Soldier Doll

by Jennifer Gold

  Chapter 2

  Toronto, Canada

  2007

  “Do you think you’ll ever leave the house?” Her mother is unloading the dishwasher. She carefully sets a mug on the counter and looks at Elizabeth, who sticks out her tongue.

  “I leave the house all the time.”

  “Going to the corner store for ice-cream sandwiches doesn’t count.”

  “Why doesn’t it count?”

  Her mom sighs. “I’m surprised at you, Liz. This is a great neighborhood. Lots of good stuff. Used clothing stores. Stuff you’d like.”

  Elizabeth looks away. “I’ve been busy.”

  “Going on the Facebook isn’t busy.”

  Elizabeth cringes. “It’s just Facebook. There’s no the.”

  “Does it matter?” Her mother throws her hands up in the air. Elizabeth feels a small sense of satisfaction and doesn’t answer. It does matter. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know everything.

  “Why don’t you go for a walk tomorrow instead of sitting at your computer all day?”

  “Whatever.” Elizabeth scowls. “Fine.”

  Her mom rolls her eyes. “You know, the whole surly teenager thing doesn’t really suit you,” she says. Her voice is light. “I know you’re trying hard at it, but it might be time to try a different stereotype.”

  Elizabeth scowls again. She’s really angry now. Her fists are clenched and her mouth is twisted up on the left, the way it always gets when she loses her temper. “Stop doing that!”

  “What did I do?”

  “You know. Making fun of me. It’s not fair. I’m allowed to be upset.”

  “You are. But you need to get outside. You can’t sit around moping. It’s been weeks.”

  “I have no one to go out with.” Not here, she adds silently.

  “You used to spend hours walking around the city by yourself in Vancouver! All those used clothing stores—”

  That’s it. “Vintage!” She’s shouting now. Her mother, looking startled, loses her train of thought. Her voice trails off, and there is silence between them.

  “It’s vintage clothing,” says Elizabeth quietly. “Not used. You want me to go out?” She stands up. Her eyes are flashing, and her cheeks are hot with anger. “Fine! I’ll go!”

  “Liz—”

  Elizabeth doesn’t answer. She slams the front door on her way out.

  The night air feels thick and stale with heat. Even the trees look hot, their branches drooping dejectedly in the face of such oppressive temperatures. As she walks, Elizabeth feels increasingly uncomfortable. Her clothes quickly take on an irritating sticky quality, as if they’ve been washed in corn syrup and only half dried. Little droplets of sweat trickle with an almost predictable rhythm from her forehead down one side of her nose. Elizabeth doesn’t wear much makeup, but she’s sure the little she did bother to put on that morning is melting off at a rapid pace. I can almost feel my hair frizzing. She examines a strand and makes a face. I must look like a witch. Turning a corner, she passes the high school. She notices some girls about her own age camped out under a maple tree; they’re laughing about something. Elizabeth hurries past, feeling shy.

  Despite the weather, the city is pulsing with life. Restaurants have crammed extra seating onto already tiny patios, leaving diners struggling to use their cutlery without elbowing strangers at the next table. The line at the ice-cream store extends almost around the block. Children with water guns chase each other and are, in turn, chased by their parents. Couples walk close to one another but don’t hold hands; it isn’t really hand-holding weather. Elizabeth watches a group of girls slightly older than her try to attract the attention of two oblivious boys. They’re all dressed alike; all wearing tiny shorts and skimpy tank tops. How do they tell each other apart? She stares, wondering if they go to her new high school.

  Elizabeth stops to buy herself a Popsicle at the grocery store. Her favorite—cherry. It isn’t quite as good as an ice cream, but not having to wait in line for it makes it taste better than it might have on an ordinary night. She passes by two vintage clothing stores right next to each other. They’re closed for the evening, but the window displays are enticing. A red crocodile-skin purse with a jeweled clasp catches her eye, as does a lavender wrap dress that she thinks might be designer. One store is advertising a shoe sale. Mom was right, she thinks. It’s good to get out. She feels a pang of guilt but keeps walking.

