by Kirby Larson
She stepped closer and read the placard by the doll’s display. “Miss Kanagawa. One of 58 Doll Ambassadors sent to the United States from the Schoolchildren of Japan.” “Ambassadors,” Lucy said aloud. “I don’t know what that means, but it must be something important. You look like you were made to do something important.” She reached her hand out to touch the doll’s, but remembered Dr. Evans’ words and pulled back.
Ah, there is that tug again at my heart. Is this thin waif the one whose hand is on the other end of the kite string? The child for whom I was brought to this place?
She could certainly stand to eat a few bowls of donburi, with some chicken cooked with the rice. Why do these Americans not feed their children properly? It must be another odd custom.
Like the custom of wearing a dress that is too small and shoes that are too large. It’s certainly not very becoming.
The hair on the back of Lucy’s neck pricked up, as if she were being watched. For some reason, she suddenly felt the need to defend her footwear. “These are Widow Murphy’s wedding shoes,” she said aloud. “She loaned them to me. Trusted them to me.” She glanced around and then giggled nervously. Here she was, talking out loud, when there was no one else in the room.
Poor child. She mistakenly believes she is alone in this room. She does not yet know me.
But she will.
On the wall behind the doll display was a map with a red pin to mark where the doll came from and a white pin to mark Klamath Falls. She had come a long way. “Was it hard to leave your home?” Lucy asked. “I miss Goodwell.” She thought about these words for a moment. “I guess I don’t exactly miss Goodwell. I miss Gloria Jean and Mama. And I miss having a house of our own. But Pop’s working on that. I wish I could be more help.”
Though this girl wears a cloak of sorrow, she has not let it weigh her down completely, like the old woman after Willie Mae’s death.
I sense that her short life has been long on troubles. One parent gone and another who has lost his way, lost himself. And I see that a roof might be the beginning of the end to those troubles. Of course, I can only make suggestions. It is up to the child to take action.
And I am confident that she will. She is like me in that way. Samurai strong.
Once during a powerful dust storm—Mama was still alive then—Lucy had been out in the barn, playing with the new kittens. The rule was to get to the house as soon as the dust began blowing, so Lucy nestled the kitties back under their mother and ran to the house. The storm had kicked up a devil-dervish of static electricity, so that when Lucy touched the doorknob, she was knocked flat on her hind end from the shock. It was such a surprise, it didn’t even hurt. Just like the jolt she got now, looking at that doll from Japan.
Hesitantly, she moved closer, examining the doll from the top of her silky black hair to the hem of her fancy dress. Behind her stood a trunk—a card said it was the trunk she and her belongings traveled in. “Some of her accoutrement are too delicate to be on display,” the card said. Lucy would have to ask Miss Olson what “accoutrement” meant. Next to the doll a tiered stand displayed some of her belongings: a small silk purse, two paper fans, an ornately painted parasol. In front of the parasol was a miniature stationery set, complete with paper and envelopes.
“You write letters?” Lucy asked. “That’s what I like to do, too. Gloria Jean says I write real interesting ones.” At that moment, an idea popped into Lucy’s mind. An idea she’d never have gotten if she hadn’t wandered into this funny little room, tucked away in this big house.
Sharp laughter poked at her like a pencil point. “Look at that Okie.” Lucy didn’t need to turn around to know that Betty and Helen were behind her. “She’s even dumber than I thought,” said Betty. “Talking to a doll.”
Lucy’s eyes met Miss Kanagawa’s and she felt another surge of energy. Not a jolt like the first time. But something that starched up her spine and unbent her shoulders. She walked past Betty and Helen with a firm smile and without a word, giving them no purchase for a squabble.
After she got home, she returned Widow Murphy’s shoes and told her all about the museum.
“Why, I feel as if I was right there, taking it all in with you,” the widow said after Lucy’s report.
That gave Lucy the confidence to tell about her idea.
“I knew you was going to go places,” said Widow Murphy when Lucy had finished. “That’s just the ticket, seeing as most folks here can’t neither read nor write.” She fished out a penny. “I want to be your first customer.”
