags back on, untied Maisie’s reins, and pulled herself into the saddle. Since it was bad luck to watch a friend go out of sight, she turned back inside as soon as horse and rider were on their way.

  After supper and chores were finished, Ma allowed Willie Mae to burn the kerosene lamp for ten precious minutes so she could commence reading the book Miz Junkins had brought. Willie Mae offered to read it aloud, but Ma said no thank you. “Seeing as both Marvel and Franklin are asleep,” she added. Willie Mae accepted Ma’s answer but wished she could understand why her mother had such a strong notion against reading and books.

  Willie Mae was disappointed to find that A Little Princess—about a girl whose name was Sara Crewe—had a rich and loving father in India who sent her to a boarding school in London with orders to the headmistress to give Sara anything she wanted. It was all Willie Mae could do to keep from grinding her teeth at yet another story about a girl whose life was different as different could be from hers.

  “Time’s up,” Ma called softly. “That a good one?” she asked.

  “It reads right along,” said Willie Mae, avoiding a direct answer. She didn’t want to do or say anything that might make Ma tell Miz Junkins to stop riding down Cut Shin Creek to see them. Because, truth to tell, even a book she didn’t like was better than no book at all.

  When she came two weeks later, Miz Junkins looked about to burst with news. “I couldn’t get a copy of Tom Sawyer for you this time,” she said to Willie Mae. “But I believe you will forgive me when you hear what I have to say. First, I need to speak with your ma.”

  The two women spoke in low tones at the far corner of the cabin. Willie Mae could not imagine what they were talking about. Nothing to do but wait. She went over in her mind the report she was going to give Miz Junkins about A Little Princess. The book wasn’t half bad, after she got it started. That Sara girl had spunk after all, which got her through some tough spots, especially after her pap died and all the diamond mine money was lost and she had to go to work as the cook’s errand girl. Willie Mae rubbed her bare legs to warm them. Course, things perked up plenty for Sara, what with the Indian Gentleman taking her in at the end of the book. But she’d had dark, cold times, too, like Willie Mae.

  And speak of cold! December was knocking at the door, carrying a heap of cold in its pack. Ma kept putting aside pennies each month from Theo’s check to get the girls some wool stockings. Marvel would need them first, as she was still sickly. Ma had dosed her with boiled molasses and kerosene but to no avail. Marvel couldn’t shake feeling puny. Willie Mae shivered.

  “Willie Mae.” Ma shifted Franklin to her other hip. “Miz Junkins has something to say to you.”

  “Ask you, really.” Miz Junkins’ eyes twinkled like she was Santy Claus hisself. “What would you say to a job?”

  “A job?” This was the last thing Willie Mae expected.

  “Mrs. Trent is looking for someone to read to her mother, keep her company. The lady who’s been doing it is needed at home to take care of her sister’s new baby. She can start up again in January. B
ut till then, they need somebody.” Miz Junkins clasped her hands together. “They will pay you five dollars a week and room and board, Willie Mae! To read! And maybe a few light chores.” Her grin stretched nearly ear to ear.

  “Who will help around here?” Willie Mae looked at Ma. “Marvel’s on the mend yet.”

  Ma jiggled Franklin, who was rubbing his eyes and fussing. “She’s still a big help. We can manage.”

  Five dollars a week. To keep someone company. To read aloud! The Trents lived in the finest house in the big town of Clearbrook and owned half of Lincoln County, to boot. Willie Mae guessed they would have more books than all of the traveling libraries put together. “If you’re sure you’ll be fine …”

  Ma nodded. “It’s a Christmas gift, Willie Mae. A pure gift.”

  Willie Mae glanced at the calendar Ma had tacked by the stove. It’d be four full weeks until January 1. Four weeks. She quickly did the sum in her head. Twenty dollars! That would buy wool stockings and then some. Maybe even real doctoring for Marvel. “I’ll do it.”

  Miz Junkins waited while Willie Mae gathered up her few things in a feed sack. Careful not to let anyone see, Willie Mae slid her secret writings out from underneath the mattress. She felt a bit wobbly as she said good-bye to Marvel, and Franklin, and Ma. A few pesky tears even tried to push their way out of her eyes. She’d never been gone from home even one night, let alone one month. She swallowed hard. Could she do it? She thought of Sara Crewe, being sent off to that boarding school in London, far from her beloved papa. Time to put some steel in her spine. She kissed Ma’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a month,” she said, with as much cheer as she could muster.

  “Mind your manners,” Ma said. “And don’t sweep after the sun goes down.”

  “Don’t you think I know better than that?” Her mother’s advice made Willie Mae smile. Any fool knew that was a sure way to lure bad luck. “I won’t look in any mirrors at midnight, t’either.”