  Elizabeth feels a sudden drop of cool water hit her neck. She looks up at the sky, but it’s a clear night. She looks up again and sees the offending agent, an air conditioner. Old and clunky, it’s practically groaning with effort to do its job in the stifling heat. A steady stream of water leaks onto the pavement below.

  Elizabeth peeks into the store underneath. “Read It Again, Sam” says the sign above the window. Inside, the lights are on, and she can see shelves and tables stacked haphazardly with books. She pushes the door open, and a bell tinkles, announcing her entry.

  Elizabeth inhales deeply, smelling that familiar odor of dust, aging paper, and old glue. She loves to read, but it’s more than that, really. She loves books. When she loves a story, she wants to own it. Not just to read it again, though of course that’s a part of it. There is something about having a copy of a book you love on the shelf, knowing that the book is yours and yours alone. She likes how when she reads a book again, she can sometimes recall where she’d been, or what she’d been doing, the other times she’d read it. A faint stain of dripped tea or the lingering scent of a candle or perfume—each triggers its own memories, its own set of thoughts.

  “Hi, can I help you?”

  Elizabeth stares at the clerk. He’s about her age. Tall, he’s wearing faded cutoffs and a green concert T-shirt listing tour dates in 1982 for a band she’s never heard of. He has glasses and the kind of hair that sticks up in a bunch of different directions. Elizabeth thinks of her own sweaty, frizzing hair and feels herself go slightly pink.

  “Thanks—I’m just looking,” she says.

  “As long as you’re not selling.” He looks relieved. “If I have to do any more inventory today, I’m quitting.”

  “So you buy old books here?”

  “Yeah. We buy and sell. Most of our stuff’s used. You probably noticed.” He gestures around him.

  Elizabeth nods and tries to think of something clever to say. What was that? She recoils, feeling something brush against her leg. Something furry. “What the—argh!” She gives a small shriek and jumps back.

  “Oh no! Sorry!” The clerk rushes out from behind the desk. “That’s just Boris,” he explains. “Sometimes I let him out of the cage at night, when there aren’t a lot of customers.”

  An enormous black-and-white rabbit lumbers, curious, around Elizabeth’s ankles. He’s sniffing her chipping purple toe polish suspiciously.

  “Are you okay with him doing that? He’s a good rabbit, I promise.”

  “Yeah, of course.” Elizabeth grins and reaches down to pet Boris gently between the ears. “I’ve never heard of a rabbit in a bookstore before. Usually it’s a cat.” Boris’s ears twitch, as if he knows they’re talking about him. “He’s huge.”

  The boy nods. “Sam—that’s the owner—had a baby, and the kid was allergic to poor Boris. So he brought him here. He’s a really good rabbit, very friendly. He is huge though. People are always shocked.”

  “I think he’s eating my flip-flop.”

  “Oh no! Boris! Cut that out.”

  “It’s okay.”

  The clerk puts out his hand. “I’m Evan.”

  “Elizabeth.” They shake hands.

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Yeah. We just moved.”

  “Really?” Evan looks interested. “From where?”

  “Vanc
ouver.”

  “Oh wow! So you, like, really moved. Not just houses.” Evan sounds impressed. “That’s really cool.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah, for sure. Vancouver’s awesome. I was there once. Snowboarding. I guess you board, right?”

  Elizabeth blushes again. “No.”

  “No? Why?”

  “Bad experience.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Bad, like, a full-body cast?”

  “Something like that.” Elizabeth doesn’t elaborate. She certainly isn’t going to tell Evan the story of how, at age nine, she’d gone for skiing lessons and her new braces had got stuck on the rope tow. She’d been screaming in fear, and the evil contraption had taken advantage of her open-mouthed expression. The hill had been shut down for over an hour while paramedics had been called in to disentangle Elizabeth’s orthodontia from the yellow twine.