Lucy ran home for her tablet and hurried back. Right then and there, she wrote out a letter to the widow’s folks back home.
Word traveled fast. Soon Lucy had all the customers she could handle and then some. She found an empty Bright and Early coffee can and stashed away every cent she earned. She would never take any money to read mail, only to write letters in reply. By the time her birthday rolled around in July, that coffee can had a real musical jingle to it. Pop gave her a dime—one penny for each year she’d been alive—to spend any way she wanted, but she put that in the coffee can, too.
Merrill FSA Camp, Klamath County, Oregon
September 12, 1940
Dear Gloria Jean,
I’m sorry it has been so long since I’ve written. If your pop’s still thinking of coming west, tell him Oregon’s the place, not California. At first, Pop couldn’t find any work but for helping around the camp. Then the camp manager took a liking to him—said he never saw Pop resting on a broom handle like some of the others—and got him a job at the railroad station, loading lumber. The sawmill manager, Mr. Hammond, took note of how hard Pop was working and came over to chew the fat. Pop said none of the folks he met in California ever took the time to do that. One thing led to another and Mr. Hammond found out that Pop knew a few things about wiring. So guess what! He’s got a real, honest-to-goodness job! He’s an electrician at Mr. Hammond’s mill and his job is mighty important. Mr. Hammond said he’d just as well burn dollar bills if his machines weren’t running. So that’s what Pop does: he keeps the machines running. The best news of all is that Pop has his eye on a little house in town. We’ve scribbled and tallied and figured out a way to buy it. I’m helping, too, by writing letters for folks at a penny a page. Long as old Betsy keeps running and we stay healthy, we should be able to swing it. And guess what?! It has two bedrooms, so there is plenty of room for your whole family when you come.
Friends Forever,
Lucy
• • •
What with all the reading and writing she’d done over the summer, and with a little tutoring from Miss Olson, Lucy moved into the fifth grade come fall, along with the rest of her class. Except for Delbert White. He got held back.
318 Oak Avenue
Klamath Falls, Oregon
May 12, 1941
Dear Mrs. Roosevelt,
This is your friend Lucy Turner again. My new teacher, Miss Ward, said you received over 110,000 letters last year. (My old teacher, Miss Olson, had to quit teaching when she married Dr. Evans last Christmas.) I never knew so many people like me were writing to you. No wonder you couldn’t write back.
It’s okay, though. I don’t mind. You have plenty on your plate, that is for sure! But I wanted to let you know that Pop and me are doing fine. I’m in fifth grade and get good marks in almost everything (Miss Ward says I need to apply myself more to arithmetic). I went to my first birthday party ever yesterday, for Helen Frank. She has turned out to be a good friend, though we started out on the wrong foot. Have you noticed that sometimes people think because you don’t dress nice or talk the way they do, you can’t be friends? Helen said she is sorry she made that mistake but it is all hunky-dory now between us.
Did you take note of the address at the top of this letter? Pop and I have a house! Isn’t that something, us Okies living on Oak Avenue? You should see the spring in Pop’s step as he leaves for work each morning. Anyway, we are doing just fine. Better than
fine, because Pop got Gloria Jean’s father a job at the mill, too. They aim to be here the end of next month.
So that’s it. I figured you could use some good news, so I wanted to let you know that Samuel and Lucy Turner are okie-dokie.
Your friend,
Lucy Turner
• • •
Showing Gloria Jean all around Klamath Falls kept Lucy busy through the summer. On her birthday, July 12, she and Gloria Jean went to a double feature at the Star Theater in nearby Bly. Pop brought them home and they ate ham sandwiches with grape Nehi sodas for lunch—they each got their own bottle. Gloria Jean’s mother had baked a birthday cake they were all going to share after supper that night. The girls were sitting on the front steps of 318 Oak Avenue sipping on their sodas when the mailman stopped. “Pretty fancy return address,” he said, handing Lucy a letter.