  “Are you going to Westwood?” Evan is talking again.

  Just hearing the name of the high school is enough to set off the butterflies in Elizabeth’s stomach. “Yeah,” she says. An old poster catches her eye; it’s for Gone with the Wind. Her mom’s favorite. The butterflies morph into a knife-like feeling, which she ignores.

  “Me too. I mean, I go there.” He leans back on his elbows against the desk. “Do you—oh no!” He swears under his breath as a small pile of books crashes to the floor.

  Elizabeth bends down. “Let me help.”

  “No, no. You don’t have to do that.” He stoops over and tries to take the books she’s collecting.

  “Well, I’m not going to just let Boris eat this copy of The Fountainhead.”

  “Boris!”

  Elizabeth hands the remaining books to Evan. On the top of the pile is a copy of Margaret Merriweather’s Autumn Evening. “Oh, I love that one.” She takes it back and turns it over in her hands.

  “Which one?” Evan peers at the cover. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “It’s great. Did you do it in ninth grade?”

  “Yes! You too?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes teachers pick really crappy books for class, but most people like that one.” Evan runs his hand through his hair, making it look even messier.

  Elizabeth opens the novel and reads the first paragraph.

  “Have you read any of her other stuff?” Evan is watching her.

  She stops reading, embarrassed. “I thought this was her only novel.”

  “It is. You don’t read poetry?”

  “I didn’t know she wrote poetry.” Elizabeth looks away, pretending to be absorbed by a display of science fiction from the seventies.

  “Really?” Evan looks surprised. “You didn’t do ‘The Soldier Doll’ in tenth grade?”

  “No. Well, not yet. I’m going into ten. Wait—” Elizabeth looks up at him. “What did you say?”

  “Huh? What did I say?” He looks confused. “I’m going into eleven, by the way.”

  “Sorry.” Elizabeth shakes her head. “The poem. Did you say ‘The Soldier Doll’?”

  “Yeah, why?” Evan is giving her a curious look. He gathers up some books and stacks them in a haphazard pile.

  “I’ve just never heard of it,” she says evasively. She puts the Merriweather book down and picks up an old recipe book, studying the cover intently.

  Evan doesn’t notice. “Apparently it’s really famous,” he says. He adds another book to the pile, which looks as if it might collapse. “You know, like, with adults. It’s about war. We did it at the same time as ‘In Flanders Fields.’”

  “That’s the poem about the poppies?” Finally, something she knows. Relieved, Elizabeth looks up again.

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the poem about—‘The Soldier Doll’?” Elizabeth tries to sound casual.

  “Actually, it’s really interesting.” Evan leans against the desk again, this time accidentally knocking over a container of pens. Elizabeth tries not to smile as they roll off the desk and onto the weather-beaten parquet floor. Boris hops over eagerly to sniff them; realizing they are not food, his nose twitches and he turns his back, dejected. Evan scoops up the pens and continues without missing a beat. “It’s apparently based on a real doll, but it went missing.”

  “Missing?” Involuntarily, Elizabeth leans toward him and notices he has a dimple on his left cheek. She feels herself blushing again and averts her eyes back to the sci-fi.

  “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what my teacher said, anyway. Lost in a war or something. People are always looking for it and whatever.” He looks pleased to see that Elizabeth is so enthralled. He grins, smug with his knowledge, as he carefully places the pens back in their container.

  “A real soldier doll?” Elizabeth feels her heart start to pound. Any louder and it’s going to overtake the noise of the air conditioner.

  “Yeah. It’s the symbolism, right? The idea of innocence in war.” Evan brightens. “Let me see if I have a copy of Merriweather’s poetry.” He goes over to the computer.

  Elizabeth watches Evan type something on the keyboard, which is old and clunky. It looks as if it was probably once white but is now worn and yellowed. You’re being silly, she tells herself. She picks up the copy of Autumn Evening again and stares at the cover. It’s just a coincidence.

  “Good news.” Evan is talking again. “We have one!”