June 27, 1941
Dear Miss Turner,
I do indeed need a dose of good news these days, especially with troubles brewing overseas. I am so delighted to learn of your good turn of fortune; I’ve never visited Klamath Falls but understand it is a lovely place.
You and your father are shining examples of my belief that what one has to do can usually be done.
With warm regards,
Eleanor Roosevelt
After reading it with Gloria Jean, Lucy showed the letter to Pop and Miss Olson—rather, Mrs. Evans—but no one else. It was so special that she didn’t want to tarnish it by waving it around like one of those jokes on a bubble gum wrapper. The letter went into Mama’s Bible for safekeeping, but Lucy brought it out every now and again when she needed comfort or encouragement.
Lucy never missed a Saturday at the museum, sometimes going with Gloria Jean but most often by herself. She found a good listener in Miss Kanagawa; she was able to talk to her about anything, even things she couldn’t tell Gloria Jean. Like that one August day when she’d been thinking about Mama.
“Aunt Miriam says that it gets easier the more time that goes by. But it’s been two years. And I still miss Mama. Still wish she was here,” she’d told Miss Kanagawa. “Do you ever feel like that about folks?” She looked into those deep almond eyes. “I suppose dolls don’t, really.” Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “I’d miss you, if you went away,” she said.
I recall a time, in my early years, when I would not have been able to understand what Lucy was talking about. But I am older now, wiser. I know about the empty spaces left when dear ones leave our lives. My heart may be doll-sized, but when it comes to feeling, it is larger than a giant’s.
When Lucy noticed that Miss Kanagawa’s dress—she learned it was called a kimono—was getting dingy, she and Pop made a wood and glass case, which they presented to the museum. As a gift. Dr. Evans was so pleased, he hired Pop to make some more display cases. There was soon so much work, in fact, that Pop asked Gloria Jean’s father to help, and before they knew it they had a side business going. Lucy still longed to see the ocean, so Pop got it in his head to get a house for her there one day. “I may be an old man before it happens,” he’d tell her as he looked over his bank statement, “but it’s going to happen. I promise you.”
One early December day when the town was decked out in green and red and gold for Christmas, something unspeakable happened. The Japanese navy bombed Pearl Harbor. Lucy and Gloria Jean held each other close as they sat transfixed in front of the radio, listening to the news.
A few days ago, Dr. Evans stood before my display case, holding a newspaper in his trembling hand. Tears fell from his eyes like wet cherry tree blossoms. I couldn’t imagine what had saddened him so.
He has now returned, at the back of a clump of men in felt fedoras and thin ties tight against their white-collared necks. I determined that they were members of the museum board.
“It’s unpatriotic,” one man said, his lips as thin as his dark tie. The other hats bobbed in agreement. “Everything in this room’s got to go.”
“Everything?” Dr. Evans asked.
The man with the thin lips frowned. “You could stash it all out of sight for a while. But it’s probably best to get rid of it. Either way, we expect our decision to be carried out pronto.”
When the men had gone, Dr. Evans walked from item to item in the Land of the Sun room. Then he stood in front of my case, head bowed, for a long time. I tried to let him know I understood. That I thought all would be well, someday. I do not know if my message was received.
He lifted me from the display case, gently set me inside my steamer trunk, and patted my cheek as if I were an anxious child. He said nothing, but I knew he meant to keep me safe. He quickly closed the lid of the trunk, and my world grew very quiet, very still.
I did not let myself think about Lucy. There are some things even a doll’s small heart cannot bear.
Endings
If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.
—ORSON WELLES
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON—PRESENT TIME
Mason Medcalf
Mason knew every board in the dock that led to Seal’s place. And he usually ran all the way. Today, he walked, slowly, looking at but not really seeing the two rows of houseboats bobbing in the damp spring mist on either side of the wooden pier. Six on this side, five on the other. All of them looked pretty much the same, like day-old vanilla sheet cake with the frosting slumping off, except for the one on the far end, owned by a retired actor who’d fixed it up to look like a real house. A fancy house. It stood out like a peacock in a flock of chickadees.
He caught up with Mom in front of the fourth houseboat on the left. A yellow kayak hung like a happy-face smile from hooks under the eaves. A lace-leaf maple tree in a big wooden container stretched out its limbs next to the kayak.
“How is she now?” he asked. Seal wasn’t sick, exactly. At least not with anything the doctors could fix with pills. Mom had explained it was Alzheimer’s. Whatever it was, it creeped Mason out. He wanted his old Seal back. He didn’t like this new one, this confused one. The last time he’d come, she hadn’t even known who he was. That was why he hadn’t been to visit in a long, long time. And he wouldn’t have come today, either, except Mom threatened to confiscate his game player, permanently, if he didn’t.
Mom shifted the basket she was carrying to her other arm. The aroma of cinnamon and apples tickled Mason’s nose.
“Honestly, honey, I don’t know. It’s kind of a day-today thing.” She gave Mason a wistful smile. “She knew me the other day. And Gloria Jean said she knew her, too, when she came to visit last week.”
Mason’s cousin, Emma, stood on the other side of Mom. Usually you couldn’t find her “off” button, but today she was as quiet as a broken TV.
“Chin up, everybody.” Mom stepped across the sliver of water separating the dock from the houseboat’s front porch. “Oh, shoot. The key.” She handed Mason the basket, heavy with Seal’s favorite chicken and rice casserole and apple crisp, and fished in her pocket. “Don’t tell me I left it at home.”
“Can’t the nurse let us in?” asked Emma.
“Oh, I hate to bother her. In case she’s busy with Seal.”
While Mom rummaged in another pocket, Mason stepped across to the porch. He lifted a stone from the planter with the tree in it and retrieved Seal’s spare key.
“Brilliant!” Mom moved aside to allow him to unlock the door.
One of the things Mason always loved about Seal’s house was its smell—a heady concoction of garlic, lemons, dust, and lake water. Now, he felt like he was going into a stranger’s home. There wasn’t even a hint of garlic. Mostly what he smelled was sour and mediciney.
He held the door for Mom and Emma. “Such a gentleman,” Mom said. Mason ducked his head. He was no gentleman. He was trying to postpone going inside as long as he could.
“Hello? Abby? Seal?” Mom called. “It’s Diane! And you’ll never guess who’s with me.” She turned and made a face at Mason. “Say something,” she mo
uthed.
He cleared his throat. “Seal?” He took a few steps toward her bedroom, which was opposite the cozy galley kitchen where he’d probably eaten a million pieces of French toast and a thousand bowls of split pea soup. “It’s me. Mason.” He couldn’t move any closer. It was like a force field was keeping him back.
Abby, the nurse, stepped into the hall. Her face lit up when she saw them. “Oh, you kids will be just the ticket. She needs a bit of a lift today.” She waved Mason and Emma into Seal’s bedroom.
Somehow Mason stepped through the doorway. There was Seal—the person who’d taught him to ski and kayak and who’d come to all his soccer games—lying as still as a doll in her four-poster bed. Her gray hair looked like some kind of gray moss growing all over the pillowcase. She was on her back, mouth open, breathing hard. What was that awful rattling sound?
Mom nudged him.
He stepped closer. Took a deep breath. “Seal?” he said again.
Seal opened her eyes. Looked right at him. “Delbert?” she asked. “What are you doing here? If you call me Licey one more time, I’ll punch you. I swear.”
Mason stepped back, looked at Mom. “It’s me. It’s Mason.” He had no idea who Delbert was. Who Licey was. “Mason,” he repeated.
Emma had followed him into the room. “Auntie Seal? This is Emma.” She pointed to herself, then went to the far side of the bed and took one of Seal’s knotty hands in hers. “We brought you some supper.”
Seal turned her head. “Are there biscuits? Pop likes biscuits.”
Mom called from the doorway. “Biscuits. And chicken. And dessert. How about that? Better than the Ritz.” She laughed, but it was a fake laugh, pushed out through a tight throat.