  “I’ll take it!” Elizabeth feels a thrill of excitement. Her fingers clutch the copy of Autumn Evening tightly; she feels the cover dig into her palm.

  “Great. One sec.” Evan walks to the back of the store, where the poetry section is apparently located. She watches him climb onto a rickety step stool, cursing under his breath again as it creaks beneath him. He comes back, triumphantly waving a slim hardcover. It’s old and battered-looking.

  “More good news,” he says. “It’s only two bucks.”

  Elizabeth reaches into her bag, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees the lollipop again. She carefully avoids it.

  “You know what?” Evan reaches into his pocket and fishes out two dollars. “It’s on me.”

  “No!” Elizabeth blushes again. “I can’t. I just met you!”

  “You might hate it though, and I made you buy it.”

  “You’re recommending it. You work in a bookstore. That’s your job.”

  “I insist.” He drops the money into the cash register. “There. Done. Nothing you can do now.”

  “Well, thanks. That was really unnecessary.” Elizabeth takes the book. Her hand touches his for just a second; it feels cool.

  “I hope you like it,” he says.

  “I’m sure I will.” Elizabeth pauses. Should I leave now? Or say something more?

  “Are you on Facebook?” Evan pulls out his phone. “What’s your full name?”

  “Elizabeth Bryant.” She spells it for him. “Yeah, I’m on Facebook.”

  “I’ll find you. Do you have a cell phone? What’s your number?”

  Elizabeth pauses. Damn. “This is awful, but I don’t remember. And I left it at home.” She curses silently; a string of expletives runs through her head like subtitles in a foreign film.

  “You don’t remember? Is that a hint?” Evan raises his eyebrows.

  “A hint? At what?” Elizabeth looks at him, bewildered.

  “That you’d rather never hear from me again?” Evan winks at her mischievously.

  “Huh? Oh! No!” Elizabeth shakes her head furiously. “I’m just bad with numbers, and it’s a new one. I feel really stupid.”

  “Fair explanation.” Evan grins. “We’ll see if you’ll accept my Facebook invitation.”

  “I will, I swear!”

  Evan tucks his phone back in his pocket. “Nice meeting you, Elizabeth.”

  “You t
oo. And thanks for the book.” Their eyes meet. Elizabeth notices his are an unusual green color, almost like a cat’s. Elizabeth smiles at him but turns quickly away. She doesn’t want Evan to see her blush again as she leaves the bookstore.

  . . .

  “I’m sorry, Liz.”

  Her mother is hovering near the door, worried, when she returns. She exhales loudly when she sees Elizabeth, clearly relieved. She’s in her pajamas now, pacing the black-and-white tiled hallway between two piles of empty boxes her dad hasn’t yet gotten around to flattening.

  “It’s okay. You were right,” Elizabeth says softly, dropping her purse to the ground.

  “It’s just that—wait. Did you just say I was right?”

  “Maybe.” Elizabeth walks toward the kitchen. “I’m starving.” She opens the pantry. There isn’t much, other than a box of cornflakes and a bag of pretzels. She opts for the pretzels, opening the bag with her teeth. She cuts her gums on the hard plastic and winces, running her tongue along the wound.

  “Hold on, I want get to get that on tape.” Her mom follows her into the kitchen.

  “On tape?” Leaning against the kitchen counter, Elizabeth rolls her eyes and bites into a pretzel. “I’m not even sure they make tapes anymore.”

  “They do so.” Her mother fills a kettle with water and places it on the stove.

  “Don’t think so.” Elizabeth’s voice is muffled by a mouth full of pretzel.

  “I have a Dictaphone at work. It uses tapes. So there.” Her mother looks triumphant.

  “A Dictaphone?” Elizabeth looks bewildered.

  “It’s like a miniature tape recorder.” Her mother takes out two mugs and places tea bags in each: peppermint, Elizabeth’s favorite.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did you have to order it special, like, from the Smithsonian?”